Black Rock

Black Rock Page 52

by Steve Harris

  The­re we­re a lot of pe­op­le at Barns­tap­le Hos­pi­tal who wan­ted to know what had re­al­ly hap­pe­ned to Mar­tin. James had con­coc­ted a story abo­ut a far­ming ac­ci­dent. He told the doc­tors that a com­bi­ne har­ves­ter they we­re tes­ting had run out of cont­rol, min­cing Mar­tin’s leg, and had then ca­ught fi­re. The me­dics, who se­emed to be of the opi­ni­on that James was the world’s worst li­ar, wan­ted to know why Mar­tin was wor­king on farm mac­hi­nery dres­sed in a Sa­vi­le Row su­it. To which the­re was no ac­cep­tab­le ans­wer. James had simply shrug­ged and as­ked for his own burns and cuts to be tre­ated.

  He let them ta­ke him to an A&E cu­bic­le and when he felt the job was do­ne, he fled. This co­uld ha­ve go­ne bet­ter too. One of the doc­tors who’d be­en tre­ating him saw him le­aving and ran af­ter him, sho­uting.

  James qu­ickly clim­bed in­to the Ca­va­li­er that Mar­tin had hi­red and dro­ve away. He didn’t know what he co­uld do when he got back to Black Rock - all he knew was he had to try.

  The snow ran out on the ed­ge of Tin­ta­gel, but it was driz­zling all the way over to Barns­tap­le. James dro­ve back ca­re­ful­ly, trying to for­mu­la­te a plan and fa­iling. If this was a story, li­ke it ought to ha­ve be­en, he wo­uld be re­ce­iving flas­hes of in­tu­iti­on. Ide­as wo­uld co­me to him. He wo­uld know exactly what had to be do­ne. But in re­al li­fe tho­se things just didn’t hap­pen.

  I’ll know when I get the­re, he as­su­red him­self do­ubt­ful­ly.

  The we­at­her front pro­vi­ding the snow was ama­zing to be­hold. It fol­lo­wed the bo­un­dary of the vil­la­ge exactly. On one si­de of the li­ne it was sno­wing he­avily and pi­ling up, and on the si­de he was on not even a sing­le fla­ke blew ac­ross.

  James pul­led up on the ed­ge of the we­at­her and pe­ered down the ro­ad to­wards the cent­re of Tin­ta­gel. The snow wasn’t im­pos­sibly de­ep yet but it was bad eno­ugh to be­co­me stuck in yo­ur car.

  He ma­de it all the way down to the tight bend on which sto­od the King Art­hur’s Bo­oks­hop be­fo­re he got in­to tro­ub­le. It was sno­wing har­der he­re and the fall was much de­eper - the front spo­iler of the car was ac­ting as a kind of plo­ugh.

  Be­si­de the bo­oks­hop the­re was a short ste­ep des­cent in­to the car park whe­re vi­si­tors to the Cast­le ru­ins left the­ir cars. And for so­me re­ason, Mar­tin’s hi­red Ca­va­li­er wan­ted to go down in­to the car park, rat­her than ro­und the sharp right-hand bend.

  Each ti­me James bac­ked off from the cor­ner and tri­ed aga­in to ste­er ro­und it, the car he­aded di­rectly at the car park ent­ran­ce.

  After the fo­urth try, he de­ci­ded that this thing was big­ger than both of them and he’d just ha­ve to walk from he­re. He al­so de­ci­ded that if the car wan­ted to fling it­self in­to the de­ep vir­gin snow of the empty car park, he might as well let it. He co­uldn’t just aban­don it in the ro­ad.

  He ste­ered ro­und the cor­ner aga­in, and ac­ce­le­ra­ted gently. The Ca­va­li­er no­sed its way in­to the de­ep snow on the ste­ep hill and be­gan to sli­de.

  Which was when James re­ali­zed he’d ma­de a bad mis­ta­ke.

  The par­king area was al­so ste­ep, inc­li­ned at an ang­le of per­haps twenty deg­re­es to­wards the ed­ge of the sharp drop on which it perc­hed. The drop didn’t go all the way down to the sea - the­re was a furt­her stretch of snow-co­ve­red land be­fo­re the oce­an - but as the Ca­va­li­er en­te­red the car park, tur­ned si­de­ways and be­gan to sli­de, dri­ver’s si­de first, James knew that it in­ten­ded to go all the way. Ac­ross the car park, ac­ross the ro­ugh gro­und and off the ed­ge.

