“Ghouls,” Marson said in disgust. “They’ll love it. They’ll want to see that bridge crashing into the river.”
Chris shrugged. “So disappoint them. Get him out of there...alive.”
“And that,” Marson said, looking round, “is just what we’re going to do. But they’ll have to hang around quite a while for their pictures.”
Grey’s head came up. He did not speak. Marson had their attention. He sat, knees together, his hands raised as though he was going to applaud. Those hands conducted a good part of his conversation, moving outwards, inwards, clasping and thumping his forehead. He plunged into what he knew best — theory.
“This is the position,” he said. “You’ve all seen how things are. That bridge is in a critical condition, and we daren’t risk another man on it. Not one. But we’re going to get him out, and the doctor here is going to keep him alive for us until we do.” He looked at Chris. “Aren’t you?”
“If I can,” Chris said warily. “His name’s Johnny something, by the way.” He was terrible at remembering surnames.
“Grey interrupted sharply. “Where did you get that?”
“A woman called Laura. She knows him.”
“Then I’ll have to see her—”
Marson’s palms came together with a slap. “His name’s Johnny. Fine. But he’ll die on our hands if we waste too much time. I can tell you now that his right foot’s trapped.”
“We cut people out of wrecks like that every day—” started the Fire Chief.
“No.” Marson was curt and to the point. “Your machinery’s too heavy. Even the plan to separate the cab from the trailer is too great a risk now. The only way to get him off the bridge is to lift the whole lorry clear. That — even if it is possible — will take time, and time is one thing that ‘Johnny’ doesn’t have. The wind is not predictable enough to dangle anyone from the crane for any length of time. Suspended from only one point, there’d be no telling which way they’d be blown. But there is a way the doctor could reach him. We could run a cable across the river. The Kato would reach the other side. Jeff?”
Jeff looked up from his feet. He was not pleased with what he was hearing. “We can reach to a hundred and fifty feet, with the fly-boom on.” His eyebrows were raised. He wondered whether Marson had had this in mind from the beginning.
Chris was starting to look pale.
“Right then,” continued Marson. “That’s settled. A cable across to the other cliff, alongside the wagon on its down-river side. The driver’s window’s missing and the cab’s leaning out over the river. It shouldn’t be too difficult. We anchor it the other side, and put a hand-winch on this end. We hook a chairlift on it with a couple of pulleys, so that we can tow it out and back. How’s that sound, Chris? We could get you right to the cab window.”
It sounded terrible. The nightmare was with him again. “So what do I do?” he demanded. “Feel his pulse? Chuck him a sandwich?”
Marson didn’t smile. “Like a holiday in Switzerland, it’ll be. Your own chairlift. You’ll love it.”
“I’ll dash home for my sunglasses,” he said, but his lips were sticking to his teeth.
Grey stirred uneasily. He couldn’t understand the flippancy. But Marson still had their attention, and suddenly he was completely serious.
“There’s something none of you knows. That cliff. I’ve had to survey it, you see. The new motorway bridge was due to come through here. I was fighting that, because I wanted to preserve Prescott’s Bridge, but it’s too late for that now. The point is that we’ll never be able to take the motorway bridge over here to replace it. I wasn’t sure about it before. Now I’m dead certain. That cliff is what we call argillaceous rock, on both sides of the river. That sort of rock’s formed from clays and silts, millions of years back. So this is compacted shale, and the stuff’s notorious for its tendency to suffer plastic deformation. That means that there’s lamination parallel with the bedding planes, and they’re a bit prone to failure by flow. Especially when wet. I’m simplifying this a bit, but the weight of the bridge and the wagon, combined with the sudden extra load and the weather, are bringing the cliffs down. And as the bedding planes are vertical, and in line with the river, they’ll come down in great sodding slabs from a point just behind the support piles for Prescott’s chains.”
It had all been said with the quiet authority of absolute conviction. Not one voice was raised in dispute. No one spoke for some moments; it was a large concept to assimilate. Eventually, it was Frank Allison who spoke.
