Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  The Caddy’s dri­ver’s do­or wo­uldn’t open.

  And ne­it­her wo­uld the pas­sen­ger do­or.

  James didn’t think the­re was any po­int in clim­bing over the se­ats and trying the back do­ors.

  But the­re was anot­her way. All he had to do was bre­ak the windsc­re­en and climb out thro­ugh it.

  It won’t bre­ak, he told him­self. You’ve be­en suc­ked in­to the bo­ok just li­ke S’n’J was. You’ve be­en suc­ked in and the story has star­ted to wri­te it­self aro­und you just li­ke it did to her. When S’n’J gets her fresh chap­ter to­mor­row she’ll be ab­le to re­ad all abo­ut what’s hap­pe­ning to you now. She’ll pro­bably re­ad how you ac­ted li­ke a dumb no­vel cha­rac­ter and got yo­ur­self kil­led li­ke one, too.

  In spi­te of kno­wing it wo­uldn’t work, James to­ok the crow­bar in both hands, twis­ted him­self away from the windsc­re­en, grit­ted his te­eth and sum­mo­ned up all the strength he had left.

  As he was abo­ut to ma­ke the swing, the car stop­ped. James, still ten­sed and re­ady to stri­ke, lo­oked aro­und him. The ho­use was now abo­ut a hund­red yards ahe­ad of him. The­re was a light bur­ning in one of the ups­ta­irs win­dows - the win­dow whe­re Pe­ter Per­fect wo­ve his ta­les and rew­ro­te re­ality.

  Half-way bet­we­en the ho­use and the Caddy, so­met­hing was hap­pe­ning in the air. It lo­oked as if a clo­ud was spon­ta­ne­o­usly for­ming the­re.

  What now? James won­de­red.

  The Ca­dil­lac’s en­gi­ne di­ed and the lights went out. James saw the ig­ni­ti­on key turn and the light switch mo­ve as tho­ugh he was sha­ring the car with an in­vi­sib­le dri­ver. He glan­ced at the do­or be­si­de him just in ti­me to see the hand­le mo­ve as if that in­vi­sib­le dri­ver was in­ten­ding to get out of the car. A mo­ment la­ter the do­or swung open.

  If you think I’m get­ting out now, you’re crazy I James tho­ught. He re­ac­hed for the keys, me­aning to start the car aga­in but the mo­ment be­fo­re his hand ma­de con­tact, they we­re snatc­hed from the ig­ni­ti­on. For a se­cond they dan­ced in the air in front of his fa­ce, jing­ling. James grab­bed at them, mis­sed and fol­lo­wed them with his eyes as they mo­ved to­wards the open do­or and then va­nis­hed - as if in­to an in­vi­sib­le poc­ket.

  ‘Shit!’ he he­ard him­self pro­test. At the far ed­ge of his dis­tant mind he re­ali­zed that all the clic­hed re­ac­ti­ons to fe­ar he co­uld think of we­re now ta­king pla­ce wit­hin his body: his he­art was ham­me­ring fit to burst, his limbs we­re sha­king with ad­re­na­li­ne, his blad­der and bo­wels we­re thre­ate­ning to pur­ge them­sel­ves and his ha­ir was trying hard to stand on end - and pro­bably tur­ning whi­te as it did so.

  If he’d so­me­how wal­ked in­to a story, he tho­ught, he sho­uld so­on re­ach one of tho­se po­ints whe­re all his ne­ga­ti­ve emo­ti­ons wo­uld sud­denly be­co­me po­si­ti­ve ones. He sho­uld so­on start to fe­el in­vin­cib­le and char­ged.

  James wa­ited for it to hap­pen.

  Unfor­tu­na­tely, in this par­ti­cu­lar story it se­emed the aut­hor was gi­ving the go­od guys no qu­ar­ter, no hel­ping hand and no spe­ci­al po­wers. It was just go­ing to be the he­ro aga­inst the ho­use and Pe­ter Per­fect.

  In ot­her words it’s fi­xed, he tho­ught. The out­co­me is known from the start.

  The­se we­re not the words he wan­ted to be rin­ging in his he­ad when he clim­bed out of the car and went to me­et his do­om, but they we­re the only ones that wo­uld co­me to him. His mind had blan­ked as far as words of ho­pe went.

  James pic­ked up the torch, clim­bed out of the car, fo­und the ed­ge of the track and ca­re­ful­ly ma­de his way along it to the front of the Ca­dil­lac whe­re he stop­ped and lo­oked up at the ra­pidly co­ales­cing clo­ud.

