Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  S’n’J only wis­hed Mar­tin had sta­ted the ti­me of his call. If he’d ma­de it last night, he sho­uld be he­re by now. If he’d ma­de it this mor­ning, he wo­uld be he­re so­on. If not­hing hap­pens to him on the way, she tho­ught.

  She yel­ped when the te­lep­ho­ne rang.

  She lo­oked at the re­ce­iver for a mo­ment and then snatc­hed it up. ‘Yes?’ she sa­id.

  ‘Baby, it’s cold out­si­de,’ Pe­ter Per­fect sa­id, ‘Do you think it’ll snow, Snowy?’

  For a mo­ment S’n’J’s musc­les all loc­ked so­lid. Then she slam­med the pho­ne in­to its crad­le.

  You’ve ne­ver he­ard Pe­ter Per­fect spe­ak, she ad­mo­nis­hed her­self. How can you re­cog­ni­ze his vo­ice?

  But if it wasn’t him, she didn’t know who it was. Who el­se co­uld it ha­ve be­en? The vo­ice had so­un­ded a lit­tle li­ke Fred King’s, but less wor­king-class, mo­re well-spo­ken. The kind of vo­ice she wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted Black Rock’s Mr Win­ter to ha­ve.

  Drezy, you cal­led yo­ur­self Dropsy aga­in, a few mo­ments ago! she sud­denly re­mem­be­red. Then she re­mem­be­red so­met­hing el­se. The­re we­ren’t just three pe­op­le who knew abo­ut Black Rock, the­re we­re fo­ur.

  The fo­urth per­son who was go­ing to get drawn in­to the story was James.

  Not­hing can ha­ve hap­pe­ned to him sin­ce last night, she told her­self, but her hands we­re al­re­ady di­al­ling his num­ber. She didn’t ca­re what he was do­ing, he co­uld just stop do­ing it and get over he­re whe­re she co­uld see him.

  ‘James Gre­en can’t co­me to the pho­ne at the mo­ment, but if you’d li­ke to gi­ve him mo­ney, le­ave the ti­me, the da­te and yo­ur mes­sa­ge, he’ll ring you back.’

  Oh, James, she tho­ught and af­ter the to­ne sa­id. ‘It’s Dro… Drezy. Get over he­re. Now. I’m frigh­te­ned.’

  She rep­la­ced the re­ce­iver and di­al­led Cars Inc. And le­ar­ned that James hadn’t tur­ned up for work this mor­ning.

  She put the pho­ne back, her he­art ham­me­ring in her ears.

  ‘You bet­ter not ha­ve got him al­re­ady!’ she his­sed to­wards the front do­or, which she tho­ught fa­ced west to­wards Tin­ta-gel. ‘You’re re­al­ly star­ting to piss me off!’

  The qu­es­ti­on was, was her fa­ilu­re to re­ach James a trick of Pe­ter Per­fect’s or me­rely bad luck? It lo­oked li­ke the wri­ter’s work to her. He wo­uld ha­ve known that she wo­uld want to im­me­di­ately drop everyt­hing and go over to James’ flat, and he wo­uld ha­ve known that she’d re­ali­ze that no mat­ter how much she wan­ted to, she wo­uldn’t al­low her­self to. For one thing she had a mes­sa­ge from Mar­tin tel­ling her to stay ho­me un­til he got the­re be­ca­use it was go­ing to be dan­ge­ro­us for her to le­ave the ho­use.

  Damn you to hell! she tho­ught. Damn yo­ur eyes!

  She snatc­hed up the pho­ne, ma­de three qu­ick calls can­cel­ling her ap­po­int­ments and ma­king fresh ones for next we­ek.

  This se­ems a bit li­ke bo­oking tic­kets to Mars, she tho­ught, du­ti­ful­ly wri­ting down her new ap­po­int­ments in her di­ary. When the ti­me fi­nal­ly rolls aro­und, the­re’s a pretty go­od chan­ce you’ll be too de­ad to go.

  She ga­ve a bit­ter la­ugh, and went to the bath­ro­om to ma­ke su­re Janie was still li­ving and bre­at­hing.

  Janie was so­und as­le­ep, her right-hand lo­osely hol­ding a brandy glass up­right on her chest bet­we­en her bre­asts. Her rib ca­ge lo­oked as if a ka­ra­te ex­pert had spent a busy fort­night using it to per­fect his ro­und­ho­use kick, the­re we­re fric­ti­on burns aro­und her neck, and her lips we­re swol­len and split.

