The Fetch

by Robert Holdstock

  Michael had fetched the amulet from here, there could be no doubt about it. The Milecastle, one of the best preserved on the Wall, looked as if it had been vandalized. The small stones from a ten-foot section had been scattered in a wide arc into the field. There was a deep gouge in the earth, and the turf was scattered in a similar pattern to the building stone. The ‘fetching’ of the amulet had been as explosive as ever; perhaps more so.

  But Michael was unharmed. There were no obvious cuts on his begrimed features, and he complained of no bruises.

  ‘You were here, Michael. Weren’t you?’

  The boy ran round the Milecastle wall. ‘Only in my dream,’ he said again, and then smiled. ‘This was the door. I went in through the door.’ He walked through the narrow gap in the stones where once a wooden gate had protected the interior. Richard followed him into the square space and stood on the low mound where once the barrack building had been constructed. Michael turned towards him, stepped up on to the mound and glowed with excitement as he said, ‘It’s cold now, but there was a fire here. And two Romans. One of them was very smelly. The other one was drinking. He’s the one who gave me the present. They both seemed frightened by me, but I told them I was just dreaming and looking for Parnesius. Then the thin one put on his helmet. He looked angry. When he gave me the amulet I reached for it …’

  There was a sudden hesitation, a guilty glance behind him, then Michael stared up at his father, his eyes tearful in the harsh dawn light. The wind was brisk.

  ‘What happened, Michael?’

  Sadly, the boy said, ‘I fetched it, but I fetched the helmet too … I didn’t mean to. But it was only a dream.’

  And yet, he could see well enough that it hadn’t been a dream. He seemed sad now, his excitement dulled.

  ‘Where’s the helmet, Michael?’

  Again, the boy looked round, then pointed across the interior of the Milecastle. Richard saw the brown object, leaning against the grey stone. It looked like a smooth cow-pat, blending almost totally with the natural browns and greens of the grass that overgrew this place. It was a helmet, though, in traditional Roman style, a leather cap over metal, with a neck fringe and cheek guards.

  It was not complete. It had been cut across, as if by a sword, so that it consisted only of crown and left cheek-guard.

  Richard stooped and picked it up, and something wet and bloody slipped from inside, landing heavily on the ground. The piece of skull was covered with short-cropped, auburn hair. The ear was scarred and deformed. Mercifully, the eye was closed.

  ‘What is it?’ Michael asked nervously from the wall of the Milecastle. Richard turned quickly.

  ‘Go into the field and wait for me. Don’t cross the road. Is that clear?’

  Silently, Michael departed, glancing furtively back. He knew what he had done. He was expecting to be punished.

  When the boy was out of sight Richard scooped the skull fragment back into the cold helmet and carried it through the north gate of the wall. Here the land dropped smoothly to fields and a copse of wind-wrecked trees surrounding a shallow, muddy pond. His hand shook as he held the human remains by the ear, trying not to gag. He reached out over the pond and pressed the cut bone into the mud, skin side down, burying it deeply.

  ‘What did you see, I wonder?’ he murmured to the water grave. ‘What was it like to see the ghost? What did your companion make of your sudden death?’

  It was a strange and disturbing thought. He wondered if the rest of the body of Michael’s ‘Parnesius’ was buried anywhere in the area. He wondered whether an account of the attack had been written up in dispatches. Perhaps somewhere in the archives the tale of the murder could be read.

  ‘One of them was smelly?’

  Susan shuddered violently and sat down on the bed, staring distantly through the window. Richard paced up and down, then reached for the lucky charm, dangling it in his fingers.

  ‘Astonishing, isn’t it? Just a few hours ago this was slung round the neck of a Roman auxiliary. If we took it to a forensic laboratory they’d probably find his skin scales, bits of hair, even his blood type. There’s sweat on the leather—’ He rubbed the thin thong between thumb and forefinger. ‘Roman sweat, circa 300 AD. And Michael smelled it. Yes. He smelled the odour.’

  ‘All his senses engage with the past,’ Susan murmured. ‘I wonder if they see him?’

