‘Have you ever – have you ever
seen
the Holy Grail?’
With a quick shrug, Michael admitted, ‘I don’t know what it looks like. But Chalk Boy can find it.’
‘Chalk Boy … Limbo Boy …’
A drop of perspiration fell from Françoise’s glowing skin on to Michael’s hand. She looked uncomfortable and used a handkerchief to wipe her forehead. Michael watched her, slightly puzzled at the fact that she was shaking. Her voice barely audible, she said to him, ‘You are a powerful young man, Michael. A powerful young man indeed. You have invented a wonderful story, and wonderful friends, to hide a power that is astonishing. No wonder your father tells you stories … I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’ve seen and touched some very strange things in my time, and met some wonderful people.’
‘What strange things?’ Michael asked, intrigued.
‘I’ll tell you later. Michael: will you promise me that if you hear Chalk Boy come back you’ll let me know? I would so much like to be with you when he comes the next time and brings you something.’
‘I’ll ask him,’ Michael murmured, but he didn’t think Chalk Boy would approve at all. More brightly he said, ‘I’ll give you a drawing of the castle, if you like. I’ll go and do it now.’
‘That would be lovely.
I’d like that.’ She took him by the hand. ‘Let’s go back to the house, shall we? I’m starving.’
‘Me too.’
‘And while we walk, will you sing me a song?’ She held a tape recorder towards him. ‘Sing me your favourite song.’
He laughed, amused by some private thought, and a moment later, without further prompting, broke into a tuneless rendition of the theme from
Ghostbusters
.
The meal was strained. Susan had not gone to a great deal of effort – there hadn’t been time – but the food was Italian and good, and consumed appreciatively. The strain came from Françoise who, having been interested and friendly earlier in the evening, was now moody and withdrawn.
Watching her over the supper table, Susan could see that her guest was angry.
The tension from the French woman seemed directed at Richard. Whatever Richard asked her was shrugged away, or half answered, and the warmth she had shown him earlier was no longer in evidence. She was courteous with Susan, almost as if in compensation for her hostility towards her host. She said frankly that she had felt nothing from Michael, and that the chalk quarry and her conversation with the boy had given her no clues as to where he was finding the treasures.
Richard was less disappointed than Susan would have expected.
She did say that she could sense the barrier that Michael had erected. She had pretended to feel a gate. He
had
erected something to protect the pit, and as such clearly had a defined, positive psychic energy. He left
traces
of his mind wherever he went, and Françoise had detected them. He was defending
himself. She had experienced this many times before in pre- and early post-pubescent children.
Jack Goodman wanted to drive back to London, and Françoise would go with him. The meal was not curtailed, but they moved away from the table when they had eaten and Goodman collected his things from the study. As Richard cleared the table, Françoise led Susan to the sitting room, then out into the garden, standing quietly in the darkness, watching night birds over the distant woods.
‘Is everything all right, Françoise?’
‘No. No, everything is not all right.’ She turned to Susan, indecisive for a moment, clearly needing to say something. ‘I am uncomfortable with your husband.’
‘I noticed. Why, I wonder?’
‘Because of your son. Because he is cruel.’
‘Michael?’
‘Your husband. There is a cruelty in him. He is making Michael sing for his supper. I don’t like that.’
Susan folded her arms, angry, and dropped her gaze. In an icy voice she said, ‘It’s not only Richard. I must take a lot of the blame too, Madame Jeury, if you must know. We both neglected the boy when he was younger. I should have done more … Richard’s needs are very consuming.’
‘If you start calling me “Madame” I shall assume you are sulking, and end this conversation. There is no need to be angry.’
Choosing to ignore the fact that she had been patronized, Susan smiled her agreement. ‘This is an edgy family. There are tensions.’
Françoise Jeury laughed delightedly. ‘And how! Oh, my God. It’s everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Everywhere.’
‘You can feel that?’
‘I can feel it very
strongly.’ She became serious, picking her words carefully. ‘At the table, I apologize, but I didn’t tell you the truth. About Michael, I mean. Because I want to tell the truth to you and not to your husband. You must decide, of course, what to tell Richard. But I myself do not want to tell him what I know, what I have found out.’
