Corbenic by Catherine Fisher

Saturday morning it was deserted, except for one man washing his car a few doors down. “They don’t live so much outside here,” he said quietly. “It’s all indoors.”
    â€œAnd that’s how I like it.” Trevor turned a page of the Financial Times and poured another glass of orange juice. Freshly squeezed, of course. He sipped it. “Some of them I’ve never even seen. It’s just a dormitory really.”
    â€œHow long have you lived here?”
    â€œFive years. Since it was built.” He looked up, and in the shiny reflection of the window Cal saw that his face was amused. “I couldn’t get to grips with it either, when I first moved out. No one bothering you. You think it’s normal, all that living in each other’s pockets, all that rubbish and dog muck on the streets, the boarded windows, the burned-out cars. Knowing what places not to go, who’s buying, who’s selling, whose eyes not to meet.” He chuckled, but Cal couldn’t even smile. “God, I couldn’t believe how different things were here. It was like a weight off my shoulders.” For a second then, an odd haunted look came into his eyes. He glanced down at the paper quickly. “It’ll be the same for you.”
    Cal nodded. It was true. He realized that he could walk down to the town right now and no one— no one —would know him. He could do exactly what he liked. He was free. It made him restless; he turned. “Thought I’d go for a walk. Explore.”
    Trevor looked slightly relieved, but just nodded. “Fine. I’m at the office till twelve, then golf. The day’s yours. You may as well enjoy it. Work starts on Monday.”
    As he pulled on his jacket upstairs, Cal grinned to himself. He’d break his rules and buy a few things. Batteries for the Walkman. Maybe some new music. It was a day to celebrate. And he’d find the bank and see about having his account moved down here. For a second he remembered the sword and frowned. There must be a junk shop somewhere. Or antiques. He had a vivid image of himself chatting confidently with an impressed shop owner, being told the sword was worth thousands. Well, it might make a bit. He’d find out.
    As he walked down the hill between the open-plan gardens he felt calm. The sunshine was warm on the clean pavements, and the few leaves still on the cherry trees were gloriously red and gold. He felt so happy he even let himself think about Corbenic. That brought the shadows back.
    He couldn’t explain anything of what had happened. Bron’s banquet had been real, but had anyone else seen the strange cup or the bleeding lance, or felt that terrible, devastating longing, that pure joy? And in the morning it had all been ruined. As if there were layers of reality, one inside the other like an onion, and he’d peeled off two, by mistake. The only other explanation—the one Trevor would give—was that he’d been drunk, or had somehow arrived at the ruined castle and dreamed it all. But he hadn’t. The sword proved that. And the note, but he’d lost the note. He must have dropped it in the scramble through the neglected garden, but he could remember exactly what it had said. It made him shiver; brought a sudden bitter coldness into his joy. Why did nothing ever go right? What was wrong with him?
    Down at the bottom of the road the new houses faded out; he crossed into a street of older properties, and he had no idea where he was, so he followed it, as if walking anywhere would make him forget. And at the end of the street he found the town center.
    Chepstow was old, and steep. The main street ran downhill, a haphazard tumble of shops and cafés and banks and a post office, splitting into little side streets so narrow they were more like alleys, with tiny dingy-looking pubs jutting onto the pavements, their blackboards chalked with the soup of the day or the