Black Rock

by Steve Harris

  Can’t ta­ke much mo­re of this! a dizzy part of her mind war­ned as she strug­gled to ke­ep her ba­lan­ce in the shif­ting sea of light.

  The print her right fo­ot had just left was ne­it­her fil­led with tiny flo­wers nor ed­ged with grass. Nor we­re the­re twink­ling shing­les whe­re she had trod­den. Her fo­ot had left a print which was de­ad flat and to­tal­ly black… ex­cept for a cir­cu­lar spot in the he­el which sho­ne gol­den and on which was prin­ted an exact fac­si­mi­le of the we­re-li­on gar­goy­le which was em­bos­sed upon the ho­use’s do­or knob.

  SVJ’s left fo­ot ca­me up le­aving an iden­ti­cal print be­ne­ath it.

  And sud­denly she re­ali­zed the mis­ta­ke she’d ma­de. She was al­re­ady dizzy, and now she was le­aning too far back to hold her ba­lan­ce. And wasn’t the world’s most ele­gant mo­ver at the best of ti­mes.

  S’n’J’s left fo­ot ca­me down on its outer ed­ge, her we­ight shif­ted for­wards and as her ank­le be­gan to comp­la­in, her right fo­ot sto­ve in­to her left ank­le.

  Which ten­sed, twis­ted… and ga­ve way.

  For a mo­ment S’n’J felt as if so­me­one had just blas­ted that ank­le with a rif­le and then the be­j­ewel­led sur­fa­ce of the dri­ve rus­hed up to me­et her.

  Her el­bows to­ok most of the for­ce of the fall, but they didn’t stop her fa­ce from hit­ting the gro­und. S’n’J rol­led over to her back, spit­ting gra­vel and blo­od and cur­sing her ank­le which felt as if it was ab­la­ze.

  It isn’t bro­ken! she told her­self as she pus­hed her­self up to her hands and kne­es. It’s just twis­ted, that’s all. Only spra­ined!

  But spra­ined or not, the ank­le shot ar­rows of agony up her leg when she tri­ed to put her we­ight on it. She sat down aga­in and ins­pec­ted the da­ma­ge. She co­uldn’t fe­el anyt­hing that was snap­ped, which was a go­od thing, but the ank­le hurt when she to­uc­hed it, which was a very bad thing in­de­ed. She gla­red up to­wards the front do­or, te­ars of pa­in and an­ger and fe­ar in her eyes. ‘You bas­tard!’ she spat.

  Then she sto­od and drag­ged her­self the rest of the way to the front do­or, whe­re she gla­red at the smir­king we­re-li­on or wha­te­ver the thing was and whac­ked it with the rol­ling-pin.

  Ho­pe that wi­pes the stu­pid grin off yo­ur fa­ce! she told it, and hit it aga­in, a lit­tle har­der.

  The gar­goy­le’s smi­le se­emed to ha­ve inc­re­ased. S’n’J was fu­ri­o­us. She con­si­de­red whac­king it aga­in, a lot har­der, but re­aso­ned that her only we­apon wo­uld bre­ak if she did that and that was pro­bably what Pe­ter Per­fect wan­ted. That was why he hadn’t ope­ned the do­or yet. He must know she was the­re, wa­iting for him, but he hadn’t ma­de a mo­ve.

  You can wa­it in­si­de as long as you li­ke, el has­tar­do, hut Drezy he­re isn’t go­ing to ru­in her rol­ling-pin on yo­ur do­or knob. She’s knoc­ked for entry and now it’s up to you.

  S’n’J prop­ped her­self up be­si­de the do­or, one fo­ot off the gro­und, and wa­ited.

  Even­tu­al­ly the black do­or be­gan to mo­ve, ope­ning as smo­othly and as qu­i­etly as it had do­ne in the pa­ges of Black Rock.

  S’n’J sto­od up stra­ight, plan­ted both her fe­et squ­arely on the gro­und, got the bot­tle of holy tap-wa­ter from her poc­ket and spun the lid off.

  The do­or ope­ned on to an empty hall.

  For a split se­cond, S’n’J saw the sta­irs up which she’d run ‘with’ Snowy du­ring the story; the long hall that led to the back of the ho­use whe­re the­re sho­uld ha­ve be­en a do­or, but wasn’t; the do­or that led in­to the di­ning ro­om and the one that led in­to the lo­un­ge. She knew this ho­use li­ke the back of her hand. Every de­ta­il, ima­gi­ned, al­lu­ded to, or desc­ri­bed, was exactly as she’d known it wo­uld be.