Susan watched the other woman, her face hard, a defensive look, an angry one again. Then she started to walk towards the hedges, Françoise following slightly behind. ‘If you’re going to tell me that Michael uses his mind to steal things from museums, we’ve already guessed that. For a long time I thought it was his natural mother, throwing abuse at us, her own psychic power. There was a lot of earth when he was an infant. He nearly drowned in a massive mud-spill that just
appeared
in the bedroom—’
‘His talent was raw. Unfocused. Powerful, but still infantile.’
‘That’s right. Michael himself. Later, he started to “see” and “fetch” more clearly. He sees visions of something in someone’s house and can steal it. He has invented an imaginary companion to rationalize where the objects come from. He goes down into the quarry, where he feels secure, and “fetches” things from there, pretending to be in his castle. But he is doing it himself, and he’s doing it for affection …’
‘You must discourage that—’
Furious, Susan turned on the other woman. ‘Damn it! Don’t tell me how to bring up my own child!’
Unbowed, unbattered, Françoise Jeury said grimly, ‘If you have started to understand, then fine. But that boy is in terror …’
‘I know.’
‘He has been excluded. He thinks he has no soul.’
‘I
know
.’
‘Then why did you let
it happen?’
Susan’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Because he frightens me. Because I can still see the look in his mother’s eyes. Because there’s something more, something horrible, and it terrifies me to think about it.’
‘Then perhaps you should talk about it …’
Quickly – too quickly – Susan said, ‘We’ve
been
talking about it, Françoise. Michael is strange in so many ways. He puts up barriers. From what you say, more barriers than we’d realized.’
Françoise Jeury scuffed the damp lawn with her toe. ‘Is Richard frightened too?’
‘Not of Michael. Richard’s fears are more internalized, more personal. Michael is just a target for his frustrations. Or rather was. He’s better with the boy, now.’
The other woman sneered. ‘Of course. Why not? His son has become Father Christmas.’
‘That’s not fair.
‘Of course it’s fair! You know your husband better than anyone. You know him! Susan, listen to me. You are almost right but not
quite
right. About Michael, I mean. The power he has is frightening, yes, and perhaps what you fear is the power you aren’t aware of. I do not think he has control over what is happening to him because he is too young. I can’t be sure, but I feel strongly that he is inventing a world to explain his
own
fears, his
own
talent. And it is a
wonderful
talent. I have experienced it before, but never like this.’
‘Telekinesis, you mean? That’s what he’s doing.’
‘Apportation. It’s a much more powerful form of the talent.’
‘Apportation,’ Susan repeated, digesting the word and nodding as if this explained everything. Then she frowned. ‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘He
fetches
,’ Françoise said. ‘It’s as simple as that. He reaches and grasps at precious
things, and brings them across space … and across time.’
In the darkness Susan’s eyes glittered with questions and tears. ‘Across time?’
‘These things you have. These objects he has brought to you … they don’t feel old because they
aren’t
old. Because they come from the past when they were new. The wolf-girl dancer was newly made for the tomb of a king. One day, thousands of years later, a young mind saw the new glitter, days after it had been placed in the tomb. No stone, no sand, no wood could stand in the way, no weeks, no years, no thousands of years. He reached into that dark and ancient place and
snatched
the object from the sealed tomb. And when the tomb was opened in the nineteenth century they found everything in place – except that someone had been there in antiquity and broken off a part of the altar …’
Susan was astonished. ‘Do you know for certain that that happened?’
Françoise laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. Of course not. Not for certain. But I can
imagine
it clearly enough to know that
something
like that happened. Then there is the Mocking Cross … it could so easily be the male part of the pair from Istanbul. Used to abuse a sacrificial victim; then stolen by a priest and buried in the catacombs, golden mask and all. And shortly after it had been concealed, it vanished. A wind came, maybe. And a spectral hand appeared from nowhere and snatched it away, because that was the moment that Michael sent his mind, scouring time, searching the past for something that was
bright
and
pretty
. Do you see? He takes things from time. To me they feel young. But he has covered
centuries
in his quest. Oh, I
must
study him more …’
‘His quest? What quest?’
