‘You? You’re like that? I don’t understand.’ Françoise crouched, hitching up her suit trousers. She smelled faintly of soap and coffee. Her eyes were very kind and very strong. Michael felt his body rock back slightly as he watched her, as if she was shaking him with her gaze. The breeze blew her red hair over her face and she brushed at it distractedly. She repeated her question. ‘I don’t understand. Please help me. Why do you feel in the middle?’
He whispered, ‘I was given away when I was born. Nobody wanted me. I don’t have a proper soul.’
‘Of course you do, Michael. Everybody does. The soul is just the person. There is no heaven, no hell, only conscience. Your priest is very old-fashioned. Of course you have a soul!’
‘No I don’t, Michael insisted, still in a quiet voice. ‘Chalk B—’
He broke off, biting back the name. The word ‘adopted’ fluttered in his head, but he didn’t want to say it. It was a word that hurt him, like a sharp sting. He had wanted to say that Chalk Boy had told him adopted children forfeited their souls. His jaw clenched as he tried to regain control.
Françoise frowned, looking both sad and concerned. Jenny sometimes looked this way when she talked to him. She said, ‘Chalk? What about chalk?’
Michael shook his head. He shouldn’t talk about his friend. Not yet. When Chalk Boy got angry he made Michael fetch disgusting things, and laughed at him. He said, ‘I only have a shadow. Not a proper soul.’
‘Don’t be so silly …’
‘I’m not silly! It’s true. That’s why my parents can’t always see me. They can see Carol because her shadow is inside her, where her soul is. They put the shadow there when she was born. But they can only see me sometimes, so they get angry, or think I’ve run away, or don’t talk to me because they don’t know I’m there. But when I find the bright things my shadow comes inside me for a while and they can see me properly. Then Daddy laughs and tells me stories.’
‘How many bright things have you found?’
‘Quite a lot, now.’
The woman bit her lip. After a moment she reached out and tugged at Michael’s hair, gently and affectionately. ‘Does your father like these bright things?’
Michael nodded.
‘Does he tell you stories all the time?’
‘He does when he’s happy. Do you know about the Fisher King? He ruled over a great wasteland, and all of King Arthur’s Knights had to find the Holy Grail to bring the trees and fields back to life. That’s my favourite story.’
She seemed delighted. ‘Mine too! Arthur and his Knights. And the grumpy old wizard Merlin. And wily Vivien. And the gorgeous and foolish Lancelot! My father told me the stories when I was young too. I loved them. I still do. If I had children …’
She stopped suddenly and tugged Michael’s long, ginger hair again.
‘Did you find bright things?’ he asked. ‘Did they tell you stories when you found pretty things?’
To his surprise her eyes became tearful, although her face seemed angry. She drew him into a tight embrace. ‘No. No, my darling,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t have to …’
A few minutes later they stood before the empty dungeon. Michael stared hard at the broken gorse bush, his body very tense. Françoise rested a hand on his shoulder. The fragments, organic remains and artefacts were up at the house now, wrapped in polythene, labelled, boxed.
‘We found where you’d been hiding the more unpleasant things. It’s not healthy to play near to decaying animals. Did you know that?’
‘I didn’t mean to fetch them,’ Michael said. ‘I only like the bright and glittery presents. But sometimes Chalk—’
Again, he bit back the name. But this time he decided not to worry. ‘Sometimes Chalk Boy shows me things that look pretty, but when I fetch them they’re not the same. Sometimes they scream.’
Françoise shivered quickly, but was unwilling to press the point just yet. ‘Chalk Boy? Of course. Your mother mentioned your invisible friend.’
Michael felt suddenly cold. Chalk Boy didn’t like to be talked about. He looked up at the thoughtful woman and whispered, ‘He’s a secret though. Please don’t tell anybody else.’
‘No. Of course I won’t. Can I meet him?’
‘He lives by the sea, at the end of the big tunnel. He has a cave there. I can’t get to the beach, but sometimes he comes up the tunnel to the castle. He hides in the chalk. Sometimes I dream of him in the house.’
‘That’s some playmate,’ Françoise said, then confidentially: ‘Is he around now?’
Michael cocked his head, then sniffed the air hard, like a dog. He was puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. But he hides a lot.’
Her hands on his head were gentle, the fingers that touched his skin and his hair were soothing, reassuring. He stood there, watching her, letting her stroke him. She smiled suddenly and drew her hands away. ‘Mr Spock could do it. Not me. Only stones and bones.’
Michael didn’t understand the allusion.
She went on. ‘I’m staying in the house for a while longer. If Chalk Boy comes back, if he comes out of hiding, will you let me meet him?’
‘He doesn’t like people to know about him.’
‘Well, can you put in a good word for me?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Are the pretty things here in the pit? When you fetch them?’
He thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘Sort of. I see them and reach for them. Sometimes they’re hard to fetch and I get thrown out of the tunnel. It hurts a lot sometimes. I get cut and bruised.’ He pointed almost proudly to the scar over his right eye. ‘But nothing very serious.’
‘Tell me something … does Chalk Boy ever tell you where he finds the pretty things for you to fetch?’
