Eighteen
A piercing scream came from the Land-rover, from the radio — from Johnny — and then it died to a whisper. He was still alive, but his pain was increasing all the time. The bridge settled. The cab was now leaning no more than five degrees, and they had it.
“Hold it right there,” Marson croaked into the loudhailer.
They locked on. Beneath his feet he felt the gentle movement. He did not look down, refusing to trust his battered senses. The rain poured from his face. He made cutting gestures, and the diesels sobbed to a halt. There was a muttering groan from the crowd. For a moment, he thought it could have been applause; but he knew that even they would realise that this had been nothing to applaud. The idea of at-tempting to support the load had sounded so good, so simple. But that was its real failing. Nothing in this situation was as simple as Marson had tried to make it. He reached for a cigarette and slowly began to light it, using the cupping of a match to cover his real action. He was looking down at the rock. He felt the camera on him, and all the assembled eyes, the crowd waiting. His toe was resting on the rock surface in line with the winch.
There was a new crack.
The concrete hadn’t failed. It was like rock — better than rock. But there was a new crack. They had not succeeded in removing the danger from the cliffs. It was still there, with the same load torturing the same argillaceous rock, but more of it, further back.
Cropper had been correct, in one way. The tripods should have been taller. The main cables were too level. Marson had to take them in too much, which meant that their angle was too shallow. This had put the strain on them very close to their breaking point. The pulleys had redirected this load so that it was nearly horizontal. The bridge was now trying to pull the cliffs in towards the river. And so a new crack had appeared, ten yards further in than the original crack on the east side, and heaven only knew how deep. Where there had been hundreds of tons of rock poised to fill the river and flood Lower Prescott, there were now thousands. What little time the operation might have bought was meaningless. All Marson had achieved was to make the likelihood of disaster a near certainty.
He felt desperate. Against opposition from every corner, from every human force and seemingly from every divine agent, he had managed to put together a decent-sounding plan, and to see it carried out exactly as he had envisaged. And he had only made things worse. The fault lay with him, buried within his character, as sure and as dangerous as the fault deep within the cliffs beneath him. The last remaining hope was to pick the truck off the bridge. But even if the Jones had not been tied up in red tape back at the footings, this would only slow the slide, not stop it altogether. The rain was falling as heavily as ever. With or without the Jones, Lower Prescott would drown.
For the first time, Marson wanted to fall to his knees and beat the cliff with his fists. To yell out every last ache of frustration and responsibility and despair, and to use his own bare hands to precipitate the inevitable calamity. To show that he alone was in control, by bringing the whole thing down with his own brute strength. Instead, he lifted his head passively. The man with the microphone was approaching. The cameras were closing in.
“Is it done?” the man asked. Marson looked back at his cigarette. There was no point in lying. There was no way he could tell the truth. He remained silent.
“Is it done?” repeated the man.
“The driver’s still out there.” Marson answered like a politician. “We won’t have finished until he’s here, safe, with us. For that, I need another crane. Nothing is done until that crane arrives.”
“But these people,” the interviewer persisted, “are their homes safe? Would you guarantee their livelihoods?”
“Would anyone?” smiled Marson, relieved to have so easy an escape.
The crowd were less sure than ever. They understood even less, but felt less in a position to make demands than a few minutes earlier. They had been made promises, yet they had no way of knowing whether or not these promises were being kept.
As Marson walked away with Jeff, pushing past angry questions and uneasy expressions to get back to the caravans, Chris joined them as if from nowhere.
“Did you hear him scream?” he asked.
“Who didn’t?” Questions, he thought to himself, are often the best answers.
“I’ve got to get out there again. His position will have changed. He may even be free of the wreck.”
“No,” said Jeff quietly, “he won’t be free.”
“Look!” Chris was starting to shout. “You’ve got to get me out there!”
“Please, Chris,” said Marson insipidly. “Please. Not now.”
