“Never heard of it.”
“No. I think it’s sort of out in the sticks. The last station I remember before it was Craven Arms, but . . .”
“Craven Arms! That’s about three hours’ drive!”
Cal scowled. He felt a total fool, and suddenly knew what was coming. When his uncle spoke again he sounded even more distant, as if he’d stepped back. He was also brisk and matter-of-fact. “It’s far too far for me to pick you up. I’m going out later anyway. You’ll have to stay over. Where are you ringing from?”
“A hotel. The Castle. But I . . .”
“Is it all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“For heaven’s sake, Cal! Is it decent? How many stars has it got?”
He had no idea. Wearily he looked around at the paneled hall, the crackling fire. “It’s posh. It’ll cost an arm and a leg.”
“Don’t pay more than forty pounds for the night. Have you got that much on you? If not, get them to phone me in the morning and I’ll settle it by credit card, but I warn you, Cal, I’m not making a habit of this.”
“No,” Cal said tightly. “Neither am I.”
“Keep to yourself. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Well then, be discreet. Don’t make a fool of yourself. And for God’s sake get the right train in the morning and call me from the station.” He sighed, sourly. “I’ll ring Annie.”
“She’ll be at the pub,” Cal said, reluctantly.
“Yes. I know what state she’ll be in too.” His uncle’s voice was rich with distaste. “To be honest I don’t suppose it’s worth bothering. She probably won’t even remember you’re gone.” The phone went dead with an irritated click.
“And good night to you too.” Cal dropped the receiver and stared blankly at the paneled wall. Out of nowhere, loneliness flooded him like a wave. For a moment he knew with devastating clarity that no one in his family knew where he was or even cared that much. Trevor didn’t want him. It went through him like a coldness. Like shock.
“Your mother will be concerned.”
He turned quickly. The man watching him was sitting in a chair; that was Cal’s first thought. Then he realized it was a wheelchair. The man was watching him closely. “Won’t she?”
“No.” Cal came out of the booth. “She’s not bothered.”
“I see. But you found my castle. I told you it wasn’t far.”
The fisherman. The dark man in the boat. It was him. Close up he was younger; his hair a little too long, his knees covered in a warm tartan rug. But his face was still drawn, as if some secret pain consumed him.
“Your castle?” Cal said quietly.
The man’s smile was brief. “I should have said so but it wasn’t a ploy for custom, I assure you. There really is nowhere else for you to go.” He held out a frail hand. “My name is Alain Bron.”
Cal shook hands awkwardly. “Cal. Well, everyone calls me Cal. Look, I’m sorry, but I am going to have to stay here tonight.”
The dark-haired man nodded gravely. “Of course you are. Everyone always does.” His green eyes watched Cal so intently Cal felt hotly self-conscious. The old worries came flooding up; his clothes, his accent. He must look cheap. As if he couldn’t pay.
But Bron only said, almost to himself, “You are the one, aren’t you.” He was trembling.
A door opened behind them. A man wearing a peculiar, almost medieval robe trimmed with fur came out and crossed the hall, scooping up the rucksack before Cal could move. Bron put his hands to the wheels of the chair and turned it with an effort. “The gatekeeper here will show you your room. Relax, refresh yourself; you’re my guest. A bell will ring for supper.” Painfully, he wheeled himself away.
Cal followed the man up the great curving stairs and along a lavish corridor hung with red velvet. Forty pounds a night? No chance. The place was huge, maybe four star. And full, by the sound of it. They passed rows of closed doors; one was ajar and as they crossed the opening Cal saw a vast bed draped in crimson damask, tapestries hanging on the walls.
The gatekeeper was looking back. “This way, sir,” he said. At the end of the corridor he opened a door and carried the rucksack inside, as carefully as if it was made of some precious metal. Cal stepped past him, amazed. A four-poster bed filled this room too, and as he turned he saw gilt mirrors and another log fire, and a small bathroom, its carpet deep and soft.
“Please ring if you need anything at all.” The man made an elegant half-bow.
“Wait!” Cal turned. “Listen. Do I have to . . . dress up for supper?” He would have given anything not to have to ask.
“Not at all, sir. Come as you wish.”
“And this place. Does it really belong to . . . Mr. Bron?”
“He is the King.”
“Has he had some sort of accident?”
It was nosy, but the man didn’t blink. Instead he looked grave. “The blow that struck him down devastated us all and all our lands and all the world. But I think you have given him—given us all—great hope. Will there be anything more?”
“No. Thanks.” He had no idea what any of this meant. Were they that desperate for customers? For a confused moment he knew he should give some sort of tip, take a handful of coins out of his pocket like they did in films, and press something into the man’s hand, but it would be too embarrassing and he didn’t know how much and anyway, the man was gone.
Wearily, Cal went and sat on the bed, head in hands. He felt shaky and almost sick with hunger. And cut off, somehow, from everything, everyone, as if he’d stepped through some invisible barrier into a totally other place. He didn’t belong here. But after a minute he made himself get up and go into the bathroom. The bath was huge; gold taps reflected his face. He turned the hot tap on and watched the water gush out, steaming. The roar of it cheered him. He’d always dreamed of staying in a luxury hotel. So why not make the best of it.
Later, warm and dry, wearing his favorite clothes—there had even been a little iron to get the creases out of his chinos—he sat by the roaring fire and leaned his head back in the comfortable chair. There was no minibar, but some hot sweetish drink with lemons in had been waiting on the table; he sipped it now, its warm fruity flavors. Slowly, he grinned. The station had been a nightmare, and the walk . . . well, all right, he’d got the creeps, but this—this was great. This was living. At home the flat would be empty like every night, and cold, because the two-bar electric fire would be off. There’d be no cooking smells, no TV. Only the old wooden clock in the dirty room, ticking. And next door’s baby wailing.
No one could blame him for going. He’d had it since he was a kid, getting his own food, washing his own clothes, sorting himself out for school. It would do her good, anyway, to have to manage for a bit, to have to get herself together. It was over for him now. He was never going back. Never.
A sound made him look up. Repeated, it rang through the corridors and mysteries of the house. A sweet, silver bell.
Chapter Three
Alas, that he asked no Question then! Even now I am cast down on his account.
Parzival
There were far more people in the place than he’d thought. They came out of the rooms, thronging down the staircase, chattering and laughing. One or two eyed him curiously. They all seemed to know each other, and they were dressed like something out of a James Bond film. The women wore long gowns, sparkling with bits of feathers and fur and the glitter of diamonds. Money. You could almost smell it. He thought of all the designer names he’d heard of—these people probably bought their stuff in places like that, in London, those big, brightly-lit shops he’d seen in magazines. And the men wore dress suits or uniforms, and talked loudly. He had never felt so out of place.
The stairway was broad and curving; the carpet deep and soft, a vivid scarlet. As the crowd pushed down around him he wondered for a bewildered second how they’d all got here; thought of the dark, tree-covered lane, the overgrown garden. But then, he must have come in the back way. There must be a car park at the front. A reception desk. This was some dinner dance for the local nobs.