Darkhenge (28 page)

Tearing it, he sat up quickly, grabbing the upturned tree.

He was soaked, and shivering. The dog gave a short bark of displeasure, then shook itself, sending drips flying.

He was lying inside Darkhenge. Chips of wood scattered the enclosure, and the chainsaw notch in the central trunk looked raw. Rob caught hold of it and pulled himself up, staggering slightly. He was winded, as if he'd run a long way. Putting his feet down carefully, he pulled himself along to the entrance and stared out.

The field was empty, except for litter.

It looked like the aftermath of a rock festival. Bottles and cans glinted in the grass. Abandoned banners were soaked with dew; the rising sun lit the letters of
SAVE DARKHENGE
with a golden glow.

“Hey!”

A policeman was crossing toward him. “Where the hell did you come from? I thought we cleared everyone out.”

Rob rubbed his face. He was desperate with thirst. “I fell asleep. Look, I need a phone. It's an emergency.”

“There's one in that trailer, but—”

He didn't wait. Dodging the man's grip, he raced up, threw the door open, and dived for the desk. The number of Mac's cell seemed endless, then there was a crackle of sound.

The policeman's bulk darkened the doorway. “You can't just—”

“Shut up!”
Rob turned. “Mac?
Mac!
”

Noise.

People crying. His mother crying. A babble of voices, high and hysterical. Dan's voice and Rosa's. Nurses. Pandemonium.

“Mac! What's happening? What's happening?”

His godfather's voice was hoarse. “She's here, Rob. She's with us again.”

“God.” It was all he could say, could think.
“Oh God.”

“Talk to her,” Mac growled.

The phone crackled. He heard breath and rustles. He heard the moving forest.

Then Chloe's whisper. “Rob?”

He gripped the phone so tight his hand throbbed. “Chloe,” he breathed.

She sounded small. She sounded as if she wanted him.

“Where are you?” she sobbed. “You should be here.”

He swallowed, made himself smile. “This is your time,” he whispered. “Your time.”

They all wanted to talk to him. He was to get a taxi and race there. His father whooped and gabbled nonsense; his mother could only sob. Finally Mac's voice came back, gruff and exhausted. “She'll sleep again for a few hours but get yourself here as soon as you can. She needs you, Rob.” There was a pause. Then, “Where's Vetch?”

Rob scraped a hand down his face. He felt light-headed. “Home.” Then he said, “Has she … is there anything around her neck?”

An empty second. Then, “No. Why?”

“I'll … explain. When I come.”

Mac sounded sour and silly with joy. “I can't wait to hear that.”

The phone clicked off.

On the steps of the trailer Rob stood and saw the sun through the trees. There were so few trees left.

Beyond them the downs stretched, green and smooth, small sheep on their back. The policeman scowled at him. “You'd better get home before I think better of it.”

“I'm going, believe me.”

He stumbled to the gate and looked back.

In its hollow, beyond the destroyed fence, Darkhenge stood silent and remote. But not still. It moved, and blurred, and at first Rob thought it was his eyes, tired and playing tricks on him, and then the movement became clear, and he understood that he was seeing the swarming of thousands of beetles, tiny wood-boring creatures, their hard carapaces glinting as they scrambled up from the soil.

The Unworld had sent its messengers to devour the henge.

By the time anyone realized, it would be eaten to the ground.

Rob smiled a weary smile. One day he'd do a painting of it. He would be the only one who ever could.

He'd leave it to Chloe to write the story.

O
ne

His mother kept him there and held him back…

Conte du Graal

V
ery far away, the voice said, “Who drinks from the Grail?”

Jerked out of a doze, Cal opened his eyes. Then he tugged the earphones off and rubbed his face wearily. The woman who had been sitting next to him must have gotten off at the last station; now her seat was empty. A man in uniform was wheeling a trolley down the aisle of the train; it was crammed with crisps and sandwiches and piles of upturned plastic cups around the shiny urn. The man caught Cal's eye. “Drinks? Tea? Coffee?”

It would be embarrassing to say no, so he muttered, “Tea,” knowing it would be the cheapest thing. Then he dragged some coins out of his pocket and sorted through them, trying to look careless, as if money didn't matter.

The train was a lot emptier now. It rattled viciously over some points; the trolley man swayed, balancing expertly in the aisle as he filled a plastic cup under the tap, the trolley rocking so that a small packet of biscuits slid off onto the empty seat. Chocolate digestives. Cal scowled. He was so hungry he almost felt sick. “Those too.”

Outside, wet fields flashed by, and some houses in a scatter of dead leaves. The man leaned over and flipped down the small table at the back of the seat, clipped the lid on the tea and put it down. A tiny bag of sugar. Milk. A plastic stirrer. The train clattered; Cal grabbed the hot cup in alarm.

“One pound thirty, sir, thank you.”

