Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  All she had to do was go downs­ta­irs to the lo­un­ge and align as many mo­vab­le obj­ects as she co­uld find so they fa­ced in the right di­rec­ti­on. If they all po­in­ted to­wards the so­uth wall of the ho­use - the front wall, the front do­or wo­uld ce­ase to be loc­ked aga­inst her.

  Snowy re­ad no furt­her. The­re was a lar­ge part of her that didn’t just dis­be­li­eve what she had re­ad, it po­ured red-hot scorn on it. But the­re was al­so a part - the lit­tle-girl part -that to­ok the mat­ter very se­ri­o­usly in­de­ed.

  And she was in tro­ub­le, the­re was no do­ubt abo­ut that.

  The exact amo­unt of tro­ub­le she was in didn’t re­ve­al it­self to her un­til af­ter she had scrol­led the story back to the pa­ge she’d fo­und it on, rep­la­ced all the le­ads and the mo­use ap­pro­xi­ma­tely as they’d be­en be­fo­re, and left the ro­om on legs which se­emed to be ma­de of rub­ber.

  She gat­he­red her strewn wits and de­ci­ded that be­fo­re she co­uld think abo­ut anyt­hing el­se, she ne­eded a go­od hot cup of cof­fee.

  It was when she got to the kitc­hen that she dis­co­ve­red the exact amo­unt of tro­ub­le she was in. It to­ok a whi­le for it to sink in and it daw­ned on her only gra­du­al­ly. Star­ting when she ope­ned the do­or of the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor to get the milk.

  The­re was no milk in the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor. In fact, Snowy was for­ced to ad­mit that not only was the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor out of milk, it was out of a gre­at many ot­her things too.

  With the ex­cep­ti­on of one item, the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor was empty.

  And Snowy tho­ught she knew why.

  It had not­hing to do with the fact that all the fo­od had be­en eaten and everyt­hing to do with the story which wa­ited ups­ta­irs, still li­ve on a com­pu­ter scre­en which sho­uld ha­ve be­en de­ad. This had not be­en in the story, but Snowy ex­pec­ted it wo­uld be when Phi­lip did the red­raft. He’d known all abo­ut it, but he hadn’t writ­ten it down be­ca­use he hadn’t wan­ted to gi­ve away too much too early on.

  Snowy sta­red at the sing­le item that lay on the frid­ge’s bot­tom shelf.

  It was not edib­le.

  It was a whi­te en­ve­lo­pe and it bo­re her na­me on the front in Phi­lip’s handw­ri­ting.

  She pic­ked it up, al­re­ady kno­wing what the mes­sa­ge in­si­de wo­uld say. She ope­ned it on re­mo­te cont­rol whi­le she as­ked her­self how Phi­lip co­uld ter­ro­ri­ze her li­ke this, and why he sho­uld want to. He lo­ved her de­eply - as de­eply as she lo­ved him - and the­se we­re not the kind of ga­mes or­di­nary pe­op­le pla­yed with the­ir lo­ved ones.

  But Phi­lip isn’t an or­di­nary per­son, she told her­self. If he was, you wo­uldn’t be he­re in his kitc­hen hol­ding this chilly let­ter. Phi­lip is ext­ra­or­di­nary. And you bro­ke one of his pri­me ru­les. So you sho­uld ex­pect the con­se­qu­en­ces to be ext­ra­or­di­nary too.

  She to­re the en­ve­lo­pe open. The­re was a sing­le she­et of whi­te pa­per in­si­de. Snowy withd­rew it and un­fol­ded it. The mes­sa­ge was exactly the one she had ex­pec­ted. It sa­id:

  You’ve been a very naughty girl

  And naughty girls must be severely punished

  So now you have to stay inside the house

  For ever

  To Snowy, this pi­ece of po­etry lo­oked very much li­ke it cons­ti­tu­ted a de­ath thre­at.

  It’s a joke, that’s all, she as­su­red her­self, but the evi­den­ce se­emed to di­sag­ree. She’d al­re­ady re­ad that she co­uldn’t get out of the ho­use, and as Phi­lip had re­mo­ved all the fo­od from the frid­ge, she co­uldn’t stay he­re eit­her. Not for long.

