It was like a mystery. Tracing through the stories for the vision that was not
false
. For the True Sight.
The truth, bright and shining, like the crystal cup that Arthur had sought for so many years of his life.
The horse was placed down. The brooding man moved round the room, then turned, sat down on the small bed, pale and watery eyes watching the boy.
‘Have you heard anything from Chalk Boy?’
Michael shook his head, watching the way his father’s mouth moved, a pursed, pinched shape, being bitten from the inside.
‘Michael …’
A hand on his shoulder, a squeeze of fingers. Hesitation. The moist fumes of alcohol mixed with the burnt-grass smell of cigarette. Michael tried to pull away, but the man maintained his grip and made the boy stand still.
‘Michael, do you remember two years ago when we had that lovely holiday on the big Wall? Hadrian’s Wall?’
Michael nodded, squirming slightly and trying not to breathe.
‘Do you remember the funny Roman you saw in your dream? And the lucky charm he gave you?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was no Chalk Boy then. Was there? Do you remember? Chalk Boy was still in the pit. You were in the North, you couldn’t hear him, but you could still …
The man’s eyes drifted, his
right hand fluttered in the air. ‘You could still fly … like a bird … through time and space … like a bird, swooping and flying and seeing ghostly Romans, and cold places, and fires, and bright things … there was no Chalk Boy then. On the Wall. Was there?’
Michael shook his head.
‘So why does Chalk Boy matter? What has happened, Mikey? Why can’t you … fly … why can’t you fly any more? Aren’t there any bright things in your dreams?’
‘I can’t see any,’ Michael whispered.
‘Do you try? Do you look? Are you
trying?
’
Michael felt the fingers on his shoulder clench. His father’s face was ashen. There was an odd intensity in the gaze and Michael’s fear increased. He was suddenly aware that the man’s face was covered by stubble, a dark, ragged growth of beard against the white skin that made him look menacing.
‘I can’t dream any more, now that Chalk Boy is hiding.’
‘But you don’t
need
Chalk Boy. You know you don’t.’
‘I do!’
‘You
don’t!
Michael, you
don’t
need him. You can do it on your own. Try. Just try for me. Try for Daddy. Try dreaming, try flying. There must be some wonderful things to see … The shield in the lake. Remember the shield? You haven’t fetched it yet, Mikey. So you
can
still do it. Can’t you try? Please? For Daddy?’
The grip hurt. Michael touched a hand to the heavy, pressing fingers, and eased them off his shirt.
‘
Please
, Michael. Try for Daddy?’ came the voice.
‘No. I can’t. Chalk Boy is angry with me.’
Michael was flung back by the violent motion of the man rising to his feet. The air around him felt lashed with his father’s furious obscenity, a word uttered like a whip-crack. He watched the
man’s tension wither. His father turned then, softer. He crouched again, breathed out once more and smiled.
‘I’m sorry, Michael. It’s been very hard for us these last months. Your mummy and me … we’re very tired, very upset.’
‘Why is Mummy upset?’
‘Because her boy isn’t helping. Because you’re not helping, Mikey. Because she’s worried how we’re going to get through the next years. We’d come to depend on you. You helped us so much. And Uncle Jack needs you too. Uncle Jack is very upset.’
Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!
Michael looked away, feeling a moment’s anger. He
hated
Uncle Jack. He wasn’t a true uncle, anyway. He just liked to examine the treasures that Michael fetched. He was not a nice man. And Françoise didn’t like him.
Uncle Jack!
His father was saying, ‘Uncle Jack is very important to me. I don’t know if you know how important, but he got me a very good job. That’s why we have the lovely holidays. That’s why we can go and stay in nice hotels all over France and Germany and Scotland, because Uncle Jack spoke to important people about me, and I’ve got a wonderful job, looking at ancient things, and photographing them … and without Uncle Jack, none of this would have been possible.’
Michael said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. His father seemed almost sad at one moment, then bristling, as if he were going to shout.
‘I promised Uncle Jack to show him treasures and funny things, and you said … do you remember? When we were telling each other stories? You said you would always give me things to show to Uncle Jack.’
‘I remember,’ Michael said.