  How co­uld he do this to you, Janie? S’n’J tho­ught, re­mem­be­ring ti­mes when Janie had spo­ken of him and her fa­ce had ta­ken on the kind of soppy, dre­amy lo­ok that you only ever saw in films when pe­op­le we­re hypno­ti­zed.

  Janie’s eyes ope­ned and she smi­led. Her exp­res­si­on ma­de S’n’J want to cry.

  ‘I fell as­le­ep,’ she sa­id. ‘Ti­red.’

  ‘I think we’d bet­ter get you out of this wa­ter and tuck you up in bed,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘How do you fe­el?’

  ‘Li­ke I was run down by a truck,’ Janie sa­id.

  ‘Mar­tin’s on his way,’ S’n’J sa­id, thin­king, We don’t ne­ed Mar­tin; what we ne­ed is a fla­me-thro­wer or so­me in­cen­di­ary de­vi­ces. What you do with ha­un­ted ho­uses is burn them down.

  ‘Is he?’ Janie sa­id, unin­te­res­tedly. ‘You’ll ha­ve to help me get out of this bath, I think. I’m all shaky.’ She re­ac­hed out and to­ok S’n’J’s arm. ‘I’m glad I ca­me he­re,’ she sa­id. ‘I knew you’d be ab­le to lo­ok af­ter me. Thanks for everyt­hing you’ve do­ne, Drezy. I ap­pre­ci­ate it.’

  ‘I ho­pe you didn’t me­an that as a go­odb­ye sta­te­ment,’ S’n’J sa­id, be­ca­use that’s what it so­un­ded li­ke.

  Win­cing, Janie used S’n’J’s arm to pull her­self up to cro­uch. ‘It won’t be so bad,’ she sa­id.

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘You know.’

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘No I don’t,’ she sa­id.

  ‘It can’t hurt any mo­re than I hurt now,’ Janie sa­id. ‘It won’t be so bad.’

  ‘Janie, not­hing is go­ing to hap­pen to you!’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘I won’t let it. You are not go­ing to die!’

  Janie he­aved her­self to a stan­ding po­si­ti­on, grab­bed S’n’J’s sho­ul­ders with both hands to ste­ady her­self and sa­id, ‘Wo­uld you say we lo­ok a bit li­ke one anot­her?’

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘You’re a bit tipsy,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘The drink got to you.’

  ‘We wo­uldn’t be mis­ta­ken for sis­ters then?’

  ‘We don’t lo­ok that much ali­ke, Janie,’ S’n’J sa­id. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Janie shrug­ged. ‘Just so­met­hing I dre­amed.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘So­met­hing to do with a girl get­ting kil­led be­ca­use she lo­oked li­ke you. It do­esn’t mat­ter. If I don’t lo­ok li­ke you, it do­esn’t mat­ter.’

  ‘It might,’ S’n’J sa­id. Janie might not re­semb­le her, but she knew so­me­one who did. So­me­one she’d be­en very clo­se to. So­me­one who had be­en mis­ta­ken for her twin sis­ter on mo­re than one oc­ca­si­on. So­me­one who had run away from ho­me in New­cast­le on the pre­text of co­ming down he­re and vi­si­ting her.

  Ellen!

  ‘Tell me mo­re abo­ut it, Janie,’ S’n’J sa­id.

  Janie yaw­ned. I’ve for­got­ten most of it now. You know how it is with dre­ams. It was so­met­hing to do with him ha­ving to kill yo­ur lo­oka­li­ke in or­der to do so­met­hing to you. Chan­ge you or so­met­hing. That’s all I know.’

  S’n’J re­mem­be­red how she’d told El­len’s boyf­ri­end that his mis­sing lo­ver had pro­bably go­ne to vi­sit her pa­rents. It ought to ha­ve be­en ob­vi­o­us that El­len had go­ne to Black Rock. In the bo­ok she’s han­ging na­ked and half-fla­yed in the ba­se­ment, for God’s sa­ke, Drezy! she told her­self. And that’s what’s hap­pe­ned in re­al li­fe too. That’s why she’s mis­sing. He got her!

