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Black Rock

Page 44

by Steve Harris


  Snowy nod­ded. She was mo­re con­cer­ned with what was go­ing on in­si­de her own he­ad. As he spo­ke, all her me­mo­ri­es we­re co­ming back. She was now mo­re Sa­rah-Jane than Snowy and trying to ke­ep up with the fresh chan­ges.

  Phi­lip smi­led. ‘Do you re­mem­ber ha­ving a dre­am in which the­re was a do­or be­hind this com­pu­ter which ope­ned out in­to our bed­ro­om?’

  ‘Yes,’ Snowy sa­id. Her vo­ice so­un­ded dif­fe­rent, a lit­tle less be­mu­sed and a lit­tle mo­re frigh­te­ned. In­si­de her a lit­tle girl had sud­denly wo­ken up and the lit­tle girl was dan­ge­ro­us be­ca­use she tho­ught the idea of be­ing ab­le to open a win­dow on to God or on to the po­wer so­ur­ce that ma­de re­ality, or wha­te­ver it was, was an ama­zingly go­od one. This lit­tle girl mar­vel­led at what you co­uld do with such po­wer and badly wan­ted to hold it in her hands.

  In pretty much the sa­me way as Phi­lip Win­ter do­es, Snowy tho­ught bit­terly. Ap­pa­rently it’s true abo­ut po­wer cor­rup­ting.

  Phi­lip was tal­king aga­in. ‘You sho­uld re­mem­ber that dre­am, be­ca­use I wro­te the en­ti­re se­qu­en­ce for you. It was a play­ful lit­tle hint. And it’s true. It’s one of the ef­fects of the pla­ce­ment of the ho­use, you see. This wall, aga­inst which my tab­le and word-pro­ces­sor stand, is the re­ar wall of the ho­use, isn’t it? So what sho­uld be di­rectly be­hind the com­pu­ter?’

  Snowy sud­denly knew what he me­ant. The­re sho­uld ha­ve be­en a win­dow the­re. The one be­hind her - from which blasts of bril­li­ant light so­me­ti­mes sho­ne - was the­re, but the ot­her was mis­sing.

  Phi­lip nod­ded. ‘You’ve got it. This win­dow exists only on the out­si­de. It’s one of the co­unt­less things that gi­ves the ho­use its charm. If you we­re to climb a lad­der up to it you’d be ab­le to see in­to this ro­om thro­ugh it. I think that’s rat­her swe­et.’

  Snowy ga­zed at Phi­lip in awe, dis­tantly tel­ling her­self that it must ha­ve be­en li­ke this watc­hing Jesus spe­ak. It was dif­fi­cult not to be­co­me enc­han­ted. It wasn’t the sum of his fe­atu­res that ma­de him be­a­uti­ful; it was his cha­ris­ma. He se­emed to shi­ne with a gol­den in­ner light. The po­wer in him drew her li­ke a mag­net and his vo­ice was li­ke the song of the Si­rens: if she didn’t gi­ve in and go to him, she was go­ing to end up with a bra­in li­ke scramb­led eggs.

  Phi­lip smi­led aga­in, as if he knew exactly what ef­fect his pre­sen­ce was ha­ving on her. ‘The re­ason the­re is no win­dow on the in­si­de of the ho­use is the sa­me re­ason that the­re are no back or si­de do­ors at the far end of eit­her of the cor­ri­dors. All the­se pla­ces me­et the po­wer so­ur­ce. If the­re we­re do­ors the­re and a win­dow he­re, and you ope­ned them, you’d be con­su­med in what wo­uld se­em li­ke hell-fi­re. Yo­ur dre­am that you co­uld open a do­or in this wall and walk thro­ugh it to our bed­ro­om do­esn’t ma­ke sen­se be­ca­use be­yond this wall is the back gar­den. The de­light­ful thing is this… watch!’

  Phi­lip swung his se­at ro­und un­til he was fa­cing the com­pu­ter scre­en. He le­aned to the si­de of it and pla­ced his fin­ger­tips on the wall be­hind it. ‘Don’t do this at ho­me, boys and girls,’ he sa­id, glan­cing at her over his sho­ul­der. ‘Uncle Phil knows what he’s do­ing, but you lit­tle folk will get yo­ur fin­gers sin­ged if you try it.’