Michael shook his head. ‘He can move around the world. He can see everything that’s being made, even if it’s hidden away for thousands of years. He can see things when they’re new. If he wants to be friends with me he brings them straight up the tunnel to the pit. That’s why they’re so bright. Because they’re so new. But that’s a secret.’
His eyes blazed and he realized he was frightened. He had told the secret. Françoise was watching him excitedly. She seemed astonished, half laughing, half thinking. There was moisture on her face now, and her hands on his shoulders were trembling.
He beckoned her to bend lower and whispered the greatest secret of all. ‘Don’t tell anyone …’ he began, then hesitated.
‘Don’t tell anyone what?’
‘I’m trying to find the Grail. If I can find the Grail it will make Daddy famous.’
‘My God, yes,’ Françoise said, suddenly dull, a shadow on her face. ‘It will do that all right.’ Then she smiled again. ‘Is that what your father wants?’
‘He doesn’t know about it. It’s a secret. But if I can fetch it for him he might get his job back. He could write books.’
‘Have you ever – have you ever seen the Holy Grail?’
With a quick shrug, Michael admitted, ‘I don’t know what it looks like. But Chalk Boy can find it.’
‘Chalk Boy … Limbo Boy …’
A drop of perspiration fell from Françoise’s glowing skin on to Michael’s hand. She looked uncomfortable and used a handkerchief to wipe her forehead. Michael watched her, slightly puzzled at the fact that she was shaking. Her voice barely audible, she said to him, ‘You are a powerful young man, Michael. A powerful young man indeed. You have invented a wonderful story, and wonderful friends, to hide a power that is astonishing. No wonder your father tells you stories … I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’ve seen and touched some very strange things in my time, and met some wonderful people.’
‘What strange things?’ Michael asked, intrigued.
‘I’ll tell you later. Michael: will you promise me that if you hear Chalk Boy come back you’ll let me know? I would so much like to be with you when he comes the next time and brings you something.’
br /> ‘I’ll ask him,’ Michael murmured, but he didn’t think Chalk Boy would approve at all. More brightly he said, ‘I’ll give you a drawing of the castle, if you like. I’ll go and do it now.’
‘That would be lovely. I’d like that.’ She took him by the hand. ‘Let’s go back to the house, shall we? I’m starving.’
‘Me too.’
‘And while we walk, will you sing me a song?’ She held a tape recorder towards him. ‘Sing me your favourite song.’
He laughed, amused by some private thought, and a moment later, without further prompting, broke into a tuneless rendition of the theme from Ghostbusters.
The meal was strained. Susan had not gone to a great deal of effort – there hadn’t been time – but the food was Italian and good, and consumed appreciatively. The strain came from Françoise who, having been interested and friendly earlier in the evening, was now moody and withdrawn.
Watching her over the supper table, Susan could see that her guest was angry.
The tension from the French woman seemed directed at Richard. Whatever Richard asked her was shrugged away, or half answered, and the warmth she had shown him earlier was no longer in evidence. She was courteous with Susan, almost as if in compensation for her hostility towards her host. She said frankly that she had felt nothing from Michael, and that the chalk quarry and her conversation with the boy had given her no clues as to where he was finding the treasures.
Richard was less disappointed than Susan would have expected.
She did say that she could sense the barrier that Michael had erected. She had pretended to feel a gate. He had erected something to protect the pit, and as such clearly had a defined, positive psychic energy. He left traces of his mind wherever he went, and Françoise had detected them. He was defending himself. She had experienced this many times before in pre- and early post-pubescent children.
Jack Goodman wanted to drive back to London, and Françoise would go with him. The meal was not curtailed, but they moved away from the table when they had eaten and Goodman collected his things from the study. As Richard cleared the table, Françoise led Susan to the sitting room, then out into the garden, standing quietly in the darkness, watching night birds over the distant woods.
‘Is everything all right, Françoise?’
‘No. No, everything is not all right.’ She turned to Susan, indecisive for a moment, clearly needing to say something. ‘I am uncomfortable with your husband.’
‘I noticed. Why, I wonder?’
‘Because of your son. Because he is cruel.’
‘Michael?’
‘Your husband. There is a cruelty in him. He is making Michael sing for his supper. I don’t like that.’
Susan folded her arms, angry, and dropped her gaze. In an icy voice she said, ‘It’s not only Richard. I must take a lot of the blame too, Madame Jeury, if you must know. We both neglected the boy when he was younger. I should have done more … Richard’s needs are very consuming.’
‘If you start calling me “Madame” I shall assume you are sulking, and end this conversation. There is no need to be angry.’
Choosing to ignore the fact that she had been patronized, Susan smiled her agreement. ‘This is an edgy family. There are tensions.’
Françoise Jeury laughed delightedly. ‘And how! Oh, my God. It’s everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Everywhere.’
‘You can feel that?’
‘I can feel it very strongly.’ She became serious, picking her words carefully. ‘At the table, I apologize, but I didn’t tell you the truth. About Michael, I mean. Because I want to tell the truth to you and not to your husband. You must decide, of course, what to tell Richard. But I myself do not want to tell him what I know, what I have found out.’
