Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Page A

chef’s special. He wandered down. He knew that right at the bottom was the river, and the bridge that crossed into England, and the castle, guarding the crossing, but he didn’t really want to go that far. Because it was a Saturday the place was busy; he drifted around charity shops and looked idly in window displays and the sun was almost warm and his happiness came quietly back.
    He went to the bank and sat at a desk filling in a form, being called sir and enjoying it. In Woolworth’s he bought batteries and looked at new CDs, because he couldn’t listen to Trevor’s stuff, but they were expensive and there was nothing he particularly wanted. In the town’s only department store he wandered into the coffee shop and bought an espresso and sat in a corner sipping it, with a family opposite, the boy and girl laughing and drinking Coke, all four of them well scrubbed and well spoken and looking like something from an advertisement.
    Tearing open the thin tube of sugar he felt lonely all at once. The woman—the kids’ mother—had caught his glance and he looked away in case she guessed. He stirred the dark liquid and sipped it, though it was too hot. He’d have to get some friends. But kids of his age wouldn’t be here. They’d be in the pubs and fast-food places. Cal scowled. He hated burgers. They reminded him of home. Anyway, kids of his age weren’t much like him, he knew that only too well. He wanted good clothes, classy food. There wasn’t anyone, really, much like him.
    He put the empty cup down and looked up. There was a girl watching him. She was out in the department beyond the glass door. Curtains, bedding, that sort of thing.
    Cal looked away, slightly hot. He tried to sit as if he was relaxed and highly confident, but he felt self-conscious, and couldn’t help glancing over again.
    She’d gone. No. Moved. Nearer the door. But she was looking at him. A sharp, intent look, as if she knew him, and there was something about her . . .
    And in an instant he recognized her, a shock of fear and vivid joy. She had been in Corbenic. She had carried the golden cup .
    He jumped up, making the crockery topple with a clink. People turned, but he was already elbowing his way through the crowded tables.
    â€œHey! Excuse me!” A large, slightly grim waitress barred his way. “That’ll be one twenty, thank you.”
    One twenty! It was extortionate! But he slapped the coins into her palm and she stood back with a sarcastic smile, and he knew she thought he’d been trying to slip off without paying. He wouldn’t care. He had to find the girl.
    There were racks of curtains, billowing in the air-conditioning. Gauzy fabrics rippled; he ran down the aisles of them but always the movement seemed to be somewhere else, on the other side. She was there, he knew. Dodging through he came to beds, rows of them, and far down at the end a figure slipped out between them.
    â€œWait!” he called. Pushing past a salesman he raced after her. Outside, somewhere very close, a clock was chiming, loud, like a church, nine, ten, eleven, and the noise almost seemed to obstruct him, to thicken the air, as he turned sideways to edge past women with loaded bags and a bored man with a stroller. Men’s wear! She wouldn’t be here! But there she was, a slight figure beside a counter of folded pullovers, watching him, her eyes bright. She wore a green dress. The same dress.
    Cal cursed. He stood still and told himself he wouldn’t take another step; he’d turn and find the door and get out of the shop into the sunshine. Then he was running. Through lingerie and children’s wear and home furnishings and books she was always ahead, just out of sight. The clock struck, booming through the building. Surely it shouldn’t be that loud! He found stairs and jumped down them, into a dim basement full of shining kitchen appliances.
    Abruptly, the chimes