  The­re was no re­ason for a clo­ud to be the­re at all - no na­tu­ral re­ason - which ob­vi­o­usly me­ant that Mar­tin or Pe­ter Per­fect or who­ever had pla­ced it the­re. It was too low to be a nor­mal clo­ud, it was the wrong co­lo­ur and it se­emed to be fol­ding in on it­self, get­ting lar­ger by dra­wing wisps from its un­der­si­de and pi­ling them on the top.

  James be­gan to walk to­wards it, re­cog­ni­zing the sha­pe it was ta­king on. This, when it was fi­nis­hed, was go­ing to be a thun­derc­lo­ud. And he was go­ing to ha­ve to pass un­der it be­fo­re he co­uld ap­pro­ach the ho­use and wha­te­ver lay in wa­it for him.

  He didn’t ne­ed to won­der what was go­ing to hap­pen to him when he got be­ne­ath that clo­ud. He was go­ing to be struck by light­ning.

  James to­ok a few mo­re pa­ces to­wards the clo­ud - which se­emed to be tur­ning brown rat­her than the black he wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted for a thun­der­he­ad - and then put the crow­bar down. Wal­king un­der­ne­ath it with what amo­un­ted to a light­ning con­duc­tor in his hand didn’t se­em li­ke a ter­ribly go­od idea. The­re was no po­int in ma­king things any easi­er for the ho­use and its oc­cu­pant.

  James con­si­de­red trying to ret­re­at but dis­mis­sed the idea. He wo­uldn’t be al­lo­wed to go back, that much was cer­ta­in.

  Be­si­des, if he was go­ing to be kil­led - and he tho­ught the­re was a very go­od chan­ce of it - he wan­ted to be kil­led go­ing to­wards the prob­lem, not run­ning away from it. If he was go­ing to die, he was go­ing to die figh­ting, not run­ning.

  The­re you go, he scor­ned him­self. You tho­ught the to­ugh words at last. He’s pro­bably only just got aro­und to wri­ting them for you!

  ‘If I get my hands on you, Mar­tin, or Pe­ter Per­fect or who­ever you are, I’m go­ing to ma­ke you reg­ret what you’ve do­ne,’ he sa­id alo­ud and be­gan to walk to­wards Black Rock.

  The clo­ud flas­hed, not with se­aring light­ning light, but with an angry red co­lo­ur that lo­oked li­ke mol­ten me­tal.

  James stop­ped and sta­red up at it. What the fuck is that? he as­ked him­self.

  Wha­te­ver it was, it didn’t lo­ok very in­vi­ting.

  It didn’t lo­ok ter­ribly lar­ge eit­her, which ga­ve him a lit­tle mo­re ho­pe than he’d an­ti­ci­pa­ted. It wasn’t go­ing to ta­ke very long to pass be­ne­ath it if he ran.

  That’s what it wants you to think, he told him­self. That’s exactly what S’n’J me­ant abo­ut not ac­ting li­ke a bo­ok he­ro. You can’t run fas­ter than light­ning, can you?

  But he might not ha­ve to run that fast. He tho­ught the­re was a pretty go­od chan­ce that who­ever was cont­rol­ling this clo­ud wo­uld ha­ve to tar­get him first, and as ever­yo­ne knew, a ra­pidly mo­ving tar­get was a lot har­der to hit than a sta­tic one.

  I’ve got rub­ber so­led sho­es on any­way! he tho­ught, grin­ning bit­terly.

  James to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, glan­ced aro­und him and then went for bro­ke.

  The clo­ud didn’t burst un­til James was exactly half-way un­der it.

  And when the storm be­gan James re­ali­zed what the ghost dog had be­en do­ing when it had jum­ped thro­ugh him. It hadn’t be­en trying to kill him, it had be­en trying to warn him.

  Be­ca­use what hap­pe­ned in the sky abo­ve’ James was not the thun­ders­torm he had an­ti­ci­pa­ted.

  It was so­met­hing much wor­se.

  21 - Hijacking Harold

  Scre­aming, Mar­tin got out of Ha­rold’s car aga­in, ‘keys!’ he sho­uted, ‘gi­ve me the keys!’

  Ha­rold was on his fe­et by now. ‘Ple­ase!’ he sa­id in a tiny, ter­ri­fi­ed vo­ice. ‘Le­ave me alo­ne. The car won’t go any­way. We both ha­ve to walk back to the mo­tel from he­re. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Just gi­ve me the keys!’ Mar­tin sho­uted.

