“Hang up,” he whispered, in agony. “Hang up.” But she didn’t. The same two notes, insistent, urgent, getting to him, getting inside him till his nerves were so tight his chest ached and he wanted to scream. And then it stopped, halfway through a ring. The silence was shocking. It was only nine o’clock but he had to hide from it; he flicked the TV off and ran upstairs and got into bed and lay there, breathless. He thought he had loved the silence, but it was a threat now; it could be broken. Sweating, he waited, every muscle tense in the bed. The torment lasted ten minutes. Then the phone rang. And rang.
He groped for the Walkman, for anything. The only CD on the bedside table was the opera the girl had shoved in his pocket. Now, hands shaking, sobbing, he tore the frail plastic off and jammed it in, switching on and pulling the earphones on, curling deep under the bedclothes.
The music was loud. It swallowed everything. It blocked out the whole world. It was a great orchestra and choruses of voices, men and women, conflicting and chiming and rising and falling with each other. He didn’t know what they sang about, only that it was passionate, it was pure and holy, it could protect him, that while it played he couldn’t hear the phone, feel the bruises, didn’t have to remember his mother, the guilt, his fear of sliding into mental illness.
Hours later, when Trevor looked in and muttered, “Good night, Cal,” he lay still, exhausted, as if asleep, his ears numb. But his heart beat too fast in his chest, like a bird’s.
Chapter Nine
Listen, little pig
We should hide
from the huntsman of Mordei
lest we be discovered . . .
Oianau of Merlin
Maybe to punish himself, he had the dream. He was six, and they were on that bus. The one to the seaside, the one he had looked forward to for days, the one where he stood on the seat and looked out of the window at the strange houses, the amazingly green fields, the great mountains.
She had a small flask in her bag and she was always sipping from it, and when she stood up the bus swayed, and she fell down.
“Mam,” he had said. “Mam?”
And the woman behind had got up and shouted, “Stop the bus! This woman’s sick.”
And she had been, all over the floor and the bag and the sandwiches, and he had huddled in the seat and watched as a man helped her off, and she was giggling then, and dropping coins from her purse, and the women all around had been saying words in hard, unforgiving voices, words he had heard before in the playground, outside the school—drunk, drink, drunken, drunkard—cries like the chorus of gulls that had echoed all the hot afternoon on the sand. She had slept curled up in the chair on the beach for hours, burned by the sun, and he had paddled and dug holes and cried and got cold, and then he had asked the man who sold the deckchairs why his mother didn’t wake up. That was the first time they had gone to the hospital. And the nurses had given him a bar of chocolate and phoned the police.
He opened his eyes. This wasn’t dreaming, it was remembering, and he never allowed himself to do it. It was against his rules. There had to be rules, and he had to keep them.
He sat up. There were voices downstairs; that meant Thérèse had stayed the night, and he was glad, because he liked to talk to her, and she was always laughing. And she was pretty.
He dressed quickly, pleased that his clothes were clean, wishing he had another sweater, because the green one was getting worn. Maybe when his first paycheck came . . . And he’d ring, he thought all at once, halfway down the open-plan stair. He’d ring home, but not yet, because she wouldn’t be up yet. Not for hours.
“So he’s given you Saturdays off?” Thérèse laughed. She was making toast in the unused kitchen, the smell of it mingling with coffee and a small bunch of freesias by the sink.
“Only while he’s on probation,” Trevor said from behind the paper.
Thérèse winked at Cal.
“These are nice.” He touched the yellow flowers.
“I bought them. To brighten up the place. Have you noticed, Cal, there are no flowers. No plants. Not even a garden. It would drive me mad.”
Cal poured coffee. “Is that why you don’t live here?” For a second, he thought he had offended her. Then she smiled brightly and tapped him on the nose. “Mind yours. Your uncle and I have our own places. That’s the way it is.”
The toaster clunked, and she took the bread out. There were croissants too, he noticed with pleasure, and fresh butter.
Cal wandered into the long room and put his plate on the table; his uncle glanced at him. “In fact I ought to insist you go in this morning. What’s this about you sliding off at half four last night?”
“Phyllis,” Cal said bitterly.
“Yes. And she was right. It’s not on, Cal.”
The doorbell rang; Thérèse went, her white shirt loose over tight dark trousers.
Cal chewed the flaky croissant. “It won’t happen again. I just felt . . . a bit . . .”
“No, it won’t. I wouldn’t take it from anyone else and I won’t take it from you.” He tipped his head, curious. “And what on earth have you done to your hand?”
Before he could think of an answer, Thérèse was calling from the door, “Cal?” Her voice was coy. “It’s for you,” she said, and there was a mocking note in it that surprised him. Until he looked over and saw Shadow.
She was standing outside the front door, wearing the same clothes as last night, and she smiled calmly, hands in pockets. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He was numb with embarrassment; the word came out automatically. She seemed so out of place here. The cobweb on her face was a mystery, her dark scruffy clothes bizarre in the modern, spotless room.
He got up hastily and went over; Thérèse winked and slipped discreetly into the kitchen. He glanced back; Trevor was watching with ill-disguised astonishment over the newspaper.
“What are you doing here?” Cal whispered.
“You’re not so hard to find.” She scratched her cheek with a black fingernail. “Hawk kept an eye on you last night.”
“Followed me!”
“If you like. Because of the sword.”
“I told you . . .”
“Come on, Cal. We can’t keep it.”
“I don’t want it.” He shot an uneasy look in the mirror. He should ask her in, but her boots were muddy. The thought turned him cold.
“And we thought you might want to see Hawk fight.”
“Fight?”
“At the reenactment. You could meet the rest of the Company.” She smiled, teasing. “We want you to come.”
“What Company?”
“Arthur’s. It’s a reenactment group.”
He hesitated. It was the last thing he wanted. But he had to get her out of here.
“Bring your friend in,” Trevor said with vast reluctance.
“Oh, it’s okay. We’re just going out.” Cal ran back and gulped his coffee; then raced upstairs and snatched his coat from the wardrobe, cursing and dashing back to brush his teeth. But when he got back downstairs again Shadow was sitting on the soft leather sofa talking to Thérèse.
Cal fidgeted at the door. “We’re going down to the castle.”
Trevor managed to take his eyes off Shadow’s tattoo long enough to say, “Fine.” He looked horrified; made a blank, questioning face. Cal shrugged, hot.
“Enjoy yourselves!” From the doorstep Thérèse waved them off. Cal knew as soon as she went back in she’d collapse in fits of giggles and Trevor would fling the paper down and say, “Who the hell was THAT?”
He stalked down the sloping drive, furious with himself and furious with Shadow for coming. She didn’t seem to notice. Instead she walked behind him slowly and said, “Is your mother French?”