“You mean...” He was still feeling for it. “You mean, into our river?”
Marson turned to face him. He did not know who Allison was, and didn’t appreciate the fire in his eyes. He took it for a trick of the light. “Exactly, sir.”
“But it’d block the narrows. The valley, the whole valley...”
“Would be flooded,” Marson completed for him calmly. Having heard Johnny scream, his course was fixed. “If we were to go out there now and drop the bridge and the wagon, the river would probably not hesitate for a second. But lose the cliffs...” He pursed his lips, and his palms came together again. His voice became rough. “A bit like hanging, isn’t it? It’s easy to argue that you’d like vicious murderers to be hanged, for the good of the community. But you don’t have to pull the lever. And so, for the welfare of this community, we could cut it all loose, while the cliffs are still standing. But who’s going to use the cutter on the chains?” His eyes were on Allison, whom he’d at last typed.
“This is completely academic,” Allison protested uneasily.
“There might be another way,” Marson said, “a way not to make that choice at all, not even academically. We might be able to support the whole bridge, wagon, the lot.”
Jeff’s head came up, and he blinked.
Marson reached to his feet for his bottle, put it to his lips, then peered past it. “There’ll be little time. The cliffs are already sliding.”
“So what d’you want to do?” Grey growled.
“We throw cables across the river. Two-inch steel cables. How are we, Jeff?”
“Three lengths,” Jeff muttered, not happy with the fancy plans he was hearing.
“Good. We throw two across, supported well above the bridge on tripods, further apart than the chains, use the other in two lengths as slings under the bridge, and take the weight off the chains. And then...” He jutted his lower lip, his hands stretched out each side of his face. “Then the cliffs will be safe, and we can take our time picking the whole wagon off.”
There was silence as they avoided each other’s eyes. To Chris it didn’t sound too good. Take their time, Marson had said, picking off the wagon. But was there time for Johnny? Jeff was wondering what hell the boss back at headquarters would raise when he heard of all this. Allison was bewildered. It was Grey who cleared his throat.
“How long will all this take?” he asked.
“For the cable over the river for the doctor’s chair-lift — say a couple of hours. For the main cables to support the bridge...what d’you say, Jeff? A day? Maybe more?”
Jeff looked embarrassed to have the decision thrust at him. “Without details of how you’re thinking...” He was shaking his head. It was not- certain they’d be allowed to spend so long at the bridge; company property, company men.
“There must be a quicker way,” started Chris.
“No.” Marson was cold. “Several cranes are big enough to bear the weight of that trailer, but most are too big. Put a five-hundred tonner on those cliffs and the whole lot will come straight down. We could never get one into either of the cutaways — they’re much too narrow. The only crane that can do it — the only crane to which we have access — is the Jones. And, as Jeff can tell you, the Jones will take time.”
Frank Allison felt the weight himself, the agonising responsibility of deciding his point of view. One life weighed against the appalling consequences if the plan failed and the cliffs fell. “We’ll have to
give it a try,” he said softly. Then he looked down at his feet.
Poor Frank, thought Chris fondly. For so long he’d argued the claim of the district’s minority against the greater gain of the majority. Now he was still representing the same people, the community, but it had suddenly become the majority. Nobody could represent Johnny. He was the smallest minority you could get. And he’d got no say in the matter, nothing but that single scream. The final irony was that the same circumstances had brought about Frank’s triumph for the community against the motorway. Whatever happened, the concrete bridge would not cross the river just there.
“Good,” said Marson, rolling the empty bottle between his palms. “Then we’ll need a few things. Such as mains water, electricity laid on — we’ll have to have proper floodlights on the cliff — and a phone to my caravan...”
“I’ll do what I can,” mumbled Grey. He spoke as though there was something on his mind.
“...by morning. There’re things I’ve got to get moving. Jeff, you’d better send Cropper back with this truck, when we’ve finished in here. We’ll need the full team.”
