Corbenic

by Catherine Fisher

  Until he heard the car. It was a long way back but it was coming up fast behind him, and he turned quickly, waiting. A Range Rover. Smart. He flagged it down. A middle-aged man put his head out of the window dubiously.

  “I’m looking for the station,” Cal said quickly, trying not to seem so wet.

  “Station?”

  “Railway station. Corbenic.”

  “Never heard of it.” The man pulled his head in and spoke to his wife. A small Yorkshire terrier yipped in the back.

  “There’s a station at Ludlow.” The man looked him up and down; Cal felt hot with humiliation. “We’re going near it. Would you like a lift?”

  “Thanks!”

  The car was gloriously warm, and smelled of leather and cigarettes. The dog sniffed him once and then jumped down, scrambling into the front on the woman’s lap. Her manicured fingers caressed its silky hair. “Terrible weather,” she said.

  “Yes . . .” Cal watched the rain run from his soaked trousers and darken the seat; he moved his coat to cover it. “I think I must have gotten lost.”

  “Come far?”

  “From the Castle Hotel.” He said it deliberately, knowing only too well that the man would answer as he did.

  “Don’t know it.” He changed gear. “What was that place again?”

  “Corbenic.”

  “We’ve lived here for three years and I don’t think I’ve even heard the name before.” The woman turned and smiled over her shoulder pleasantly. Then the smile froze to a sickly rigidity. She had seen the sword. Cal swore silently. It was jutting out from the rucksack, the blade bright in the watery daylight. She turned back to the front quickly, then flashed a terrified glance at him in the mirror. Cal stared grimly out of the window. Maybe he should say something. Explain. Lie. The woman nudged her husband. Now he kept looking up in the mirror. The car veered. It was going too fast.

  Suddenly Cal couldn’t care less what sort of weirdo they thought he was. He leaned back and pulled the wet coat around him, brooding, glad he’d scared them. Why did he always have to be worried about what people thought of him? Why was he always so anxious?

  They came to a crossing; the red light stopped them. The driver’s gloved fingers tapped feverishly on the padded wheel. “Got far to go then?” His voice was false with cheeriness.

  “Chepstow.”

  “Nice place.” They were terrified of him. He smiled coldly. The man put his foot down and drove, before the lights changed. Right, left, through some streets of small black and white houses. Then he pulled up jerkily. “This is it.”

  Cal opened the door, got out, and heaved the rucksack after him. In the mirrors their scared eyes watched. He couldn’t stand it. It was stupid but it mattered to him. He put his hand on the sword hilt and grinned foolishly. “Historical stuff. Sort of a hobby, really.”

  The Yorkie barked.

  “Right,” the driver said. Relief was all over him like sweat. “Got you.” Then the door slammed, and the Range Rover roared away.

  On the tarmac, despising himself, Cal looked down at the blade, then whipped his jacket off viciously and wrapped the thing in it, tight. The sharp edge took a tiny treacherous slice out of his finger; blood splashed in sudden drops on his shirt. Furious, he shoved the sword under one arm. It will serve you, the note had said, as you have served me.

  Chapter Five

  Perfect was Gweir’s prison in the courts of the Otherworld.

  Spoils of Annwn

  “Of course, I’ll be expecting you to pay rent. It doesn’t have to be much, in the beginning, but the principle is important, Cal. You’ve left home. You’ll have to pay your way from now on.” It was hardly much of a welcome. Trevor dumped the rucksack in the car truck. He was a small man, meticulously neat, his coat dark over the business suit. “I’m glad you’re not loaded down with stuff,” he said, dusting his hands. “I hate the place cluttered.”

  “Not much to bring,” Cal muttered.

  He was weary. The journey from Ludlow had been a nightmare. Waiting ages, then having to buy a new ticket because his had been for yesterday, then missing the connection at Newport. He wanted to moan about it but his uncle didn’t even ask, just sat in beside him and looked at him. “You’re taller.” His gaze settled on Cal’s crumpled shirt, the cheap, useless jacket. Saying nothing, not needing to say it, he turned and started the car.

