Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Page A

table was the opera the girl had shoved in his pocket. Now, hands shaking, sobbing, he tore the frail plastic off and jammed it in, switching on and pulling the earphones on, curling deep under the bedclothes.
    The music was loud. It swallowed everything. It blocked out the whole world. It was a great orchestra and choruses of voices, men and women, conflicting and chiming and rising and falling with each other. He didn’t know what they sang about, only that it was passionate, it was pure and holy, it could protect him, that while it played he couldn’t hear the phone, feel the bruises, didn’t have to remember his mother, the guilt, his fear of sliding into mental illness.
    Hours later, when Trevor looked in and muttered, “Good night, Cal,” he lay still, exhausted, as if asleep, his ears numb. But his heart beat too fast in his chest, like a bird’s.

Chapter Nine
    Listen, little pig
    We should hide
    from the huntsman of Mordei
    lest we be discovered . . .
    Oianau of Merlin
    M aybe to punish himself, he had the dream. He was six, and they were on that bus. The one to the seaside, the one he had looked forward to for days, the one where he stood on the seat and looked out of the window at the strange houses, the amazingly green fields, the great mountains.
    She had a small flask in her bag and she was always sipping from it, and when she stood up the bus swayed, and she fell down.
    â€œMam,” he had said. “Mam?”
    And the woman behind had got up and shouted, “Stop the bus! This woman’s sick.”
    And she had been, all over the floor and the bag and the sandwiches, and he had huddled in the seat and watched as a man helped her off, and she was giggling then, and dropping coins from her purse, and the women all around had been saying words in hard, unforgiving voices, words he had heard before in the playground, outside the school—drunk, drink, drunken, drunkard—cries like the chorus of gulls that had echoed all the hot afternoon on the sand. She had slept curled up in the chair on the beach for hours, burned by the sun, and he had paddled and dug holes and cried and got cold, and then he had asked the man who sold the deckchairs why his mother didn’t wake up. That was the first time they had gone to the hospital. And the nurses had given him a bar of chocolate and phoned the police.
    He opened his eyes. This wasn’t dreaming, it was remembering, and he never allowed himself to do it. It was against his rules. There had to be rules, and he had to keep them.
    He sat up. There were voices downstairs; that meant Thérèse had stayed the night, and he was glad, because he liked to talk to her, and she was always laughing. And she was pretty.
    He dressed quickly, pleased that his clothes were clean, wishing he had another sweater, because the green one was getting worn. Maybe when his first paycheck came . . . And he’d ring, he thought all at once, halfway down the open-plan stair. He’d ring home, but not yet, because she wouldn’t be up yet. Not for hours.
    â€œSo he’s given you Saturdays off?” Thérèse laughed. She was making toast in the unused kitchen, the smell of it mingling with coffee and a small bunch of freesias by the sink.
    â€œOnly while he’s on probation,” Trevor said from behind the paper.
    Thérèse winked at Cal.
    â€œThese are nice.” He touched the yellow flowers.
    â€œI bought them. To brighten up the place. Have you noticed, Cal, there are no flowers. No plants. Not even a garden. It would drive me mad.”
    Cal poured coffee. “Is that why you don’t live here?” For a second, he thought he had offended her. Then she smiled brightly and tapped him on the nose. “Mind yours. Your uncle and I have our own places. That’s the way it is.”
    The toaster clunked, and she took the bread out. There were croissants too, he noticed with pleasure, and fresh