  ‘Of course they see him. They called him “ghost”. They offered a gift to him to get rid of him. They saw something that wasn’t solid, but was real enough to frighten the living daylights out of them.’

  He smiled grimly at a sudden thought. Daddy, I found Kipling’s Parnesius, but I killed him …

  Susan stood and went to the window. She was feeling sick, she had said, and she certainly looked it. ‘No Chalk Boy this time, Rick. He did it all on his own.’

  Wearily, Richard agreed. ‘I think Françoise may have been right. Chalk Boy was his own game, his way of rationalizing the power. There was no Chalk Boy in Hawkinge Wood, that time. Nor when he was raw power just fetching dirt by the barrel and room-full …’

  Susan turned and smiled grimly, then reached for the cold charm. ‘This feels uncomfortable,’ she said, passing it back. ‘Sell it. As soon as possible.’

  ‘I intend to. Won’t get much for it, mind you. In the meantime, I hope Michael can see something a little bigger, a little brighter …’

  ‘I’m worried he’ll get hurt. Sometimes the fetching is so devastating.’

  Richard also worried about that, but the fact was, Michael had never suffered more than a cut or a bruise. He said, ‘The worst he’s done is the earthfall. And he wasn’t in control.’

  ‘He was cut very badly by the Egyptian dancing girl …’

  ‘His talent was new. But he does control it more now. He’s more focused …’

  He spoke the partial lie with his mind’s eye firmly fixed on half a head, falling from a shattered helmet. He spoke it with a mind’s view of the damaged wall. But Michael had not been hurt, only dirtied. He had somehow been missed by the explosion he had summoned: he had stood, safely, at the centre of the storm.

  ‘The older he gets,’ Richard murmured, ‘the more he’ll be able to handle it.’

  ‘How do you know? How can you be sure?’

  ‘Gut feeling,’ Richard said feebly. ‘But look, this is the first time he’s focused away from the chalk pit. The first time he’s “done it alone”, if you like. I think he’s learning to manipulate the ability more. Which can only be good for all concerned. And he seems happy to fetch things. And as long as he’s happy … we should encourage him.’

  Susan looked disturbed. ‘I don’t know. Oh God, Rick, I don’t know. Who is he? What caused it? What did his mother do to him? I still dream of her, watching. I still see her face, watching. It was not a good birth.’

  ‘Nonsense. It was a perfectly good birth. Wasn’t it … ?’

  He noticed that she looked round sharply, her eyes dark, but he didn’t pursue it. He had long forgotten how distressed Susan had been by the circumstances of the adoption, and to be reminded of it was now unwelcome.

  ‘Michael’s fine,’ he said. ‘He has a talent. We’ve got used to it. Just about. We had a stroke of luck. We love him, we’ll cherish him, he’ll always be happy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Listen, we have to go. It’s a long drive for us both. I’ll be home next weekend if I can, otherwise, two weeks’ time.’

  They packed up their walking clothes and left the farm.

  SEVENTEEN

  There was another letter from Françoise Jeury waiting for them when they arrived home and Susan opened it wearily and warily. The memory of the terse and pointed exchange between them, a year ago, still smarted. Susan had felt threatened, attacked by the simple awareness that Madame Jeury had demonstrated. She also hated to be called a liar … especially when she knew that being a liar was the truth of the matter. But Françoise had not let go, writing regularly, asking to visit Michael. Susan had alw
ays refused. Now Françoise was inviting the whole family to London.

  Michael was agitated. He had liked the woman and was keen to visit her. Françoise had invited him and Carol to see the British Museum, and to visit her own research building and see ‘psychic archaeology’ at work.

  Eventually, Susan agreed. She had had another thought, a visit that she herself needed to make. And what harm could Françoise Jeury do? She knew about Michael’s talent, had been discreet about it – Jack Goodman, as far as she knew, was unaware of Michael’s gift. Perhaps it was time to allow Françoise access to Michael.

  She got permission from their school to take the children into the city on Tuesday, and they caught an early train to Charing Cross. As arranged, Françoise Jeury met them there, ready to take the children with her to her research rooms in the Ennean Institute for Paranormal Studies. There was a strained smile, a cautious exchange of pleasantries, and an arrangement to meet later in Russell Square.

