Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Read Free Book Online Page A

striped duvet. He sat on it slowly. There was a fitted cupboard, which he jumped up and opened. It was empty, but for a neat row of hangers. Cal grinned. At home a whole pile of junk and dirty washing would have tumbled out.
    He remembered the sword suddenly and crouched, kneeling, tipping it out of his jacket and shoving it far under the bed, right under because it didn’t fit in this place, didn’t belong. But even when he stood up again he knew it was there, a blot on this perfection. He’d sell it. The thought made him laugh aloud; then he went to the window and drew aside the delicate lace curtains.
    The estate was hushed. Birds sang. A car purred softly down the hill. No one passed by, no one. The houses were all new, every garden tended, every errant leaf carefully swept up. Beyond he could see a line of forestry toward Tintern, deep, green wooded slopes. And the castle.
    He stared at it almost in dismay. For a moment his fingers were tight on the curtain; then he took a deep breath and made himself smile. It wasn’t the same. It was Chepstow Castle of course, a Norman ruin on the clifftop, a gaunt gray mass of roofless towers and halls. He’d seen it from the train. It was open to the public. It wasn’t the same. Still, it annoyed him. It was old, and broken. It spoiled his view.
    He showered and changed in the pristine bathroom and cleaned up carefully afterward, hanging his clothes meticulously, putting his few shirts into the empty drawers, every color separate, then made himself coffee and some sandwiches and took them into the huge room, switching the lamps on and drawing the curtains on the sudden November twilight. Almost reluctantly he sat on the leather sofa; it was so soft he almost spilled the cup and he swore, and then grinned.
    There were plenty of CDs; he flicked through them and pulled a face. Sinatra, jazz, middle-of-the-road stuff. Thick square candles lined the fire surround. They’d never been lit.
    On the table next to him was a gray, slim phone. He looked at it for a long time, sipping the coffee; even when the cup was empty it was an effort for him to put it down, and reach over and pick the phone up. The dialing tone purred reassuringly. He dialed the number. She took a long time to answer; he almost put it down in relief but then the familiar voice said, “Cal? Is that you?” She was bad. He knew that right away, just from the quaver in her voice.
    â€œHi,” he said quietly.
    â€œOh God, Cal, where are you? Where have you been? Trevor said . . .”
    â€œI’m all right.” He felt it creeping back on him already, the impatience, the irritation. “I had to stop in a hotel last night. I’m here now, at Trevor’s.” He glanced around. “It’s really nice.”
    She giggled meaninglessly. “You’re coming back, aren’t you? I forget when. . . .”
    â€œI told you. I’m getting a job here. At Trevor’s office. I told you.”
    â€œThe bin’s full,” she said hopelessly. “How do I empty it? And last night, Cal, the voices were in my room. I heard them, they were in the chimney and they were telling that story again. . . .”
    His fingers were tight on the phone. “Have you taken your pills?”
    â€œPills? Which ones?”
    â€œThe blue ones. Remember? The ones Doctor Lewis said . . .”
    â€œOh, I’ve taken them. All of them.”
    â€œALL of them?” For a second his heart thudded. “What do you mean, all of them?”
    â€œHaven’t I? I thought I had. The story was the one about the bed, Cal, and if you lay in the bed the voices come there too, and there are curtains round it, and a sword in the pillow.”
    â€œWhat?” he said quickly, but she went on without stopping, and it was the same as always, the breathless, meaningless stories and he was barely listening, his skin crawling with nerves. She did this to him. She always did