  The worst thing abo­ut it was that it felt li­ke ho­me.

  And then the­re was a blur of mo­ve­ment, the so­ur­ce of which co­uld not be dis­cer­ned, and Pe­ter Per­fect sto­od in front of her, smi­ling.

  And as S’n’J had ima­gi­ned, Pe­ter Per­fect was not so­me wi­ze­ned-up lit­tle old man who li­ved his li­fe in lands cre­ated by him­self on a word-pro­ces­sor, nor was he a bright yo­ung uni­ver­sity edu­ca­ted hack.

  Pe­ter Per­fect was Mr Win­ter.

  He was ac­hingly hand­so­me.

  ‘Hel­lo Snowd­rop,’ he sa­id. His ice-blue eyes se­emed to be drin­king in every de­ta­il of her and his exp­res­si­on told her that he was ple­ased with what he saw. His vo­ice was soft and well-spo­ken. Mu­si­cal even.

  Go­od ma­te­ri­al, she tho­ught. That’s what I am to him. Mal­le­ab­le. Chan­ge­ab­le.

  But in spi­te of this she co­uld fe­el her­self war­ming to him - pre­su­mably in the sa­me way that the Co­unt’s vic­tims did when he flut­te­red in thro­ugh the­ir win­dows and chan­ged back from be­ing a bat.

  ‘I’ve wa­ited so long for this mo­ment to ar­ri­ve, my Snowd­rop,’ he sa­id. ‘You ha­ve no idea.’

  S’n’J felt the uni­ver­se start to chan­ge be­hind her. She al­so knew exactly how she co­uld stop it. She shif­ted her we­ight on to her hurt leg. She ma­na­ged to ke­ep her fa­ce exp­res­si­on­less when the jolt of pa­in shot thro­ugh her and was ple­ased with her­self. She was even mo­re ple­ased that the sen­sa­ti­on of things chan­ging ce­ased al­most im­me­di­ately.

  Mr Win­ter frow­ned.

  I’m not yo­ur Snowd­rop,’ S’n’J sa­id, smi­ling back at him. ‘I’m so­me­one el­se’s Sa­rah-Jane.’ Then, ins­pi­red, she ad­ded, ‘And you’re not Mis­ter Phi­lip Win­ter, are you? You’re not Pe­ter Per­fect eit­her, you’re Fred King. Fred King who kil­led his wi­fe Za­ra and who wants Za­ra back aga­in. Am I right?’

  Mr Win­ter sho­ok his he­ad very slightly. ‘I’ll be who­ever you want me to be,’ he sa­id mildly.

  ‘I want you to be go­ne, spi­rit!’ S’n’J sa­id, fe­eling even mo­re fo­olish than she had when she’d bles­sed the tap-wa­ter.

  He frow­ned. ‘I’m not a spi­rit,’ he sa­id, Tm Phi­lip Win­ter and I’m a wri­ter. And, as it hap­pens, I’m al­so yo­ur hus­band. You only be­ca­me Snowy Dres­den aga­in when you ran away. You’re Snowy Win­ter re­al­ly.’

  S’n’J shif­ted her we­ight on to her bad leg aga­in. It didn’t se­em to hurt so much now. She sho­ok her he­ad. ‘I’m not yo­ur Snowy. I’m Sa­rah-Jane and you’ve be­en wri­ting abo­ut me, ha­ven’t you?’ she sa­id. ‘Trying to chan­ge me.’

  Phi­lip Win­ter lo­oked mysti­fi­ed. And int­ri­gu­ed. ‘Wo­uld you li­ke to co­me in and talk abo­ut it?’ he as­ked.

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad so vi­olently she al­most fell over.

  ‘No­pe!’ she sa­id. ‘I wo­uld not. What I wo­uld li­ke is for you to tell me what you’ve do­ne with my fri­ends. The ones you’ve cap­tu­red.’

  Phi­lip Win­ter lo­oked at her, long and hard. ‘Who are you, Snowy?’ he as­ked qu­i­etly. ‘Who are you re­al­ly?’