  Susan made her way immediately to the clinic near Harley Street, and sat for nearly two hours waiting for the consultant who had treated her infertility in the late 1970s.

  Dr Wilson eventually bustled through into reception, flushed and apologetic, his white coat opened in a casual way to reveal the sharp grey suit beneath.

  ‘My dear Mrs Whitlock, Susan, I can’t apologize enough for keeping you waiting. Come this way, won’t you? Have you been offered tea?’

  He never explained why he had kept her waiting so long. His room was heavy with the smell of a chemical, mixed nauseatingly with the reek of a cigar. As if aware of her discomfiture he opened a window, then sat down behind his wide, gleaming desk. He looked very much older than when she had seen him last, deeply lined, his eyelids sagging at the edges, giving him a sad and weary look. The whole room, in fact, seemed sad and weary. Only the desk and his clothing were immaculate. The paint on the walls was faded, as was the carpet. His shelves of books were untidy. The glass bottles and containers, filled with the pale and grey specimens of things that Susan preferred not to think about, were a dusty jumble now, rather than the neat display she remembered avoiding years ago.

  ‘How is young Michael? Doing well? What seems to be his interest? A doctor perhaps? Mathematician?’

  Cutting through this small talk, Susan said, ‘In one way Michael is fine. He’s fit and he’s healthy.’ Her voice was quiet, and she stared at the man very firmly. ‘Dr Wilson, did you tell me everything?’

  Dr Wilson frowned. ‘Everything? Everything about what?’

  ‘Years ago. When I was your patient. There was a problem with Michael’s birth. We couldn’t have him for a while. You can’t have forgotten, surely?’

  She hadn’t intended to put the edge in her voice, but it appeared there, probably the result of her impatience in the waiting room. Wilson flushed, then licked his lips. He glanced around, then stood and walked behind Susan, an infuriating thing to do. She twisted in her chair so that she could keep watching him, denying him the authority he was seeking.

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I haven’t forgotten. Why do you bring this up now? I asked you to keep what was done completely to yourself …’

  ‘Which I have done. Faithfully. Absolutely. Not even my husband Richard knows. I’ve honoured our agreement. What I want to know is: did you tell me everything?’

  ‘What did I tell you, exactly? It’s been a long time. Memory dulls.’

  Susan felt her hands shaking. She was anxious, she realized, although mentally felt quite calm. Repressing her impatience she said, ‘Michael’s birth-mother changed her mind after twenty-four weeks and insisted that you abort her child. She tried to do herself damage, which you managed to prevent. You were very shocked by her distress and started to inject her with what you called a chemical cocktail that would have done the job of killing Michael in the womb. But then she changed her mind again. You said it was as if she’d suddenly seen a clear light and realized the consequences, not just for her, but for me too, the prospective mother. She stopped you in time, but you were afraid that some damage might have been done to Michael. What you were doing was illegal, as was our private deal, so I’ve kept silent about it. As I said, even from Richard.’

  ‘Times changed quite fast,’ Wilson said with a weary sigh, returning to sit behind his desk. ‘Within two years of that dreadful day the law was changed …’

  ‘Never mind that. You told me that you were sure no damage had been done to the embryo. To Michael.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. No damage to Michael at all. Why do you ask? Now? So many years later.’

  ‘Because there’s something very strange about my son …’

  ‘A physical strangeness? Susceptibility to disease? What, exactly?’

  ‘He has a talent.’ What should she say? What could she say? ‘It’s what you might call a psychic ability. He has a quite incredible degree of extra sensory perception.’

  Wilson’s quick smile was infuriating. Susan leaned forward on the polished desk and almost shouted at the man. ‘It’s terrifying, Dr Wilson. The boy is frightened. I’m frightened. We’re all frightened. It’s a part of our lives, now, but what’s going to happen in later years? Perhaps you can’t imagine it, but this sort of – this sort of ability affects a family at its core! The mood of the family, the plans of the family, the happiness in the family, everything has to adjust itself to one focus, one frightening, uncontrolled, unbelievable focus! Is it possible that you did something, something that other clinics have since reported, something that can affect the mind? Did that chemical cocktail as you called it get into the fluid around Michael? What was in the cocktail?’