‘But I haven’t been able to show anything to Uncle Jack for a long time. And he’s not very happy. Couldn’t we try and help him
out?’
Gritting his teeth, speaking in an almost inaudible and angry tone, Michael murmured, ‘Don’t give him the golden egg.’
His father straightened up, then looked sad.
‘That would be a shame. But you see… if I haven’t got anything else to give him, I may well have to give him the egg—’
‘NO!’ Michael screamed. His vision had reddened. The egg was a special present. It was precious. It was for his father. Uncle Jack
mustn’t
have the egg.
‘NO!’
Angrily, his father said, ‘Don’t shout at me, Michael. If you can’t give me something else, then the egg must go. If you want the egg to stay, then find something else! Now! Do you hear?’
‘I can’t without Chalk—’
‘
Bugger
Chalk Boy. Just
look
and
reach and fetch
. You can do it, you little …! You can do it, Mikey. You know you can. If you don’t, then everything else will have to go.
Everything.
’
‘NO!’
‘Everything. The egg. Carol’s shell. Mummy’s cross—’
Michael felt sick. He howled and screamed. He was aware that he was fighting his father and that his father’s fists were holding his own.
‘NO!’
The door opened. Michael fell, sobbing. He crawled under the bed and let the screaming and shouting drift around him. He didn’t want to hear the words. He didn’t want to hear the fighting between his parents. He didn’t want to hear Carol’s hysterical screaming. He just wanted to go away, to be in the tunnels, to be by the sea with the swimming giants … anywhere …
Anywhere but here!
Two hours later Susan returned
from Jenny’s house, where she had fled to recuperate from the fierce and frightening argument with her husband, and walked quickly into Richard’s office. Richard was slumped at his desk, pictures of artefacts spread before him, the inscribed Minoan egg perched on its end and propped up with music cassettes.
The man looked shattered. His thinning hair was awry and his eyes dark-hooded. The room had a sweet and sickly smell about it, and Susan realized that he had been sick in the waste-paper bin.
He looked up as she entered the lamplit room, closing the door behind her.
‘Well, well. She’s back.’
‘Yes. I’m back. Don’t ever hit that child again, Richard. I mean it. Don’t ever hit that boy again!’
Grimly, she leaned back against the door. She was shaking, partly with cold, partly with apprehension. Richard grinned awfully, his face like a mask splitting open at the lips. He shook his head.
‘
I didn’t
hit him –
darling
. He hit
me
. He went for me like a creature wild, all tooth and claw and voice of night.’
‘Very poetic. But the bruise on his face wasn’t self-inflicted.’
‘Self-defence, lover.’
‘You hit
him.’
‘Accidentally.’
She sneered and looked away, then took a deep, calming breath. ‘It was no accident. You were in a rage. You were drunk. I don’t care
how
angry you are, or frustrated…’ She turned and tried to fix him with a hard and powerful gaze, but she knew she was too frightened of the force in the man, of his self-interest, to make it effective. ‘I don’t care what trouble we’re in, you and I, or as a family, or with the bank. Just don’t you
ever
hit that boy again. I‘ll use that cross on you if you do! I swear it. I’ll use the Mocking Cross!’
‘How very moral: I hit him, you kill me. All square.’
‘Bastard,’ she murmured.
Richard stood at the desk, then slowly sat again, sighing. She smelled the drink from across the room. The more she looked at him the more she loathed him. In the last few moments his pale skin seemed to have become stippled with stubble, an effect of the light. He looked shocking. He looked ill and haunted, a man not in control.
‘You have to stop drinking Scotch, Richard. It makes you violent.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’m telling you about it. You get out of control. We’re in trouble, I know. But you’ll not help matters by blanking your reason with malt whisky.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. You don’t know how
much
trouble.’ He slumped, then twisted in his chair, not meeting Susan’s gaze. ‘That little bastard! That little
bastard!
Why did it stop? Why the fuck did it stop? We had everything going – it would have been –
shit!
’
After a moment, Susan said quietly, ‘It happens.’ She thought of mentioning Françoise Jeury’s visit a few weeks ago, but decided better of it. ‘What do you mean?’ she went on carefully. ‘What do you mean: I don’t know the half of it?’