  Ha­rold to­ok the keys from his poc­ket and held them out at arm’s length, sha­king his he­ad. ‘It won’t work,�
�� he sa­id as Mar­tin snatc­hed them away from him. ‘The­re’s so­met­hing go­ing on.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know the­re’s so­met­hing go­ing on?’ Mar­tin yel­led, not yet won­de­ring how Ha­rold had re­ac­hed this odd conc­lu­si­on.

  He threw him­self back in­to the Va­ux­hall, put the keys in, twis­ted them and when not­hing hap­pe­ned, sud­denly re­mem­be­red what Ha­rold had just sa­id: We both ha­ve to walk back to the mo­tel from he­re.

  He flew out of the car, grab­bed hold of Ha­rold and de­man­ded that he tell him everyt­hing he knew abo­ut this.

  ‘Words,’ Ha­rold sa­id. ‘A string of words just lit up in my mind. They sa­id, “The car won’t start and now you’re both go­ing to ha­ve to walk back to the mo­tel.” That’s it. I don’t know any mo­re. It was li­ke be­ing spo­ken to by God. I think I ought to go back to the mo­tel and just stay the­re. That’s what it wants, I think. I’m frigh­te­ned now. I don’t re­al­ly want you to co­me. That thing might co­me back with you. I don’t want it in­do­ors.’

  ‘Thing?’ Mar­tin as­ked. ‘What thing?’

  The vo­ice. It isn’t God tho­ugh, is it?’ Ha­rold ad­ded in a vo­ice that was ver­ging on the hyste­ri­cal. ‘I think you know what it is, and it isn’t God. It’s a ghost, isn’t it? You’re be­ing ha­un­ted by a ghost.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed and was surp­ri­sed by the amo­unt of dis­da­in he’d ma­na­ged to work in­to his reply. The­re are no such things as ghosts.’

  ‘How do you exp­la­in all this then?’ Ha­rold as­ked pe­tu­lantly, wa­ving at the two de­ad cars.

  ‘Bad luck, that’s all,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘Not­hing’s ha­un­ting me. Or you. You’re just stres­sed. I’m sorry I got so up­set with you. It lo­oks li­ke I’m stuck he­re, wha­te­ver the re­ason. I’d li­ke to co­me back with you, but I’ll un­ders­tand if you’d rat­her I didn’t.’

  Ha­rold sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I don’t li­ke it,’ he sa­id. ‘I don’t know whet­her it will be wor­se if I let you co­me back, or if I tell you not to. It wants you back in the mo­tel. I felt that. But if you co­me back it might co­me too. And if you don’t, it might be up­set with me. I don’t want any ghosts un­der my ro­of.’

  ‘Don’t be stu­pid, Ha­rold,’ Mar­tin sa­id, ‘the­re’s not­hing he­re for me to bring back with me. The­re isn’t a ghost.’

  Ha­rold nod­ded. The­re is,’ he sa­id. ‘It might not be he­re now, but it was a few mo­ments ago. The­re was so­met­hing go­ing on just now. I co­uld fe­el it in the air. It was li­ke the­re was a strug­gle. It’s stop­ped now and I’m glad abo­ut that, but it might start aga­in. And if it starts in the mo­tel, it might de­ci­de it li­kes it the­re. For all I know you might be trying to pass it off on me. Y’know, gi­ve me yo­ur ghost. Do you know what I me­an?’

  Mar­tin nod­ded. ‘Ye­ah, I do, but you’re bar­king up the wrong tree. I don’t ha­ve a ghost to gi­ve away. Or even one to ke­ep. I just got a lit­tle fraz­zled. I’ve be­en on the go sin­ce early yes­ter­day and I get up he­re for an ap­po­int­ment, pho­ne the wi­fe, and she’s in tro­ub­le. She wants me back in Bu­de. Pron­to. And the car won’t start. I just threw a cog. I’m des­pe­ra­te to get back to her, that’s all. The­re are no ghosts in­vol­ved.’

  Ha­rold nod­ded. ‘Fa­ir eno­ugh,’ he sa­id and ta­iled off.

  Mar­tin fo­und a smi­le for him. It hurt him to ar­ran­ge his fa­ce in this way for the mo­tel ow­ner, but he ma­na­ged it.