Susan watched the other woman, her face hard, a defensive look, an angry one again. Then she started to walk towards the hedges, Françoise following slightly behind. ‘If you’re going to tell me that Michael uses his mind to steal things from museums, we’ve already guessed that. For a long time I thought it was his natural mother, throwing abuse at us, her own psychic power. There was a lot of earth when he was an infant. He nearly drowned in a massive mud-spill that just appeared in the bedroom—’
‘His talent was raw. Unfocused. Powerful, but still infantile.’
‘That’s right. Michael himself. Later, he started to “see” and “fetch” more clearly. He sees visions of something in someone’s house and can steal it. He has invented an imaginary companion to rationalize where the objects come from. He goes down into the quarry, where he feels secure, and “fetches” things from there, pretending to be in his castle. But he is doing it himself, and he’s doing it for affection …’
‘You must discourage that—’
Furious, Susan turned on the other woman. ‘Damn it! Don’t tell me how to bring up my own child!’
Unbowed, unbattered, Françoise Jeury said grimly, ‘If you have started to understand, then fine. But that boy is in terror …’
‘I know.’
‘He has been excluded. He thinks he has no soul.’
‘I know.’
‘Then why did you let it happen?’
Susan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Because he frightens me. Because I can still see the look in his mother’s eyes. Because there’s something more, something horrible, and it terrifies me to think about it.’
‘Then perhaps you should talk about it …’
Quickly – too quickly – Susan said, ‘We’ve been talking about it, Françoise. Michael is strange in so many ways. He puts up barriers. From what you say, more barriers than we’d realized.’
Françoise Jeury scuffed the damp lawn with her toe. ‘Is Richard frightened too?’
‘Not of Michael. Richard’s fears are more internalized, more personal. Michael is just a target for his frustrations. Or rather was. He’s better with the boy, now.’
The other woman sneered. ‘Of course. Why not? His son has become Father Christmas.’
‘That’s not fair.
‘Of course it’s fair! You know your husband better than anyone. You know him! Susan, listen to me. You are almost right but not quite right. About Michael, I mean. The power he has is frightening, yes, and perhaps what you fear is the power you aren’t aware of. I do not think he has control over what is happening to him because he is too young. I can’t be sure, but I feel strongly that he is inventing a world to explain his own fears, his own talent. And it is a wonderful talent. I have experienced it before, but never like this.’
‘Telekinesis, you mean? That’s what he’s doing.’
‘Apportation. It’s a much more powerful form of the talent.’
‘Apportation,’ Susan repeated, digesting the word and nodding as if this explained everything. Then she frowned. ‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘He fetches,’ Françoise said. ‘It’s as simple as that. He reaches and grasps at precious things, and brings them across space … and across time.’
In the darkness Susan’s eyes glittered with questions and tears. ‘Across time?’
‘These things you have. These objects he has brought to you … they don’t feel old because they aren’t old. Because they come from the past when they were new. The wolf-girl dancer was newly made for the tomb of a king. One day, thousands of years later, a young mind saw the new glitter, days after it had been placed in the tomb. No stone, no sand, no wood could stand in the way, no weeks, no years, no thousands of years. He reached into that dark and ancient place and snatched the object from the sealed tomb. And when the tomb was opened in the nineteenth century they found everything in place – except that someone had been there in antiquity and broken off a part of the altar …’
Susan was astonished. ‘Do you know for certain that that happened?’
Françoise laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. Of course not. Not for certain. But I can imagine it clearly enough to know that something like that happened. Then there is the Mocking Cross … it co
uld so easily be the male part of the pair from Istanbul. Used to abuse a sacrificial victim; then stolen by a priest and buried in the catacombs, golden mask and all. And shortly after it had been concealed, it vanished. A wind came, maybe. And a spectral hand appeared from nowhere and snatched it away, because that was the moment that Michael sent his mind, scouring time, searching the past for something that was bright and pretty. Do you see? He takes things from time. To me they feel young. But he has covered centuries in his quest. Oh, I must study him more …’
‘His quest? What quest?’
Françoise’s face was a mask of solemn anger. She stared at Susan in disbelief, then snapped out the words. ‘For the story of the Fisher King! What else? For his parents’ arms around him! For a kiss goodnight from your husband! For his Grail. He pays for love—’
‘That’s enough! It’s none of your business, Madame! Things will change …’
‘Will they?’
‘Enough!’
‘Will they change? That’s your business too. But please remember, Susan, that when I have met a remarkable little man like Michael, I can’t easily forget about him.’
Furious again, Susan pushed past the woman, then stopped, glaring. ‘Forget about him. He needs love, not his mind probed. There will be no, repeat no study of my son. Leave us alone.’
After a long moment Françoise expressed her regret that such a tension had developed. ‘If you ever need to ask me for help, please do,’ she went on. ‘I may fail. As I said earlier, I’m a strange piece of archaeological equipment. Sometimes I dig well, sometimes not. But I’m always prepared to try …’
‘I’m going to tell Richard what you’ve told me. I don’t care if you feel angry about that. I can’t have secrets from my husband.’