Richard seemed to sag further,
then cradled his head in his hands. ‘We’re very broke, Susan. Very broke indeed.’
‘How can we be broke? We have thousands in savings. You have a good job, now. Thanks to the supernatural, we’ve set ourselves up for years, if not for life. I don’t understand how you can feel so upset by the passing of the gift.’
‘The passing of the gift,’ Richard echoed. ‘Is that what’s happened? The talent has gone? The boy has grown out of it?’
‘That’s what’s happened, Richard, and you’d damn well better get used to the idea.’
‘And you’d better get used to the idea that if the talent has gone, then we’re bankrupt.’
Susan folded her arms. She knew she’d gone pale. She felt icy cold as she watched the shambling wreck of the man she loved. He thumped a fist against the leather-bound books on his shelf, turned and flicked through the photographs of Michael’s ‘fetchings’. He smiled ruefully.
Susan said, ‘I’m waiting, Richard. What have you done?’
His answer was quiet. He didn’t meet her eyes. He was defensive. ‘Invested. Made promises. Made guarantees …’
Her heart began to drum out her growing fear. Everything in the room became oddly clear, starkly outlined. ‘Invested in what?’ she asked.
‘A company. They’re building a tourist complex in Essex. A sort of historical experience centre, plus all the fun of the fruit machines, and the roulette wheel. It’s a huge project. The chance to be a partner was too good to miss.’
She was silent for a moment, letting the full force of the statement, and the betrayal
it represented, sink into her clear and terrified consciousness. ‘A partner. A project. Historical experiences … Tell me, Rick: when did this happen?’
That I signed on? About a year ago.’
‘A year ago!’ she said, her voice a strangled, painful gasp, her eyes briefly closed. Then she smiled and shook her head.
Richard went on, ‘The profits will be phenomenal. They’re even planning to have chariot racing. In the Roman style, of course. You can indulge in any period of history. You can wager on gladiators, chariots, games of bowls played by Francis Drake lookalikes… it’s a big project, Susan. I was very taken by their enthusiasm and ideas.’
‘Thank you for letting me in on your little secret,’ she said dully. ‘If I can be of any help, please don’t hesitate et cetera, et cetera. And what were you to be, Rick? Consultant?’
‘That was the idea. Consultant and partner. And when Jack Goodman—’
Susan laughed sourly. ‘I thought
his
name would start cropping up.’
‘Jack’s involved too. He knew the company. He knew they were looking for finance. He suggested me, and we did the deal, and Jack has made promises on my behalf.’
‘Promises? Money promises?’
Richard nodded. ‘As I said, they invited me to be a partner. I accepted. We’re talking big money.’
‘You’re talking big bullshit, Richard. I never trusted Goodman, and you were a fool to trust him yourself.’
‘What was to trust? I could see the plans for the complex. I met the company.’
The company!’ she sneered. ‘The company. You keep saying the
company
. I don’t suppose they wore black suits, black glasses
and drove black Mercedes, did they? No chance that their names might have rhymed with Kray? You idiot!’
‘Why idiot? This is a major tourist complex. It’s a guarantee of finance for life. All I do is act as consultant in the building and design, and then take my quarter-share of the profits as a partner. Why idiot? This is an investment, Susan. This is for life!’
‘But your little investment source has dried up. And you’ve sunk all our money into it, so we’ve nil in the bank, and we start over. You
fool
, Richard.’
Something in his glance, a shudder in his body, and Susan felt the blood in her face drain away again. She had been heated with anger, now she was chilled with fear.
‘How much do you owe them? she asked quietly. ‘How much have you promised?’
‘Quite a lot,’ he said, sitting down on the edge of the desk and again not meeting her eyes. ‘They knew it wouldn’t come in one lump, but they expect it within the year. Goodman made a guarantee to them. I made a guarantee to Goodman. I really thought …’ He shook his head suddenly, sinking into himself. ‘Oh, Dear God …’
‘How
much
, Richard?
‘I really thought the “fetchings” would continue. Why not? Eight pieces of ancient gold last year, not to mention the glass, the silver, the carved bone. A small fortune, a real gift. A true gift from the gods.’
‘How much?’
He looked up. After a moment he laughed and shook his head, ‘I’ve guaranteed them half a million.’