Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  ‘OK, OK,’ he sa­id.

  ‘If you go the­re, you’re not go­ing to co­me back aga­in,’ she sa­id. ‘So don’t. I know what you’re thin­king. You’re thin­king that it wo­uldn’t do any harm to sa­il down the­re af­ter you le­ave he­re. I know that and I know why you’re thin­king it. You’re thin­king it be­ca­use that’s what you’d do if you we­re a cha­rac­ter in Black Rock. And sin­ce you aren’t a bo­ok cha­rac­ter, don’t act li­ke one. I don’t want a de­ad he­ro.’

  ‘I won’t go the­re. I pro­mi­se. I’m not a bo­ok cha­rac­ter, I’m re­al. Now, I think you ought to get so­me sle­ep,’ he sug­ges­ted. ‘I’ll ma­ke you so­me tea first, then I’ll tuck you in un­til you’re snug and cosy. I’ll sit with you un­til you drop off to sle­ep.’

  ‘You can stay the night,’ she sa­id. ‘If you want.’

  ‘I don’t want to cramp yo­ur style,’ he sa­id. ‘Not yet any­way. And the­re’s stuff I ha­ve to do at ho­me and I ha­ve to get up for work in the mor­ning.’

  ‘But what abo­ut the do­or?’ she as­ked, wrig­gling be­ne­ath the tang­led she­ets. ‘You sa­id it ought to be bol­ted. You can’t bolt it if you go ho­me.’

  ‘Gi­ve me yo­ur key,’ he sa­id. ‘And on my way out I’ll do­ub­le lock the do­or, so no one can get in, then I’ll post it back thro­ugh the let­ter box.’

  ‘You can ta­ke the spa­re,’ she sa­id. ‘It’s on the ho­ok in the kitc­hen. And you can ke­ep it too.’

  James got off the bed and be­gan stra­igh­te­ning out the she­ets for her. ‘No, I’ll only lo­se it if I ke­ep it.’

  S’n’J was de­ep in a dre­am­less sle­ep when he ca­me back in­to the ro­om. She felt his gent­le to­uch on her fa­ce and it se­emed li­ke it was hap­pe­ning to so­me­one el­se abo­ut a mil­li­on mi­les away from he­re. ‘Hmmm?’ she he­ard her­self mur­mur. She felt sa­fe and se­cu­re in her bed.

  ‘Wa­key, wa­key. Tea and to­ast,’ he sa­id.

  ‘OK Phi­lip,’ she sig­hed.

  And in­si­de a se­cond she was awa­ke and bolt up­right, her he­art be­ating out a tat­too on her rib ca­ge, and all her musc­les ten­sed as if to fight.

  ‘Wha­te­ver’s wrong?’ James sa­id.

  Then jum­ped back when she scre­amed.

  Se­ve­ral se­conds pas­sed be­fo­re S’n’J re­ali­zed she had ne­it­her wo­ken up in Phi­lip Win­ter’s work-ro­om, nor just run out of Black Rock and in­to his arms. The con­fu­si­on she nor­mal­ly felt du­ring the tran­si­ti­on from sle­ep to wa­ke­ful­ness had tur­ned in­to so­met­hing akin to a night­ma­re. She’d he­ard her vo­ice use the na­me Phi­lip and it had be­en com­po­un­ded by James’ use of Phi­lip Win­ter’s own words, ‘Wha­te­ver’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she pan­ted, when she fi­nal­ly knew whe­re she was. ‘You ma­de me jump. I don’t nor­mal­ly wa­ke up scre­aming.’

  ‘I’m glad to he­ar that.’

  ‘I didn’t know whe­re I was for a few se­conds. I tho­ught I was…’

  ‘I know whe­re you tho­ught you we­re,’ he sa­id, ta­king her hand and squ­e­ezing it gently. ‘It’s only to be ex­pec­ted and it do­esn’t mat­ter. Co­me he­re and let me cud­dle you.’

  When she’d cal­med, she let him te­ar up pi­eces of to­ast and fe­ed them to her and hold her tea mug to her lips whi­le she sip­ped. The last ti­me an­yo­ne had do­ne that for her, she’d be­en a po­orly lit­tle girl and the per­son fe­eding her had be­en her mot­her. S’n’J be­gan to fe­el very small and very se­cu­re. And for the se­cond ti­me that eve­ning she told her­self she was fal­ling in lo­ve.

  ‘Thank you,’ she sa­id.

