Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Read Free Book Online

brass knocker, enjoying the quiet. God, this place was so different. Another world. In Sutton Street, right now, a disused stove rusted outside number eight, and the doors would all be open; music would be blaring from somewhere, and tonight there’d be all the usual fights, kids on street corners, new graffiti on the walls. But not here. This was quiet. Detached. He said the word to himself, as if he savored it.
    â€œI’ll just go and check there’s enough milk.” Trevor went quickly into the kitchen, and Cal dumped his rucksack on the spotless cream carpet and stood there, arms full of wrapped sword.
    This was it. This was what he’d dreamed of. There were a few magazines at home, glossy, Homes and Gardens . His mother had kept them; sometimes, on her good days, she’d get them out and sit there, among all the mess, flicking the pages, smoking nonstop. “One day, Cal,” she’d say, over the exquisitely tasteful rooms. “One day this’ll be us.” Maybe when he was a kid he had believed her. But not now. Not for years.
    Yet here it was. Sofas of softest cream leather, paintings, delicate curtains, big arty-looking vases. A huge, open-plan room, nothing out of place. Warm. Clean. His uncle’s computer on an ebony desk. Television. State-of-the-art sound system. Leatherbound books, all matching. He even felt classier as he looked at it.
    â€œRight.” Trevor came in, gave the rucksack the briefest flicker of annoyance and rubbed his small hands together nervously. “Your bedroom is the one at the back. Have a shower, get yourself something to eat. I’ll be back a bit late, and Thérèse will be coming at about eight; we’re going out for supper. So I’m afraid you’ll have the place to yourself tonight.”
    â€œNo problem.” Cal picked the rucksack up, awkward.
    â€œCal.” Halfway out of the door his uncle paused. He didn’t turn, but spoke to Cal through the chrome-edged mirror. “A few ground rules. No mess. No drugs. No smoking. No fights. No friends—of either gender—back here without asking me. You wash up what you use, look after your own clothes, shop for any food you want.” He pulled an odd, apologetic face. “Though I’m sure you’ve been doing that for a long time now.”
    Cal shrugged. They both knew that.
    â€œIt’s just . . . It’s a big thing I’m doing here for you. Getting you this job. Having you in my house. A risk. Don’t let me down, Cal.”
    â€œYou won’t even know I’m here,” Cal said drily. He knew a threat when he heard it. “Do you think I’m going to jeopardize all this?”
    Trevor shook his head, half-smiling. “No, I don’t. You’re like me, I know that. But this is my place, Cal, that’s all. I’ll see you about six then.”
    After the car had pulled away Cal stood in the room, listening to its silence, smelling the faint leathery, soapy smells of the house. In the quiet the fridge hummed. Then he kicked his boots off and crossed the immaculate carpet. He wanted to dump the sword but nowhere seemed right. Through the first door was a kitchen, just as spick-and-span, obviously barely used. A chrome espresso machine—at least that’s what he thought it was—had a postcard propped against it, a photo of some vineyard, with a French stamp. See you Friday , it said. Brought us a good vintage. Thérèse.
    For a second as he put the card down Cal knew he was in a place as alien to him as the castle of Corbenic, if not more so. Then the feeling was gone, and he looked for the stairs. They were open-plan, blond wood. A great skylight let a shaft of sunlight down on him as he found the back bedroom and went in. The walls, like all those in the house, were palest cream, with an abstract print of some blotches of orange and green. The carpet was charcoal gray, and the bed had a black-and-white