  Whe­re did he put the fo­od? she as­ked her­self. When she’d go­ne to bed the pre­vi­o­us eve­ning, the frid­ge had be­en chock-full of the go­odi­es the tra­vel­ling su­pers­to­re had de­li­ve­red. It had lo­oked as if Phi­lip had be­en la­ying in si­ege sup­pli­es.

  It was a lot of fo­od to throw away.

  Snowy went to the uti­lity ro­om whe­re the fre­ezer was. The­re was not­hing in it at all; the fro­zen stuff was go­ne too.

  Appa­rently Phi­lip me­ant to star­ve her to de­ath.

  Bul­lshit, Snowd­rop Dres­den, she told her­self. You are not trap­ped in this ho­use. You can le­ave at any ti­me.

  She went back in­to the kitc­hen. She wo­uld just ha­ve to ha­ve her cof­fee black. She wasn’t ter­ribly surp­ri­sed to find that the cof­fee (and everyt­hing el­se) was ab­sent from the cup­bo­ard.

  But you for­got to re­mo­ve the cups and glas­ses, Phi­lip, didn’t you? she tho­ught, smi­ling grimly. She to­ok a tall glass from the shelf, held it un­der the tap and tur­ned on the wa­ter.

  Then she did cur­se.

  Phi­lip hadn’t re­mo­ved the drin­king ves­sels be­ca­use the­re was no ne­ed to. He’d tur­ned off the wa­ter.

  She slam­med the glass down, got on her hands and kne­es and yan­ked open the do­or un­der the sink unit, in­ten­ding to find the cold wa­ter cock and turn it on aga­in. This was whe­re it wo­uld be.

  And at this po­int, Snowy le­ar­ned anot­her mystif­ying fact abo­ut Black Rock which she co­uld add to her col­lec­ti­on.

  The­re was no stop-cock the­re.

  Or any pi­pes.

  And yet wa­ter had co­me out of the taps. Un­til to­day. Scal­ding hot wa­ter out of the hot tap and fre­ezing cold from the cold. Just li­ke a nor­mal ho­use.

  Snowy re­ac­hed to the back of the cup­bo­ard and felt up the wall to whe­re the taps we­re mo­un­ted in the sta­in­less ste­el unit. The­re sho­uld ha­ve be­en uni­ons the­re, whe­re the taps met the pi­pes, or at le­ast a big nut whe­re they we­re mo­un­ted to the unit. Snowy felt not­hing but smo­oth ste­el. It se­emed that the taps had simply be­en glu­ed to the top of the unit.

  I don’t li­ke any of this, she tho­ught, fe­eling dizzy and frigh­te­ned.

  Plan A, she told her­self. Get on yo­ur bi­ke and get out­ta he­re!.

  Snowy left the kitc­hen and went ups­ta­irs to the bed­ro­om to get dres­sed.

  On the way, she en­ter­ta­ined her­self with a bri­ef fan­tasy in which she ar­ri­ved at the bed­ro­om to dis­co­ver that all her clot­hes had va­nis­hed. She pic­tu­red her­self be­ing as­to­nis­hed that they we­re no lon­ger dra­ped over the cha­ir whe­re she’d left them. She ima­gi­ned her­self fran­ti­cal­ly ope­ning cup­bo­ards and ward­ro­bes and dis­co­ve­ring that they we­re all empty, not only of her own clot­hes, but of Phi­lip’s too. She vi­su­ali­zed her­self sit­ting down he­avily on the bed and star­ting to cry.

  This was exactly what hap­pe­ned.

  But you still ha­ve his car keys, she re­mem­be­red. Even if you ha­ve to le­ave dres­sed only in his shirt, you can just jump in the Porsc­he and dri­ve away. If you can open that bas­tard front do­or, of co­ur­se. …

  She wi­ped away her te­ars, told her­self she wo­uld not be be­aten, got up and went back downs­ta­irs aga­in.

  She sto­od be­fo­re the do­or lo­oking at the par­qu­et blocks of the po­lis­hed wo­oden flo­or. No­ne of them lo­oked as if they wo­uld mo­ve; cer­ta­inly not un­der the pres­su­re of yo­ur fo­ot, and pro­bably not un­der the for­ce of an atom bomb. The flo­or was as so­lid as the rest of the ho­use.