  ‘All part of the ser­vi­ce, ma­dam,’ he rep­li­ed. ‘Now I’ll sit with you un­til you drop off aga­in. Then I’ll go. I pre­su­me a bed­ti­me story is not re­qu­ired?’

  She ma­de a fa­ce at him.

  James ha­uled her up to him and held her tight.

  It was all too go­od to be true.

  ‘You’re not in on this, are you?’ she mur­mu­red in­to his chest. Tell me that.’

  ‘The­re isn’t anyt­hing to be in to, and if the­re was, and I was in it, I’d be out aga­in af­ter to­night. I wo­uldn’t see an­yo­ne do anyt­hing nasty to you. They’d ha­ve to kill me first.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she sa­id. ‘Just don’t say that.’

  And James didn’t.

  After a whi­le, S’n’J’s eyes grew he­avy and she al­lo­wed them to clo­se. A whi­le af­ter that she be­ca­me dimly awa­re that he was gently put­ting her back down on the bed. She felt his gent­le hands adj­us­ting the co­vers, then she felt his ten­der lips ca­ress her no­se and he­ard him whis­per go­odb­ye in a vo­ice so soft it was ba­rely audib­le. And as she sa­iled in­to the dark­ness, she he­ard the front do­or cre­ak open, cre­ak clo­sed, a rat­tle of the key go­ing in­to the lock and tur­ning and the tiny me­tal­lic so­und as it was de­po­si­ted thro­ugh the let­ter box.

  Go­od­b­ye, James, she tho­ught.

  16 - Billy-Joe’s Demise

  Whi­le S’n’J and James we­re sit­ting in a bed­ro­om in Bu­de dis­cus­sing Black Rock, Janie San­der­son was sit­ting in a pub cal­led the Tin­der­box in Brack­nell fe­eling rat­her li­ke a pi­ece of tin­der her­self - as if the me­rest spark wo­uld turn her in­to a hu­man torch.

  Janie knew she wo­uldn’t just be ab­le to waltz in, say, ‘Hi­ya Bil­ly-Joe, just put­ting a few things in an over­night bag be­ca­use I’m go­ing away for a whi­le,’ col­lect her stuff and walk out aga­in, be­ca­use if she sa­id so­met­hing li­ke that she wo­uld find her­self unab­le to walk out aga­in.

  So when the tra­in ar­ri­ved at Brack­nell sta­ti­on, she had go­ne in­to the pub to wa­it for that ma­gic ti­me of the eve­ning when Bil­ly-Joe went in­to the lo­un­ge, tur­ned on the te­le­vi­si­on, col­lap­sed in­to his armc­ha­ir and fell in­to a drun­ken sle­ep. This wo­uld last from aro­und eight to abo­ut ten, when he wo­uld wa­ke up eit­her glo­omy and des­pon­dent or hyped-up and lo­oking for tro­ub­le. As so­on as his sle­eping ti­me ar­ri­ved, she wo­uld sne­ak in, pick up a few things, get her car keys, and sne­ak out aga­in.

  Except that you won’t ha­ve to sne­ak at all, she told her­self, bit­terly. You co­uld go in blo­wing a trum­pet at the he­ad of a marc­hing band and Bil­ly-]oe wo­uldn’t stir.

  Janie didn’t yet know whe­re she in­ten­ded to es­ca­pe to. She’d tho­ught of pho­ning her pa­rents and hadn’t do­ne it. For one re­ason, they we­re in Corby, which was a hell of dri­ve, and for anot­her, she didn’t want to ha­ve to tell them her mar­ri­age had fa­iled in a big way.

  She’d tho­ught of go­ing down to Bu­de to stay with Drezy, but it was anot­her very long dri­ve and alt­ho­ugh she tho­ught she’d be wel­co­me and had sta­yed the­re be­fo­re, she sus­pec­ted that Mar­tin wo­uld be get­ting in his Fer­ra­ri and go­ing down the­re to­night and she’d had qu­ite eno­ugh of him for one day.

  It’s that ma­gi­cal ti­me, she told her­self, lo­oking at her watch and trying to pre­tend that the tho­ught of go­ing ho­me didn’t fill her with dre­ad.

  Twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter she was still trying to pre­tend the very sa­me thing as she sat on the bus dra­wing ne­arer to her ho­me every se­cond. Re­si­li­en­ce, that’s what you ha­ve that go­od old Bil­ly-]oe do­esn’t, she as­su­red her­self. For­ti­tu­de, to­ugh­ness, te­na­city, co­ura­ge … Christ I’m tur­ning in­to a wal­king Ro­get’s The­sa­urus and that’s what ye­ars of be­ing an edi­tor do­es to you.

