He looked up at the clock. Four-thirty. Thank God for that. It was his fourth day at work, and it had seemed endless. They’d been in the office at eight, because Trevor always liked to be first in, and by ten Cal had been bored rigid. They were giving him the dullest work—start with the basics, Trevor had said, learn the business from the bottom up. He was hardly doing that. Making tea. Opening the post. And they wouldn’t even give him a computer yet. All he had done this afternoon was check addresses, postcodes, and put incomprehensible numbers into boxes on pink forms. The trouble was, he knew absolutely nothing about accountancy, tax returns, VAT, all that. Maybe Phyllis was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten the job.
He stood up and stretched, yawning. Well, boring or not, it paid real money. And he’d get a day a week in college. He’d learn. Give him five years and he’d be a partner. Ten, and he’d have a chain of offices all of his own, and a flashy car and holidays abroad.
Out of the window, just over the roofs of the next building, he could see a corner of the castle, a dark stone turret. It stopped his thoughts, made him restless, as it had all day, every time he had lifted his eyes from the papers. Probably because of the sword.
Getting it here had been a real pain. He’d wrapped it in a spare T-shirt and then in a plastic bag, and had slipped it into the back of the car when Trevor was giving his impeccable suit a final brush. It would have been just too hard to explain.
Yesterday, he’d found an antique dealer’s, in a small alley of tourist shops down by the castle. If he was quick, he could get down there before they closed and sell the thing and be rid of it for good.
He bent and opened the bottom drawer of the desk and looked at the bundle. For a moment he thought of Bron, that bitter agony of disappointment, that pain. Bron had been real. So had the girl. And the cup, the Grail, as she called it. Maybe . . .
The door opened; Phyllis came in and raised an eyebrow. “Packing up?” she asked drily, her sharp eyes going straight to the clock. And quite suddenly Cal couldn’t stand the office another minute; the stale room, the stink of the photocopier, the clattering of printers. He picked up the bundle quickly. “Feel a bit queasy. Thought I’d finish early and get some air.”
“If that’s all right with your uncle,” she said so sourly he could almost hear the acid. Dragon, he thought. As soon as he was gone she’d go hissing to Trevor but that could wait. He grabbed his coat from the peg and swung past her. “See you next week,” he said to the closed door. He walked fast through the outer office, said good night to the glamorous typist who winked at him, and thundered down the stairs into the street, pulling his coat on and dragging in deep breaths of icy air. Freedom! Thank God.
It was getting dark, the streetlights were coming on, the gleam of lit windows spilling over the pavements. His breath made clouds; he pulled his gloves on and walked quickly, sword under arm, the cold air shocking him back into alertness, his face stinging with the coming night frost.
The quickest way down into town was through Castle Dell. He crossed the road, and the streetlights reddened, dull scarlet glimmers high in the misty darkness. The side street was quiet, with few cars. He followed the railings as far as the gate, and turned into the foggy darkness of the Dell. It sloped deeply into the old dry moat of the castle. On his left were trees, black against the purple twilight, and the concrete path ran down into mist, the lamps smaller here and spread out, their islands of light faint and drifting.
His footsteps were loud; he tried to walk more softly. In daylight this was a busy path, full of dog walkers and small kids out with their mothers, but now in the closing winter night it was lonely and strange and as he went deeper the moat rose around him, crowded with tangled trees and brambles, and behind them, ominously high from down here, the sheer, ruthless bastions of the castle wall.
He stopped, breathing hard. The night smelled of smoke. It was bitterly cold. In front of him the path was black. If there was another lamp the fog had swallowed it. And it seemed to him, with a shiver of fear, that he had done it again, walked straight out of the normal world into some other that was always there waiting for him, in his mind, at twilight, on borders and boundaries, shadowy crossroads. And if he went on, if he walked down there, it would change his whole life, if he didn’t turn back right now, back to the lit streets, the office, Trevor’s lift in the warm car.
The sword felt awkward, prodding him urgently; he shifted its weight, and looked behind. The frosty halo of the last lamp lit the bark of a tree; far off, down in the town, cars hummed over the bridge. Here, only the breeze moved. He walked on. At once it was colder, as if the sun never got this deep. Spiny branches crowded the path, furred with frost. Gravel crunched underfoot; he pulled the scarf over his face, ducking under twigs. As if he had traveled into some forest, because the path was not like this in the daytime.
Something straight loomed up on his right: a lamppost, dark. Broken glass snapped under his shoes; he moved the pieces with his foot, thoughtfully. And hanging on the branch of a bush was a whole dustbin lid, right in the path. He stopped. The lid was tied, and it swung. As he tried to duck under it the sword struck it hard; there was a great looming clatter. And as if in answer the voice came from behind him. It said, “The mobile phone. And the wallet. Quick!”
Cal turned fast. The man was hard to see, a black shadow. Hefty.
“What?”
“You heard.” The man moved in, threatening. “I want the phone and money. Now! And you won’t get hurt.”
Cal scowled. “I haven’t got a mobile phone.” Stupidly, he felt annoyed at having to say that.
“Oh yeah. A suit like you.” A soft click came out of the dark. Flick knife. Instantly Cal stepped back. He’d been in plenty of fights in Sutton Street. He knew he should run, but it was too dark. And the heavy sword was jabbing at him. The sword.
The shadow was close. Cal whipped the bag and wrapping away and held the sword out, slashed wide with it, like they did in the films. It made an icy, whipping slice through the air. A relishing delight. “Right,” he muttered. “Come on then.” He should never have said that. He had no idea what made him.
Fog drifted. High at his back the castle loomed, its narrow black arrow slits, sheer battlements.
The mugger had flinched back. Now he whistled, sharp, two notes. “You’ve got a sodding death wish,” he whispered.
There were more of them. Cal tried to count, without looking. Three? Four? He was a fool. For a second he wanted to raise his hand and say, “All right. I’ve got six quid. It’s yours,” but it was too late for that. They wanted him now. His blood on the path. And the sword was heavy.
The first one attacked. He came in hard. Cal slashed and yelled and jumped back, into bushes that snagged him, into another shadow that grabbed his arm. The blow was in his stomach; it winded him but he had squirmed sideways and kept hold of the sword, and now he went wild, kicking out, slashing hard with the weapon, screaming and swearing into something that gasped and gave way, the whole sunken forest a racket of battle. They had him pinned; he was dragged down. Something stung his arm; stickiness made the sword slippery. He struggled, yelling again, but the sword was so heavy; a foot slammed into his chest, pain bursting like a star, and for a heartbeat the night went sick and silent.
Then uproar crashed back. More voices. A great deep yell. Bedlam. He was down; they were kicking him and he rolled and scrabbled and knew this was it; he was finished, he was dead, and all at once they were gone. Gone?