  They drove down through the steep, narrow streets of the small town, through the arch in the old walls. Afternoon shoppers were few on the pavements; across the housetops fading bunting flapped in the rain. The shops were small. Smaller even than Bangor. Cal sighed.

  “So what was it like?” Trevor asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “The hotel. What sort of bill am I going to get?”

  Cal pulled a tiny thread off the cuff of his shirt. “None.”

  His uncle looked at him quickly. “Come into money?”

  “I’ve been saving. A long time.”

  Trevor nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Still got that account I started for you?”

  “Yes.” It had been their secret. His mother had never known, because if she had she would have had the money out, wasted it, drunk it away, and it was his. All the savings from his weekend job had gone in there, every penny. For months now he had waited eagerly for every statement, watching how the tiny amounts of interest had been added on. He’d even gone without food sometimes, if she’d given him anything for a takeaway, just to have the pleasure of adding to it. A secret, vivid pleasure.

  “I rang Annie last night.” Trevor turned the wheel; the car went around the traffic circle and climbed the hill. His lips were tight with distaste. “To be honest, I don’t think she took in a word I was saying. ‘Where’s Cal?’ she kept asking. As if she was expecting you home for tea. She does know, doesn’t she, that this is for good?”

  “I’m sick of telling her.” Cal watched the houses pass grimly.

  “And that medication she’s on, is it any use?”

  “When she takes it.” He didn’t want to think about her. Not now. He didn’t want the shadow of her to spoil this. The car had turned into a quiet cul-de-sac called Otter’s Brook, lined with houses. New, expensive houses. Cal looked at them with satisfaction, and a sort of pride. They were detached, double-glazed, well-cared for. Some had double garages. A new kid’s bike lay in the drive of one, right out in the open, as if it was safe to do that here. Big cars were parked by immaculate green lawns.

  Trevor reversed the car into a sloping driveway lined with terracotta pots and pulled up carefully. “This is it. I’ll let you in, and then I’ll have to get back to the office. You can make yourself at home.”

  Cal bundled the jacket under one arm, carefully rewrapping the sword’s dangerous blade. He wished he’d left the hateful thing behind. But somehow it was important. It was his sanity; the only thing that proved that Corbenic had been real.

  He waited while Trevor unlocked the white door with its gleaming brass knocker, enjoying the quiet. God, this place was so different. Another world. In Sutton Street, right now, a disused stove rusted outside number eight, and the doors would all be open; music would be blaring from somewhere, and tonight there’d be all the usual fights, kids on street corners, new graffiti on the walls. But not here. This was quiet. Detached. He said the word to himself, as if he savored it.

  “I’ll just go and check there’s enough milk.” Trevor went quickly into the kitchen, and Cal dumped his rucksack on the spotless cream carpet and stood there, arms full of wrapped sword.

  This was it. This was what he’d dreamed of. There were a few magazines at home, glossy, Homes and Gardens. His mother had kept them; sometimes, on her good days, she’d get them out and sit there, among all the mess, flicking the pages, smoking nonstop. “One day, Cal,” she’d say, over the exquisitely tasteful rooms. “One day this’ll be us.” Maybe when he was a kid he had believed her. But not now. Not for years.

  Yet here it was. Sofas of softe
st cream leather, paintings, delicate curtains, big arty-looking vases. A huge, open-plan room, nothing out of place. Warm. Clean. His uncle’s computer on an ebony desk. Television. State-of-the-art sound system. Leatherbound books, all matching. He even felt classier as he looked at it.

  “Right.” Trevor came in, gave the rucksack the briefest flicker of annoyance and rubbed his small hands together nervously. “Your bedroom is the one at the back. Have a shower, get yourself something to eat. I’ll be back a bit late, and Thérèse will be coming at about eight; we’re going out for supper. So I’m afraid you’ll have the place to yourself tonight.”

  “No problem.” Cal picked the rucksack up, awkward.