  The car slowly mo­ved si­de­ways, pus­hing aga­inst an ever-incre­asing pi­le of snow that wo­uld so­on bring it to a halt.

  But this didn’t hap­pen: it kept sli­ding un­til the snow was pi­led up aga­inst it to the he­ight of the ro­of and James co­uld no lon­ger see how far it was to the ed­ge. He had to get out of the car, and fast.

  He grab­bed hold of the do­or hand­le, pus­hed the do­or, and sho­uted in ter­ror when it didn’t open.

  The lock! his mind scre­amed at him. The do­or’s loc­ked. Un­do it!

  His fin­gers snatc­hed at the lock, he pus­hed aga­inst the do­or, and then he was out of the car, rol­ling thro­ugh the snow.

  He fo­und his fe­et in ti­me to see the car va­nish off the ed­ge of the ro­ugh gro­und.

  But it was what had hap­pe­ned to the sea that was re­al­ly stag­ge­ring. From the bay at the fo­ot of the cast­le, to Black Rock and as far out as he co­uld see the wa­ter had fro­zen in­to a flat whi­te she­et.

  James ope­ned his mo­uth to exp­ress his dis­be­li­ef, then clo­sed it aga­in.

  A cock-eyed idea was for­ming in his mind. It wasn’t the kind of flash of ins­pi­ra­ti­on you wo­uld find in a story, and when he vo­iced it to him­self it might ha­ve so­un­ded sup­re­mely stu­pid, but it was all he had to go on.

  You can get down the­re from he­re, he told him­self. The­re’s a ca­ve at the bot­tom of the rock the ho­use stands on. The sea flows in­to it. What if the­re’s a way in­si­de the ho­use thro­ugh that ca­ve? You co­uld climb down, walk ac­ross the fro­zen sea to the ca­ve and try to find yo­ur way up in­to the ho­use from the­re. A kind of surp­ri­se at­tack.

  The do­ub­ting tho­ughts star­ted al­most im­me­di­ately. And what if you fall? he as­ked him­self. What if you go over one of tho­se rocks and bre­ak a leg? No one will even know you’re down the­re. You’ll die of ex­po­su­re if you get hurt. And you pro­bably will get hurt. You’re inj­ured and we­ak al­re­ady and that’s qu­ite a climb you’re lo­oking at, even in go­od we­at­her. Anyt­hing co­uld hap­pen.

  James sho­ok his he­ad. If anyt­hing was go­ing to hap­pen to him, it wo­uld just ha­ve to hap­pen. He’d pro­mi­sed to do his best and he was go­ing to do it.

  For bet­ter or for wor­se.

  At the sec­ti­on of bro­ken wall he pa­used for a se­cond, lo­oking at the bay be­low. Then he to­ok a de­ep bre­ath and star­ted down.

  35 - Escape from Black Rock (Slight Reprise)

  Di­amond lo­oked at S’n’J, coc­ked his he­ad and bar­ked on­ce in his de­ep vo­ice. For the first ti­me, she saw his ta­il wag. She as­su­med that this was the ne­arest thing she was go­ing to get to cong­ra­tu­la­ti­ons at ha­ving wi­ped out Pe­ter Per­fect and Mr Win­ter and the story of Black Rock.

  Thanks,’ she sa­id to Di­amond and hob­bled to­wards him, glan­cing back at the work-ro­om do­or which was clo­sed firmly aga­inst her.

  The ho­use had be­gun to ma­ke no­ises. They we­re si­mi­lar to the ones her flat ma­de af­ter the cent­ral he­ating had go­ne off: the so­und of things that had ex­pan­ded, un­der he­at, cont­rac­ting aga­in. All thro­ugh the ho­use things we­re ma­king lit­tle bangs and cre­aks. The so­unds we­re un­do­ub­tedly ca­used by the de­par­tu­re of Phi­lip’s po­wer. The ho­use was set­tling, but each tiny no­ise se­emed si­nis­ter.

