Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  ‘Hold on a mi­nu­te. I ha­ve to ma­ke a pho­ne call,’ S’n’J sa­id, get­ting up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Back in a mo­ment.’

  S’n’J went to the pho­ne and pic­ked up the lit­tle pop-up ad­dress bo­ok from be­si­de it. She ope­ned it to E, fo­und El­len’s last pho­ne num­ber and di­al­led, ho­ping that she didn’t get thro­ugh to Ma­ida Va­le aga­in. The li­ne clic­ked and pop­ped and, when the rin­ging to­ne be­gan, S’n’J was ple­ased it was the sa­me one she knew and lo­ved, and not so­met­hing from the past.

  ‘Hel­lo?’ a ma­le vo­ice sa­id.

  ‘Hi, this is Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den. Can I spe­ak to El­len?’ she as­ked, re­mem­be­ring Snowy’s dre­am-fan­ta­si­es abo­ut tor­tu­ring po­or El­len.

  ‘You’d know that bet­ter than me, wo­uldn’t you?’ the man sa­id.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  This, a dis­tant vo­ice sa­id in the back of her mind, with one no­tab­le ex­cep­ti­on, is not tur­ning out to be qu­ite the day you’d ho­ped for when you got out of bed this mor­ning. Is it?

  ‘You he­ard,’ he sa­id.

  ‘You’ve lost me so­mew­he­re,’ S’n’J sa­id.

  ‘She’s not co­ming back, right?’ the man - pre­su­mably El­len’s boyf­ri­end or hus­band - sa­id. ‘She didn’t even ha­ve the bot­tle to pho­ne me and tell me her­self. So she got you to do it for her. Christ, you wo­men ma­ke me sick! You stick to­get­her li­ke you used su­perg­lue. Put her on the li­ne, will you?’

  S’n’J held the te­lep­ho­ne out be­fo­re her, sta­ring at it in dis­be­li­ef. She co­uld he­ar the man’s tinny vo­ice still prat­tling away, which me­ant this was re­al­ly hap­pe­ning. She put the pho­ne back to her ear and sa­id, ‘She isn’t he­re.’

  ‘Do you think I ca­me up the Tyne on a ba­na­na bo­at?’ the man as­ked. ‘Of co­ur­se she’s the­re. She’s be­en the­re a fort­night. Don’t shit me.’

  Shit­ting you and flus­hing you away wo­uld be the best thing I co­uld think of to do to you, ac­tu­al­ly, she tho­ught and sa­id, ‘We’re mi­sun­ders­tan­ding one anot­her, I think. Are you tel­ling me that El­len’s left ho­me?’

  ‘Damn right she has,’ the man rep­li­ed. ‘She’s with you. I’ve he­ard not­hing but “Esse­nj­ay this” and “Esse­nj­ay that” for months. Oh she wan­ted to go back and vi­sit you. Oh, she mis­sed you. Oh, she ne­eded to see you. What go­od fri­ends you used to be and what go­od ti­mes you’d had to­get­her. Dam­ned wo­man’s tur­ned in­to a les­bi­an, that’s what I think. You’re a pa­ir of qu­e­er girls aren’t you? That’s what it’s all abo­ut. Went off sex, then star­ted tal­king abo­ut you and get­ting all starry eyed, that’s what hap­pe­ned. Dam­ned di­kes!’

  S’n’J was surp­ri­sed by the out­burst, but not ter­ribly. She co­uld he­ar Mar­tin in this cha­rac­ter’s vo­ice - not Mar­tin as he spo­ke, but the in­ner Mar­tin, which he kept ca­re­ful­ly co­ve­red and tho­ught no one knew abo­ut. The big­ger surp­ri­se was that El­len had lan­ded her­self a bas­tard who co­uld un­do­ub­tedly rank along­si­de Mar­tin. Per­haps they had mo­re in com­mon than they’d tho­ught. Per­haps that was why this man wasn’t the first to ac­cu­se them of be­ing ‘qu­e­er girls’.

  ‘Lis­ten to me,’ S’n’J re­monst­ra­ted. ‘If you’re sa­ying that she left to vi­sit me a fort­night ago then I think you ought to pho­ne the po­li­ce be­ca­use she hasn’t tur­ned up. Nor was I ex­pec­ting her. Do you un­ders­tand that?’