  Ha­rold gri­ma­ced in re­turn. He lo­oked as if he was trying hard to sum­mon the co­ura­ge to say so­met­hing el­se. Fi­nal­ly he spo­ke. ‘As I sa­id, fa­ir eno­ugh. Ex­cept that you don’t ha­ve a wi­fe, do you?’

  ‘Yes I do!’ Mar­tin snap­ped.

  Ha­rold sho­ok his he­ad. ‘Di­vor­ced. Or ne­arly. And she li­ves in Lon­don, not Bu­de. You don’t ha­ve an­yo­ne down in Bu­de.’

  Mar­tin grit­ted his te­eth. ‘OK, what el­se did this vo­ice tell you abo­ut me?’

  ‘Not­hing,’ Ha­rold sa­id qu­ickly.

  ‘It sa­id I was dan­ge­ro­us, didn’t it?’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘It sa­id I had to be kept away from Bu­de, didn’t it?’

  Ha­rold’s fa­ce to­ok on an ago­ni­zed exp­res­si­on. He sud­denly lo­oked li­ke a man suf­fe­ring from a ter­rib­le to­ot­hac­he.

  Or as if so­me­one so­mew­he­re is dril­ling in­to his bra­in, Mar­tin tho­ught. Im­pos­sib­le as it se­emed, Pe­ter Per­fect had lo­ca­ted Ha­rold and was ma­ni­pu­la­ting his mind, even as Mar­tin wa­ited for a reply.

  Ha­rold sob­bed. ‘I-I don’t know what’s hap­pe­ning. Everyt­hing ke­eps ch-ch-ch-chan­ging… and it’s li­ke the who­le world ke­eps swe­eping thro­ugh me. As if it’s dra­wing to a po­int, puh-pas­sing th-thro­ugh my body and ex­pan­ding aga­in be-hind me. And every ti­me it hap­pens I can re­mem­ber stuff that I sho­uldn’t be ab­le tuh-to. Stuff I know that I ne­ver knew be­fo­re. It’s li­ke so­me­one is fil­ling me up with a lot of me­mo­ri­es. I know they’re not mi­ne, but they se­em as if they ought to buh-be.’

  Mar­tin tho­ught that down in Tin­ta­gel light was pro­bably flas­hing from a cer­ta­in ups­ta­irs win­dow of a cer­ta­in ho­use each ti­me Ha­rold re­ce­ived a fresh set of spu­ri­o­us me­mo­ri­es.

  That’s what hap­pens when you rew­ri­te a cha­rac­ter ca­re­les­sly, Mar­tin re­ali­zed.

  It was a bad joke. And the joke wasn’t be­ing pla­yed on Ha­rold to be­ne­fit the per­pet­ra­tor, it was be­ing do­ne to frigh­ten Mar­tin. Be­ca­use, as Mar­tin well knew, cer­ta­in things of­ten hap­pe­ned when he sent a wri­ter away to re­vi­se a bo­ok. The hur­ri­ed re­const­ruc­ti­on of a cha­rac­ter wo­uld of­ten le­ad to that cha­rac­ter kno­wing things that he or she co­uld no lon­ger know. A ca­re­less aut­hor might well re­mo­ve the pas­sa­ges whe­re the­ir cha­rac­ter fo­und out cer­ta­in pi­eces of in­for­ma­ti­on, but inad­ver­tently le­ave tho­se snip­pets of know­led­ge in the cha­rac­ter’s mind. Or that aut­hor might equ­al­ly inad­ver­tently put me­mo­ri­es in­to a cha­rac­ter’s mind wit­ho­ut sho­wing they be­lon­ged the­re.

  And sin­ce Pe­ter Per­fect didn’t stri­ke Mar­tin as an aut­hor who wo­uld be the le­ast bit ca­re­less, he had to be do­ing this to Ha­rold as a de­monst­ra­ti­on of the ex­tent of his own po­wer. Not to Ha­rold, but to Mar­tin.

  ‘For­get all the shit you think you know,’ Mar­tin ad­vi­sed the man. ‘No­ne of it adds up and no­ne of it is worth a wank on a wet Sun­day. Just ke­ep yo­ur mind empty. This’ll stop hap­pe­ning to you as so­on as I’m out of yo­ur ha­ir. We’ll walk back to the mo­tel and I’ll get on the pho­ne, get myself a ta­xi and le­ave. You’ll go to sle­ep and when you wa­ke up in the mor­ning you’ll won­der what all the fuss was abo­ut.’

  The­re is a ghost, isn’t the­re?’ Ha­rold in­sis­ted.