  “Cal.” Halfway out of the door his uncle paused. He didn’t turn, but spoke to Cal through the chrome-edged mirror. “A few ground rules. No mess. No drugs. No smoking. No fights. No friends—of either gender—back here without asking me. You wash up what you use, look after your own clothes, shop for any food you want.” He pulled an odd, apologetic face. “Though I’m sure you’ve been doing that for a long time now.”

  Cal shrugged. They both knew that.

  “It’s just . . . It’s a big thing I’m doing here for you. Getting you this job. Having you in my house. A risk. Don’t let me down, Cal.”

  “You won’t even know I’m here,” Cal said drily. He knew a threat when he heard it. “Do you think I’m going to jeopardize all this?”

  Trevor shook his head, half-smiling. “No, I don’t. You’re like me, I know that. But this is my place, Cal, that’s all. I’ll see you about six then.”

  After the car had pulled away Cal stood in the room, listening to its silence, smelling the faint leathery, soapy smells of the house. In the quiet the fridge hummed. Then he kicked his boots off and crossed the immaculate carpet. He wanted to dump the sword but nowhere seemed right. Through the first door was a kitchen, just as spick-and-span, obviously barely used. A chrome espresso machine—at least that’s what he thought it was—had a postcard propped against it, a photo of some vineyard, with a French stamp. See you Friday, it said. Brought us a good vintage. Thérèse.

  For a second as he put the card down Cal knew he was in a place as alien to him as the castle of Corbenic, if not more so. Then the feeling was gone, and he looked for the stairs. They were open-plan, blond wood. A great skylight let a shaft of sunlight down on him as he found the back bedroom and went in. The walls, like all those in the house, were palest cream, with an abstract print of some blotches of orange and green. The carpet was charcoal gray, and the bed had a black-and-white striped duvet. He sat on it slowly. There was a fitted cupboard, which he jumped up and opened. It was empty, but for a neat row of hangers. Cal grinned. At home a whole pile of junk and dirty washing would have tumbled out.

  He remembered the sword suddenly and crouched, kneeling, tipping it out of his jacket and shoving it far under the bed, right under because it didn’t fit in this place, didn’t belong. But even when he stood up again he knew it was there, a blot on this perfection. He’d sell it. The thought made him laugh aloud; then he went to the window and drew aside the delicate lace curtains.

  The estate was hushed. Birds sang. A car purred softly down the hill. No one passed by, no one. The houses were all new, every garden tended, every errant leaf carefully swept up. Beyond he could see a line of forestry toward Tintern, deep, green wooded slopes. And the castle.

  He stared at it almost in dismay. For a moment his fingers were tight on the curtain; then he took a deep breath and made himself smile. It wasn’t the same. It was Chepstow Castle of course, a Norman ruin on the clifftop, a gaunt gray mass of roofless towers and halls. He’d seen it from the train. It was open to the public. It wasn’t the same. Still, it annoyed him. It was old, and broken. It spoiled his view.

  He showered and changed in the pristine bathroom and cleaned up carefully afterward, hanging his clothes meticulously, putting his few shirts into the empty drawers, every color separate, then made himself coffee and some sandwiches and took them into the huge room, switching the lamps on and drawing the curtains on the sudden November twilight. Almost reluctantly he sat on the leather sofa; it was so soft he almost spilled the cup and he swore, and then grinned.

  There were plenty of CDs; he flicked through them and pulled a face. Sinatra, jazz, middle-of-the-road stuff. Thick square candles lined the fire surround. They’d never been lit.

  On the table next to him was a gray, slim phone. He looked at it for a long time, sipping the coffee; even when the cup was empty it was an effort for him to put it down, and reach over and pick the phone up. The dialing tone purred reassuringly. He dialed the number. She took a long time to answer; he almost put it down in relief but then the familiar voice said, “Cal? Is that you?” She was bad. He knew that right away, just from the quaver in her voice.

  “Hi,” he said quietly.

  “Oh God, Cal, where are you? Where have you been? Trevor said . . .”

  “I’m all right.” He felt it creeping back on him already, the impatience, the irritation. “I had to stop in a hotel last night. I’m here now, at Trevor’s.” He glanced around. “It’s really nice.”

