Free The Fetch by Robert Holdstock Page B

thing.’
    ‘But you can try.’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    She left the kitchen. When Richard looked down he was startled to see Michael leaning back, his gaze fixed on his father. The boy’s mouth worked, as if hewas biting the skin on the inside. His hands hung limply beside his body. He seemed, suddenly, exhausted.
    Richard had the uncanny feeling that the work of art was complete, that Michael’s swirls and blobs had reached their final form.
    And the artist was now empty and at peace with himself.

NINE
    Michael ran across the fieldtowards thehouse, but stoppedat the gate,solemn-faced as he listened to the distant sound of his sister’s laughter. He looked back over his shoulder, back to the woods, then down at the small object he was bringing home. The air was hot and he was still damp inside his loose shirt. The shock of what had happened a few minutes ago had brought him out in a feverish sweat.
    From the house came the sound of his mother’s voice, and Carol laughed again. They were playing the counting game; it was Carol’s favourite. They played it all the time, while Michael drew pictures, or explored his camps in the garden.
    He felt sad. At the same time he felt angry. Again, he looked back to the woods across the field, then brushed at his trousers and sleeves, knowing that he might be in trouble. He tried to pick the leaf litter from his ginger hair and smoothed the wild locks down with a smear of spit.
    There was blood on his fingers, he noticed, and he wiped them carefully on the ground, then tore up some grass to use as a handkerchief, scrubbing at his face, at the stinging cut just below his cheek.
    He pushed open the gate and stepped into the garden, darting up through the maze, peering cautiously over the top of the low hedge as he moved towards the house.
    His mother’s voice resolved, and he couldhear her telling Carol a story. He ran from the maze to the apple tree and stood behind it, listening to the happiness in the house, holding the heavy little statue tightly. His body burned with anguish and his hands were wet. The cut on his face hurt him and he knew he should go in and have it washed.
    His mother was in the sitting room, by the open doors. The back door was open too and he began to walk towards it, but heard his mother come into the kitchen and run water from the tap. So he changed direction.
    Carol was sitting at the small desk she always used for her own writing and drawing. Michael stood in the doorway and watched her, then edged slowly over to her and peered down at what she was sketching.
    It was a drawing of a house, their house. She showed smoke coming from the chimney. Three little stick figures, two large, one small, suggested their parents and Carol.
    On impulse Michael snatched her pencil and drew the stick figure that was himself, complete with its shadow correctly orientated from the spiky sun she had drawn. The girl looked up at him sharply, but said nothing. He glared at her. She bit her lip, then looked down at the paper again and used her yellow crayon to sketch in Michael’s hair. Michael felt suddenly pleased, but didn’t show it.
    ‘You look dirty,’ Carol said. ‘Mummy’ll be angry. You’ve been in the quarry.’
    He said nothing. He held his hand behind his back and twisted slightly to look at the heavy, glinting object he’d found.
    Carol kept drawing, and now she sang in her oddly tuneless singing voice. She was aware of Michael standing there, but determinedly ignored him. He knew she wanted him to go away, buthe wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to show his mother what he’d found, but he knew he’d be in trouble as well.
    He wanted Susan to tell him a story, too. He loved stories, but he usually had to sit and listen to Carol’s. Maybe if he washed his face and changed into another pair of jeans, his mother wouldn’t be angry with him, and would tell him the story of the Fisher King. He liked that adventure especially. He’d got it in a book, and read