  ‘She’s not the­re?’ the man so­un­ded surp­ri­sed. ‘Re­al­ly?’

  ‘Re­al­ly,’ S’n’J sa­id and con­si­de­red ad­ding that she wasn’t a les­bi­an eit­her, then didn’t see why she sho­uld bot­her. Men li­ke this we­re eno­ugh to turn you gay.

  ‘But you must ha­ve se­en her. She was de­ad set on vi­si­ting you.’

  ‘Well she didn’t ar­ran­ge it with me. What did she say be­fo­re she left?’

  The man so­un­ded crest­fal­len now. ‘Actu­al­ly she didn’t ar­ran­ge anyt­hing. We had a spat and she wal­ked out. Su­it­ca­se job. I as­ked her whe­re she was go­ing and she wo­uldn’t say. I as­ked if she was go­ing to vi­sit the fa­mo­us Es­se­nj­ay and she sa­id she might do. That’s all I know. I just tho­ught she’d be the­re.’

  ‘Was the­re anot­her guy?’

  ‘You kid­ding?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s you she’s ob­ses­sed with,’ he sa­id so­urly.

  ‘Did you check with her pa­rents? They li­ve in Exe­ter. It’s ne­arby. She might ha­ve go­ne the­re first.’

  ‘She hasn’t be­en the­re. Not yet. I’ve pho­ned every day. Lo­ok, I’m sorry abo­ut what I sa­id. Will you ple­ase get her to pho­ne me if she turns up?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se,’ S’n’J sa­id as a men­tal pic­tu­re of El­len blo­omed in her mind. ‘And I think you sho­uld re­port her to the po­li­ce as a mis­sing per­son.’

  In the ima­ge El­len was ma­nac­led to the wall of Black Rock’s ba­re cel­lar, her na­ked body sta­ined with blo­od, her fa­ce swol­len be­yond the po­int of re­cog­ni­ti­on. Win­ter got her, a part of her mind in­for­med her. She’s the­re now.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ S’n’J sa­id, but for so­me re­ason she didn’t be­li­eve this. She sa­id go­odb­ye and rep­la­ced the re­ce­iver.

  James was still lying on the bed when she got back, lo­oking not un­li­ke a slen­der ver­si­on of one of tho­se Chip­pen­da­j­es she li­ed abo­ut on her ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne each ti­me it to­ok a call.

  He rol­led over to fa­ce her as she ap­pro­ac­hed. ‘What hap­pe­ned?’ he as­ked. ‘Who did you pho­ne?’

  ‘You know El­len in the bo­ok?’

  ‘She’s re­al?’ He lo­oked shoc­ked.

  S’n’J nod­ded. ‘Why are you surp­ri­sed? She’s re­al but in spi­te of what the bo­ok says - and what her boyf­ri­end se­ems to think - we ne­ver had an af­fa­ir. We we­re just go­od fri­ends.’

  ‘As they say in the tab­lo­ids,’ James ad­ded, grin­ning.

  ‘It’s true,’ S’n’J sa­id, cros­sing her he­art and slas­hing her thro­at. She was be­gin­ning to get a lit­tle ti­red of exp­la­ining this and a lit­tle wor­ri­ed too. Be­ca­use each ti­me she did, she felt an odd tug­ging sen­sa­ti­on in her mind. It was as if so­me­one, so­mew­he­re (and don’t you just won­der who that so­me­one is?) was grab­bing hold of a small sec­ti­on of her bra­in bet­we­en fin­ger and thumb, twe­aking it as if it was elas­tic, then let­ting it snap back aga­in. This pe­cu­li­ar sen­sa­ti­on had hap­pe­ned three ti­mes so far: on­ce when she’d re­ad the first chap­ter of Black Rock, aga­in when El­len’s boyf­ri­end had ma­lig­ned her and just now. That ought to ha­ve be­en eno­ugh, she de­ci­ded, the cock hasn’t even cro­wed yet and you’ve al­re­ady de­ni­ed it three ti­mes. But it se­emed that each ti­me she de­ni­ed it, ins­te­ad of be­co­ming mo­re cer­ta­in it hadn’t hap­pe­ned, she be­ca­me less so. It was as if Pe­ter Per­fect so badly wan­ted it to ha­ve hap­pe­ned, he was for­cing it to ha­ve hap­pe­ned.

