“No!” Thérèse sat up. “But that’s terrible. Her parents must be frantic! You must tell her to go home, Cal. After all, it’s Christmas, no? How could she do that to them?”
It stung him. He put the biscuit down, untouched.
Trevor’s key rattled suddenly in the lock.
“Don’t tell him,” he whispered urgently. “About Shadow.”
She nodded, reluctant. “Promise me you’ll talk to her.”
“I will,” he muttered.
But it was only after they’d seen the overcooked, crusty ruin of the pizza and Hawk had groaned and threatened the microwave with a battle-axe that he knew he would do it.
Hawk got up, his bristly head brushing the van roof. “That’s it. Chips. Fish. For three?”
Cal nodded and thought with a sigh of Thérèse’s French cuisine. It reminded him. But when Hawk had gone, Shadow said, “Will your parents mind?”
“Mind what?”
“You being with the Company. It’ll be at night, Christmas Eve, late. At Caerleon.”
“I’m not a kid,” he said crossly. Then, “Will you be there?”
“Of course.” She tied her slick hair back in a sliver of dark lace. “I get to join up too.”
“Girls? At the Round Table?”
She grinned, smug. “Maybe they’ve changed with the times.” As she turned, her long skirt brushed the table and toppled it; knives and forks slid off, a scatter of pens, a whole pack of cards. Cal bent instantly, but her black, gloved fingers caught his arm. “Leave them.”
“But . . .” He stared. “Why?”
“Because I say.” She sat opposite, watching him. “I just want you to leave them there. If it doesn’t bother you.”
“No.” He sat back, his feet among the cards. “Of course it doesn’t.”
But it did. The cat jumped up on his lap; he pushed it down and said, “Shadow . . .”
“Just leave the stuff on the floor, Cal.” She leaned forward. “It’s just untidy. It’s not hurting.”
It hurt him. He couldn’t breathe; he knew she was trying him, that it was some sort of test and he couldn’t stand it so he said, “There are posters about you. All over the town.”
“Posters?” Her look was suddenly alert, her skin white under the cobweb.
“Missing from home. Sophie Lewis.”
“Oh, God!” she said, jumping up. “Will Hawk see them?”
“There was one in the chippie. But I took it.” He held out the crumpled ball; it had dried hard and broke as she pulled it open. She read it, then flung the scraps in the tiny stove, turning on him in rage. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“I’m telling you now. Doesn’t Hawk know?”
“Of course not!” She was standing now, restless in the cramped space. “I mean, he doesn’t know they’re looking for me. He thinks it’s okay.”
Cal nodded. Carefully he said, “Maybe . . . you should phone. Just tell them you’re well.”
“I’ve done that. My mother just goes on. I can’t stand it.”
He looked down.
“You wouldn’t understand!” she burst out. “Sure, I had everything I wanted. Good home, school, clothes. But I hated it, Cal, because no one gave a damn about me. The real me, not what they wanted me to be. A family, that’s what I was searching for. And I found one. Hawk—he’s great, but my parents would detest him. I mean, come on, no money, no old school tie, nothing. Just some pathetic person who lives in the past!”
He wanted to interrupt, to say something but she swept on, grabbing a handful of the tablecloth and twisting it in her fingers. “They just want me to do it all their way. Go to university. Get a high-powered job. Become a barrister or a stockbroker. There’s this boy, Marcus, he’s cracked about me. His father plays golf with mine. He’s all right but I know what they’re thinking. His father’s money, their company. Get married. Have kids. I wanted to break out, smash out, right out of that life. The stink of their money.”
“What’s wrong with money?” he said, sullen.
“Plenty. These people, Hawk, Arthur, they don’t care about money. It’s like a new world for me.” She looked down at him. “Listen. Don’t tell Hawk. Or any of them. They’d never let me join them, they’d just send me home. No one knows but you. And Merlin, though I certainly never told him.”
“It’s not fair on Hawk.”
She shrugged, stubborn. “That’s my business.”