  The qu­es­ti­on fell on her li­ke a thick blan­ket. She knew exactly who she was. She just co­uldn’t say, be­ca­use it wo­uld so­und sup­re­mely stu­pid. Not just silly li­ke it had do­ne when she’d ac­cu­sed him of be­ing a spi­rit, but stu­pid eno­ugh to qu­alify as an entry for the Gu­in­ness Bo­ok of Re­cords. She was so­me­one who didn’t exist. She was Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den, a wo­man who no lon­ger had a past or a fu­tu­re, only a pre­sent. In a mo­ment even that wo­uld be ex­tin­gu­is­hed.

  Fight! she told her­self and stam­ped her bad leg on the gro­und. This ti­me the pa­in ma­de her gasp.

  ‘Are you hurt, my Snowy?’ he as­ked. ‘Wo­uld you li­ke to co­me in and sit down?’

  The vo­ice was so­ot­hing. His very pre­sen­ce was so­ot­hing. It wo­uld be so easy. All she had to
say was ‘yes’.

  ‘Co­me on,’ he so­ot­hed. ‘You’re just dist­res­sed. You’ve had a bre­ak­down. You can ex­pect pe­ri­ods of con­fu­si­on. They’ll pass.’

  ‘No bre­ak­down!’ she his­sed. ‘Not in the bo­ok!’

  ‘Which bo­ok?’ Phi­lip as­ked.

  ‘You know!’

  ‘I don’t. Ple­ase tell me which bo­ok! Ha­ve you be­en re­ading my bo­oks?’

  ‘Black Rock,’ she gas­ped. She co­uld only just re­call it now. Just be­ing clo­se to him was eno­ugh to sap what lit­tle of her per­so­na­lity re­ma­ined.

  Phi­lip re­ac­hed out for her and to­ok her hand. His own was co­ol and dry and hard and com­for­ting. Li­ke the hand of the lo­ver she knew so well and had ne­ver had. She wan­ted to be his. It wo­uld be so easy.

  ‘I ha­ven’t writ­ten a bo­ok cal­led Black Rock, Snowy. The­re isn’t one.’

  Te­ars we­re rol­ling down S’n’J’s fa­ce. ‘Stop con­fu­sing me!’ she sa­id.

  ‘It’s OK, you’re ho­me now. Co­me in. Ple­ase. It’s so go­od to ha­ve you back. I’ve be­en wor­ri­ed abo­ut you. Whe­re ha­ve you be­en?’

  ‘I’ve be­en ho­me!’ she sob­bed, stam­ping her bad leg aga­in. Even the pa­in didn’t cut thro­ugh her con­fu­si­on.

  He sho­ok his he­ad. This is yo­ur ho­me, Snowy. You ha­ven’t be­en he­re for a long whi­le.’

  This ho­use is ha­un­ted,’ she mo­aned.

  The only thing that’s be­en ha­un­ting this ho­use sin­ce you’ve be­en go­ne, is me, lo­ve,’ he told her.

  That’s what I me­an!’ she sob­bed.

  ‘Shh,’ he so­ot­hed. ‘It’s go­ing to be just fi­ne. You ran away, but you’ve co­me back to me at long last. Co­me in­do­ors.’

  S’n’J drew back. ‘Not with a ghost!’ she sa­id.

  ‘Can you fe­el my hand on yo­ur arm?’ he as­ked gently.

  She nod­ded.

  Then I’m not a ghost, am I?’

  S’n’J des­pa­ired. ‘Help me,’ she sa­id.

  ‘I’m trying to. I lo­ve you, Snowy. I’ve mis­sed you.’

  ‘But I ha­ven’t be­en he­re be­fo­re. Not un­til yes­ter­day.’

  ‘Yes you ha­ve. We’ve li­ved he­re for ye­ars.’

  ‘What ha­ve you do­ne to El­len?’

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘She’s in the ba­se­ment, isn’t she? De­ad or dying. And so is Janie and James and Mar­tin.’

  Phi­lip stu­di­ed her be­nignly. ‘I don’t know any of the­se pe­op­le and they aren’t in the ba­se­ment. They can’t be be­ca­use we don’t ha­ve a ba­se­ment, or a cel­lar. You’ll re­mem­ber when you co­me in and lo­ok aro­und. I’ll get in the Porsc­he and dri­ve up to the vil­la­ge whi­le you do so if it’d ma­ke you fe­el mo­re com­for­tab­le.’