  ‘So why did you sud­denly ha­ve to ring her?’ James wan­ted to know.

  ‘This is get­ting cra­zi­er by the mi­nu­te,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘I rang her be­ca­use I re­mem­be­red Snow­ball.’

  ‘Snowy?’

  She sho­ok her he­ad. ‘Li­ke I sa­id, it’s get­ting cra­zi­er by the mi­nu­te. I used to call her Snowy, but her na­me was Snow­ball, not Snowd­rop. Pe­ter Per­fect has only go­ne and used the na­me of my hams­ter for the he­ro­ine of his bo­ok.’

  James pul­led a fa­ce. ‘You aren’t ma­king this easy for me to un­ders­tand. Who was cal­led Snow­ball?’

  ‘I used to ha­ve a hams­ter. I na­med her Snow­ball. I can re­mem­ber her qu­ite well. I lo
­ved her. She got so­me we­ird hams­ter in­fec­ti­on and to­ok sick and di­ed and I was stric­ken. I was at col­le­ge at the ti­me. So El­len wo­uld ha­ve re­mem­be­red her too.’

  S’n’J sat down on the bed and to­ok James’ hands. They we­re cal­lo­used but warm and they ga­ve her a fe­eling of se­cu­rity. Physi­cal se­cu­rity, at le­ast.

  James sho­ok his he­ad and squ­e­ezed her hands. ‘You pho­ned El­len just now to talk to her abo­ut Snow­ball the hams­ter?’

  S’n’J nod­ded.

  ‘But you sa­id ear­li­er that you hadn’t spo­ken to her for ye­ars.’

  ‘But I still had her num­ber,’ S’n’J sa­id, ig­no­ring the imp­li­ed qu­es­ti­on which was: Su­rely you didn’t pho­ne her af­ter all this ti­me just to talk abo­ut a ro­dent?

  ‘And what did she ha­ve to say?’

  ‘She didn’t say anyt­hing. She’s go­ne. Li­ke Snow­ball.’

  ‘You spo­ke to her boyf­ri­end?’

  ‘S’n’J nod­ded and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. ‘He ac­cu­sed me of be­ing a di­ke and ste­aling El­len. Mo­re or less sa­id she’d left him for me. A fort­night ago. She’s va­nis­hed, James! On her way to see me. What do you sup­po­se that me­ans? It me­ans I’m jin­xed, do­esn’t it? He’s put a spell on me, that Pe­ter Per­fect.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ James sa­id firmly.

  S’n’J shrug­ged. She knew what had hap­pe­ned to El­len, just as she knew what had hap­pe­ned to Snow­ball. If she got anot­her chap­ter of Black Rock to­mor­row, she wo­uld be ab­le to re­ad all abo­ut it. Both of them had be­en writ­ten out of her li­fe.

  ‘It’s all fi­xed up,’ she sa­id. ‘It’s a mul­ti-la­ye­red plot con­ce­ived and exe­cu­ted by Mr P. I first re­mem­be­red the hams­ter, you see, when I was go­ing to­wards Mr Win­ter’s un­cons­ci­o­us body. But the me­mory se­emed li­ke so­met­hing I’d ac­qu­ired. It sud­denly felt as if it was so­me­one el­se’s pro­perty. That’s why I rang El­len. For a se­cond opi­ni­on. She wo­uld ha­ve known if Snow­ball was mi­ne or not. But he’s edi­ted El­len out of my li­fe. Or rew­rit­ten our re­la­ti­ons­hip. I know he has be­ca­use the mo­re I think abo­ut it, the mo­re cer­ta­in I am that what he wro­te is the truth: that I did ha­ve a les­bi­an re­la­ti­ons­hip with El­len. And you know what this is all le­ading up to, don’t you? It do­esn’t ta­ke a ge­ni­us to work it out.’

  ‘I know what I think you’re go­ing to say,’ James sa­id. ‘But it’s ut­terly im­pos­sib­le.’

  ‘It isn’t im­pos­sib­le, and I sho­uld know be­ca­use it’s hap­pe­ning to me,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘He’s chan­ging me in­to Snowd­rop Dres­den. In­to what he wants me to be. That’s why when I re­mem­ber Snow­ball it fe­els li­ke a bor­ro­wed me­mory. It’s be­ca­use I’m re­cal­ling it with Snowy’s mind and not my own. How abo­ut that for the mind-fuck trick to end them all?’