  ‘We don’t lo­ok li­ke sis­ters, Janie,’ S’n’J told her fri­end. ‘So don’t worry, you aren’t go­ing to die.’

  Janie step­ped out of the bath, still using S’n’J to sup­port her­self. ‘But it’s yo­ur story, Drezy,’ she sa­id, ‘and I’m only a bit part in it. We all know what hap­pens to bit-part pla­yers, don’t we? They get writ­ten in­to bo­oks just so they can be kil­led off and gi­ve the re­ader a few thrills. Can­non fod­der pe­op­le. As so­on as they’re int­ro­du­ced you know they’re go­ing to co­me to a sticky end. Mar­tin calls them shred­di­es. I’m in yo­ur story as a shred­die
.’

  ‘Rub­bish!’ S’n’J sa­id, thin­king of James who sud­denly se­emed to be an arc­hety­pal shred­die. ‘I’m not go­ing to let anyt­hing hap­pen to you.’

  She led Janie to the bed­ro­om, put her in bed, tuc­ked her up li­ke a child, then sat with her and held her hand un­til she fell as­le­ep.

  It didn’t ta­ke long.

  Now we wa­it, S’n’J tho­ught. She got her­self a fresh drink, went back to the lo­un­ge, tur­ned on the te­le­vi­si­on and set­tled down.

  She was still awa­ke when the we­at­her fo­re­cast ca­me on, but only just. The brandy had fi­nal­ly fo­und its way to her bra­in and she was be­gin­ning to fe­el sle­epy. The we­at­her cur­rently on its way in from the At­lan­tic was go­ing to bring ra­in, the fo­re­cas­ter was sa­ying. And tem­pe­ra­tu­res we­re go­ing to be abo­ve nor­mal for the ti­me of ye­ar.

  So, Pe­ter, she tho­ught dre­amily, I don’t think we’re go­ing to get any of that snow you we­re won­de­ring abo­ut. I don’t think it’s ti­me for Frosty the Snow­man yet. And ever­yo­ne knows it ne­ver snows in Corn­wall, any­way. One big fall every fo­ur or fi­ve ye­ars, they rec­kon ro­und he­re, and then only in Janu­ary or Feb­ru­ary. Ne­ver in Oc­to­ber. I think you’re go­ing to be out of luck with that the­re snow, my go­od fri­end. Still, we can al­ways ke­ep our fin­gers cros­sed …

  S’n’J’s he­ad top­pled for­ward and the last thing she tho­ught be­fo­re sle­ep fi­nal­ly to­ok her was, Mar­tin sho­uld be he­re by now, su­rely. Whe­re the blo­ody hell has he got to?

  24 - Dawn

  Whe­re Mar­tin had got to was a ser­vi­ce area on the M5. He and Ha­rold had ar­ri­ved less than ten mi­nu­tes ago and, it now ap­pe­ared, he was stuck.

  Mar­tin, the keys to Mrs Ha­rold’s Mi­ni dang­ling from his right hand, sto­od sta­ring in dis­be­li­ef at the spa­ce whe­re he’d last se­en his lift. The word, GO­NE! in ita­li­ci­zed ca­pi­tals flas­hed on and off ac­ross the ice block in his mind.

  ‘This is not pos­sib­le,’ he told him­self, his vo­ice sim­me­ring with ra­ge. ‘Ha­rold can­not ha­ve mo­ved the car. I ha­ve the keys he­re in my hand. I can see them. This key he­re, with the blue bit of rub­ber aro­und the top of it, is the ig­ni­ti­on key. I to­ok it out with my own hands, ha­rold can­not ha­ve go­ne!’

  It sho­uld ha­ve be­en a stra­ight­for­ward fu­el and to­ilet stop, and he had be­en su­re that not­hing bad co­uld hap­pen.

  And he had be­en wrong.

  They had pul­led in, fil­led the Mi­ni on Mar­tin’s cre­dit card, then dri­ven to the spa­ce in the car park whe­re Mar­tin now sto­od, fu­ming.