Marson recognised that the doctor’s nerves were as frayed as anyone’s. For nearly two days now, he had lived with the sheer terror of having to risk his life to save another. And worse than the fear was the uncertainty; not only of his patient’s condition, but of access to that patient. He never knew when he would be able to get across, or what he would be able to do when he got there. He hated every crossing with all his body and soul. And yet, more selflessly than anyone else in the operation, he insisted on going out, again and again.
Marson turned to appease him, and to show more appreciation of his position than he had done before. But as he began to speak, all three men stopped walking and looked ahead. A figure was running towards them, waving its arms over its head, shouting out.
“Marson!” The cry grew more distinct as the man drew nearer. He was waving a piece of paper. “Mr Marson!”
“Frank?” said Chris, the most surprised of the three. “I have it, Mr Marson. I have the Jones!”
Marson began to run towards him. “You’ve got it?” he gasped.
Frank Allison was seriously short of breath by the time the two men reached each other. As his face grew first pale, then beetroot, Chris thought he might have to go back for his bag. “One Jones model 971C. It’s yours, Mr Marson. This piece of paper — complete with the signature of Mr Spofford himself — is all the authority you need.”
Jeff stood back, stunned. Chris looked on, confused. “Now then,” said Frank, still struggling to breathe, “all that’s left is for you to save our town.”
“I’ll do what I can,” smiled Marson. “Jeff. You get Cropper and sort out the chairlift for Chris. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I want you to make all the arrangements necessary to bring the Jones as close as we can.”
“Will do, boss,” nodded Jeff.
“You can’t leave now,” started Chris.
“I’m going to meet Marty.” Marson spoke with sudden, genuine confidence. “I’m going to get the Jones, and then we’re going to pick that truck right off that bridge. Jeff will look after things until I get back.” He smiled sincerely, for the first time since the police sergeant had woken him on Tuesday morning, and ran off towards the cluster of vehicles near Jeff s caravan. He jumped into the nearest van and headed for the footings.
Nineteen
The rain had eased slightly. The wind had died. The bridge sat there, wrapped in a binding of cable, more upright and more stable, and so motionless that there seemed to be no reason for the shuddering. But still the rock was transmitting it. Jeff, Chris and Cropper stood at the cliff top looking out, assessing the course of their next action. All three of them could feel it. They knew that there was something wrong. Jeff knew that it was something serious. But all three knew better than to mention it.
Cropper squared his shoulders and cast his eyes scornfully over the bridge. When he spoke, his voice was relaxed. “That chairlift’ll be too low, now. Its tripods need lifting five or six feet.”
“Good,” agreed Jeff. “Work out how to do it, and get Tony out of that Kato and over here. He can give you a hand.”
“I’ll need jacks, some more girders—”
“Don’t tell me,” snapped Jeff. “Time’s short enough. Get the equipment you need, bring in the men you need, and get on with it.”
“But there’s—”
<
br /> “For Christ’s sake, Cropper. What are you babbling about?”
Cropper shrunk back slightly. “Have you looked out there recently? Closely. Down at the cab, I mean. It might have been the Kato. More likely it was the winches, though. Have a look.”
Cropper handed Jeff a pair of binoculars which he hardly needed. The problem wasn’t that it was difficult to see out, nor that the object was particularly small. Cropper was right; no one had looked closely in the last few hours. They hadn’t been paying enough attention to the details around the lorry itself.
“Oh shit,” murmured Jeff, passing the binoculars to Chris.
The three men stood silently as Chris looked out. No words were spoken, but both Jeff and Cropper knew that Chris had seen the problem for himself. They felt the sickening lurch which accompanied his realisation, the despair at facing yet another obstacle in what was beginning to seem an endless assault course. One of the sling cables lay tightly against the cab, crossing the foot-square observation hole to Johnny’s foot. A hanger bar had come loose at some point during the changes which Marson had forced onto the equilibrium. It had fixed itself across the driver’s window. There was now no way for Chris to get to him. No way to see him, no way to treat him — and certainly no way to replace his drip. The measures taken to support the bridge seemed to have prevented any useful action to look after Johnny.