“Sievewright’ll go mad,” said Jeff.
Marson tapped his knee. “Jeff, I’ve been eight years at head office. I can handle him. Get the lot over here. All the caravans. The Land-rover had better stay where it is, at the top of the cliffs.”
“There are details we’ve got to discuss,” said Jeff, his voice tight.
“I know, and we will.”
“I’m not sure we can handle all this. And we’ve only got one eighty-ton crane.”
Then Marson’s voice cracked out, the tension finally reacting to the opposition. “For Christ’s sake do it, and don’t argue. I’ve already had the pants scared off me.”
But Jeff was calm. “That chairlift alone’ll be no picnic.”
Marson stared at him, then turned to Chris. “We’re going to look after you, Chris. We’re going to rig you a chairlift so safe you could dance on it.”
“Dance on it, yes,” said Chris. “But not much else, from what I can gather. Do you really expect me to work through the side window? That’s what it sounded like to me. A lot I can do like that, I must say.”
“More than you could do by standing on the cliff and looking at it.” Marson’s tone was beginning to betray something cold, a distant determination.
Chris stood up, rolled the oil drum away, and stretched. His head touched the canvas roof, and he had to bend his neck. He shrugged. “Three hours, did you say? I’ll be back.”
Then he climbed down and returned along the road, but the Mini had gone. He didn’t know the location of Troughton Farm, and in any event the woman had made it clear that she didn’t want him there. She would have to wait to discover what splendid plans they had for her Johnny.
The whole mish-mash of the scheme sounded to Chris like wild fantasy. Because he couldn’t visualise it as reality, it had seemed quite reasonable to promise he’d be back.
Six
The sudden and spectacular return of Johnny into her life had completely confused Laura. She was not a woman with a flexible mind; new ideas required careful treatment, or they would skitter away before she could resolve them.
There was Den, that was the trouble, Den always in the background, there when she looked round, gone again the moment she turned back. Den used the farm as a convenience, but Johnny.
Johnny had come first, to the farm to live, to help her old dad with the milking. But Johnny had never really taken to farm work. He’d always been a driver, and it was Laura who eventually persuaded him to return to it. He did not have to leave. He remained at the farm, but spent a large part of his life on the road. Behind a wheel he was always happy.
Johnny had introduced her to Den in a pub, one of his mates, and very soon Den got to coming to the farm when Johnny was away, to cheer up her dad, he said. Den could be great fun, telling his stories. He could do all the voices, standing there in the living-room with his legs apart, ducking his head. He’d have her father nearly out of his chair, laughing. Den was good at that. It was only later, when it was too late, that Laura found he had another side to him. One second a smile, then something crazy — anything. And the harm he could do. Like a mad dog, he’d seem, raging and vicious. But way behind it, wild or not, Den was always in control.
That was what really terrified Laura. It was only gradually that she got to know he was a crook. Nothing grand. Hijacking. Small stuff. Talk to him and you’d think he was a master criminal, but it was nothing bigger than small vans — until he got Johnny involved with it. Then it was a wagon loaded with whisky.
Poor Johnny was a pushover for Den, who could twirl him around a finger. Hold up that finger, and Johnny would bark. Eventually, they planned something together. At least, Johnny thought it was together. It was his own load that was involved this time. He was going to let Den hijack it from him, Den and one other chap to drive it away, Johnny’s wagon, and Den was going to tap Johnny on the head to make it look good. Johnny said he didn’t want it to be his own wagon, but Den soon persuaded him. Of course, things went wrong. Laura was never sure exactly what, as she couldn’t face going to Johnny’s trial. All she knew was that a policeman was killed in a police car, and Johnny was the only one they could put their hands on, so he paid for the lot.
Now Johnny was coming home to her, when she thought he’d never come near again, not with Den virtually taking over the farm. Even before that hijack, Den had been using the empty barns to dump his hauls in. It seemed natural for Den to hide out at the farm, and Johnny must’ve known that, because he got a note out to him. Laura never found out what was in that note, but it was the first taste she got of Den’s viciousness. The effect had lasted for months; perhaps it lingered even now. But Johnny had come back. Or at least had tried.