  She giggled meaninglessly. “You’re coming back, aren’t you? I forget when. . . .”

  “I told you. I’m getting a job here. At Trevor’s office. I told you.”

  “The bin’s full,” she said hopelessly. “How do I empty it? And last night, Cal, the voices were in my room. I heard them, they were in the chimney and they were telling that story again. . . .”

  His fingers were tight on the phone. “Have you taken your pills?”

  “Pills? Which ones?”

  “The blue ones. Remember? The ones Doctor Lewis said . . .”

  “Oh, I’ve taken them. All of them.”

  “ALL of them?” For a second his heart thudded. “What do you mean, all of them?”

  “Haven’t I? I thought I had. The story was the one about the bed, Cal, and if you lay in the bed the voices come there too, and there are curtains round it, and a sword in the pillow.”

  “What?” he said quickly, but she went on without stopping, and it was the same as always, the breathless, meaningless stories and he was barely listening, his skin crawling with nerves. She did this to him. She always did this. Then, somewhere behind it all there was a voice, calling. “Who’s that?” he said instantly.

  She stopped, confused. “What? What do I do about the bin?”

  “Put it out for the men. On Thursday.” He was panicky; suddenly the image of the overflowing dustbin made him sweat. He should have sorted it before he came, but then it would be like that every week now, wouldn’t it, and he couldn’t stay there anymore, he couldn’t stand it.

  “Are you coming back?” she whispered, as if she’d heard.

  “In a few weeks. For the weekend. I promise. Who’s there with you?” It might be some man. But she said, “Sally.” Relief flooded him. “Put her on, will you.”

  “I love you, Cal.”

  He nodded grimly. “Put Sally on, Mam, please.”

  There was a crackle, a clatter. Then Sally said, “Hi, Cal.”

  “Is she all right?” he asked, numb.

  “Not so good. She came banging on the door early hours of this morning so I came in and got her to bed. She’d been down the pub.”

  “Sorry,” he said, the misery so heavy all at once he felt sick.

  “Not your fault.” He could imagine Sally sitting on the table, her ample bottom in the jogging trousers.

  “Make sure she takes the pills, Sal. The blue ones. Please. And don’t forget the appointment with the psychiatrist on Monday.”

  “Don’t you worry.” Sal’s voice was quieter. “Don’t fret, Cal. Don’t torment yourself. This is a chance for you, love, maybe the only chance you’ll ever have to get on, so don’t ruin it. I’ll keep an eye on Annie. Give me the number and I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  He gave it, and said, “I couldn’t have done this wit
hout you.”

  “When you’re making wads of cash you can pay me back.” Her voice turned, then came back. “Do you want to say good night to your mam? She’s gone off somewhere.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “It’ll just upset her again.”

  “I’ll find those pills. Good night, Cal.”

  He put the phone down, and found he was sweating. As if he’d run for miles and miles. In the warm, still room he felt exhausted, and it was true, he had run, hadn’t he; run away and left her to fend for herself, though everyone knew she couldn’t. And it was illness, it wasn’t her fault, not really. But he couldn’t take it anymore, and he wouldn’t think about it, because Sally lived down the road and it’d be all right. And he wouldn’t think about Corbenic, either, because that was in him, that was worse.

  So he washed up, and when Trevor came home he said hello to Thérèse, who turned out to be as well dressed and elegant as he’d thought she would, her voice faintly accented. French, maybe. Waiting for Trevor, she perched on the edge of the sofa. “So. You’ll be working at the accountants’?”

  “Four days a week. On Wednesdays I have to go to college. For a course.”

  She smiled, her dark hair gleaming. A faint scent of perfume drifted from her. “Is that what you want?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, surprised.

  She nodded kindly. “That’s good then. That you know what you want.”

  When they’d gone he watched television all night, a meaningless babble of programs and then went up and lay in the comfort of the black-and-white bed, one lamp throwing soft shadows on the ceiling. It was beautifully, wonderfully silent. No baby crying through the walls. No lying awake wondering what time his mother would come in. But he did lie awake, wondering just that, for a long time.