“We may as well stop now,” said Jeff. “There’s nothing more you can do.”
“Nothing?” cried Chris, incredulous. “There must be something. He’s had no nourishment for hours. He’s suffering from shock, exposure. He’s losing blood. He must have lost hope long ago. I have to get to him.”
“Go home,” said Jeff quietly. “Get some sleep. Come back in an hour or two and we might be picking him off the bridge. Unless...until we can bring him to you, there is nothing more for you to do here.”
“And if he’s dead by then?” Chris was no longer capable of subtlety.
Jeff was used to dealing with blunt questions, and giving equally blunt answers. “Then you’ll have done your best. More than your best. But alone, on a chairlift, there’s no way you can get past that hanger bar.”
“No,” interrupted Cropper, “he can’t. But who says he has to go alone?”
“What?” said Jeff.
“We’ve already had two people out on that chairlift, and the wind’s died since then. There’s no reason why two can’t go out again.”
“What are you saying?” Chris asked hopefully.
“The two of us could go across together. Me and you. I’ll cut that bar, an’ you can get at the driver.”
“No,” said Jeff, solemnly. “There’s no telling what stress that bar’s taking. You saw what happened with the Kato. Cutting that could bring the whole lot down.”
“Come on,” said Cropper, sounding like a child. “Be serious. How likely is that?”
“It’s not about likelihood,” Jeff replied sternly. “It’s about risk, about possibility. And about danger.”
“And what about Johnny?” Chris spoke with the most gravity, and his words were telling. “So there’s a risk. Well, me and Cropper are willing to take that risk. If you try to stop us, you’re not helping anyone, and you may well be killing that man out there. He’s the one in danger, and who’s he got to speak for him? If we can help him, we should.”
Jeff felt the weight of Chris’s argument, was forced to share his burden. Marson would not have given in. Perhaps Marson should not have left at so critical a stage. Perhaps he should have sent Allison to get the Jones past the police. But perhaps was neither here nor there. Marson had gone, and the decision was Jeff’s. Marson would not have given in, but Marson was often wrong. Marson had no idea how to manage his team. Management was about compromise. Jeff could not simply forbid so selfless an action. He would concede, and gain ground elsewhere.
“You’ll both have safety lines,” he said firmly.
“Safety lines?” There was a look of horror on Cropper’s face. But Jeff knew that his condition would be accepted. Cropper thought of wearing a lifeline as a precocious child thinks of having stabilisers on his bike: unnecessary, restrictive, and highly embarrassing. But he knew that Jeff would raise too much opposition unless he agreed to use them, and this was a small price to pay for the glory of saving a life. “If it’ll make you feel better,” he laughed.
“I’ll go and get my bag,” said Chris.
Jeff watched them head off together before Cropper made for the tripods and Chris went to his car. They didn’t speak a word.
Chris watched them re-rigging the safety lines. Tony had helped to raise the tripods and then returned to the Kato, leaving the rest of the operation to Cropper and Jeff. It seemed that he was happier doing nothing in his crane than doing something useful anywhere else. Cropper grunted with contempt as they slipped the loop of rope beneath his armpits. As before, Chris was quietly grateful, though this time the reassurance he felt was a thin impression of its former self. Jeff’s words of warning about the delicate balance and the stresses in the bar were beginning to register. The rope would be no help at all if the bridge fell on them.
Two things were clear: that Chris was not going to reach Johnny without Cropper’s assistance; and that he felt much more secure with Cropper beside him. Cropper clasped eighteen inches of brass cutting torch in his right hand, and held his red and black gas bottles down on his knees. Chris held on to his bag as though it contained life itself. They were swung out over the river.
The rain was now little more than a fine drizzle. The breeze was stiffening to a fair wind, but there was so far no sign that it was agitating the bridge, apart from a few metallic groans. With his heart recovering from the initial surge, Chris was beginning to feel mildly excited. He had, for the first time in a long time, begun to persuade himself that they at last had a chance of achieving something.