“And look, Shadow, it’s not fair on your parents.” Suddenly it mattered to him that she went, that one of them went back, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, so it had to be her. “Think what sort of a Christmas they’re going to have!” He stood up, and to her shock she saw his eyes were wet. “Think of them alone in that house, and how they’ll be thinking of you, only about you! How can you do that to them! How she’ll be crying, all by herself. Drinking. Thinking you hate her. Knowing you hate her.”
“I don’t hate them!”
“They won’t know that!”
He caught her wrist; amazed, she shook him off. “Get lost, Cal! Get off my back! This is my problem! It’s got nothing to do with you!”
For a second he stared at her as if there was something huge he had to say, something so massive it would destroy him to speak it. Then he had turned and gone, brushing past Hawk so that a packet of chips fell on the frozen soil.
“Hey!” Hawk yelled. “What’s the rush?”
Cal glanced back at Shadow’s stricken face. “I’ll see you on Christmas Eve,” he whispered.
On the twenty-third he packed.
When his mother rang he said bleakly, “I’ll be home tomorrow. The train gets in about six.”
“Oh God, Cal, it’ll be so good to see you.”
Her voice was husky; he had to loosen his grip on the phone, and say, “I haven’t been away that long.”
“It seems like forever!”
He knew she had been drinking. Years of interpreting her mood, the nuances of her voice, told him that. Not much, but enough.
“Mam,” he said quietly, “are the voices still gone?”
She was silent. Then her whisper came, secret and confiding. “Last night, I heard them. At first I thought it was him and her next door, arguing, but it wasn’t. It was a lot of people, Cal, like a great crowd, somewhere far off, laughing and talking, and a clatter like plates and dishes. A banquet. And music, faint, like harps. And you were there, Cal.”
“Me?”
“I heard you. As if you were close to me. ‘I didn’t see a thing,’ you were saying, loud, like you do when you’re getting all het up.”
He stared across the room at the mirror, at himself. “You can’t have,” he whispered.
But her mood had changed; she was scared now. “I haven’t heard them for so long. When they’d gone, I got up and went in all the rooms, and sat on your bed—it’s so tidy, Cal, spotless, just like you keep it—and I listened. All night I listened. But they didn’t come back. Will they come back, Cal? Like they used to do?”
“I don’t know,” he said desperately. Then, “No. Not if you remember to take your pills. You are taking them, aren’t you?”
“The dustbin worries me.” Her voice was thin now, full of dread. “It keeps overflowing. I can’t remember when they come for it.”
“Thursdays.” He was sweating; he said, “Ask Sally. She knows. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell this woman Rhian about the voices. Ring her now. Don’t forget. And Mam . . .”
“You are coming? If you don’t . . .”
“I’ve SAID! I’ve said I’ll come.” He calmed his voice, with an effort. “okay?”
“okay,” she whispered.
“Mam . . .”
“What, sweetheart?”
Don’t drink anything. Stay out of the pub. Walk the long way round, away from the off-license. Stop blackmailing me. Stop ruining my life.
But all he said was, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I love you, Cal
,” she whispered.
He put the phone down and sat with his head in his hands. He sat there for an hour, then went up to his bedroom and closed the door and pulled the duvet off the bed and wrapped it around himself, huddled against the radiator, trying to get warm, to let the darkness cover him, to make the whole sickening mess go away.
He had to go. He had to go. But if he did he had to tell Hawk he wouldn’t be at Caerleon, and he wanted so much to be with them, all of them, in the cheerful, messy farmhouse. All his life all he had ever wanted was to be normal, have a family, real friends.
Through the night in the silent house his thoughts tormented him, trapped in the endless agony of his selfishness, of his dread. He must have slept, because at some point the whole mess liquefied, became a whirlpool sweeping him down, into the golden hollow of a great cup, and he was scrambling hopelessly to climb out, but the sides were slippery and sheer and he fell back with a splash.
And there were all sorts of things with him in the red flood; Shadow was there with her face paint washed off, and Hawk, clinging to the wreckage of his shield, and Phyllis, swimming firmly with strong strokes.