Françoise’s face was a mask of solemn anger. She stared at Susan in disbelief,
then snapped out the words. ‘For the story of the Fisher King! What else? For his parents’ arms around him! For a kiss goodnight from your husband! For his
Grail
. He pays for love—’
‘That’s enough! It’s none of your business,
Madame
! Things will change …’
‘Will they?’
‘Enough!’
‘
Will
they change? That’s your business too. But please remember, Susan, that when I have met a remarkable little man like Michael, I can’t easily forget about him.’
Furious again, Susan pushed past the woman, then stopped, glaring. ‘Forget about him. He needs love, not his mind probed. There will be no, repeat
no
study of my son. Leave us alone.’
After a long moment Françoise expressed her regret that such a tension had developed. ‘If you ever need to ask me for help, please do,’ she went on. ‘I may fail. As I said earlier, I’m a strange piece of archaeological equipment. Sometimes I dig well, sometimes not. But I’m always prepared to try …’
‘I’m going to tell Richard what you’ve told me. I don’t care if you feel angry about that. I can’t have secrets from my husband.’
Françoise laughed. ‘I’m not angry. I think he already knows. He just hasn’t told you. You tell him what you want. Too many secrets,’ she added with a sideways glance and a smile that sent cold fingers down Susan’s spine. ‘Too many secrets, kept for years, can be unbearable. You’re right. Don’t add more.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’
‘Of course you know what I mean by that.’
‘Don’t call me a liar! Don’t
dare
call me a liar.’
‘I
do
dare. Why not? It’s your life. It’s your lie. But Susan, I have seen that lie – oh, I don’t know what it is, of course, and frankly
I don’t want to. But I have seen it. And more to the point, I can see it poisoning you.’
And with that, Françoise turned quickly and led the way grimly back to the car, where Jack Goodman was in deep conversation with Richard. A moment before they arrived she whispered, ‘You wear your darkness like a veil, Susan. I hope you can lift that veil soon.’
Susan was in a cold sweat, her perception heightened through shock and emotion. ‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ she muttered, but she knew that her face betrayed her.
At the car, Richard passed Françoise a scroll of paper. ‘From Michael, for you,’ he said with a slight bow.
‘Ah. The Castle Keep.’
She unfurled the paper and looked at the confusion of broken circles and diagonal lines. She was reminded of a maze, or some sort of puzzle. In the centre of the picture was the representation of a sea with mountains behind it. On the area of the beach a small figure had been drawn, standing below a bright sun. Its shadow stretched away from it like a thin cross. Placed outside the circles, standing on a low hill, was a representation of Madame Françoise Jeury every bit as indulgent as Carol’s earlier effort, all bust and auburn hair. She had been outlined in heavy black pen to make her stand out.
‘I am not flattered,’ she said with a laugh, ‘but I’m grateful for the gift. Will you tell him that I’m pleased?’
‘I will,’ said Richard. Goodman and Françoise Jeury took their leave.
Watching from the landing window, Michael raised a hand, waved silently as the car pulled out of the drive and on to the London road. Then he went back to his room and sat in the corner, thinking about the woman and the map of the castle that he had given her.
He smiled, then chuckled. He reached under the bed and pulled out the white sheet
on which he had drawn his castle earlier. He ran a finger through the tunnels and in the secret spaces between the walls. He had given Françoise an incomplete map; but she would always be able to find him at the heart, if she ever came back. Michael felt an intuitive trust of the woman, and if she
did
come back, and he was hiding, she could come to him.
He grinned and touched the place where heavier doors hid the tunnels.
He wondered in which of them Chalk Boy was sleeping tonight.
Jack Goodman’s telephone call a week later was short and to the point. ‘I’m in a rush, Richard. A meeting. But I thought you’d be interested to hear that our metallurgist has examined the blade from the quarry—’
‘The bronze dagger?’
‘The bronze dagger. I’ll spare you the technical details, if you don’t mind. You know how bad I am at chemistry. I’ll send you a copy of the report, if you’re interested. Essentially: it’s authentic. Southern German manufacture, cast about 900 BC, perhaps a little later. They used a casting process that riddled the metal with a particular impurity. No Victorian copyist – no
anytime
copyist – would have known how to duplicate that. It’s genuine.’