They stopped, gently swaying, beside the cab door. Chris signalled to be moved a little higher, anxious to get a better look at the prospects. The hanger bar was lying across the side of the cab. There was perhaps room for him to get a shoulder past it. He turned to see if Cropper was thinking along the same lines.
Cropper was making business-like adjustments to his apparatus.
“What d’you think?” shouted Chris.
Cropper could only just hear him. “I’ve got an idea,” he replied glibly.
“This is no time to have ideas—” Chris yelled, but he could see that Cropper had had the idea a while ago. Whatever it was, it had been on his mind before he assented to wearing the harness, even before he had suggested that he and Chris go out together. The look of determination in his eyes made Chris fear for his life as never before.
“I can cut the door out,” said Cropper. “The thickness of metal we got here — hell, I could cut round this door in under five minutes. Then we could get a good looksee at his foot. Or you could.”
Chris couldn’t believe his ears. His life was entirely dependent on this huge, lumbering idiot. He wanted to scream, to get off that plank of wood at once. But then his fear for Johnny kicked in again, quelling his anger, numbing his instincts for self-preservation.
“And then you’d be able to cut the metal that’s trapping his foot?”
“Don’t see why not,” said Cropper, almost flippantly.
“But the metal would get hot, wouldn’t it?” suggested Chris. “Red hot?”
“Well, sure.” Cropper looked worried. “But you can give him something, huh?”
Chris was looking serious, his lower lip jutting. “Have you ever smelt burning human flesh, Cropper?” Cropper had no response.
“Look,” shouted Chris, “you tackle the hanger rod first. Then maybe I can get at him through the window.”
Cropper shook his head stubbornly. “We can do it. You an’ me.”
“The rod, Cropper. Let’s see how he is.”
“I could leave the rod,” pleaded Cropper, “and take the door out. You heard Je
ff: we don’t know what stress the rod’s taking. The door’s doing nothing, just getting in the way. I could take the door out, leave the rod. And then you could get at him.”
Chris was trying to be patient. The chairlift was beginning to react to the wind, swaying gently, making him feel giddy. “But we’d have to leave him here then,” he replied tensely. “Don’t you see that? The rain hasn’t stopped; the wind could pick up. We can’t leave him with no cover. Please, Cropper. The hanger bar.”
“But Jeff said...” Cropper’s words trailed off. Chris had robbed Cropper of his grand design, the plan he had kept to himself which he was sure would save the day and make him a hero. Now Cropper was losing heart. He grunted and reached for his matches.
Jeff watched helplessly from the cliff as the torch caught with a pop. Two feet of orange smoky flame shot out. He turned the other valve on his torch and it roared into a blue cone. He got to his feet. He turned to Chris with a snarl of twisted defiance. Chris nodded: the bar, Cropper. Jeff sensed the threat, the tension that was ready to snap. He reached down for the loudhailer, put it to his mouth, ready to call out.
The flame bit in, spraying tiny red-hot globules of steel. The cone hissed.
The loudhailer cracked in: “Cropper—”
But it was too late. The rod parted. The strain on it was released and it whipped back, catching Cropper across the chest. He gave a small weak cry and disappeared over the edge of the chair.
The chairlift pitched and Chris made a frantic grab for him. His fingers gripped only the lifeline, which burned across his palm. He was aware of a grating of metal from the bridge, but dared not glance back at it. He was flat on his chest, head over the guard rail. Cropper fell, then twisted, then stopped abruptly as the lifeline caught him. He hung, unconscious, head back and body arched, eight feet below Chris.
The loudhailer squawked: “The torch! Chris, the torch!”
But the warning was too late. It had fallen, still roaring, on the chairlift, its flame pointing away from Chris but too close to one of the support ropes. As he watched, his hand moving towards it in agonising slow-motion, the rope smoked and flared, and parted. One corner of the chair tilted, and the torch slid over the edge, trailing its rubber hoses behind it. The gas bottles were rolling. Chris dived for them, and missed. They fell to one side of the remaining end rope, leaving the rubber hoses looped around it. He stared down.
Final Toll Page 14