  The­re isn’t a Porsc­he out the­re,’ S’n’J sa­id, ‘and the­re are two cars bloc­king the ro­ad. One of them is mi­ne and the ot­her be­longs to James. You kil­led him. He was trying to help me and you kil­led him.’

  ‘Bre­at­he de­eply, Snowy. The Porsc­he is out the­re on the dri­ve. The track is not bloc­ked and ne­ver has be­en sin­ce the last fall of snow we had fo­ur ye­ars ago. Don’t you re­mem­ber how we joked abo­ut it? We used to lo­ok out at the clo­uds mas­sing over the sea and I used to say, “Do you think it’ll snow, Snowy?”’

  ‘It’s all a trick,’ she in­sis­ted. ‘You’re trying to con­fu­se me. That was just so­met­hing you sa­id on my ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne.’

  As she spo­ke she tur­ned away from him and lo­oked out in­to the fo­re­co­urt. The Porsc­he was the­re, shi­ning red, its con­ver­tib­le top lo­we­red. Up on the empty track, Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey sto­od, po­in­ting down at her.

  S’n’J tur­ned back. ‘I saw it flic­ker!’ she sa­id.

  ‘I don’t think anyt­hing flic­ke­red, Snowy,’ he sa­id. The­re was a to­ne to his vo­ice that so­un­ded odd.

  ‘I’m lo­sing and you’re win­ning,’ she sa­id in a vo­ice that so­un­ded ti­red and de­fe­ated.

  Phi­lip di­sag­re­ed. ‘No one’s win­ning or lo­sing. Yo­ur true per­so­na­lity is sur­fa­cing, that’s all. Don’t you re­mem­ber what the doc­tors sa­id af­ter yo­ur bre­ak­down? Abo­ut how you co­uld ex­pect pe­ri­ods when you didn’t know what was re­al and what wasn’t? Abo­ut how you had to re­lax and let things ta­ke ca­re of them­sel­ves rat­her than try to re­const­ruct yo­ur­self to a set pat­tern? What you’ve do­ne, Snowy, is, you’ve cre­ated yo­ur­self a spu­ri­o­us per­so­na­lity. One that isn’t you and ne­ver was you. You’re Snowd­rop, you al­ways ha­ve be­en and you al­ways will be, no mat­ter how much you try to con­vin­ce yo­ur­self that you’re so­me­one el­se.’

  ‘Li­ar!’ she sa­id. The ter­rib­le thing was that she co­uld in­de­ed re­mem­ber what the doc­tors had sa­id. She re­mem­be­red her bre­ak­down (or at le­ast the af­ter-effects of it) qu­ite cle­arly. She re­cal­led a ti­me when she’d be­en Snowy, then so­met­hing had hap­pe­ned (she co­uldn’t re­call what that so­met­hing was), and then she’d be­en no one. Then ca­me the doc­tors and the whi­te pills that stuck in her thro­at. And af­ter that the smell of the le­at­her co­uch be­ne­ath her as a man cal­led De Witt en­co­ura­ged her to talk abo­ut a past which fe­atu­red a lo­ver cal­led El­len, a hams­ter cal­led Snow­ball and her­self as a sa­les en­gi­ne­er for a com­pu­ter firm. That par­ti­cu­lar past se­emed a gre­at de­al mo­re re­al than the one in which she’d li­ved with an edi­tor cal­led Mar­tin and then had a lo­ver cal­led James.

  ‘Li­ar!’ she sa­id aga­in, but her vo­ice lac­ked con­vic­ti­on. S’n’J stam­ped her leg. The pa­in was whi­te-hot. The­re was a shaft of wo­od in one of her hands, co­ol glass in the ot­her and a bib­le in her poc­ket. The­se things se­emed sig­ni­fi­cant. ‘Get thee be­hind me, Sa­tan!’ she sho­uted.

  Phi­lip bac­ked away a pa­ce.

  ‘Be­go­ne, de­mon!’ she yel­led and struck out at him with the rol­ling-pin. It was a clumsy blow and mis­sed Phi­lip’s he­ad by a fo­ot. As she struck, he le­apt back and bro­ught his arms up to de­fend him­self. The rol­ling-pin whac­ked in­to Phi­lip’s mo­ving el­bow and clat­te­red to the flo­or.

  ‘Don’t, Snowy,’ Phi­lip sa­id sadly, and she tho­ught she he­ard a no­te of fe­ar in his vo­ice.