  ‘Why wo­uld an­yo­ne ever want to?’

  ‘I get it,’ she ac­cu­sed. ‘You’re thin­king that I’m so much li­ke her al­re­ady that I wo­uldn’t ta­ke much chan­ging.’

  ‘Not at all. I was just sa­ying that you’re pretty go­od as you are. Why muck abo­ut with that?’

  ‘Be­ca­use we’d all li­ke to be ab­le to chan­ge each ot­her,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘And that’s the truth. Un­for­tu­na­tely we lack the po­wer. Con­si­der it; you’d ma­ke yo­ur boss a lit­tle mo­re kindly, if you co­uld. You’d ma­ke yo­ur part­ner se­xi­er, fun­ni­er, mo­re com­pas­si­ona­te. You’d bu­ild yo­ur ide­al pe­op­le and po­pu­la­te yo­ur uni­ver­se with them.’

  ‘I wo­uldn’t chan­ge you,’ James sa­id.

  ‘Yes you wo­uld! You’d stop me ha­ving the­se silly tho­ughts for star­ters.’

  James sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I li­ke you just as you are. Inc­lu­ding the od­dball part of you. Inc­lu­ding the way you get mad at me when I di­sag­ree. It’s all per­fect.’

  ‘It might be now, but what if we sta­yed to­get­her for ten ye­ars and you got sick of it? “Christ”, Drezy, you’d think, “I wish you wo­uldn’t fly off the hand­le li­ke that every ti­me I ar­gue. I wish I co­uld stop it hap­pe­ning.” Or you’d find the­re was so­met­hing abo­ut me, my ner­vo­us lit­tle gig­gle per­haps, that used to be en­ga­ging but just la­tely had be­gun to gra­te on yo­ur ner­ves. You’d ma­ke it stop. If you fo­und a way, you’d use it.’

  ‘You don’t ha­ve a ner­vo­us gig­gle.’

  ‘I might de­ve­lop one so­on, if things carry on li­ke this,’ she sa­id ru­eful­ly.

  ‘Ye­ah, well, they won’t. You’ll fe­el bet­ter to­mor­row. I gu­aran­tee it. You don’t ha­ve to worry abo­ut the gig­gle. When you lo­ok at it in the cold light of day you’ll find the­re’s a ra­ti­onal exp­la­na­ti­on for everyt­hing. Li­ke, El­len’s just run off with anot­her man and that the ef­fect of the ex­ha­ust fu­mes tem­po­ra­rily cor­rup­ted yo­ur me­mory of Snow­ball the hams­ter. Me­anw­hi­le, you mustn’t gi­ve the story or its aut­hor a po­wer they don’t pos­sess.’

  ‘And co­ming ho­me and fin­ding an en­ve­lo­pe wa­iting for me on the te­lep­ho­ne tab­le?’

  ‘So­me­one bro­ke in.’

  ‘Wit­ho­ut ca­using any da­ma­ge or le­aving any tra­ce?’

  ‘It can be do­ne. You’ve got a che­ap and che­er­ful lock on the do­or. Only ne­eds so­me­one to sli­de a strip of plas­tic bet­we­en the do­or and the fra­me and push back the lock catch. Fi­ve se­conds and they’d be in­si­de. So I ad­vi­se you to do­ub­le lock it in fu­tu­re and ke­ep the bolt on whi­le you’re in­do­ors.’

  ‘In ca­se he co­mes back?’

  ‘Let’s fa­ce it, Drezy, we don’t know who he is or what his pur­po­se is. Not re­al­ly. He may just be one of Mar­tin’s aut­hors wan­ting Mar­tin to pay ca­re­ful at­ten­ti­on to the bo­ok he’s wri­ting. But in ca­se it’s so­met­hing el­se, we ought to ta­ke pre­ca­uti­ons.’

  ‘So­met­hing el­se?’

  James bit his bot­tom lip and tho­ught be­fo­re he spo­ke. ‘The guy co­uld be a lu­na­tic,’ he sa­id, then has­tily ad­ded, ‘But if so, I’d ha­ve ex­pec­ted him to ha­ve ma­de his mo­ve long be­fo­re now.’

  ‘I know what he is,’ S’n’J sa­id.

