‘He locked the door himself. He does that now. He’ll come out when he’s ready. And besides, I told him to stay inside today. What is going on, Richard?’
‘Someone may try and get to Michael. They think he’s found buried treasure, and that we’re keeping it from them. They may even know what he can truly do. Goodman had some difficulties with them, gave the game away, but had the decency to warn me. Let’s get inside.’
He hesitated, then smiled and reached into his jacket pocket. He unwrapped the fabric from around the Mocking Cross. Evening light glanced from the grimacing features of the golden mask. Susan said nothing, just reached to touch the precious object, her fingers gliding down the gnarled wood of the blade. ‘Was this your errand?’
‘He took some convincing. He didn’t want to let it go—’
‘But he gave it back to you?’
Richard smiled weakly. ‘What do you think? That the man is God’s gift to the family? No. It’s a loan. I’ve promised him to try and find its partner. He has a document from me saying that I’ve taken temporary ownership. I can’t screw him around. But if I can buy it back I will. I thought it might help to convince Michael that things are different now.’
Susan was uncertain, but she was glad to see the carving, despite its hideous appearance. ‘It meant a lot to Michael, this cross. It was the one thing we shouldn’t have sold. It broke him completely. The fury came through. I think he’ll be impressed.’
But Michael didn’t answer the door to his room. Listening at the wood, Richard couldn’t hear a thing, and assumed the boy was maintaining his usual sullen silence. When he spoke, Richard was gentle in tone, the beginning of a rehabilitation with his son. He felt helpless and cheap, especially as he announced the return of the Mocking Cross, but if there was to be a new life it had to start now. There was no point in delaying. Michael would not respond, however, and Richard was unwilling to open the door uninvited. He went downstairs.
Carol was in the sitting room. She looked pale and alarmed as her father entered, but Richard walked over to her and swung her into his arms.
‘How’s my favourite girl? I’ve missed you so much. It’s so cold and wet in Scotland I could have done with some cheerful, chirpy company.’
Carol struggled in the grip, uncomfortable and close to tears.
With a forced smile, Richard let her down, then fussed over her painting. She ignored him, glanced into the garden and shivered. The dusk was coming down, but the garden was bright with flowers and bushes, untended but mostly able to look after themselves.
‘We’re going to have such fun from now on. I promise you, Carol. Such fun.’
‘I’m painting,’ the girl said softly, and Richard fluffed her hair and stepped away from her, following Susan back to the kitchen.
It was going to take time. He had no illusions about that. The last two years had been a living nightmare. He felt as if he was emerging from Limbo, picking up pieces here and there, picking up the smiles of his family again.
He desperately wished Michael would open the door to his room.
‘Is Michael in danger? Answer me truthfully.’
‘Truthfully: I don’t know. Jack Goodman had a rough time with some hired thugs. They want the money promised to them. Jack can’t deliver unless I deliver. Under boot pressure he told them about Michael. So I imagine they’re going to come and try to get Michael to “perform” for them. What we have to do is plan a strategy to deny them. We have to protect Michael, ourselves, and our lives. If that means getting police protection, then we’ll have to do it.’
Susan was shaking. Arms folded, she stared at Richard through weary, faded eyes. ‘We’ve dealt in treasure-trove. We’ve earned money and not declared it to the Revenue. We’re criminals, Richard. We’ve committed crimes. We’ve screwed up our children’s lives. And what have we got to show for it? Three cars, an extension to the house, and a boy who won’t speak to us.’
She straightened up and beckoned to Richard. ‘I have something to show you, while Michael is out of the way. Something that might be old. Something that might be new. But something that doesn’t, absolutely doesn’t mean the beginning of a new period of growth in the tourist industry! Do you understand me?’
Richard nodded. The tone of Susan’s voice was enough to sober him. He followed her through the warm evening to the greenhouse. She lifted a tomato plant from its earthenware pot, dragging the whole compacted bole of compost out in one go.
‘Reach in,’ she said softly, and he did so. He drew out the gold disc, brushed the dirt from it, and closed his eyes.