  Snowy ran her ba­re to­es back and forth ac­ross the flo­or, but it felt as smo­oth and flat as a re­cently dres­sed ice-rink. She to­ok hold of the do­or knob - kno­wing that she wo­uldn’t le­ave her fin­gerp­rints upon this si­de of it, just as she co­uldn’t le­ave them on the out­si­de half of it - and pul­led gently.

  Not­hing hap­pe­ned.

  Snowy pe­eled her hand away and lo­oked for her fin­gerp­rints. They’d left no tra­ce.

  The only dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en t
he out­si­de half of the do­or knob and the in­si­de half was that this si­de didn’t ha­ve the ugly li­on em­bos­sed upon it. If it had, Snowy tho­ught the dam­ned thing wo­uld be grin­ning at her smugly.

  ‘Co­me on, you shit-ho­use do­or, open up!’ she com­man­ded, and tug­ged on it aga­in whi­le sli­ding her fo­ot back and forth ac­ross the flo­or in ca­se the­re we­re any hid­den pres­su­re po­ints.

  This short, one-si­ded pa­rody of a bal­lro­om dan­ce, ac­hi­eved exactly the sa­me re­sult as her ear­li­er at­tempt.

  ‘I can easily get out of the win­dow,’ she told the do­or. ‘All I ha­ve to do is open the one in the lo­un­ge and climb thro­ugh it and I’ll be out, so you may as well open for me.’

  The do­or, ap­pa­rently, was unimp­res­sed.

  She went back in­to the lo­un­ge, in­ten­ding to climb out thro­ugh one of the win­dows; she’d ope­ned them mo­re than on­ce, and they had not of­fe­red even a to­ken re­sis­tan­ce. She re­ac­hed the ne­arest win­dow, to­ok hold of the catch and twis­ted.

  Or tri­ed to twist: the clo­su­re was jam­med so­lid.

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter she had dis­co­ve­red that every win­dow catch on every win­dow in the ho­use was just as jam­med as tho­se in the lo­un­ge.

  But Snowy wasn’t be­aten. She fetc­hed a wo­oden-hand­led claw-ham­mer from Phi­lip’s to­ol box, ba­red her te­eth at the first win­dow and sa­id, ‘Now you’ll open, you fuc­ker!’

  She pla­ced the he­ad of the ham­mer aga­inst the cent­re bar of the win­dow fra­me, ho­oked the cla­wed end un­der the hand­le of the catch and le­ve­red to her right, in­ten­ding not to for­ce the catch open, but to bre­ak it cle­an off its cent­re pi­vot.

  When not­hing hap­pe­ned she pul­led har­der.

  The wo­od on which the ham­mer was res­ting did not dent. The slen­der alu­mi­ni­um catch did not bend or snap. When she to­ok the ham­mer away to ins­pect it, the catch wasn’t even scratc­hed.

  ‘It’s only alu­mi­ni­um, for God’s sa­ke!’ Snowy comp­la­ined, de­ci­ding it wo­uld be easi­er all ro­und if she just bro­ke the glass.

  She re­mo­ved the ham­mer from the catch, sto­od back and to­ok an al­mighty swing at the win­dow pa­ne.

  When the ham­mer hit the win­dow it ma­de a so­und si­mi­lar to the one she wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted to he­ar had she struck the hull of an airc­raft car­ri­er: a so­lid me­tal­lic clunk!

  Anot­her three stri­kes pro­ved to her that the win­dows we­re ma­de of so­met­hing very much stron­ger than stan­dard glass and that she didn’t ha­ve a ho­pe of even crac­king one, let alo­ne shat­te­ring it.

  The ef­fort of trying to es­ca­pe was ma­king her swe­at away qu­ite a bit of the wa­ter she had left in­si­de her, and she’d wo­ken up thirsty. So­on she was go­ing to stop be­ing thirsty and start be­ing very thirsty in­de­ed.

  Te­lep­ho­ne! she sud­denly tho­ught and was aga­in gal­va­ni­zed in­to ac­ti­on and run­ning to whe­re the te­lep­ho­ne sat on a tab­le at the back of the hall - whe­re, in her opi­ni­on, the back do­or sho­uld ha­ve be­en. She had ne­ver used it, and now she tho­ught abo­ut it she’d ne­ver ac­tu­al­ly se­en Phi­lip use it eit­her.

