“Make sure she takes the pills, Sal. The blue ones. Please. And don’t forget the appointment with the psychiatrist on Monday.”
“Don’t you worry.” Sal’s voice was quieter. “Don’t fret, Cal. Don’t torment yourself. This is a chance for you, love, maybe the only chance you’ll ever have to get on, so don’t ruin it. I’ll keep an eye on Annie. Give me the number and I’ll ring you tomorrow.”
He gave it, and said, “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“When you’re making wads of cash you can pay me back.” Her voice turned, then came back. “Do you want to say good night to your mam? She’s gone off somewhere.”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’ll just upset her again.”
“I’ll find those pills. Good night, Cal.”
He put the phone down, and found he was sweating. As if he’d run for miles and miles. In the warm, still room he felt exhausted, and it was true, he had run, hadn’t he; run away and left her to fend for herself, though everyone knew she couldn’t. And it was illness, it wasn’t her fault, not really. But he couldn’t take it anymore, and he wouldn’t think about it, because Sally lived down the road and it’d be all right. And he wouldn’t think about Corbenic, either, because that was in him, that was worse.
So he washed up, and when Trevor came home he said hello to Thérèse, who turned out to be as well dressed and elegant as he’d thought she would, her voice faintly accented. French, maybe. Waiting for Trevor, she perched on the edge of the sofa. “So. You’ll be working at the accountants’?”
“Four days a week. On Wednesdays I have to go to college. For a course.”
She smiled, her dark hair gleaming. A faint scent of perfume drifted from her. “Is that what you want?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, surprised.
She nodded kindly. “That’s good then. That you know what you want.”
When they’d gone he watched television all night, a meaningless babble of programs and then went up and lay in the comfort of the black-and-white bed, one lamp throwing soft shadows on the ceiling. It was beautifully, wonderfully silent. No baby crying through the walls. No lying awake wondering what time his mother would come in. But he did lie awake, wondering just that, for a long time.
Chapter Six
“Alas that I have you in my sight,” she said, “since you failed so completely.”
Parzival
It was the quiet he couldn’t get used to. He stared out of the window at the cul-de-sac; even on a Saturday morning it was deserted, except for one man washing his car a few doors down. “They don’t live so much outside here,” he said quietly. “It’s all indoors.”
“And that’s how I like it.” Trevor turned a page of the Financial Times and poured another glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed, of course. He sipped it. “Some of them I’ve never even seen. It’s just a dormitory really.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Five years. Since it was built.” He looked up, and in the shiny reflection of the window Cal saw that his face was amused. “I couldn’t get to grips with it either, when I first moved out. No one bothering you. You think it’s normal, all that living in each other’s pockets, all that rubbish and dog muck on the streets, the boarded windows, the burned-out cars. Knowing what places not to go, who’s buying, who’s selling, whose eyes not to meet.” He chuckled, but Cal couldn’t even smile. “God, I couldn’t believe how different things were here. It was like a weight off my shoulders.” For a second then, an odd haunted look came into his eyes. He glanced down at the paper quickly. “It’ll be the same for you.”
Cal nodded. It was true. He realized that he could walk down to the town right now and no one—no one—would know him. He could do exactly what he liked. He was free. It made him restless; he turned. “Thought I’d go for a walk. Explore.”
Trevor looked slightly relieved, but just nodded. “Fine. I’m at the office till twelve, then golf. The day’s yours. You may as well enjoy it. Work starts on Monday.”
As he pulled on his jacket upstairs, Cal grinned to himself. He’d break his rules and buy a few things. Batteries for the Walkman. Maybe some new music. It was a day to celebrate. And he’d find the bank and see about having his account moved down here. For a second he remembered the sword and frowned. There must be a junk shop somewhere. Or antiques. He had a vivid image of himself chatting confidently with an impressed shop owner, being told the sword was worth thousands. Well, it might make a bit. He’d find out.
As he walked down the hill between the open-plan gardens he felt calm. The sunshine was warm on the clean pavements, and the few leaves still on the cherry trees were gloriously red and gold. He felt so happy he even let himself think about Corbenic. That brought the shadows back.
He couldn’t explain anything of what had happened. Bron’s banquet had been real, but had anyone else seen the strange cup or the bleeding lance, or felt that terrible, devastating longing, that pure joy? And in the morning it had all been ruined. As if there were layers of reality, one inside the other like an onion, and he’d peeled off two, by mistake. The only other explanation—the one Trevor would give—was that he’d been drunk, or had somehow arrived at the ruined castle and dreamed it all. But he hadn’t. The sword proved that. And the note, but he’d lost the note. He must have dropped it in the scramble through the neglected garden, but he could remember exactly what it had said. It made him shiver; brought a sudden bitter coldness into his joy. Why did nothing ever go right? What was wrong with him?
Down at the bottom of the road the new houses faded out; he crossed into a street of older properties, and he had no idea where he was, so he followed it, as if walking anywhere would make him forget. And at the end of the street he found the town center.
Chepstow was old, and steep. The main street ran downhill, a haphazard tumble of shops and cafés and banks and a post office, splitting into little side streets so narrow they were more like alleys, with tiny dingy-looking pubs jutting onto the pavements, their blackboards chalked with the soup of the day or the chef’s special. He wandered down. He knew that right at the bottom was the river, and the bridge that crossed into England, and the castle, guarding the crossing, but he didn’t really want to go that far. Because it was a Saturday the place was busy; he drifted around charity shops and looked idly in window displays and the sun was almost warm and his happiness came quietly back.
He went to the bank and sat at a desk filling in a form, being called sir and enjoying it. In Woolworth’s he bought batteries and looked at new CDs, because he couldn’t listen to Trevor’s stuff, but they were expensive and there was nothing he particularly wanted. In the town’s only department store he wandered into the coffee shop and bought an espresso and sat in a corner sipping it, with a family opposite, the boy and girl laughing and drinking Coke, all four of them well scrubbed and well spoken and looking like something from an advertisement.
Tearing open the thin tube of sugar he felt lonely all at once. The woman—the kids’ mother—had caught his glance and he looked away in case she guessed. He stirred the dark liquid and sipped it, though it was too hot. He’d have to get some friends. But kids of his age wouldn’t be here. They’d be in the pubs and fast-food places. Cal scowled. He hated burgers. They reminded him of home. Anyway, kids of his age weren’t much like him, he knew that only too well. He wanted good clothes, classy food. There wasn’t anyone, really, much like him.
He put the empty cup down and looked up. There was a girl watching him. She was out in the department beyond the glass door. Curtains, bedding, that sort of thing.