“Cal, this is serious.” Hawk picked the sword up, carefully as the girl had done, weighing it in both hands. Then he took the corded grip firmly and raised the blade upright so that it shone in the bright room. “This is a very powerful weapon. Magical. We should take it to the Company and let them see it. Arthur will know what to do. You can’t sell it, it’s not that sort of possession.”
Cal glared at him. “It started that fight,” he said.
Hawk didn’t flinch. “I can well believe it. I’ve come across such weapons before. They have their own will. How did you get it?”
Miserable, Cal shrugged. “A man gave it to me.”
Hawk glanced at Shadow. “Go on,” she said. And quite suddenly Cal knew that he wanted to tell them, and that he was hungry, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. “Dish that stuff up. And I will.”
“Won’t they be expecting you at home?”
Cal almost laughed. He had discovered that Trevor always ate out. Cal had spent every evening on his own so far, and though he was used to that, he didn’t want it tonight, he realized.
“No.” He put the empty cup down. “Deal?”
Hawk wrapped the sword. “Deal.”
To his own amazement Cal enjoyed all of it. The spicy food, the chipped plates, the warm, cluttered, comfortable room; after a while all of them stopped hurting him. Hawk lay on the sofa with his feet up and plate balanced on his chest, and Shadow sat cross-legged on the floor and fed the cat tidbits. They drank beer out of cans, and he told them. About the train, and the walk in the dark, and about Corbenic. It was strange; he didn’t know them, but he trusted them. He told them about Bron, the man’s tormented unhappiness, and about the great banquet. And then he told them about the Grail.
At first Hawk chipped in, asking questions, but when Cal described the procession, the power of the shining cup, the spear that bled on the floor, he was silent. Except that in the curved reflection of the shield, Cal saw him glance at Shadow, and her shake of the head. He stopped, suspicious. “Have you heard this story before? From someone else?” He sat up. “Do you know about this place?”
Shadow looked uneasy. “We’ve heard of it. Tell us the end. What happened after?”
Cal put the plate down and picked at his sore hands. Then he said, “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Bron . . . he seemed to want me to do something. Ask him something.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No,” he whispered. The cat got up and wandered out, beyond the bright hangings. “I said I hadn’t seen anything.”
The van was silent. Only the stove hissed, and the wind outside, over the castle walls. Suddenly, Cal looked up. “I know, I lied. It was . . . I just couldn’t understand what was going on. I thought it was . . . the drink. And in the morning, it was gone. As if it was all a dream.” He couldn’t explain. Not about his mother and her voices. Not about home.
Shadow said, “Cal, listen to me. Have you tried to get back to this place?”
“Why should I?”
She looked at Hawk. “Tell him.”
The big man was sitting up now, his great arms folded over his chest. He looked grave. “There was once a King . . .” he said.
“I don’t want some fairy tale!” Cal almost stood, but Hawk reached over and shoved him down, hard.
“You’re not getting one. This man was the ruler over a great country. In his castle were secrets, terrible secrets. He was the guardian of the Grail, a cup that held great mysteries, some say a cauldron, or the chalice of the Last Supper. Also the Lance, the Sword, the Stone; ancient Hallows. The Grail came to this island centuries ago, and while the King was whole the land was at peace. But these things are dangerous, they give pain as well as joy. It happened that the King was wounded by a blow from the Lance itself, and completely crippled, and his pain . . . it infected all the land. The country became a waste land. Desolate. Wintry. The people’s hearts became hard.”
“Don’t tell me,” Cal sneered. “Murders and muggings and sink estates. Pollution, pornography. Drugs. Right?”
“In one.” Hawk wouldn’t let him go; the man’s hand was heavy, a hard grip. “It might not be like that in Otter’s Brook, my son, but not everyone’s as privileged as you. And the King moaned and wept but he couldn’t be cured, he can never be cured, until someone comes, someone they all wait for.”
“And he spends his time fishing, and they call him the Fisher King?” Cal twisted away. “Get real. I thought you were different but you’re not. You’re just winding me up.” It was all wrong. They didn’t believe him. He should never have told them. And Bron’s words were whispering in his ear. You ask me. That’s all you need to do. Ask me about what you saw.
Shadow knelt up and put her drink down; her fingernails were black too, with delicate crystals stuck on her nails. “We’re not. Listen to him.”
“It’s just a story! Fine! I suppose if I’d asked Bron about the Grail he’d have been cured, would he? On the spot? He’d have jumped up and gone dancing? And I’d have come back and found us all living in country cottages with roses growing round the door? No one in the jails or sleeping rough or ill and my mother . . .” He stopped instantly, confused, cursing himself. Then he shoved Hawk’s hand away and looked around for his coat.
“It’s a story, yes,” Shadow said urgently, “but stories mean things. You must have dreamed it for a reason . . .”
“Sure.” He pulled his coat on, ignoring her, ignoring the stab of pain in his side. “I must be crazy talking to a pair of New Age weirdos. Look at you!” he gestured around angrily. “Look at this place!”
Hawk folded his arms. “Cal,” he said gently.
Hurt, furious, Cal shoved him aside, pulled the curtain so hard he almost tore it, and fumbled blindly for the door. To his horror hot tears were pricking his eyes. He had to get out. To get away. He stumbled down the steps of the van into the frosty fog and half walked, half ran over the mud.
“Wait!” Shadow’s darkness loomed after him. “You’ve left the sword. Cal!”
“Keep it,” he growled, not caring if she heard him or not. “Keep the bloody thing.”
He walked fast, unthinking, wiping his face. He didn’t care where he went, but in the swirls of fog the streets opened before him, uphill, past the shuttered shops, under the town arch, past the lit fronts of pubs where voices and music and cigarette smoke drifted out through opened windows.
By Otter’s Brook the fog was thinner, and he was weary, slower, his side and chest throbbing, and he shivered in the cheap suit. The key was ice cold; he fumbled with it, opened the door, and slid in quickly, leaning with his back against it, breathing deep, harshly, every gasp almost a sob. Calm down. He had to calm down.
The room was warm, and spotless. Nothing disturbed it. It smelled of Thérèse’s perfume. He kicked his shoes off, ran upstairs and pulled off trousers and shirt frantically, then ran down and stuffed them into the washing machine. It started, a heavy thumping. Then he dressed, put the TV on and went and sat in front of it, watching, not seeing. He only wanted noise. People laughing. People he didn’t know, laughing.
There was a note on the table. He had stared at it a long while before he even saw it; then the words jumped out at him, in Trevor’s fastidious handwriting. Your mother rang. Wants you to phone back. Sounds desperate.
“God,” he said aloud. God. He couldn’t. Not now, not tonight. Tomorrow. Not now.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembered the slashed jacket, and he searched desperately for some matching thread, and found it in one of the orderly kitchen cupboards. He sewed the slash in the jacket carefully, hurriedly, stabbing his thumb, but he couldn’t do it fast enough, because even as he finished and bit the thread the phone rang with a jolt that seemed to go right through him. He stared at it, unmoving. It rang. Over and over. Never stopping. Never changing.