  It wasn’t un­til the bus drew ne­ar her stop that Janie re­ali­zed her wordy li­tany had be­en a simp­le de­vi­ce to ke­ep her mind free of tho­ughts of what might hap­pen when she got ho­me.

  But she had bac­k­bo­ne, met­tle and mo­ral fib­re and a cer­ta
­in amo­unt of al­co­hol in her blo­odst­re­am and she wan­ted so­met­hing si­mi­lar to what the Po­pe sa­id he wan­ted when he vi­si­ted Nort­hern Ire­land: Nohw mo­o­ore blo­owd-shad. And she was go­ing to ha­ve no mo­re blo­od-shed, whet­her Bil­ly-Joe li­ked it or not. And if blo­od had to be spil­led to ac­hi­eve this se­emingly im­pos­sib­le sta­te, it wo­uldn’t be just her blo­od. This wo­man was go­ing to fight back.

  Out­si­de her front do­or, Janie pa­used and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath which ma­de her he­ad spin. Her VW Golf sto­od on the dri­ve and if Janie’s car keys had be­en in her hand­bag she might ha­ve just got in it and go­ne, wit­ho­ut even col­lec­ting any of the ot­her things she wan­ted. But whi­le she was at work, Bil­ly-Joe had the keys to the car.

  Janie only ho­ped that the keys we­ren’t in his tro­user poc­ket.

  Her he­art ra­cing, she fo­und her keys and slot­ted the Ya­le in­to the do­or, trying to ke­ep it as qu­i­et as pos­sib­le. She pus­hed open the do­or and went in­si­de. The te­le­vi­si­on was on in the lo­un­ge.

  Now all you ha­ve to do is open the lo­un­ge do­or and see what to­night’s pri­ze is. Will it be the star pri­ze, a sle­eping Bil­ly-Joe, or will it be the bo­oby pri­ze, a Bil­ly-Joe who’s awa­ke?

  But as her hand ho­ve­red over the do­or hand­le, Janie had a bet­ter idea. Ins­te­ad of ope­ning the do­or and fin­ding out the worst, she wo­uld first vi­sit the kitc­hen. If the news was go­ing to be bad when she went in­to the lo­un­ge, she in­ten­ded to be pre­pa­red for it. So­mew­he­re in the kitc­hen was that most clic­hed of wi­fey we­apons, the de­adly rol­ling-pin. As en­dor­sed by Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den.

  The wo­oden rol­ling-pin felt very light in her hand and a lot less li­ke a we­apon than she’d an­ti­ci­pa­ted. It fe­els just li­ke a rol­ling-pin, ac­tu­al­ly, she told her­self, hol­ding it up by the hand­le, wa­ving it from si­de to si­de. You co­uld pro­bably hit so­me­one qu­ite hard with one of the­se and it wo­uldn’t do as much da­ma­ge as, say, a hatc­het hand­le. And the lo­ose­ness of the rol­ler wo­uld pro­bably ab­sorb so­me of the im­pact.

  But not too much, I ho­pe, she tho­ught, re­ali­zing for the first ti­me that she re­al­ly did in­tend to use it if ne­ces­sary.

  You won’t ha­ve to any­way, she as­su­red her­self. He’s de­ad to the world in the­re, or he wo­uld ha­ve al­re­ady be­en out he­re wan­ting to know whe­re you’d be­en un­til this ti­me of night. All you ha­ve to do is pack yo­ur bags and do as the shep­herds say: get the flock out of he­re.

  It was go­ing to be easy.

  Except that when she re­ac­hed for the key-ho­ok whe­re her VW keys dang­led on a black le­at­her VW fob, her fin­gers ca­me away be­aring not­hing but the imp­rint of an empty ho­ok.

  ‘Whe­re are they then?’ she mut­te­red darkly, kno­wing exactly whe­re they wo­uld be.

  In his blo­ody tro­user poc­ket, of co­ur­se!

  Things had be­en go­ing so well un­til now that she’d ex­pec­ted to ma­ke her es­ca­pe wit­ho­ut dis­tur­bing Bil­ly-Joe. The pros­pect of ha­ving to use the rol­ling-pin on him had se­emed de­light­ful whi­le the­re was al­most no chan­ce of it tur­ning in­to re­ality. It didn’t so­und li­ke qu­ite so much fun now that it had.