  He tur­ned back and wal­ked his fin­ger­tips clo­ser to the back of the com­pu­ter scre­en. Then he nod­ded. The win­dow’s open a crack just he­re,’ he sa­id. This is whe­re I ac­cess it with. the com­pu­ter. He­re go­es!’

  He pres­sed aga­inst the wall. Snowy co­uld see lit­tle cir­cu­lar in­den­ta­ti­ons aro­und his fin­ger­tips as the wall ga­ve be­ne­ath them. His fin­gers pe­net­ra­ted it and his hand slid in up to his wrist. The plas­ter puc­ke­red aro­und his skin, re­min­ding Snowy of tho­se ve­te­ri­nary prog­ram­mes whe­re they we­re al­ways put­ting the­ir arms in­to cows. But the wi­de-eyed lit­tle girl in­si­de her was de­ligh­ted.

  Snowy sud­denly un­ders­to­od why Sa­rah-Jane’s mot­her had al­ways tri­ed to kill off that part of her per­so­na­lity. It wasn’t be­ca­use the lit­tle girl wan­ted ma­gic mo­re than anyt­hing el­se in the world, it was be­ca­use she wo­uld be pre­pa­red to ac­cept any amo­unt of cha­os in or­der to ac­hi­eve it. The lit­tle girl didn’t ca­re abo­ut the con­se­qu­en­ces. The lit­tle girl was bad.

  The lit­tle girl was al­so in the as­cen­dancy.

  Phi­lip knew this. This was what it was all abo­ut. He knew his graft of Snowy on to Sa­rah-Jane hadn’t ta­ken, so now he was trying to se­du­ce Sa­rah-Jane her­self.

  And Sa­rah-Jane wan­ted to be se­du­ced.

  ‘If you we­re to go in­to the bed­ro­om, you’d find that my hand is wa­ving at you from the wall,’ Phi­lip sa­id.

  In that mo­ment, the rem­nants of Snowy cur­led up li­ke bur­ning cel­lop­ha­ne and fell away in as­hes.

  And Sa­rah-Jane fo­und her­self with a big grin on her fa­ce, her rol­ling-pin tuc­ked un­der her arm, and her hands po­ised re­ady to pro­vi­de the ap­pla­use that was su­rely ne­ces­sary.

  She gla­red at her hands and put them down to her si­des, whe­re they re­fu­sed to fe­el com­for­tab­le. She cros­sed her arms and trap­ped her twitc­hing hands be­ne­ath her arm­pits.

  It’s wrong! she ad­mo­nis­hed her­self. He wants you to want to stay with him. Don’t let it hap­pen! Re­mem­ber what he’s do­ing to Janie to ac­hi­eve this, and what he did to El­len.

  Phi­lip drew his hand back, twis­ted ro­und in his cha­ir and held out his arm for her ins­pec­ti­on.

  S’n’J knew that it wasn’t pos­sib­le for a man’s fin­gers, hand and wrist to glow red-hot li­ke me­tal, but this was exactly what she saw. Phi­lip’s hand was al­most mol­ten and tend­rils of stin­king smo­ke we­re cur­ling away from it. She co­uld fe­el the ra­di­ant he­at even from ten fe­et away. The­re was a thick gold ring aro­und his mid­dle fin­ger and it was mel­ting.

  ‘See what I me­an abo­ut hell-fi­re?’ Phi­lip as­ked, ins­pec­ting his hand. He to­ok the mel­ting me­tal of the ring bet­we­en the fo­re­fin­ger and thumb of his ot­her hand, se­emingly ob­li­vi­o­us of the sud­den pall of grey smo­ke and the smell of char­ring flesh that aro­se, and pic­ked the gold away. He drop­ped the soft blob of hot me­tal in­to the palm of his go­od hand and clo­sed his fin­gers aro­und it. His hand siz­zled and ste­am shot out from the si­des of his fist.

  ‘I know you think I’m a ghost, Snowy, but I’m re­al flesh and blo­od. It’s simply that my flesh and blo­od is no lon­ger or­di­nary. I’m an in­car­na­ti­on. A new god. I fo­und the ho­use, I fo­und out how to use it and now I’ve bum­ped myself up the sca­le from man to su­per­man to mor­tal god. The next step is im­mor­tal god. That’s whe­re we’re go­ing, you and me. We’re go­ing to be up the­re pla­ying with the big boys. Co­me on! Lo­ok! Ma­gic!’

