The Fetch (40 page)

Richard was shouting for both his children. His voice was loud and echoing in the quarry, and he thrashed about aimlessly, moving quickly to the place where Michael had had his camp.

Françoise called him to her and quietened him.

‘Maybe he can hear us,’ the man said.

‘I’m sure he can. But I can’t hear myself think when you are bellowing in that way.’ Her hand on his face was brief, gentle and reassuring. She flicked at the tear stains on his cheeks.

‘You understand my concern? That
somehow, by bringing back the little body, which is certainly what is in the Grail, the spirit of the dead boy will become Michael himself. The life that is Michael will remain behind, trapped in Limbo, trapped in the dead child.’

‘I don’t really understand at all,’ Richard whispered. ‘I just believe that you’re right about the Grail. And I know that it mustn’t come back to this world.’

‘Chalk Boy was very real. It was a terrible mistake of mine to think otherwise. We have been romancing with shadows, even the
shadows
of shadows, all of them aspects of a dead boy who has been hovering between here and the otherworld, clinging to his brother. But now the poor little clinging boy is ready to return, and his brother will pay the price.’

Richard remembered a time in the woods, when Michael had run amok, holding the back of his neck as if stung. There was a birthmark there. It was small, but it was real, and it was one of two such marks upon him. It was Chalk Boy’s mark, and the place where the dead boy had clung to Michael, desperate for life. Half in the world, half in hell, he was caught in Limbo, grabbing for time and space, reaching desperately, holding on, holding on …

In his despair, in his need for his children, Richard turned to the cliff wall and began to strike at it. The new sun cast his shadow shallowly and distortedly around him on the curving wall of chalk.

Dark outline!

Françoise looked again at Michael’s drawing, at the black outline around her figure. It was shown quite
even
.

‘Richard – move round the wall. Slowly …’

The man did as he was told, stepping close to the chalk. The wide shadow to his right narrowed, that to his left came into view. In seconds, as Françoise watched him from the mound of the
earthfall, he was blinking at her, staring against the bright sun to see what she was doing. She was watching him, observing the grey penumbra that outlined him against the white.

He said, suddenly, ‘I can smell the sea!’

‘That’s it! That’s the beginning place. Come with me. Follow me!’

Françoise stood with Richard and sensed the walls of Michael’s castle. Then, following the routes on the map, she ran away from the cliff, crawling through the underbrush, doubling back, curving in and out of the scrub wood as she traced the path of the spirals.

‘The entrance shifts with the rising sun, shifts around the curve of the wall, but he
had
shown me the way to find the start. Come on. Come
on
!’

They came back to the chalk.

‘Here! Can you hear it? The sea?’

She pushed violently past Richard, smashing against the cliff, then spreading her arms and straining, as if struggling to see. Her body doubled slightly, she groaned, she rubbed against the chalk …

‘I can’t get through,’ she shouted. ‘I can’t pass through. But I can
see
. They’re coming back. They’re walking over the beach. Carol!’ she screamed suddenly. ‘Put down the Grail! Put it
down
!’

The girl stopped, tugging back as the naked boy dragged her across the beach. Waves surged. The girl was shrieking, but holding tightly to the glass jar
…

Françoise yelled again. Shadows fled like cloud patterns across the red cliffs. The naked boy looked furious through his blackened face. The waves crashed again, and flooded around their legs, surging, then sucking back into the shallow waters
.

The boy tugged at his sister, but Françoise’s voice had stunned the girl
.

Furious, the boy leapt across the soaking beach, came towards the woman who shouted. Anger was like a cloak around him, and
he leapt to face her, ran up along the tunnel and leapt right out of the rock. Behind him the girl began to panic
.

Black-faced, naked, his eyes wild and angry, Michael stood before his father, screaming. Richard had stepped back, disorientated by the sudden appearance of his son from the sun-glare of the chalk cliff. He had heard the boy running, he had heard his cry of fury, but the moment of apparition had been dizzying as if Michael had been there all the time and had suddenly and aggressively stepped away from the white wall.