  You co­uld bop him with it whi­le he’s still as­le­ep, she tho­ught grimly, then de­ci­ded that it might only wa­ke him up.

  She had no idea how hard you had to stri­ke so­me­one in or­der to ren­der them un­cons­ci­o­us.

  Pretty hard, she ima­gi­ned, but she was equ­al­ly un­cer­ta­in abo­ut what might cons­ti­tu­te the dif­fe­ren­ce in for­ce bet­we­en a knoc­ko­ut blow and a kil­ling blow. And she didn’t par­ti­cu­larly want to mur­der him.

  Worry abo­ut it when it hap­pens, she tho­ught. Just get on and pack yo­ur bags. Pack yo­ur bags, ta­ke ‘em out­si­de and if Bil­ly-Joe wa­kes up when you go for the keys, just tell him you wan­ted to go to the chip-shop be­ca­use you co­uldn’t be bot­he­red to co­ok to­night. He’ll be­li­eve that and gi­ve you the keys, you go out­si­de, un­lock the car, put the bags in and dri­ve off. Bob’s yo­ur unc­le and Fanny’s yo­ur aunt. No prob­lem, as they say in Euro­pe.

  It only to­ok ten mi­nu­tes to gat­her to­get­her eno­ugh clot­hes to sur­vi­ve a nuc­le­ar win­ter, her lap-top com­pu­ter, her bub­ble-jet prin­ter, her ma­ke-up, her wash kit and the ma­nusc­ripts she’d be­en wor­king on at ho­me. Ten mi­nu­tes af­ter that, it was all pac­ked in­to two su­it­ca­ses and two bags and fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter it was all out­si­de on the dri­ve be­si­de her car.

  And Bil­ly-Joe hadn’t stir­red.

  Janie punc­hed the air in tri­umph as she ca­me back in­si­de the ho­use and qu­i­etly clo­sed the front do­or be­hind her. All she had to do now was to ta­ke the car keys from her hus­band’s tro­user poc­ket.

  He’ll wa­ke up, she told her­self. You know he will.

  But things had be­en go­ing so well that to ad­mit the pos­si­bi­lity of this hap­pe­ning se­emed a lit­tle pa­ra­no­id.

  The­re was one mo­re thing to do be­fo­re she went in the lo­un­ge to get the keys. She had to wri­te him a no­te. He didn’t de­ser­ve it, but she was go­ing to wri­te it so that when he wo­ke up he’d know she wan­ted him out of the ho­use. Ot­her­wi­se Bil­ly-Joe wo­uld just stay the­re and ve­ge­ta­te, not kno­wing whe­re she’d go­ne and not ca­ring.

  De­ar Billy, she wro­te on her no­te­pad and then got wri­ter’s block. Cur­sing, she ga­ve up trying to think in a li­te­rary fas­hi­on and qu­ickly jot­ted down the words of a wron­ged wi­fe, en­ding with, I in­tend to ma­ke a comp­la­int to the po­li­ce and to ha­ve my inj­uri­es pho­tog­rap­hed. It’s my mort­ga­ge, and I want you out of the ho­use by the end of the we­ekend. You re no lon­ger wel­co­me he­re. You no lon­ger ha­ve a wi­fe or a pla­ce to li­ve. So get out!

  This ma­de her fe­el a gre­at de­al bet­ter abo­ut her­self. As if she was re­as­ser­ting her own per­so­na­lity af­ter ye­ars of pre­ten­ding to be the wo­man her hus­band ex­pec­ted her to be. She sig­ned the no­te: Yo­ur lo­ving ex-wi­fey, Janie. XX. And grin­ned fi­er­cely to her­self as she fol­ded it. She wo­uld le­ave the no­te on the arm of the cha­ir in which Bil­ly-Joe was fast as­le­ep.

  Now all we ha­ve to do, my fi­ne Janie, is get the car keys and get out­ta he­re! she told her­self as she went back up the hall. All her tro­ub­les we­re go­ing to be sol­ved in one fell swo­op.

  Clutc­hing the rol­ling-pin to her she ope­ned the lo­un­ge do­or. And fro­ze in her tracks. An­yo­ne watc­hing wo­uld ha­ve se­en that she was swa­ying slightly, li­ke a wo­man who has sud­denly fo­und her­self stan­ding on a very nar­row led­ge a gre­at dis­tan­ce abo­ve the gro­und.