  He sud­denly threw the mel­ted blob of gold at her.

  S’n’J ref­le­xi­vely put out her hand and ca­ught it. The ring was who­le aga­in. It was still hot - al­most hot eno­ugh to burn - but it was as per­fect as a new one.

  ‘If that’s a pro­po­sal, I’m af­ra­id I’ll ha­ve to turn it down,’ she sa­id, and threw the ring back.

  Phi­lip wa­ved his hand li­ke the qu­e­en might ha­ve do­ne from the ro­yal car­ri­age, in a short se­mi-cir­cu­lar mo­ti­on.

  Half-way ac­ross the ro­om the ring tur­ned to gold dust which glit­te­red to the flo­or.

  ‘You don’t un­ders­tand, do you, Snowy?’

  ‘The­re is no Snowy,’ S’n’J sa­id, glan­cing be­hind her. The do­or was still open.

  ‘Snowy, I know what you’re thin­king. I wro­te all this, re­mem­ber? You’re won­de­
ring if you co­uld get out of the ro­om be­fo­re I ha­ve ti­me to clo­se the do­or. You’re for­get­ting that I al­re­ady know the out­co­me.’

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘This part isn’t writ­ten yet.’

  ‘You lo­ok so con­fu­sed and swe­et, stan­ding the­re in my shirt with yo­ur lit­tle rol­ling-pin tuc­ked un­der yo­ur arm. Just li­ke a sexy lit­tle toy sol­di­er/ Phi­lip sa­id. ‘You aren’t su­re if this part is writ­ten or not, are you? You think you’ve es­ca­ped Snowy and that you’re Sa­rah-Jane aga­in, but you don’t know if it’s only tem­po­rary. You’re won­de­ring what’s in that fi­le you didn’t ha­ve ti­me to lo­ok at, aren’t you? The one that con­ta­ins the out­li­ne no­tes for Black Rock. Well, my pretty lit­tle Snowd­rop, I’ll tell you what’s in that fi­le. It’s our his­tory. I ha­ven’t inc­lu­ded it in the ma­in text yet be­ca­use it isn’t fi­nis­hed. But it go­es furt­her than you think. Back­wards and for­wards from this po­int.’

  ‘Li­ar!’

  Phi­lip lo­oked ple­ased. ‘Lying is what I’m best at,’ he sa­id. ‘Lying is what wri­ters li­ve for. To be gods and to tell li­es. The dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en me and all the ot­hers is that when I tell a lie it be­co­mes re­ality.’

  S’n’J de­li­be­ra­tely shif­ted her we­ight to her bad leg. His ho­ney-swe­et vo­ice ce­ased to ha­ve its mag­ne­tic ef­fect. He was tal­king aga­in now, but she ig­no­red the words and cut in over them. ‘What did you do to Za­ra?’ she as­ked thro­ugh te­eth that we­re clenc­hed with the pa­in. ‘She was yo­ur wi­fe, wasn’t she? The ori­gi­nal Mrs Win­ter.’

  Phi­lip fell si­lent and sta­yed that way for a long ti­me.

  ‘Well?’ she promp­ted, fe­eling the­re was a chan­ce for her af­ter all. She’d hit a raw ner­ve.

  ‘This is so­met­hing el­se I knew wo­uld hap­pen,’ he sa­id. ‘Li­ke I sa­id, the ghosts are a si­de-effect of the ho­use. The ho­use is a bit of a ma­ze. So­me of the win­dows open on to them­sel­ves. So­me of the tracks bet­we­en he­re and the­re are con­vo­lu­ted and le­ad to ot­her pla­ces. Cop­pleth­wa­ite bu­ilt in a few traps he didn’t know abo­ut. The­re are ghosts in this ho­use. Not only ghosts of hu­mans, but ghosts of the past. But you know this al­re­ady. You’ve spo­ken to so­me of tho­se ghosts on the te­lep­ho­ne. And from what they’ve told you, you’ve drawn conc­lu­si­ons, just as I an­ti­ci­pa­ted.’