Françoise had been knocked aside. She was slowly standing, shaking her head, holding her right shoulder.

‘Get away!’ Michael screamed. ‘Let her come through. It’s the
Grail
. She’s bringing home the Grail. Daddy… don’t interfere …
please
!’

‘It’s not Michael,’ Françoise gasped, as she struggled for breath after the winding collision with the boy. ‘Call Michael. He’s still there!’

Richard watched the fiery eyes of the boy before him. He could smell sea, mingled with wet earth, a confusing, wafting aroma that was quite wrong for the pit.

‘Michael – I’ve brought something back for you.’

And he held up the Mocking Cross, its brilliant golden mask turned towards the boy.

‘I fetched it back from the man who bought it from me. It was wrong of me to sell it, Mikey. It was wrong of Mummy. But we love you too much to give away something so precious, so we’ve got it back for you. The Cross is ours again, and we’ll always look after it.’

Michael was silent, but his black-dyed face writhed, his whole body shook as if an electric current was passing through the muscles. He began to reach for the Cross, drawn back to life by this evil
mockery of Christianity.

Watching the turmoil in the boy, sensing the huge struggle that was occurring within the pitiful, ravaged body of his son, Richard was aware of the irony of what was happening: Michael was being tugged not by the Cross’s religious symbolism, its magic, but by its simple meaning, its family meaning. The ‘True Cross’, which was so often used to banish evil, had been warped into something, in its mocking form, that would banish good – but this Mocking Cross was summoning back the
good
in the boy! Human concerns had overwhelmed the dark religion of the carving, rendering mysticism impotent.

To reach for the Mocking Cross was to reach for life again, and family, and comfort.

But Chalk Boy was too strong. The shadow-face grimaced, a mocking smile.

‘I’m coming home,’ the boy whispered, and laughed—

‘Daddy …’ the boy breathed, the face melting for a second into an odd mask of confusion, the voice sad. Then:

‘I’m coming
home
, I want stories, Daddy. I want all the stories. I want to hear them all…’

‘Michael – come back. We love you. We need you, Mikey. We’ll never use you again.’

‘Mikey’s
dead
. Tell
me
the stories now.’

But the hand of the boy rose, stretched, reached to the Cross, struggled for his father.

Richard stepped closer. ‘Mikey … forgive me …’

Michael’s eyes widened suddenly, and he turned and ran at the chalk, blurring, dissolving, decaying into white light, his terrified scream of ‘Don’t open it!’ echoing and resonating in the quarry, deafening his father, shattering the dawn.

He was gone.

Only Françoise’s sudden grip upon his arm
stopped Richard smashing his own body against the hard chalk, and from damaging himself as he struggled to enter a place that was forbidden to him.

He cried out for his son and for Carol. Françoise touched a firm finger to his mouth, then cocked her head, eyes half closed.

‘Let me listen. Let me listen …’

But Richard would not be silenced.

Carol stood alone on the strand. It was a cold and wet place, and each time the sea surged towards her the waves soaked her legs, splashing her dress and her face. As the waves pulled back she felt them tug at her, but although the sand sucked and drained around her feet she stood quite still, holding the jar and its silent, staring creature.

Lightning made her blink. The earth shook with thunder. A long way out across the sea a tall neck rose, its head snapping. The body that followed was broad and black, and it collapsed back into the waters like a whale dancing. A moment later the air was deadened with its cry, an eerie shriek that dissolved into a series of grunting calls.

Michael had left her here. She was afraid. She was angry with him. He had
abandoned
her. The sea surged and pulled at her, but she held her ground, nostrils filled with the sea stench, eyes blinded suddenly by a splashing spray that drenched her spectacles.

The baby in the jar looked like a fish again, and she cradled it.

And heard her father’s voice calling to her—

‘Let the baby go. Leave him there, Carol!’

He sounded like he was panicking. He sounded more frightened than even she was.

She opened the jar, grimacing at the funny smell of chemicals that wafted from the
liquid.