  ‘Lo­ok,’ James co­un­sel­led. ‘The­re’s one go­od way of es­tab­lis­hing exactly how much of this you’re ima­gi­ning and how much is re­al. We both get dres­sed, we get in my car and dri­ve down to Tin­ta­gel. We co­uld be the­re in half an ho­ur or so. We co­uld see if Black Rock re­al­ly do­es exist and if it lo­oks how we think it lo­oks. And then we co­uld ham­mer on the do­or and see who co­mes out to play. And if it turns out to be a man fit­ting the desc­rip­ti­on of the bo­ok’s Mr Win­ter, we ask qu­es­ti­ons.’

  ‘And what if he’s the psycho you think he might be?’

  ‘I can lo­ok af­ter myself,’ James sa­id, and S’n’J got the fe­eling that this in it­self was yet anot­her int­ru­si­on in­to her li­fe by the mystery aut­hor. It was exactly the stan­dard ba­na­lity you wo­uld ex­pect from a he­ro in a shoddy hor­ror story at a ti­me li­ke this.

  I can lo­ok af­ter myself.

  Cut to shabby car con­ta­ining frigh­te­ned girl and dumb he­ro dri­ving on to Black Rock’s fo­re­co­urt, she tho­ught. It is night-ti­me. They park and go to the do­or. The girl co­wers be­hind the boy as he knocks on the do­or - which se­ems to be ar­mo­ur-pla­ted. Be­hind them, in the bus­hes that form the bo­un­dary of the pro­perty, the­re is rust­ling. So­mew­he­re off in the dis­tan­ce an owl ho­ots and the girl al­most scre­ams. She turns and do­es scre­am. Mr Win­ter is the­re, bet­we­en them and the car, and he is bran­dis­hing the big­gest kni­fe the girl has ever se­en. The clo­uds part and mo­on­be­ams catch the kni­fe’s cut­ting ed­ge. Cue a one-si­ded fight in whi
ch the dumb guy we tho­ught was the he­ro is kil­led and the girl, inj­ured and ble­eding, ma­na­ges to scramb­le away. She sho­ok her he­ad. ‘No one can lo­ok af­ter them­sel­ves,’ she sa­id. ‘Not the­se days. Not aga­inst cra­zi­es with guns and kni­ves. In a stand-up fist-fight you might co­me off bet­ter. But not in the dark aga­inst a psycho on his ho­me gro­und. It’s a ri­di­cu­lo­us sug­ges­ti­on.’

  ‘Be­ca­use you’re ex­pec­ting the worst, that’s all. And the worst won’t hap­pen. Mr Win­ter, or Pe­ter Per­fect or who­ever he is, won’t turn out to be a ra­ving kil­ler. He’ll be a mid­dle-aged man who spends half his li­fe sit­ting in front of a com­pu­ter tap­ping out words and the ot­her half be­ing an of­fi­ce ma­na­ger or a ban­ker or so­met­hing. He hasn’t even be­en pub­lis­hed.’

  ‘Or so it says in the story,’ S’n’J ad­ded. ‘You’re do­ing it too - con­fu­sing what you’ve re­ad with re­al li­fe. And you ha­ven’t even be­en bre­at­hing po­ison gas. The guy might ha­ve be­en pub­lis­hed. He might be a very suc­ces­sful wri­ter.’

  ‘You’re in the tra­de, ha­ve you he­ard of him?’

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘But that do­esn’t me­an anyt­hing. All I can say is that he do­esn’t wri­te for Ace.’

  ‘Do you re­cog­ni­ze his style?’

  She sho­ok her he­ad.

  ‘Which me­ans this guy’s a wan­na­be. If he was any go­od, you’d ha­ve he­ard of him.’

  ‘I’d say he’s a gon­na­be,’ she cor­rec­ted. ‘Black Rock is one of the best ma­nusc­ripts I’ve re­ad in a long ti­me. Mar­tin wants to pub­lish it.’

  ‘But it do­esn’t fol­low that he’s a crazy, so let’s pay him a vi­sit.’

  She sho­ok her he­ad aga­in. This lady’s not for re­tur­ning,’ she sa­id.

  ‘What’s the worst thing that can hap­pen?’ he as­ked.

  ‘We both get kil­led,’ she told him. ‘I’m not go­ing back the­re. Not now and not ever and you’re to put any tho­ught of go­ing the­re alo­ne out of yo­ur he­ad.’