  After Ha­rold had par­ked, Mar­tin had had a he­art to he­art with him, wa­ving the tiny kni­fe bla­de un­der his no­se as he la­id down the ru­les: no trying to es­ca­pe; no yel­ling that he’d be­en kid­nap­ped. ‘Think abo­ut yo­ur brac­hi­al ar­tery, Ha­rold,’ Mar­tin had fi­nis­hed. Then he le­aned ac­ross the man, to­ok the keys out of the ig­ni­ti­on and or­de­red him out of the car. Ha­rold got out and obe­di­ently wa­ited for Mar­tin to lock the Mi­ni. ‘Stay be­si­de me,’ Mar­tin told him and be­gan to walk to­wards the ser­vi­ce area.

  Everyt­hing went ac­cor­ding to plan un­til they got in­si­de the bu­il­ding and en­te­red the to­ilets. As Mar­tin marc­hed to­wards the uri­nals, Ha­rold pe­eled off, skip­ped in­to one of the to­ilet cu­bic­les, slam­med the do­or and bol­ted it.

  Mar­tin ban­ged on the do­or. ‘Ha­rold! Yo­ur eyes!’

  Ha­rold didn’t reply. In­si­de the cu­bic­le, the to­ilet se­at ban­ged down.

  Mar­tin gro­und his te­eth for a few se­conds, then ga­ve up and went to the uri­nal. And the mo­ment he be­gan to piss, the bolt on Ha­rold’s cu­bic­le do­or snap­ped back and Ha­rold shot ac­ross the ti­led flo­or li­ke a grey­ho­und le­aving its trap. By the ti­me Mar­tin had squ­e­ezed off his flow and got his dick back in­si­de his tro­users Ha­rold was go­ne.

  He wont get far, Mar­tin told him­self as he rus­hed out in­to the cor­ri­dor. Ha­rold wasn’t at the AA co­un­ter, or in the shop, or in the res­ta­urant, which me­ant he’d go­ne out­si­de.

  Mar­tin ran to the car park, fa­iled to see Ha­rold and re­ali­zed he’d go­ne out of the ot­her ent­ran­ce at the far si­de of the bu­il­ding. ‘You fuck­ho­use!’ he snar­led and tur­ned back. He ran down the length of the cor­ri­dor to­wards the far exit and skid­ded to a halt out­si­de the truc­kers’ ca­fe. No Ha­rold. He pus­hed his way thro­ugh a co­ach party who we­re co­ming in thro­ugh the do­or and ran out in­to the lorry park.

  Ha­rold, damn him, was not the­re.

  Cur­sing, Mar­tin sprin­ted back to whe­re the car was.

  Then he per­for­med his po­int­less so­li­lo­quy, tel­ling him­self he had the car keys in his hand.

  Fi­nal­ly he be­gan to ad­mit the ter­rib­le truth to him­self. Ha­rold had be­en ab­le to le­ave wit­ho­ut him be­ca­use the bas­tard had be­en in pos­ses­si­on of a se­cond set of keys for the car.

  Tuck him!’ Mar­tin spat. He was now fa­ced with trying to hi­j­ack so­me ot­her po­or mug - in bro­ad day­light and with only a tiny kni­fe to use as a thre­ate­ning we­apon - or simply stan­ding on the exit ramp with his thumb up and ho­ping that so­me go­od Sa­ma­ri­tan wo­uld ta­ke pity on him. Or cal­ling a ta­xi which wo­uldn’t co­me.

  Mar­tin wal­ked slowly back to­wards the ser­vi­ce area, grin­ding his te­eth. Then he smi­led. The­re was anot­her op­ti­on.

  He stro­de in­to the self-ser­vi­ce res­ta­urant, sta­ti­oned him­self be­si­de the co­un­ter and ad­dres­sed the bre­ak­fas­ters the way he wo­uld ad­dress a sa­les con­fe­ren­ce.

  He clap­ped his hands and then sa­id, ‘Can I ha­ve yo­ur at­ten­ti­on, ple­ase, la­di­es and gent­le­men?’ in a bo­oming, con­fi­dent vo­ice.

  Apart from a few ner­vo­us vo­ices who pre­su­mably an­ti­ci­pa­ted the an­no­un­ce­ment that a sus­pect pac­ka­ge had be­en dis­co­ve­red in the bu­il­ding, the res­ta­urant fell si­lent. Ever­yo­ne tur­ned to see what he had to say.