  The te­lep­ho­ne lo­oked as if it had be­en ma­de shortly af­ter they’d stop­ped using the ones on which you had to wind a lit­tle hand­le. It was lar­ge and he­avy and ma­de of a subs­tan­ce which might ha­ve be­en Ba­ke­li­te. It had a pro­per hand­set, but that was abo­ut as mo­dern as it got. Its cab­les we­re co­ve­red with that old-fas­hi­oned brown bra­ided ma­te­ri­al she had last se­en when she was very yo­ung and the lar­ge chro­mi­um di­al had gro­ups of three let­ters prin­ted be­ne­ath each fin­ger ho­le as well as the num­bers. It was pro­bably one of tho­se res­to­red an­ti­qu­es you co­uld buy.

  She lif­ted the hand­set, held it to her ear, and punc­hed the air in tri­umph when she he­ard the di­al­ling to­ne.

  Ha­ve you out of he­re in just a jif­fy, Smiffy! she pro­mi­sed her­self, and di­al­led Ni­ne Ni­ne Ni­ne. If this wasn’t an emer­gency, she didn’t know what was.

  The ope­ra­tor to­ok an age to ans­wer. Whi­le she was wa­iting, Snowy had ti­me to won­der abo­ut the odd rin­ging to­ne she co­uld he­ar. Pre­su­mably it was so­me su­per-du­per new tech­no­logy that the emer­gency ser­vi­ces had ins­tal­led.

  The li­ne clic­ked.

  ‘Hel­lo?’ a fa­int fe­ma­le vo­ice sa­id.

  It wasn’t the sort of vo­ice Snowy wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted an emer­gency ser­vi­ces ope­ra­tor to pos­sess. This wo­man was old. Her vo­ice al­most cre­aked.

  ‘Gi­ve me the po­li­ce!’ Snowy sa­id.

  Si­len­ce.

  The po­li­ce. I want the po­li­ce!’ Snowy re­pe­ated, cro­aking her­self now. Her thro­at felt as if it was full of dust.

  ‘I don’t know what you me­an, de­ar,’ the old wo­man sa­id. ‘And I’m ha­ving tro­ub­le he­aring you. Co­uld you say that aga­in? You’re very fa­int, you know.’

  ‘I ne­ed the po­li­ce,’ Snowy sa­id, ra­ising the vo­lu­me of her vo­ice.

  ‘No de­ar, this isn’t the po­li­ce,’ the wo­man rep­li­ed. ‘This is Ma­ida Va­le Two Se­ven Fi­ve. Oh de­ar, I don’t know what’s hap­pe­ned. This in­fer­nal thing is pla­ying me up aga­in,’ she ad­ded, pre­su­mably to her­self.

  ‘Who is this?’ Snowy de­man­ded. Pe­op­le hadn’t had num­bers li­ke Ma­ida Va­le 275 sin­ce the fif­ti­es, as far as she knew.

  ‘Mrs King,’ the wo­man ras­ped. ‘I’m not a po­li­ce­man, de­ar.’

  And then Mrs King rang off.

  Snowy sta­red at the pho­ne in dis­be­li­ef.

  It’s not a rep­ro­duc­ti­on pho­ne, the lit­tle girl in­si­de her qu­ip­ped. This is an ori­gi­nal. And it’s still con­nec­ted to the ti­me when it was new.

  Snowy slam­med her hand down on the cut-off but­tons, got a fresh di­al­ling to­ne and di­al­led aga­in.

  ‘May­fa­ir One Ni­ne Ze­ro,’ a yo­un­ger fe­ma­le vo­ice an­no­un­ced. ‘Za­ra Win­ter spe­aking. Can I help you?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Snowy sa­id and cut the con­nec­ti­on, the na­me Za­ra Win­ter rin­ging in her ears. She di­al­led aga­in.

  ‘Fred King!’ a man’s vo­ice sho­uted abo­ve the backg­ro­und ro­ar of what had to be a fac­tory.

  Snowy’s he­ad was spin­ning. ‘Are you re­la­ted to Mrs King?’ she as­ked.