  And so­me­one was watc­hing.

  Be­ca­use Billy wasn’t in his cha­ir, sle­eping pe­ace­ful­ly.

  He was sat smack in the mid­dle of the so­fa, fa­cing the do­or.

  ‘Hi­ya ba­be,’ he sa­id, grin­ning. ‘You lo­oking for the­se?’

  The cold smack of shock that stung Janie had en­te­red her body thro­ugh her po­res and was now slip­ping si­lently thro­ugh her ner­vo­us system, shut­ting it down. She was unab­le to mo­ve.

  She watc­hed Bil­ly-Joe’s left hand as it mo­ved from si­de to si­de, swin­ging her car keys by the le­at­her fob. He was we­aring a tee-shirt and for the first ti­me in months, Janie be­ca­me awa­re of the ac­tu­al si­ze and de­fi­ni­ti­on of the musc­les in his fo­re­arms and bi­ceps. Half-hypno­ti­zed, she watc­hed tho­se musc­les sli­de and bul­ge.

  ‘Hey ba­be, what’s that you’re car­rying?’ he as­ked brightly. The­re was no tra­ce in his vo­ice of the slur she knew and lo­at­hed so well. Bil­ly-Joe had cho­sen to­day - of all days - to stay so­ber.
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  ‘What?’ she he­ard her­self say in a tiny, shoc­ked vo­ice.

  Inwardly she was thin­king: Turn aro­und and run for it. You’re go­ing to pro­ve not­hing by sta­ying any lon­ger. You can get so­me­one el­se to pick up yo­ur stuff, so just get out of he­re. You’ve fa­iled.

  But the­re was anot­her part of her - the te­na­ci­o­us part -which had ot­her ide­as.

  The­re are the keys, it told her. All you ha­ve to do is whip them out of his hand and run.

  ‘In yo­ur hand,’ Bil­ly-Joe sa­id. ‘What’s that you’ve got in yo­ur hand? Not the rol­ling-pin, I know what that is. It’s the lit­tle whi­te pi­ece of pa­per in yo­ur right hand that I’m in­te­res­ted in. What is it, ba­be? Not a go­odb­ye no­te, su­rely? You ain’t in­ten­ding to le­ave yo­ur old pot and pan, are you? Let me see it, lo­ver.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Janie he­ard her­self warn.

  ‘Don’t what?’ Bil­ly-Joe as­ked, still swin­ging the keys. ‘I as­ked my wi­fe a ci­vil qu­es­ti­on, to which I wo­uld ex­pect a ci­vil reply. I don’t re­call sa­ying I was go­ing to do an­y­t­hing. Show me yo­ur pi­ece of pa­per, ba­be.’

  Janie sho­ok her he­ad. She co­uld al­most fe­el the ice crac­king as her musc­les and ten­dons mo­ved.

  ‘Don’t ma­ke me co­me and get it, ba­be,’ Bil­ly-Joe sa­id. ‘That’ll only ma­ke things wor­se. Do you un­ders­tand what I’m sa­ying?’ He frow­ned at her for a few se­conds, in a pa­rody of thin­king. Then he ad­ded, ‘I’m not su­re you’re cur­rently ab­le to spe­ak, for so­me unk­nown re­ason, so just nod or sha­ke yo­ur he­ad in reply. That su­it you?’

  Janie nod­ded. She didn’t want to, but she did it any­way.

  ‘Is that lit­tle whi­te pi­ece of pa­per in yo­ur right hand a go­odb­ye no­te?’

  Janie sho­ok her he­ad.

  ‘OK, ba­be, if it ain’t a go­odb­ye no­te, then why ha­ve you just spent the bet­ter part of half an ho­ur pac­king yo­ur stuff and car­ting it out­si­de? You know what I think? I think you we­re go­ing to run out on me to­night. I’ve be­en ex­pec­ting it sin­ce last night when you la­ug­hed at me. You did la­ugh at yo­ur old man last night, didn’t you? Ye­ah, you did! No po­int in sha­king yo­ur he­ad li­ke that, ‘ca­use I ha­ve to­tal re­call. I wan­ted to ma­ke lo­ve and you ga­ve me that old lo­ok of dis­da­in and la­ug­hed at me. “Billy,” you sa­id, “You can’t fuck me ‘ca­use you can’t ma­ke yo­ur Pe­ter perk up.” Ain’t that what you sa­id?’