“What?”
“She sounds it.”
Amazed, he realized she was talking about Thérèse. He opened his mouth to tell her Thérèse was his uncle’s girlfriend. Instead he said, “Yes.” That’s how easy it was. One word. And you could create a whole new world. She probably thought Trevor was his father. He had never had a father. In an instant a vivid string of imaginings had come and gone in his mind; him at six with Thérèse in the park, his birthday parties, Christmas, skiing, summer holidays at their place in France, Trevor and Thérèse proud at parents’ evenings. He stopped, and let her catch up. Finally he said, “God knows what they think.”
“Let them.” She shrugged. “Hawk sent me. He says the sword is too important, and he knows about things like that. It’s his job.”
“What is?”
“Reenacting battles. Pretending to be King Arthur’s Knights.”
“Fighting!” Cal was scathing. “Dressing up like some relic from the Crusades. It’s sad.”
She grinned at him. “It’s fun. Highly educational for the kids. Lighten up, Cal.” Suddenly serious, she looked at him sideways. “We both think you’re in trouble.”
They were walking under the town arch. It was hollow, dripping, a medieval gateway with trucks scraping under it. He said, awkward, “I’m sorry about last night. I get . . . uptight.”
“You’d had a shock.”
“I thought he was making fun of me.”
Shadow stepped aside for a woman with a stroller. Then she said, “Hawk believes you. That you were really there.”
“What about you?” he asked bitterly. She didn’t answer. Instead she pointed. “There’s the one you need to talk to.”
Across the street, outside Woolworth’s, a man was selling the Big Issue. He was incredibly scruffy, his long coat a sort of patchwork, his hair tangled, but he was quick and agile, his words holding passersby, his long hands supple as he talked till they dragged out a few grudging coins. Behind him on the pavement, a lanky brown dog lay curled.
“Who’s he?”
“The Hermit.” Shadow caught his elbow. “Come on.” She crossed the road, pulling him with her. Appalled, he said, “Great.”
The man stank. Cal could smell him already, an unwashed stench mixed with beer and some woody earthiness like soil in rain. His eyes were dark as Bron’s but lit with a wildness that made Cal wary; it reminded him of his mother at her worst times. When the man saw them he gripped Shadow’s shoulders; his hands were bony and the nails had been bitten to the quick. “So it’s you, Webbed One.”
“It’s me, master. I’ve brought someone to meet you.” She turned, and Cal knew she was enjoying his distaste. “This is Cal.”
The man looked at him hard. His face was thin, scabbed, stubbled with a scraggy beard, his hair a tangle over the crazy eyes. He held out his hand and, infinitely disgusted, Cal took it. “Not your real name.” The grin was wolf-sharp; all at once the hermit’s tough grip felt like the paw of some beast.
Cal snatched his hand away. “It’s the name I like.”
“We’re none of us what we seem.” The man gave a sideways nod at Shadow. “She hides in darkness. You in daylight.”
Cal was rubbing the grease from his fingers. “What about you?”
“I hide in time. My name is Merlin.”
Behind them, the dog yawned. Instantly the man turned; a sudden frenzy of anger transformed him. “And there’s her!” He spat. “My death. Always watching. Waiting at my heels.” He gave a vicious lunge toward the dog, stamping at it. “Bitch! Get away!” It took not the slightest notice, but lay down and looked at them with soft eyes.
Cal was backing off. He was on the point of turning and going, anywhere, but Shadow caught his sleeve and said, “We’re going to watch the Hawk.”
“Not only you. The others are all there. All of Arthur’s Company.” The Hermit was eyeing Cal; now he leaned close, the smell pungent. “But you need to make a phone call first,” he whispered. “And she won’t be where you expect her.” A scruffy magazine was pushed into Cal’s hands. “Take this.”
Cal swallowed. “Thanks. Very much. We have to go now.” He threw Shadow a desperate glance; was already moving off. What if someone saw him? What if Trevor saw him!
The Hermit smiled a wolfish smile. “We’ll speak again. But not yet, Shadow.”
She nodded. “If you say so, master.”
“God!” Cal said, safely down the street. “You know some weird people!”
“Yes. I know you.” She smiled secretly. “But he was right about your name, wasn’t he?”
“Maybe.” They had come to a phone box; Cal almost managed to walk past it. Then he stopped. “I don’t know how he guessed, but he was right about the phone call too. You go on. I’ll catch you up.”
“I’ll wait,” she said sweetly, sitting on the curb.
Cal squeezed in and picked up the receiver. He dialed his home number. At the other end the phone rang, and kept ringing. At first he felt relief, then guilt. And fear. Where was she? What was going on? He couldn’t put the receiver down. He seemed frozen there, listening to the ringing in the empty house. And then, as he scratched his face with the rolled-up magazine in his hand, he saw what he was holding wasn’t the Big Issue at all, but a stiff parchment of pages, empty except for the number that had been scrawled on the front page. A phone number. A Bangor number. Slowly, he put the handset down, and stared at the number. She won’t be where you expect her.
A truck roared past. Shadow called and waved to someone driving it.
Cal picked up the phone again, and dialed. It was crazy. But. A voice answered, almost immediately. “Hello?” A man. Cal gripped the phone tight. Panic started to rise; a pain on his chest.
“I want . . . Could I speak to Annie Davies? Is she there?” He was sweating. Praying. This couldn’t be. But the man said, “Hang on. I’ll get her.”
Chapter Ten
Ladies and damsels climbed into towers and peered through the wall battlements, thronging at windows to see the knights joust.
Didot-Perceval
He had always loathed the men. Over the years there had been many, and four who’d stayed around for a few months each, one almost a year. Cal had been sullen, barely able to speak to them, even Aled, who’d been so free-handed with his money and had given him that denim jacket when he was thirteen. But it had been cheap and tacky and he’d sold it. They’d taken her out, and she’d laughed and seemed happy; sometimes he’d let himself almost think one of them might make a difference. But the voices had always come back, and the gin to drown them out. And when the men had gone she was worse. Now, maybe, there was another one. He waited, watching Shadow through the glass door, feeding a pigeon crumbs from her pockets.
Breathy sounds. A scuffle. Then, “Cal? Is that you?”
“Mam? Where are you?”
She laughed. It wasn’t the usual giggle. She was sober. A huge relief washed over him; his very bruises seemed to stop aching.
“I’m at Rhian’s.”
“Who’s Rhian?”
“She’s my new outworker. From the hospital. We went to a group session last night and it was late so I stayed over.” She laughed again, a light sound. “What did you think? New boyfriend?”
He shrugged. “Sort of.” He couldn’t remember the last time she had sounded like this.
“I rang you last night but you must have been out. I wanted to tell you how I feel so good, Cal! These people—Dr. Lewis got me onto the program—they’re really helping me. I’m going to sort things out, Cal, I really am this time.”
Looking out up the crowded street he said, “That’s great, Mam.”
“You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
“Of course I do. If you get the help. It’s just . . .” He stopped, hating himself, but she hadn’t even been listening.