‘Good God. It’s Babylonian. See? The symbols are cuneiform. It’s a Sun Disc …’
‘I’d realized that.’
‘And pure gold. Good God. This might date from 3000 BC.’
Susan was bitter. ‘So that’s all right, then. We’ll flog it through Goodman and pay off some of the debt. Maybe we’ll find more little treasures in the seedling trays, or in the potato ridges …’
Richard stopped her with a gentle finger to her mouth. He waved the golden disc – with difficulty, it was very heavy – and said, ‘This is Michael’s. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter any more. We’re taking nothing more from the boy. Nothing at all. What he brings, what he does, is up to him. We have to live for him, Sue. You know that.’
‘I know it. I never had any real trouble knowing it. I failed him, sure. But I was failing. Period. I just couldn’t cope with anything.’
‘Then just give me time to show that I’m back. Please. Just give me time to show that I’m back, and real again. I’m out of Limbo, back in the real world. Back on Earth.’
She stared at him, then softened and smiled. ‘If there’s one thing that Michael could do well to fetch now, it would be Cleopatra’s bath of asses’ milk. You really are a smelly man at the moment. Time for a good soak!’
Richard roared with laughter. It was a feeble joke, in its way, but it marked closeness again, and he found her humour to be cathartic. He hugged Susan, lifting her off her feet.
‘It doesn’t matter. Not for the moment. As of now I’m going to be the best Daddy in the world to young Michael …’
‘Not before time,’ Susan said wryly and softly.
‘I’m really going to tell him stories. He deserves it.’
My God, he thought. How much he deserves it. Poor little lad. All he ever wanted was love, affection, and a thrilling tale of Arthur and his Knights. Or this odd character, the Fisher King.
Again, he hugged Susan. ‘I’ve been a fool, Sue. I’ve been frightened, blinded, greedy, and frightened again. Even Carol rejects me …’
‘She’ll come round. She always asks about you. I often see her looking through your photograph books, sitting in your chair in the study.’
‘I have so much to do. There’s so much to do. And we have to be careful, now. I really think that Goodman’s warning is right. We might be getting some unwelcome visitors.’
They stood for just a moment, watching each other in sadness and despair. Then Susan said, ‘Put the disc back. I don’t want Michael to know we’ve found it. It’s his to reveal when he wants, if at all. If you’re serious, Richard, then this might be the key to winning back his trust in us.’
Richard sighed as he agreed. ‘Let me photograph it, though. Those symbols are fascinating.’
‘Later …’
He started to place the heavy gold object back into its hiding place.
The earth shook slightly, and dust, or spray of some sort, splattered against the greenhouse windows. Both Richard and Susan glanced up in alarm, and through the smeared and filthy glass saw a silhouetted, shadowy shape flexing, twisting.
‘What’s going on?’
The glass above them shattered. It exploded inward, and a great stone, a black rock, polished smooth and reflecting the last sun’s rays, curved through into the plant house, striking Susan a glancing blow to the face. She screamed and fell. Glass shards covered Richard, and
one splinter went into his left eye, so that he froze for a moment, tugging down the lid to stop the glass penetrating his cornea.
‘Oh, my God!’
Susan stumbled to her feet, moaning softly. Blood stained her face, but she pulled herself upright, leaning heavily on the shelf which supported the tomatoes.
‘Don’t move,’ she mumbled.
‘Glass … in my eye … glass …’
‘I know … Don’t move.’
Her legs buckled, and she wiped a hand across her face. All the energy and life had gone from her features. She was slack, loose, her eyes half closed, blood flowing freely from the gash.
She reached towards Richard, and slumped down to her knees. As he watched her, frozen into immobility by the pressure-pain of the shard in his eye, so he felt the fragment move, loosen. He tentatively reached two fingers down into the sensitive area of his lid, felt the hard, sharp sliver and eased it out. His eye was sore. The shard was thick and coarse. It would probably have done little harm.