  She got the dis­tinct imp­res­si­on that the bu­il­ding wasn’t so much go­ing to sle­ep, as pon­de­ro­usly wa­king up. She pic­tu­red the way the ho­use lo­oked from out­si­de - li­ke a hu­ge and ter­rib­le ani­mal, cro­uc­hed wa­iting to po­un­ce. Su­rely this was just an imp­res­si­on, not a po­in­ter to the true na­tu­re of Black Rock?

  Ha­un­ted ho­uses we­re just pla­ces whe­re ghosts exis­ted. Su­rely it didn’t fol­low that they be­ca­me ali­ve too?

  But Black Rock is mo­re than a pla­ce whe­re ghosts gat­her, Drezy, she told her­self. Qu­ite a lot mo­re. Per­haps you sho­uld check what Phi­lip’s last writ­ten words we­re.

  ‘Just a se­cond, Di­amond,’ she sa­id, and hob­bled to­wards the desk.

  A tinny inst­ru­men�
�tal ren­di­ti­on of ‘Frosty the Snow­man’ ac­com­pa­ni­ed her. It ca­me out of the ce­iling in se­ve­ral dif­fe­rent pla­ces and each so­ur­ce was slightly out of pha­se with the next. And to comp­li­ment the so­und ef­fects, the ro­om’s walls lit with a blin­ding whi­te light.

  ‘Baby it’s cold out­si­de,’ Phi­lip’s vo­ice sa­id over the mu­sic. ‘Do you think it’s gon­na snow, Snowy?’

  S’n’J snatc­hed the pi­ece of pa­per from the desk. Phi­lip’s scraw­led handw­ri­ting was dif­fi­cult to re­ad. The words dan­ced in front of S’n’J’s eyes, blur­ring in the bril­li­ant gla­re from the walls.

  ‘Pe­ter Per­fect was me­ta­morp­ho­sing aga­in,’ she re­ad, squ­in­ting. ‘This ti­me the chan­ge was per­ma­nent. No mat­ter what hap­pe­ned to him now, he wo­uldn’t die. He wo­uld ha­ve to­tal mas­tery of the po­wer in the ho­use. When Sa­rah-Jane hit him, he knew he wo­uld ke­ep on split­ting un­til his hu­man energy was ex­ha­us­ted. Whe­re­upon he wo­uld mer­ge with the ho­use. He might ha­ve lost a bat­tle, but his lit­tle Snowy was go­ing to dis­co­ver that he had, in fact, won the war.’

  She sho­ok her he­ad. ‘No you don’t!’ she his­sed and to­re the she­et of pa­per in­to shreds.

  On eit­her si­de of her, the walls tur­ned to hu­ge she­ets of glass. Be­hind the glass was cle­ar blue sea and co­ral re­efs, thro­ugh which swam tho­usands of gor­ge­o­usly co­lo­ured tro­pi­cal fish.

  S’n’J glan­ced thro­ugh one of the hu­ge fish-tank pa­nes. She felt hor­ribly dizzy. She co­uld see for mo­re than half a mi­le ac­ross the sea bed be­fo­re the blue dar­ke­ned and blot­ted out her vi­si­on. Over­he­ad the mu­sic was still pla­ying. And when she tot­te­red ro­und lo­oking for the do­or, it was go­ne. The­re was no sign of it ever ha­ving exis­ted.

  ‘You ha­ve to stay in the ho­use for ever,’ Phi­lip’s tinny vo­ice sa­id over the non-exis­tent Tan­noy. ‘The get­ting in is easy. It’s the get­ting out you ha­ve to worry abo­ut. It can’t be do­ne, Snowy.’

  Di­amond bar­ked.

  S’n’J lo­oked down at him.

  The dog po­in­ted.

  At the wall thro­ugh which Phi­lip had ear­li­er thrust his hand.

  ‘Not thro­ugh the­re. I’ll die,’ she sa­id, re­mem­be­ring the way Phi­lip’s hand had glo­wed red hot when he’d withd­rawn it; how the band of gold aro­und his fin­ger had be­co­me so hot it had drip­ped.

  As if to show the way, Di­amond wal­ked un­der the desk and stop­ped with his no­se aga­inst the wall, then lo­oked back at her. S’n’J cro­uc­hed be­si­de him. ‘I un­ders­tand,’ she sa­id, ‘but I can’t do it. It’ll kill me.’