  Mar­tin nod­ded. Pe­ter Per­fect was eit­her go­ing to turn out to be a ghost, or a mi­nor god. It didn’t re­al­ly mat­ter what you cal­led him. All that mat­te­red was his we­ak po­int.

  And li­ke al­most every aut­hor Mar­tin had met in all his ye­ars as an edi­tor, Pe­ter Per­fect’s Ac­hil­les he­el was go­ing to turn out to be his ego. The pen-na­me he’d cho­sen sum­med it up qu­ite suc­cinctly.

  The tro­ub­le with many fic­ti­on wri­ters, Mar­tin knew, was that they got so used to pla­ying God and pre­si­ding over the­ir ima­gi­nary uni­ver­ses, that they even­tu­al­ly be­gan to be­li­eve they had god-li­ke qu­ali­ti­es. Hub­ris was the ma­gic word. Ar­ro­gant pri­de in them­sel­ves and the­ir in­fal­li­bi­lity. Pri­de, as any old Joe So­ap wo­uld be ple­ased to tell you, co­mes be­fo­re a fall.

  Li­ke many wri­ters be­fo­re him, Pe­ter Per­fect wasn’t qu­ite as per­fect as he be­li­eved.
All it to­ok to pro­ve that, was one sharp-eyed edi­tor: Mar­tin Lo­u­is Din­sey.

  Who had al­re­ady spot­ted so­me ga­ping ho­les in the Pe­ter Per­fect’s plot.

  The first was that Mr Per­fect co­uld not al­ter the past and edit Mar­tin out of his story. And the se­cond - the most gla­ring gap in the se­am­less pic­tu­re Per­fect was trying to pre­sent - was that he co­uldn’t even di­rectly af­fect Mar­tin. If he’d be­en ab­le to, he wo­uld ha­ve do­ne so. Mr Per­fect might be ab­le to stop the car run­ning, and he might be ab­le to chan­ge Ha­rold’s me­mo­ri­es, but the­re was so­met­hing that pre­ven­ted his do­ing this to Mar­tin.

  And Mar­tin tho­ught he knew what this might be.

  ‘She used to be yo­ur lo­ver,’ Ha­rold sud­denly sa­id.

  Mar­tin lo­oked up from the wet pa­ve­ment. ‘Yep. You hit the na­il right on the he­ad that ti­me,’ he sa­id, and lo­oked away aga­in.

  ‘You call her Es­se­nj­ay, and her fri­ends call her Drezy, but her re­al na­me is Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den.’

  ‘Right,’ Mar­tin sa­id. He glan­ced up aga­in, but Ha­rold was sta­ring in­to the dis­tan­ce, his eyes wi­de open, his exp­res­si­on rapt. A wa­tery smi­le twitc­hed at the ed­ges of his mo­uth. It lo­oked as if the­re was a part of Ha­rold that was ac­tu­al­ly enj­oying this.

  You sho­uld un­ders­tand how that co­uld hap­pen, Mar­tin told him­self. You sho­uld un­ders­tand that bet­ter than most pe­op­le. Pe­op­le lo­ve fic­ti­on - they enj­oy fal­ling in­to sto­ri­es and that’s exactly what Ha­rold is do­ing - fal­ling in­to the story that’s be­ing de­li­ve­red to him. And the best part abo­ut it is, that he isn’t even ha­ving to bot­her to re­ad the words. It’s co­ming to him ef­fort­les­sly. Ha­rold’s ac­tu­al­ly ha­ving a story wo­ven aro­und him.

  And that was the key, Mar­tin tho­ught, to why Pe­ter Per­fect co­uldn’t di­rectly af­fect Mar­tin Lo­u­is Din­sey. He had long sin­ce lost his ca­pa­city to be un­re­ser­vedly suc­ke­red by a story. The­se days a story had to pro­ve it­self to him be­fo­re he fo­und him­self drawn in­to it. And any lit­tle flaw in it wo­uld throw him back out aga­in, scow­ling. Un­li­ke Es­se­nj­ay, who only had to re­ad abo­ut two sen­ten­ces be­fo­re she was suc­ked right in and who wo­uld stay loc­ked the­re un­til the end, not wor­rying abo­ut any in­con­sis­ten­ci­es, Mar­tin re­ad li­ke an aero­na­uti­cal en­gi­ne­er: ca­re­ful­ly lo­oking for ha­ir­li­ne cracks in the struc­tu­re.