  Tm in a bit of bot­her,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘My wi­fe is se­ri­o­usly ill in Bu­de, Corn­wall and I’m on my way to her. I pul­led in he­re to fres­hen up and du­ring the fi­ve mi­nu­tes I was away from my car, so­me­one sto­le it. As you’ll ap­pre­ci­ate I’m rat­her stuck. I was won­de­ring if the­re was an­yo­ne who wo­uld be wil­ling to dri­ve me ho­me. I’ll ma­ke it worth the­ir whi­le. I’d be wil­ling to pay two hund­red po­unds.’

  The ro­om res­pon­ded to this of­fer with to­tal si­len­ce.

  Mar­tin wa­ited.

  The bre­ak­fas­ters all lo­oked at him, pre­su­mably awa­iting the punch-li­ne.

  ‘I’m se­ri­o­us,’ he ad­ded, so­un­ding a lit­tle too much li­ke John Cle­ese for his own li­king. Just as he was won­de­ring how Pe­ter Per­fect co­uld pos­sibly ma­na­ge to cont­rol this many pe­op­le at on­ce, so­met­hing fi­nal­ly hap­pe­ned.

  At the back of the ro­om a girl ra­ised her hand. ‘I’ll ta­ke you,’ she sa­id, get­ting up.

  Ever­yo­ne tur­ned to lo­ok at her. She was a mo­usy girl, may­be twenty or twenty-one. She wo­re a Clint East­wo­od ponc­ho, scruffy je­ans, cow­boy bo­ots and ste­el-rim­med glas­ses. She car­ri­ed a string bag, in­si­de which was a very lar­ge Jif­fy bag.

  When she re­ac­hed Mar­tin, she put out her hand. ‘Dawn Ta­uber,’ she sa­id.

  ‘Mar­tin Din­sey,’ Mar­tin sa­id, and if the girl hadn’t cut in on him he wo­uld ha­ve told her how re­li­eved he was that she’d de­ci­ded to help him.

  ‘I know,’ the girl sa­id. ‘Snips.’

  Mar­tin’s he­art hit his bo­ots. He felt his mo­uth drop and co­uldn’t ma­ke it ri­se aga­in.

&n
bsp; ‘I al­so hap­pen to know you aren’t mar­ri­ed,’ the girl sa­id.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Mar­tin as­ked, his sun­ken he­art fin­ding a few mo­re inc­hes to des­cend. Sud­denly he re­ali­zed what he’d do­ne. He’d ma­de a very big mis­ta­ke in­de­ed.

  The girl smi­led. It was a cold smi­le. ‘Pro­bably not. But I know you.’

  Mar­tin let go of her cold hand. ‘You’re it, aren’t you?’ he sa­id.

  ‘Are we pla­ying tag?’ the girl as­ked.

  So you had ra­zor-bla­des for bre­ak­fast, Mar­tin tho­ught. Ha ha very funny, get a ne­ed­le and thre­ad, qu­ick be­ca­use I’ve just split my si­des la­ug­hing.

  ‘You know what I me­an,’ he sa­id sul­lenly.

  The girl frow­ned. ‘No­pe,’ she sa­id, ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ”Black Rock,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ”You wro­te it, didn’t you? That’s it in that pad­ded en­ve­lo­pe in yo­ur bag, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you OK… Snips?’ the girl as­ked. ‘I me­an men­tal­ly. I’ve won­de­red be­fo­re, but you’re gi­ving me fresh ca­use for con­cern. Are you com­pos men­tis?’

  ‘Of co­ur­se I am!’ Mar­tin-sa­id, lo­udly eno­ugh to at­tract the at­ten­ti­on of so­me of the ne­arer tab­les.

  ‘Then why are you tal­king in rid­dles?’ she as­ked mildly.

  ‘Lo­ok Dawn, I’ve al­re­ady gat­he­red that you’re a wri­ter, I know that you’ve got a ma­nusc­ript in yo­ur bag and a chip on yo­ur sho­ul­der, now wo­uld you ple­ase just ans­wer this qu­es­ti­on. Did you wri­te so­met­hing cal­led Black Rock or didn’t you?’

  The girl tho­ught abo­ut it. ‘No­pe,’ she sa­id even­tu­al­ly, ‘I can’t say I did. I ima­gi­ne that one was writ­ten by so­me­one el­se who wants to string you up by the balls,’ she ad­ded.

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I’ve be­en up sin­ce yes­ter­day mor­ning. Twenty-fi­ve ho­urs now. I’m ti­red out and I ha­ve to get back to Bu­de in a hurry…’