  Di­amond tur­ned back, put his no­se to the wall, ten­sed his musc­les and pus­hed for­ward. His sno­ut pe­net­ra­ted the wall. His paws scrab­bled at the car­pet and his who­le he­ad slid in­to the wall. Whe­re he stop­ped, lo­oking as if he had be­en de­ca­pi­ta­ted.

  ‘I can’t!’ S’n’J wa­iled. Be­hind her, so­met­hing be­gan to crack­le.

  Di­amond’s body stif­fe­ned and he pul­led his he­ad back out to lo­ok at her. It wasn’t red hot. Or even smo­king. He bar­ked.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that it’s sa­fe?’ S’n’J as­ked abo­ve the ste­adily inc­re­asing crack­ling no­ise.

  If he’d be­en Rin-Tin-Tin or Las­sie, Di­amond wo­uld ha­ve bar­ked kno­wingly and wag­ged his ta­il whi­le he lo­oked from her to the wall and back aga­in. She wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­en ab­le to miss the mes­sa­ge. But this was not what hap­pe­ned.

  The dog pus­hed his he­ad in­to the wall aga­in and strug­gled all the way thro­ugh this ti­me. S’n’J watc­hed the wall clo­se aro­und the tip of his ta­il and fi­nal­ly glan­ced be­hind her, re­ali­zing that she co­uld now smell smo­ke.

  So­met­hing that lo­oked li­ke a brush-fi­re was co­ming to­wards her in a sing­le li­ne of low fla­me, le­aving not­hing but black ash in its wa­ke.

  S’n’J tur­ned back to the wall, got on her hands and kne­es and pus­hed her he­ad aga­inst it.

  It was li­ke craw­ling thro­ugh a six-inch fre­ezing jel­ly. On the ot­her si­de was the mas­ter bed­ro­om whe­re Snowy and Phi­lip had ma­de lo­ve. It was sno­wing in the­re: on the flo­or and the bed, it was a go­od three inc­hes de­ep. The up­per third of the ro­om was en­ve­lo­ped in thick, swir­ling clo­ud from which the snow fell li­ke cot­ton-wo­ol.

  Di­amond sto­od half-way ac­ross the ro­om, po­in­ting.

  Shi­ve­ring and with her bre­ath plu­ming in­to the air, S’n’J craw­led to­wards him. Her jac­ket lay on the flo­or in the snow. She pic­ked it up, sho­ok the snow off and put it on. It was bet­ter than not­hing. Her ot­her clot­hes and her sho­es we­ren’t the­re.

  Di­amond no­sed at a spot of wall be­low the win­dow. I ho­pe you know what you’re do­ing, S’n’J tho­ught as she craw­led thro­ugh the snow to­wards him. Be­ca­use if you’re wrong, the­re’s a big drop to the gro­und out­si­de that win­dow.

  But the­re wasn’t ti­me to gi­ve the mat­ter any furt­her con­si­de­ra­ti­on, be­ca­use Di­amond was go­ing thro­ugh. S’n’J fol­lo­wed him, ho­ping for the best.

  And ca­me out in the bath­ro­om be­si­de the to­ilet bowl.

  The bath­ro­om was co­ated with cle­ar ice. Hu­ge icic­les hung from the ce­iling, li­ke dag­gers wa­iting to fall. The flo­or was ska­ting-rink smo­oth and num­bed S’n’J’s flesh. She craw­led on to it, fin­ding it dif­fi­cult to ke­ep her half-fro­zen hands and kne­es un­der her.

  Di­amond sto­od in front of her po­in­ting the way they had co­me.

  She fol­lo­wed him, ex­pec­ting to end up in the bed­ro­om aga­in. She was surp­ri­sed to find her­self in the lib­rary.

  It wasn’t sno­wing in he­re yet, but the up­per half of the ro­om was in clo­ud.

  Di­amond was po­in­ting at a lar­ge bo­ok­ca­se that to­ok up an en­ti­re wall. The top of it was mas­ked by clo­ud.

  She for­ced her­self to her fe­et and lim­ped ac­ross, kno­wing exactly what she was lo­oking for and kno­wing it was go­ing to be on the top shelf. The­re was a step­lad­der at the far end of the bo­ok­ca­se. She got it and to­ok it back to whe­re the dog sat.