Then she heard Michael shout. She turned to where the tunnel opened and saw his black-masked, pink body running towards her, arms outstretched. He was terrified. He was running towards her, heels kicking up sand, shadow flowing beside him.

Her father called again, his voice like the voice of a creature in the sea, booming and echoing, oddly comforting, thrilling, demanding of her …

‘My little fish,’ she said to the blind thing in the jar. ‘Go and swim in the sea, my little baby fish … Go down into deep waters.’

‘NO!’

She ignored Michael’s scream.

She tipped the little fish into the sea, and it was sucked out into the deep tide, swirled down into the grey waters, lost, staring, drowning, dragged down to where the Fish Lizards waited for the shadows on the shore.

Michael had collapsed suddenly. There was whiteness on his mouth and he lay, rigid yet trembling, caught in a fit that suddenly relaxed into limpness. Carol dropped the Grail jar and tugged at her brother’s arms, dragging him towards the tunnel. Even as she reached the place, and with a last glance at the silent, watching shadows in the caves, she knew that there would never be a Limbo again. With a final haul (which hurt something in her back) she heaved her brother into the chalk quarry, and struggled for a moment when strong arms grabbed her, hugged
her, lifted her.

She relaxed as she felt her father’s tears and kisses on her face.

That evening the phone rang and as Susan picked up the receiver she knew at once that it was Michael’s mother. The woman breathed quietly for a while, saying nothing. Susan waited, then said, ‘This is Susan Whitlock …’

‘Something has happened,’ came the gentle voice. ‘What has happened?’

‘The other boy is at peace. Now Michael is at peace.’

‘I am too. It happened this afternoon. I slept for a while. When I woke up the haunting had gone. I’ve been haunted for years. It was such a terrible thing to do. I didn’t really want to do it. But I was so afraid …’

‘That’s why he stayed, perhaps. The other boy. That’s why he clung on to life – a sort of life …’

There was silence, a sad, lonely silence. The call seemed to be long distance, slightly echoing, perhaps coming through a satellite. Then: ‘And is Michael well?’

‘Michael’s sleeping. We think he’ll be fine when he wakes.’

‘Thank you. Thank you for peace.’

‘Tell me something,’ Susan waited for a response, but there was only silence. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m listening,’ came the quiet voice.

‘Who was Michael’s father? Will you tell me something about him?’

After a brief pause Susan heard the other
woman breathe out slowly. But all she said was, ‘I think I’d better not. Not now. Not after all this time. He’s been – out of my life – for a long time now. I think I must keep my memories to myself. I’m sorry …’

‘So am I. But I understand.’

‘Again … Thank you for peace.’

The connection went dead.

Michael slept for twenty-four hours, finally waking into a vague, silent state in which he sat and stared blankly, rubbing his neck and breathing shallowly. It would be a week before he was fully recovered.

Françoise sat with him while he slept, watching him, stroking his hair and thinking about the wonderful talent that had been his for a while, and the gift, however weak, however transformed, that might still remain.

And she tried desperately to understand what might have happened to Michael during the time of his incubation in the womb, and after.

‘Perhaps Michael will have some answers for us,’ Susan suggested over coffee, late that night.

‘That doesn’t follow. I don’t know how much Michael was aware of what was happening to him. But with your permission I can try and find out.’

Susan shrugged. She was completely dishevelled and hollow-eyed. ‘You’ll have to come to us to do so. We’re planning to move to the remoter parts of Argyll, well away from the friends of the dead man.’

Françoise ran a hand gently over the sleeping boy’s head, smoothing the brilliant shock of ginger hair. Michael murmured in his deep slumber, curled more deeply under the blanket.

Susan said, ‘Do you think everything he did was just a reflection of his brother trying to come alive again?’

‘I think so. But how can we be sure? His
brother’s soul hung on to him during birth. That I can understand. But why did it get loose in time? For that to happen the gateway to time must already have been open. So: one of the boys already had the talent for apportation. But which one? Once born, the spirit locked into what might have felt like a source of local power, the shrine, once built close to your house. From there it moved between Limbo and your son, looking always for a way to return.’