After Thérèse had left he and Trevor had cleared the flat. There had been the lopsided Christmas decorations to take down, and the tree, but Trevor had done that, because Cal had had to go out, away from it. She had tried. It was the trying that hurt him most.
Most of the furniture was cheap and worthless. Trevor had put an apron on and worked all day, grimly, barely speaking, phoning charity shops and dealers, getting everything sold: her clothes, the cups and saucers, the junk in the cupboards. His distaste had been silent and bitter. Cal had burned with shame at the mess.
“Take anything you want, mind,” Trevor had kept saying, and Cal had fingered old schoolbooks and smelled her cardigans, but there was nothing here he wanted.
Except, at the back of her bedside drawer, there was a picture he had drawn when he was about five, for Mother’s Day. The straggling writing was huge, copied from someone else at school, probably. Have a Happy Day Mummy. He had never called her that. Almost, he had cried then. A hot lump had come in his throat and his eyes had gone sore, but Trevor had called from downstairs, and he had rubbed his face and swallowed the lump and pushed the card into his rucksack. It hurt him. Like a wound. He didn’t know why he was keeping it.
The train came in and he got on it, and all morning he watched the woods and mountains and the tiny newborn sheep in the frosty fields, and the great expanses of sea at Rhyl and Colwyn Bay. People sat by him and came and went; he had a newspaper but he couldn’t read it, and finally at Crewe he got out and found himself sitting on the red metal seat on the platform reading the destinations board stupidly, as if he had been traveling forever and had never even started out.
She had killed herself. Sometimes he was sure of that, despite what the coroner had said; he imagined the scene in every detail, the Christmas tree, the bottles on the table. The pills. Her hands, taking one after another, deliberately, shakily. Her hands holding the cup. Sipping. And then, straight afterward, he wasn’t sure; it could have been an accident, she was drunk, she could easily have forgotten she’d already taken them. It was a nightmare seesaw of thoughts that he couldn’t get off.
Trevor had gone back to work two days ago, and Cal had had to stay in Bangor till everything was sold and the landlord had had the keys. Now there was nothing to go back for.
As the train rattled down through Cheshire and into the hills of Shropshire he knew that he was free, but the release of that was tiny against the terrible, cold stab of blame. It was his fault. And her fault. She had spoiled everything forever. He would never be free of her now; the blame and the shame of it would ruin his life, as she’d ruined it when she was alive, as she’d always ruined everything. It was too hard to think of; he hated himself. He got up and grabbed his rucksack and shouldered past the drinks trolley ferociously, down the carriage to the door and he had hold of the door and was pulling it and pulling it, just to get some air, to get away from the thoughts, to get out.
“Son.” A hand on his arm. “Son. Take it easy. The door’s locked.” The guard. Two women behind him, looking scared and concerned. A whole carriage of horrified faces.
Cal took his hands off the door and stepped back. He was shaking, his back wet with sweat.
The guard said, “It’s okay.” He had hold of Cal; Cal went weak at the knees.
The guard flipped down the overflow seat and turned quickly. “Get him some tea,” he said.
The train rattled over points, swung through a long curve. Trees flashed past the windows.
Cal couldn’t speak. He was shaking too much, and the guard crouched down in front of him and said, “Drink this, son. You look done in.” It was a white plastic cup, and when he sipped from it the hot tea hit him like a blow, and his ears seemed to pop, so he heard the words from the women behind, the words shock and suicide.
“Better?”
He said, “I wasn’t . . . I forgot we were moving.” It sounded crazy.
The guard said, “Whatever you say, son. How far are you going? Is anyone meeting you?”
“Corbenic,” he said. Then, confused, “Chepstow.”
The guard nodded. Suddenly Cal was alarmed. Would he radio ahead, would Trevor hear about this? With a terrible effort he stood up and said normally, “I’m sorry. I really thought the train had stopped. Half asleep, I suppose.” He tried to smile. Maybe it looked all right because the guard got up too, his knees creaking.
“It’s two hours to Newport. You change there. Maybe you should have some more sleep.”
When they’d left him alone, and the two women had gone back to their seats, Cal sat by the window and stared out at his own reflection over the flashing fields.
The cup. He looked down at it, an empty plastic cup, and would have crushed it in his hand, only that it would make loud cracking noises and people would look at him again. If he had opened that door and fallen out . . .
He closed his eyes. He had to be careful. Follow the rules. Not panic. But the rules were shattered and useless and he knew that his shirt was dirty and his trousers scruffy and he hadn’t even thought about anything like that for days.
The cup. That’s what he would do; he would find the cup. That shining Grail, that feeling it had given him. He had failed her, but he wouldn’t fail at this. And for a moment he almost thought that if he could find the Grail it would bring her back somehow, it might help, might cure the hurt, not just for Bron but for him. There was nothing to go back to Chepstow for; Shadow would have been found by now, she’d despise him, and the Company . . . he had lied to them. He hated his job; only now could he see clearly that it wasn’t for him, that he only endured it for the money. Why had he ever thought he could do that for the rest of his life?
The guard was passing. “okay now?” Keeping an eye, Cal thought.
“Fine. What’s the next station?”
“Ludlow. Ten minutes.”
It was here. Somewhere. Out there in that green wasteland of woods and rivers and hidden valleys, of castles and factories and hills. Corbenic was out there, and he would find it. It would be his quest. And Ludlow would be as good a place as anywhere to start.
He made no move till the train hissed in and stopped; then when the doors had whished open he grabbed his rucksack and stepped out. Cold air enveloped him.
“Hey!” At the front end of the train the guard was waving. “Son! Not your stop!”
Cal ignored him. He waved, turned, and walked up the steps quickly, over the little bridge, down the other side. There was a street leading past a big new supermarket; he went down it, and into the town. Shops. Old black-and-white inns. A few market stalls.
He went into a café and bought a coffee, and asked the girl who brought it if she knew a place nearby called Corbenic.
“No, sorry.” She looked at him shyly. “But you could try the library. They’ve got maps.”
He nodded, stirring the sugar in.
It was not on any map. After a good hour of searching he sat with both hands on the wooden desk, feeling lost and worn out. There was no such place as Corbenic. Or as Merlin had said, it wasn’t to be found on the map.
He picked the rucksack up and wandered outside, and found it was dark. The shops had closed, and a faint icy rain was falling, spotting the pavements, soaking his hair quickly. He walked on. He was in a strange town, alone, at twilight, with no idea where he was going or what he was doing, but he wouldn’t give up. Because this was the quest; this was where it began. The descent, the marvels, the terrors. His penance.
He found a hotel on the main street; there was a phone box in the lobby and he rang Otter’s Brook and Trevor answered.
“Hi,” Cal said quietly.
“Where are you?”