And there he was on the bridge, so that all of a sudden she was all mixed up, and she didn’t know what to think. The last thing she wanted when she got home was for Den to be waiting up for her. She needed some time to herself.
At first she thought the light at the farm was her dad getting up to milk the cows. It was getting on for that time. The farm was three miles by road from the river, across the valley, and backing on to the pine-strewn slope behind. She could detect the pin point of light a mile away, and could watch it all the way up the long, muddy drive. The Mini was good in mud. But when she parked it by the old pump in the yard she knew it wasn’t her father. He’d have had the door open and be asking, was that you, Laura? The old fuss-pot, she thought fondly. But the door remained shut.
So she walked in there, knowing it was to face Den. He wasn’t going to be happy about Johnny being on the bridge, and she wasn’t sure how to tell him.
“Where you been?” he asked in his emotionless voice. He hadn’t been worrying for her, she thought, you can bet.
She told him she’d been at the bridge. “Prescott’s Bridge. The one with the chains.”
“It’s after four!” he shouted, doing his outraged husband act, though she’d have died before marry him.
She had been hanging her coat up. It was soaked. She would have liked to get her clothes off, and into a dressing gown, but instead she said she would get some tea, saying it casually, as though the bridge was not suddenly the focus of her life. It kept her busy, her eyes occupied, while she told him. He had known she was going to visit her friend Cora on the other side of the river, to see the new baby, and that she would have used that bridge.
“But I couldn’t get back across,” she told him. “It was blocked by a great trailer wagon. I had to go all the way round to the town bridge, and then...well, I had to go and see what it was all about.”
“Stupid, nosy women,” he said, but it hadn’t really registered because he was only grumbling.
“I thought it could be you,” she told him, though she hadn’t thought that for a second. It wasn’t in his league, a wagon-load of whisky that size. “Thought you’d been heading back here with your lates
t wonderful whisky hijack.”
“Whisky?” It was that word which caught his attention. “A wagon-load of scotch?”
“Oh, huge,” she said. “I thought you’d moved into the big time. But it wasn’t you, was it? And you haven’t.”
He hooked his fingers into her arm, and he knew he was hurting her. “Then who was it, you stupid bitch?”
“You ought to be pleased,” she said, trying to smile. She managed to get her arm free, but she could feel his eyes on her as she moved away. “I’ve been keeping the best bit till the end.” She turned to face him, hoping she had some imitation of delight on her face. “It was Johnny, Den. Just out of prison, and bringing you a present. A wagon-load of scotch, and all for you.”
That did it. The teapot went across the room, the cups after it, and he was raving. “You stupid, bloody bitch. Don’t you ever see anything? They’ll trace him here. They’ll know he was bringing it somewhere, and they’ll search around. They want me, and they’ll come here...when he tells ‘em...”
“But you needn’t be here, Den,” she said quietly.
She had been wanting to say something like that for ages, though in a more direct way. Something like: `Sod off, Den, we don’t want you.’ But she hadn’t dared. This was as close as she’d ever come to it, and her heart was hammering. He was looking at her with his head sideways, considering her. He had his twisted smile on his face. It went on for ages. Her legs felt weak, and she could have screamed.
“You don’t mean that, Laura,” he said at last, shaking his head, sad for her. “Oh, you’d like to see the back of me, I’m sure, but it suits me here. It’s gonna take something special to shift me, and it ain’t gonna come from you.”
But he was sounding quite reasonable for a change. She jumped right in, taking her chance.
“But Johnny’s there, Den. There on the bridge. He was coming back to me — and you didn’t expect that, did you?” She was sticking her neck right out, shouting it at him almost in triumph. “And Johnny knows where his parents took my Harry. You and Johnny know where. So now you can go, Den. Bugger off, for all I care. I’ve got Johnny...”
Final Toll Page 5