“Little apple tree!” A voice hissed above him, and he looked up and saw Merlin. The madman was balanced, feet wide, on the lip of the cup; now he squatted and held out a long, shining lance and said, “Catch hold, knight. For the quest begins here. Here the marvels begin; here begin the terrors!”
With a great effort Cal flung his arm up and grabbed the lance, but his clutching fingers slid on it, and he saw that it was bleeding, great drops of blood, and it was the blood that filled the cup, the blood that was drowning him.
He let go, and fell, down and down, and the darkness came up around him, and it was sleep.
“Have a good time.” Cal leaned into the car.
“Thanks,” Thérèse said happily. “And give your mother my love.”
Trevor was fishing in his pocket. He brought out a small package. “This is for her,” he said. “Tell her . . . tell her Happy Christmas from me.”
Cal took it silently. Behind him the station announcements echoed. He turned. “I’d better go.”
For a second all he wanted to do was get back in the car. Thérèse put her hand on his arm. “It will be all right,” she said quietly. “As soon as you get there you will enjoy it. And it’s only for a few days. Think what it means to her, Cal.”
He nodded.
As the car turned in the forecourt and drove away he waved, seeing Thérèse’s hand waving back until they turned the corner and were gone. Then he picked up his bag and went into the station.
He got into the queue for the tickets but when he was two from the front he turned abruptly and went on to the station and sat on a bench, cold to his bones.
The station clock said nine twenty. At ten twenty he was still there. Trains came in and went out. Announcements echoed, reverberating lists of names and places he’d never been. People got on and off, kissed good-bye, bought newspapers, ran. Ordinary people. People going home for Christmas.
He was frozen; he couldn’t move. He watched them without curiosity, as if all feeling had drained out of him. As if he was invisible among them.
When the third train for Newport had left, the platform was empty. He stood up, numb with exhaustion.
Then he went home. To Otter’s Brook.
Chapter Sixteen
She greeted Arthur and all his household save Peredur.
And to Peredur she spoke wrathful, ugly words.
Peredur
He slept all day.
At six o’clock, bleary and rigidly careful, he dressed in crisp clean jeans, a pale shirt, a warm pullover, his dark jacket. He ate some cold meat and pickles that were in the fridge, washed up, tidied every object in every room, hoovered, rearranged Trevor’s Christmas cards in fanatical order of height and left a note for him on the dustless windowsill.
Hawk and Shadow were meeting him at seven. But first, he had to make that call. It took him five minutes to summon the strength to pick up the phone. Then, cold with fear, he grabbed it and rang his mother. “I can’t get there,” he said quickly, hurriedly. As if saying it fast would help, would make it easier for her. “The trains were all running late, and I got as far as Newport, but then the next two were canceled. Christmas, I suppose. Too many people.”
She was silent.
He said, “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” It was very small, barely there.
“I’ll come after Christmas. I promise I will.” As he said it he believed it, and his heart went light and happy. Why not? He’d be part of the Company, it would be done, and he could go. Just for a few days. “And I’ll stay till New Year. You can show me all the things you’ve done. We can go out for a meal . . . it’ll be great.”
Another silence. Then she said, “All right, Cal.”
It wasn’t enough. He needed more. He needed anything, even screaming. He was suddenly, breathlessly terrified. “Will you go to Sally’s? They’d love to have you for Christmas dinner. Or Rhian?”
“Rhian’s got her family,” she said. Her voice was distant, as if the line was failing. “I’ll be fine, Cal.”
“I’ll ring you. First thing. Wish you happy Christmas. I’ve got a present to give you from Trevor too.”
There was a small breath and a crackle. Did she believe him? What was she thinking?
“I love you, Cal.” She whispered it like she always did. Then she put the phone down.
He sat there, cold and still, hearing the purr at the other end, listening to it for long moments, before he put the receiver on his lap and rubbed his face with his hands, hard, up into his wet hair. He hated himself. For a terrible instant he thought the guilt would be too much for him, too heavy. And then he told himself it would be all right. Just a day. One day.