Distantly he heard a vibrating explosion, and a strange darkness passed fleetingly over the field at the bottom of the garden.
‘Quickly. Get up, Sue. We’ve got to get back to the house …’
‘Michael …’ she moaned.
‘I know. I know. We’ve got to make sure he’s all right. Whoever threw that stone is still out there. Come on. Get up.’
They staggered from the greenhouse, limped up the path to where Carol was waiting for them in the back door, her face blank, a frightened mask.
‘Get inside. Get Michael out of his room. We have to talk. All four of us. Hurry, Carol.’
Carol just stared at him.
‘Darling. Hurry!’
‘Michael’s not in his room.’
Oh God. Where was he, then? Richard looked frantically around, wondering where the man was who had thrown this stone, the vicious opening move of his declaration of intent: to get Michael’s treasure.
‘Where is he, Carol? Did you see where he went?’
She pointed to the distant chalk quarry. ‘He went there.’
I’ll have to get him.
‘Carol, Mummy’s been hurt by a stone. A bad man threw a stone and hurt Mummy. Will you get some cold water and plasters and help her to bathe the wound? Will you do that?’
Carol started to cry.
She said, quite simply, ‘But Michael threw the stone. Michael threw the stone … I saw him …’
Richard felt his world slip again. He eased Susan down, to sit on the steps of the back door, and looked towards the trees that surrounded the quarry. There was a darkness over the trees, and a swirl of birds, circling the thin wood, streaming down, at times, into the wide space where the chalk had once been dug. He could hear no sound.
But he knew that Michael was watching him.
THIRTY-TWO
Michael’s room was empty, of course. Susan leaned out of the window overlooking their garden, and called briefly for her son, knowing that he was in the quarry and that her voice would never carry. She spent a moment letting her hurt, her pain, control her, the feeling of resentment from Michael, his rejection, his act of violence, and the pain on her brow, where the glancing blow from the stone had left a cut and a bruise. Her left eye was closing slightly, and she was beginning to get a headache. Then, quite aggressively, she closed the window and locked it.
Richard had unloaded his travelling case and camera bags from the car and had checked around the house, nervous about the threat passed on by Jack Goodman. He checked the locks, the cellar, and peered into the loft space. Now he was buttoning on an anorak. His legs, through his cord trousers, seemed chunky. He had pushed newspapers down as protection.
‘Why?’
He looked at Susan, then smiled thinly. ‘I get the feeling that Michael is angry. Do you get that feeling?’
‘Only for the last six years.’
‘When he fetches he causes mayhem. I don’t want any more damage than is necessary. But I’ve got to find him. I owe it to him.’
Carol stood by the back door, her face twisted with concern. She watched her father as he went to leave the house. ‘Michael said no one would ever go to his castle again but me. I’m supposed to bring him food.’
Dropping to a crouch, Richard put his hands on the girl’s shoulders. ‘I need to find Michael. I need to explain things to him. I can get into the quarry and talk to him—’
‘No, you can’t. You won’t be able.’
‘Somehow I think I’ll be able,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘But if he needs food, I’ll tell him that you’ll be bringing it. Food for the prisoner in the castle. All right?’
Carol’s eyes showed the concern she felt. ‘He’s not a prisoner.’
‘Isn’t he?’
‘No. We’re the prisoners. He’s in his castle. He’s hidden.’
‘I have to bring him home, love. I have to get him to safety. I know he’s angry, but I can’t let my son be alone at the moment. It’s a dangerous time for us, Carol. I want you to talk to Mummy about it.’
Susan turned away, her sigh one of despair. Richard said again, ‘You have to know all about it, Carol. So go and talk to Mummy.’
‘I have to take food to Michael,’ the girl pleaded. ‘He told me to.’
‘Later. We’ll do that later, if need be.’
He went to the top of the quarry, stepping carefully through the wire and wood remains of the fun-castle walls that had once been erected here. Holding on to the leaning elm, he peered down the sheer wall of chalk, searching the dense green shrubbery below, peering as far up the defile as he could, before the quarry wall obscured his sight of the entrance to the pit.