  ‘Well I’d ha­ve to be re­al­ly, wo­uldn’t I?’ the man as­ked. ‘I’m only cal­led King be­ca­use my pa­rents are cal­led King. Yes, Mrs King is my mum. Who is this any­way?’

  ‘My na­me’s Snowd­rop Dres­den,’ Snowy sa­id. ‘And I’m thin­king of the Mrs King who­se te­lep­ho­ne num­ber is Ma­ida Va­le Two Se­ven Fi­ve.’

  ‘Ye­ah, that’s my mum. What abo­ut her? She be­en ta­ken bad aga­in? This the hos­pi­tal?’

  ‘No, she’s fi­ne,’ Snowy sa­id. ‘I just wan­ted to ask if you knew a Za­ra Win­ter.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Fred sa­id. ‘Why?’

  ‘Co­uld you tell me what the da­te is?’ Snowy as­ked.

  ‘Octo­ber the twenty-eighth, of co­ur­se. Fri­day. Sa­me as it is whe­re you are. What is this, Twenty Qu­es­ti­ons?’

  ‘The full da­te,’ Snowy he­ard her­self ask. She did not want to know this, but she co­uldn’t stop her­self as­king.

  ‘That is the full da­te,’ Fred Win­ter yel­led.

  ‘The ye­ar,’ Snowy cro­aked. She felt as if she was bur­ning up in­si­de. The­re we­re such things as ghosts. She was tal­king to one now. She was cer­ta­in.

  ‘Ni­ne­te­en forty-eight, of co­ur­se. What ye­ar is it whe­re you’re cal­ling from?’

  Snowy cut the con­nec­ti­on aga­in, put the pho­ne back in its cra
d­le and wi­ped her hands on the shirt she was we­aring as tho­ugh the hand­set had be­en ta­in­ted with so­met­hing which might ha­ve stuck to her. Ear­li­er, she had ho­ped she hadn’t go­ne mad. Now she ho­ped she had. She felt as if she was run­ning a high tem­pe­ra­tu­re and her mo­uth and thro­at we­re scre­aming for wa­ter. She at­temp­ted to switch off what her mind was trying to tell her and to re­turn to the im­me­di­ate ne­ces­sity, which was no lon­ger es­ca­pe, but an over­po­we­ring ur­ge to drink.

  Snowy sta­red at the pho­ne for a few mo­ments and her mind hit pay-dirt aga­in. She sud­denly knew whe­re the­re wo­uld be so­me wa­ter she co­uld drink.

  She might ne­ver ha­ve ma­na­ged to find any wa­ter supply pi­pes or any for was­te-dis­po­sal, but in that bath­ro­om was a won­der­ful in­ven­ti­on which was go­ing to sa­ve her li­fe. That thing was the to­ilet cis­tern. You pul­led the hand­le and two gal­lons of wa­ter gus­hed down the pan. Two gal­lons wo­uld ke­ep her ali­ve for a we­ek, easily. If Phi­lip hadn’t flus­hed the pan af­ter tur­ning off the wa­ter, she was go­ing to be fi­ne. If he had, she wasn’t go­ing to be qu­ite as fi­ne, but she wo­uld sur­vi­ve lon­ger than he had an­ti­ci­pa­ted be­ca­use the­re wo­uld be cle­an wa­ter in the U-bend of the pan. If he’d flus­hed the to­ilet, then pis­sed in it af­ter­wards, she was go­ing to ha­ve to think aga­in - abo­ut bo­iling it be­fo­re she drank it, pro­bably -but she was cer­ta­in that prob­lem wasn’t go­ing to ari­se. He co­uldn’t ha­ve tho­ught of ever­y­t­hing.

  Except Phi­lip had tho­ught of everyt­hing.

  He had emp­ti­ed the flush.

  He had not pis­sed in the U-bend wa­ter, but he hadn’t ne­eded to. So­me­how, he’d re­mo­ved the wa­ter from the­re. When Snowy put her hand down to to­uch - and per­haps cla­im the last few drop­lets for her­self - she fo­und that the trap was bo­ne dry.

  Snowy de­arly wan­ted to col­lap­se and we­ep, but re­fu­sed to let her­self. If what she’d re­ad in Phi­lip’s bo­ok was true, the­re was one last chan­ce. But it was the only chan­ce she had left.