  ‘I swear to you that it didn’t,’ Wilson said in a half-whisper. ‘I have tried to forget that incident, Mrs Whitlock. I can’t begin to tell you how ashamed I feel about what happened.’

  ‘But nothing happened … According to you, nothing happened.’

  You’re lying. You’re hiding something …

  When Wilson remained silent she repeated again, more calmly, ‘Nothing happened, you said. His mother tried to inflict self-damage. But she didn’t. You tried to inflict damage. But you didn’t go through with it.’

  She leaned back, shuddering. She felt cold, despite the heat of her words.

  Wilson nodded. ‘Everything you say is true.’

  ‘Then it has to come from his mother.’ She straightened again, met Wilson’s gaze as calmly as possible. ‘You must let me speak to the mother. Please. You refused me before. But I must speak to her. Please!’

  ‘She didn’t want to have anything to do with you or to know who you were. She made that very clear to me, and I’m sorry, Mrs Whitlock, but I have to respect those wishes.’

  Susan slapped her hand on the table, a gesture of frustration. ‘That was nine years ago. Perhaps she’s mellowed. Perhaps things would be different now. Dr Wilson, I’m not doing this for myself. I’m not asking this out of some selfish need for one mother to face the other. This is for my family, and for Michael himself! There’s something terribly wrong with him, except that …’

  Wilson prompted her to continue.

  ‘Except that in one way it’s very right. In one way it’s wonderful. But it can’t be right, and deep down I feel this. If I could just speak to the woman. On the phone even. Couldn’t you arrange that?’

  Quite abruptly, Wilson stood, remaining behind his desk, clearly signalling that the interview was over. His florid face had paled around the eyes, and Susan noticed that a touch of sweat gleamed along his hairline. ‘I made some decisions in the seventies which I would not make now, and about which I feel no pride, nor satisfaction, but only guilt …’

  Private abortions for ridiculous fees, private exchanges of unwanted babies for ridiculously high fees, yes Doctor, I know all about that …

  ‘I want very much to forget about those years.’

  ‘But I’m not going to let you,’ Susan said defiantly. She stood and smiled, then reached out a hand which Wilson slowly met,
shaking the tips of her fingers as he watched her calm face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I’m going to nag you to despair until you agree to at least tell Michael’s birth-mother that I urgently need to speak to her.’

  Relishing the alarm in Dr Wilson’s face, Susan waited a moment before adding, ‘Don’t worry. I made a promise to you which I intend to keep. But I can be very persistent, Dr Wilson. Just try for me. That’s all I ask. Just try.’

  The man sat down, equally defiantly, it seemed to Susan. He stared at her with an expression that dissolved from panic to supercilious contempt.

  ‘You paid a great deal of money for Michael …’

  ‘Yes. Money that I didn’t really have. A fee that has affected our lives ever since. Except that—’ she smiled at the thought, ‘Michael seems to be doing his best to pay us back.’

  When she refused to elaborate, Wilson drew breath and scribbled a note on his pad. ‘Very well, Mrs Whitlock. I’ll see what I can do.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Now let’s see what you can do. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready!’

  ‘Are you steady?’

  ‘Steady!’

  ‘Then … Go!’

  On the screen in front of Michael the pin-points of light began to run, to move and zigzag, avoiding his cross-hairs brilliantly. The chair in which he sat rocked and twisted, giving a tremendous sensation of speed and movement as he chased the aliens. His fingers gripped the control sticks and he fired, but missed, then fired again, missing sometimes by only a whisker. The helmet he wore was not comfortable. It began to tug at his ears, rubbing the skin, but the game became so fascinating that he forgot about the chafing. As he concentrated on the chase and the kill, so he focused harder. He quickly learned to concentrate on just one of the small, spiralling spots. He went after it for all he was worth.

  He missed again, then again he overshot, but as the chair went with him, and his cries of delight filled the room, so the target spot seemed to glow more brightly.