He called for Michael, but his cry disturbed nothing. Not even birds in the trees, and that sense of avian silence drew attention to itself. He looked up and around, shouted again, then listened.
He heard utter silence only. There was no bird life here at all.
On the air he could smell sea; and he could also smell frost.
He walked round the quarry’s edge, and slid and skidded down the grassy slope to the bottom of the scarp. As so often before, he walked between the carved gates of the quarry, stepping cautiously into the confining walls, and following the uneven ground towards the main excavation area. But before he could even turn into the deep pit, he felt that frost again, an icy wind that stung his eyes and ears.
Above him, the summer sky was lowering towards dusk; the clouds, fleecy and still, had orange rims, and the sky was iridescent blue.
But in the pit there was the smell of winter by the sea.
He called for his son again. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement amongst the trees that grew here, but he could focus on nothing. When he took a few steps forward he felt a cold so intense that it stopped him.
His voice, when he shouted, echoed strangely. He had the feeling that he was in a mine-shaft, or some deep, barren amphitheatre, not this bush-filled chalk working. In the distance he could see the high, white wall where Michael stored the rubbish of his apportation, but as Richard walked towards it, so the wall seemed to shift in position.
Richard began to feel afraid. He was aware of the broken nodules of gleaming marcasite that were scattered around, and the fossilized urchins and shells, all placed in a pattern, he remembered Michael telling him, although the nature of the pattern was not discernible …
Again: ‘Michael! Come home, son. Come back to the house. It’s for your own good!’
Why would he believe me? What reason does he have to trust me? Shit! Just give me a couple of hours. Two hours to let him breathe air that is clean again. Come back to me, Mikey – give me two hours to take the first step with you again …
‘Michael!’
The silence suddenly engendered a real fear in Richard, but not, now, for the boy’s sake. The whole quarry seemed to watch him. There was no movement here, yet there was movement in his mind. He was walking through space that flowed about his body, not
thin air and the smell of dusk. He was being dragged towards a sea whose sharp odour flushed through the space around him in regular waves, like the crashing of surf on a beach.
Time to go home, I think! This boy is just too angry!
The cold had started to seep through to his bones. He turned and ran. The quarry was frozen, cold like the spirit of his son. The quarry was his son. The understanding was almost natural. This was Michael’s castle. The place was the shadow and soul of the adopted boy. As Richard ran so these thoughts shouted at him, nagged at him like a pestering bird and he fled back to the open farmland, scrambling up the scarp to the cornfield and sight of his house in the distance.
On impulse he returned along the quarry’s edge, back to the trunk of the leaning elm. He peered into the pit for the second time, and again felt the frost and the raw anger that emanated from below. In the tree next to him a bird fluttered, startling him so that he nearly slipped. He straightened up and glanced round, and saw the black, feathered shape on a low branch. But it was no bird.
He grimaced as he noticed the stitched bones, the black rags and feathers woven between them, and the grim little human skull, its lower jaw missing, that watched from a hood of black cloth. He tried to open his mouth to shout to Michael, but his jaw wouldn’t work. Panicking he wrenched his hands at his cheeks, but his mouth wouldn’t open.
The empty eyes of the tiny skull watched him, and from the pit below came a distant, gentle laughter. Even the sounds Richard tried to make seemed to throttle somewhere in his lungs.
He grabbed a broken stick and struck the dummy from the tree. It shattered and scattered and his jaw – aching and twisted – opened. He gasped for air, swore softly, then walked stiffly and with growing terror back to the house.
Carol’s distress took an hour to deal with. She was anxious for her brother, whom she believed had locked himself into his imaginary castle and would now need food. She felt she would be letting him down if she didn’t take supplies to him.
Richard reassured her as best he could, and at the girl’s insistence promised to return to the quarry and lower down a carrier bag of sandwiches and milk later that evening. The promise was solemnly made, but the eight-year-old watched her father with such a look of suspicion and disbelief that Richard felt like crying.
The Fetch Page 26