  ‘Whe­re are you Snowy?’ Phi­lip’s vo­ice cal­led from up the­re in the clo­ud. ‘You ne­edn’t think you can es­ca­pe me just be­ca­use you’ve fo­und a back­wa­ter of the ma­ze. So­oner or la­ter I’ll know exactly whe­re you are.’

  You wish, S’n’J tho­ught, le­aning the lib­rary lad­der aga­inst the bo­ok­ca­se. When she be­gan to climb, the rungs bit in­to her fe­et and the pa­in from her bad ank­le ma­de her want to scre­am.

  At the top shelf, the swir­ling clo­ud was bit­terly cold and ma­de it dif­fi­cult to see. She was pretty cer­ta­in that ice was for­ming aro­und her lips and that the mo­is­tu­re from her bre­ath was crystal­li­zing aro­und her nost­rils.

  The­re we­re six thick ma­nusc­ripts on the top shelf, wrap­ped ne­atly in brown pa­per. The­re was wri­ting in HB pen­cil on each of them and S’n’J pe­ered at it. The ma­nusc­ripts, in which Pe­ter Per­fect had bro­ught S’n’J and fi­ve ot­her un­for­tu­na­te girls in­to exis­ten­ce, we­re mar­ked, Snowy #1 thro­ugh to Snowy #5. The sixth was mar­ked Di­amond.

  She pul­led down the one la­bel­led Di­amond and threw it to the flo­or. The­re you go, dog, she tho­ught. Te­ar that up and you’ll be free.

  She fol­lo­wed su­it with the ot­her fi­ve ma­nusc­ripts, then clim­bed down, won­de­ring what she was go­ing to do with all the pa­per­work. Phi­lip had sa­id that her story alo­ne was a tho­usand pa­ges long, and the pac­ka­ge she had just flung down the­re felt li­ke it. It was go­ing to ta­ke a long ti­me to te­ar six tho­usand pa­ges in­to shreds.

  She got off the lad­der, wi­pe
d the frost from her fa­ce and cro­uc­hed down be­si­de the pi­le of ma­nusc­ripts. Three of the six pac­ka­ges had burst open when they’d hit the flo­or and Di­amond was snif­fing them.

  Don’t worry dog, she tho­ught, we’re, abo­ut to put this right.

  She fo­und the pac­ka­ge mar­ked Snowy #1 and to­re the wrap­per off, won­de­ring if this was the only thing lin­king her with re­ality. Wo­uld she ce­ase to exist if she dest­ro­yed the ma­kings of her own li­fe? She ho­ped not. You wo­uldn’t just wink out of exis­ten­ce if you kil­led yo­ur pa­rents, wo­uld you? she re­aso­ned. So why sho­uld this be any dif­fe­rent?

  She glan­ced over at Di­amond, won­de­ring if she ought to dest­roy a few pa­ges of his story first, just in ca­se. Then she felt hor­ribly gu­ilty and de­ci­ded she co­uldn’t. She pul­led the first pa­ge from her own ma­nusc­ript, fo­ught off the temp­ta­ti­on to re­ad any of it and to­re it in half.

  Not­hing hap­pe­ned to her.

  She to­re it in­to tiny pi­eces with no ill ef­fect.

  Then she pic­ked up as much as she tho­ught she co­uld te­ar in half at one go and did this too.

  The qu­es­ti­on was, how long wo­uld it ta­ke to te­ar up se­ve­ral tho­usand pa­ges? So­me of the sto­ri­es we­re shor­ter than hers, but that still left too much pa­per for one wo­man and a dog to rip up.

  Then she re­mem­be­red what was sup­po­sed to hap­pen at the end of every go­od ha­un­ted ho­use story. The ho­use bur­ned down.

  And Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den sud­denly had a flash of what felt li­ke ge­nu­ine story-bo­ok ins­pi­ra­ti­on.

  In her jac­ket poc­ket, tuc­ked in­si­de her wal­let the­re was a bo­ok of Cars Inc. matc­hes. The one that James had writ­ten his num­ber on, what se­emed li­ke months ago. Her wal­let was so­aked, and in­si­de it, the lit­tle bo­ok­let of pa­per matc­hes was damp. S’n’J’s he­art be­gan to sink.

  She bal­led se­ve­ral of the ma­nusc­ript pa­ges and put a match he­ad to the stri­king sur­fa­ce at the bot­tom of the bo­ok­let.

 

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