Sir. For a moment he thought the joker was making fun of him and glared up, but the man's face was closed and polite, and once he had the money he trundled away up the carriage resuming his smooth, “Tea? Drinks?”

Cal leaned back and looked at the plastic cup with distaste. He hated tea. Coffee was more upmarket. He unclipped the lid and stirred the tea bag gloomily. When he'd made some money he'd really spend; travel first class where they had white china and linen, everything of the best. They'd call him sir and mean it then. He peeled the metal top from the milk and it sprayed everywhere. He swore aloud. The woman opposite glared at him. He glared back, scrubbing his jacket. This had cost. It wasn't designer but it looked it. Or he hoped it did. The momentary fear that it looked cheap slid under his guard, but he squashed it hastily. Pulling the earphones back on, he let the music blast out the train noise, dipping a biscuit in the tea and watching the landscape through his own reflection.

He'd been on this train all day. It had left Bangor at nine that morning, late, so that his mother had lingered on the platform, tearful, her hasty makeup a mess, telling him to phone, going on and on about how much she'd miss him, couldn't manage without him, about coming back for weekends, about keeping his room the same. His room! He thought of the little box with its grubby paper and the neighbor's baby wailing through the walls. He was well shot of that.

Uncomfortable, he shifted. Why had she had to come? Anyone might have seen her, and as usual she'd been barely sober from the night before. He'd gone to find a seat long before the train started; still she had tapped on the glass and waved and cried at the window. Remembering her crumpled misery and runny mascara, his hand clenched on the empty cup; he felt the plastic crackle and then crushed it slowly. His face was hot. But the weak tea had made him feel better, and the biscuits. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and he'd gotten that himself, as he always did.

The train slid into a station, brakes screeching. Cal rubbed a circle of damp off the glass and looked out. Craven Arms, the sign read. Another place he'd never heard of. Mountains, a few people running under umbrellas, the bare platform plastered with clotting autumn leaves. Like all the rest of the stations that day.

As they pulled out, the carriage lights went on. All at once, outside it seemed dark, the early dusk of November. Hills closed in as the train ran below them; odd craggy ridges, tree-covered. Most people had gotten off; no one had gotten on. Once, a mobile phone burbled stupid music; far down at the end the refreshments bloke was reading a paper with his feet on the opposite seat.

Cal leaned back, yawning. He was so tired of sitting still, so stiff. The music was tinny, the batteries fading; he flicked it off with a groan and immediately the rhythmic clatter of the train came back, rocking him, comforting. He had at least another hour till Chepstow. Through the steamy windows he could only see himself, looking crumpled, and then very faintly a line of high forestry dark against the twilight. In a farmhouse the windows were lit, looking warm and snug. A girl walking a dog waved to the speeding train. He wrapped his coat around him, and closed his eyes. As the train roared into the blackness of the tunnel, he put his feet up on the seat, leaning awkwardly with his head against the window. It would be all right now. He'd planned this for years; he'd made the break. Life would be different. His uncle would meet him in some big, flashy car. He wouldn't have to see her anymore. He wouldn't have to hide the knives and the bottles ever again.

He woke abruptly. A voice was crackling over the PA. Somewhere in his head the echo of what it had said was just out of reach, but it had been Chepstow, he was suddenly, coldly sure. The train was already stopping; outside, a lamp loomed close to the window.

Cal panicked. The train was empty. He scrambled up, confused. Dregs of tea from the crumpled cup spilled on him; he grabbed his coat, jerked his rucksack down from the rack and ran, past tea-stained tables and abandoned newspapers. Outside the windows it was pitch dark. He jabbed the door button anxiously; as the doors swooshed open he jumped out and looked up the length of the train.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

Far down in the frosty dark the guard stepped back into the train. Doors slid shut. Cal yelled, “Wait! Listen! I need to know if this is…”

His voice was lost in the roar of the engine; the train was moving, gaining speed, and he ran after it, and saw through the flashing windows the dripping sign in the hedge opposite. It said:

“Bloody
hell
!” he hissed furiously.

But the train was a rattle in the dimness, one red light. Tree shadows closed over it. And then it had gone.

The night was suddenly, utterly silent. So silent he could hear every drip from the trees. He flung the rucksack down in fury and looked around, unable to believe he'd been so stupid, so absolutely stupid! Where the hell was this? Why had he thought it was his stop? Raging at himself he shrugged his jacket on, shivering uncontrollably after the warmth of the train. The platform was deserted, gleaming with rain, lit by one dim lamp, the pool of light from it glinting with drips. God, this was the middle of nowhere! Looking around he saw only the dark clustering shapes of trees; above them a bank of cloud loomed, torn by the wind to show fleeting, frosty stars.

There had to be someone, a ticket office. He turned. “Hello. Anyone here?” His voice rang, echoing. Wind whipped leaves in his face. There was no station building, no waiting room, nothing but the small wet platform, the dripping lamp, a fence with a creaking gate. And silence.