He went for a drink of water, downed it in one go, came back and pressed the button and redialed.
“Chepstow Police,” a man said.
Cal swallowed. “The girl on the posters,” he said quickly, in a clipped, hard voice. “Sophie Lewis, the one that’s missing. She’s living in a van parked up most nights in the Dell, by the castle. Tonight she’ll be at the pageant, at Caerleon. She’s dyed her hair black, and there’s a tattoo on her face.”
“Can I have your name . . . ?” The voice was quick but he cut it off, and on a sudden impulse of disgust flung the phone away from him onto the sofa so it bounced and the receiver fell off.
He walked rapidly to the door. But before he’d got three steps he had to come back and tidy the place up.
The night was frosty; all the stars brilliant.
In Caerleon strings of lightbulbs swung over the dark streets; as the van rattled past the museum and down the lane onto the barracks field, Cal saw that all the vans of the Company were parked there, and as Shadow opened the door and jumped out the smell of woodsmoke and trampled grass made Hawk grin.
“Give us a hand,” he said, dragging out swords and helmets and shields. Shadow ran around to help him, laughing.
Her laugh made Cal feel sick at what he’d done. But it was for the best. One day she’d thank him.
He found his own sword, and took it out of the case. It shone in the blue light.
The event for the public was fun, but short. Bonfires burned on the field; among them in the cold wind the Company staged a mock tournament and then a melee, with everyone fighting with swords and axes, pretending to be cut down, the audience clapping and drinking and balancing hot sausages and burgers.
Lying curled on the grass, breathless, Cal grinned to himself. For a second he forgot the whole world with the pleasure of being here, being part of something, the easy jokes, the friendly banter.
Until Kai came around and kicked his leg and said, “Get up, hero. It’s all over.”
He struggled up, and found he was cold. And sore. And muddy. At least he was wearing a costume, a grubby chain mail. As he thought it, he saw the crowd was thinning, the people trai
psing to their cars, going home to warm Christmas Eves in decorated houses, the children put to bed early, too excited to sleep. In churches there would be singing, and masses, and small models of the crib. Tomorrow the whole Company would attend. Arthur insisted on it.
It was the children he envied. Brushing himself down, gathering up the sword, he let himself think of his own past Christmases, saw himself small in bed, hoping each year things would be different, things would be like the families in books, on TV advertisements, that there would be presents and a good, hot dinner and that the house would be magically warm and comfortable and that his mother would be a different person. It made him sick now, and angry.
“It does not do,” Merlin said next to him, “to be too sorry for oneself.”
Cal turned, sword in hand.
“Stop creeping up on me! Where the hell did you come from?”
The Hermit’s patchwork coat was thick with mud. He reached out and touched the sword, deliberately stroking its sharp edge, his hand thin and filthy, with bitten nails. Cal jerked away. “Be careful!” Behind him, the dog whimpered.
“I brought you to the Company,” Merlin whispered. “The dark knights that once attacked you were conjured by me.”
“Conjured?”
“Spirits at my command. I guide the Company; I move its fortunes as I moved the great stones once.” He nodded, then put his lean hand on Cal’s shoulder. “Look for me when things are darkest. You and I, knight, will journey together. We will sleep alone in the woods of Celyddon, shield on shoulders, sword on thigh. When all but shame deserts you, look for me.”
Cal stared at him, sick, shaking. But the man was already walking away, and Cal saw how he turned and yelled in fury at the dog, and how it followed, patient, unmoved.
It was late now; nearly midnight. In the ruins of the Roman amphitheater, all around the high green banks, the Company waited, as if they had gathered from all over Britain for this night, this moment. As he walked with Shadow onto the dim, flame-lit circle of trodden arena, Cal picked out faces he knew: Hawk, Kai, Gwrhyr, Owein, and others that were strange to him, men and women of all ages and sizes, dressed in bizarre mixtures of clothes, half-glimpsed, beyond the ring of crackling, shockingly scarlet flames that flattened and leaped and roared in the wind.