  Holy wa­ter! she tho­ught. Let him ha­ve it right bet­we­en the eyes! You’ve got him now!

  ‘Get thee hen­ce, fo­ul spi­rit!’ she thun­de­red, gro­ping in her poc­ket for her Il­lust­ra­ted New Tes­ta­ment with pic­tu­res by E.S. Hardy. Her fin­gers fo­und it and drag­ged it out. She bran­dis­hed it, sho­wing Phi­lip its pretty co­ver de­pic­ting Jesus on a ri­ver­bank, pre­ac­hing. Jesus wo­re ro­bes and he­ad dress and a go­atee be­ard and held yel­low flo­wers in his left hand.

  ‘Flee from this pla­ce!’ she sa­id, thrus­ting the bib­le to­wards Phi­lip.

  He to­ok anot­her step back. ‘Don’t!’ he sa­id.

  She threw the wa­ter at him be­fo­re she even re­ali­zed she was go­ing to do it. The neck of the bot­tle was too nar­row for much of the con­tents to co­me out with a sing­le sha­ke, but so­me of the li­qu­id hit Phi­lip in the fa­ce.

  Altho­ugh it was only tap-wa­ter, and it had be­en bles­sed by so­me­one who wo­uldn’t ha­ve desc­ri­bed her­self as the le­ast bit re­li­gi­o­us, it wor­ked.

  The wa­ter ste­amed and his­sed as tho­ugh it had be­en drop­ped on to a hotp­la­te. And Phi­lip ac­tu­al­ly be­gan to burn away.

  He didn’t scre­am, he didn’t turn and run, he just sto­od the­re, his dark eyes glo­we­ring whi­le the wa­ter ran down his fa­ce, etc­hing de­ep, smo­king run­nels in­to his flesh.

  ‘I win!’ she sho­uted. ‘I win and you lo­se, de­mon! Get thee h
en­ce!’

  She sho­ok mo­re wa­ter from the bot­tle. One of Phi­lip’s glo­we­ring eyes dis­sol­ved and ran down his fa­ce li­ke smo­ul­de­ring jel­ly.

  ‘Whe­re’s El­len?’ she de­man­ded.

  And when Phi­lip spo­ke it was with the vo­ice of the de­mon he re­al­ly was.

  ‘Go­ne,’ he gra­ted. ‘Used up. Dra­ined. Flat, li­ke a bat­tery.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘What did we do to her,’ Phi­lip cor­rec­ted from be­hind the stin­king ste­am that was co­ve­ring his fa­ce. ‘We used her, Snowy. Me and you. We cha­ined her to the ho­use and let the ho­use ta­ke her po­wer. Li­ke fe­eding the fur­na­ce. Everyt­hing ne­eds fu­el to work. Black Rock runs on pa­in and fe­ar, and on li­fe and so­ul. El­len is go­ne, in spi­rit and in body. Used up.’

  ‘What abo­ut Janie and Mar­tin and James?’

  ‘All de­ad.’

  She sho­ok mo­re wa­ter over him. ‘Li­ar!’

  ‘Janie’s in the ba­se­ment scre­aming in agony. Can’t you he­ar the ec­ho­es? Mar­tin and James are both go­ne, too.’

  Snar­ling, she threw the re­ma­in­der of the wa­ter over him.

  Phi­lip’s body sud­denly lo­oked as if all the bo­nes and or­gans had be­en re­mo­ved; his skin col­lap­sed in­si­de his su­it and his su­it fol­ded to the gro­und, ste­aming.

  S’n’J ga­zed down at the clot­hes and saw Phi­lip’s bo­ne­less wrists and hands han­ging out of his sle­eves li­ke a set of def­la­ted party bal­lo­ons. A bag of ha­ir stuck out of the neck of his shirt.

  As she watc­hed, the empty skin withd­rew in­to the su­it as if it was shrin­king.

  ‘Be­go­ne!’ she sho­uted and sho­ok the last few drips of wa­ter from the bot­tle.

  ‘Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed?’ a vo­ice sa­id from be­si­de her.

  She spun ro­und, and the­re was Phi­lip, so­aked in wa­ter, but not even slightly da­ma­ged. She tur­ned back to the pla­ce whe­re his empty su­it was - ex­cept that it wasn’t and pro­bably ne­ver had be­en. She had just hal­lu­ci­na­ted all of that.