  ‘You knew I’d work out that you we­re on­ce Fred King?’

  Phi­lip nod­ded. ‘Gu­ilty as char­ged,’ he sa­id. ‘After my wi­fe di­ed, I to­ok her sur­na­me so that every ti­me I wro­te my na­me I wo­uld com­me­mo­ra­te her. I drop­ped the Fred when it be­ca­me un­fas­hi­onab­le and be­ca­me Phi­lip ins­te­ad. Phi­lip Win­ter is the re­sult.

  ‘I used the pen na­me Pe­ter Per­fect be­ca­use I knew that it wo­uld ap­pe­al to the lit­tle girl in­si­de you, Snowy. The child­ren in­si­de us all want things back as they used to be, long ago. They re­mem­ber a yo­ung world gre­ener than gre­en and blu­er than blue, a sea that was col­der than dry ice and a sun that re­al­ly co­uld shri­vel yo­ur skin. They re­mem­ber how go­od it was to li­ve in a big fri­endly world whe­re dew glis­te­ned li­ke jewels on early mor­ning cob­webs and the days las­ted fo­re­ver. But most of all, they re­mem­ber the po­ten­ti­al for ma­gic. They ye­arn for the days when an­y­t­hing se­emed pos­sib­le; when the very air se­emed to shim­mer with po­wer.

  ‘And in­si­de Sa­rah-Jane the­re is a lit­tle girl who truly be­li­eved in ma­gic. This lit­tle girl be­li­eved - and still do­es be­li­eve - be­ca­use she saw re­al ma­gic hap­pe­ning. Saw it with her own eyes. Saw it dan­cing in the palm of a man’s hand. And that lit­tle girl wants re­al ma­gic back aga­in.’

  S’n’J squ­e­ezed her eyes shut aga­in. She knew he was re­fer­ring to her first ever vi­sit to Tin­ta­gel Cast­le and now the sub­mer­ged me­mory was swe­eping to­wards the sur­fa­ce, hu­ge and dark… but she fo­ught to ke­ep it down. She had to ke­ep her he­ad cle­ar and get things back on track. She lif­ted her fo­ot from the flo­or and let it fall.

  ‘How did Za­ra die?’ she per­sis­ted.

  ‘Ahh, tho­se te­lep­ho­ne ghosts of the past!’ he rep­li­ed. ‘I didn’t think they wo­uld tell you eno­ugh for you to work out that I was on­ce Fred King, but I sho­uld ha­ve known you wo­uld find out. You’re bright, Snowy. I’m pro­ud of you.’

  ‘Don’t pat­ro­ni­ze me, just tell me abo­ut Za­ra!’ S’n’J sa­id from be­hind her clo­sed eye­lids.

  ‘She was the lo­ve of a po­or fac­tory hand’s li­fe. A gre­ater lo­ve no man has ever known. I lo­ve you as I lo­ved her, Snowy be­ca­use you and she are iden­ti­cal. Two pe­as from the sa­me pod.’

  S’n’J ope­ned her eyes and sho­ok her he­ad. ‘No­pe!’ she sa­id. ‘If we we­re iden­ti­cal you wo­uldn’t want to turn me in­to Snowy, and then from Snowy in­to Za­ra. If we re­semb­le one anot­her in any way it must be pu­rely physi­cal.’

  ‘Wrong. Yo­ur per­so­na­li­ti­es are iden­ti­cal. All you ne­ed is her his­tory. I can do that in easy sta­ges. She was cal­led Snowy, too. A silly nick­na­me be­ca­use of her sur­na­me: Snowy Win­ter. I knew she wo­uld co­me back. I al­ways knew that, right from the start. I wa­ited for her. I li­ved in this ho­use and le­ar­ned how to use it, and I sta­yed yo­ung and wa­ited for her.’

  ‘But she ne­ver ca­me,’ S’n’J sa­id.

  ‘She’s he­re now. Stan­ding in front of me. A re­in­car­na­ti­on. You are Snowy, Sa­rah-Jane.’

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘You don’t get two chan­ces at it, Phi­lip. You ought to know that. Think of yo­ur blo­ody com­pu­ter. On­ce and on­ce only, that’s the si­ze of it.’

  Phi­lip’s exp­res­si­on had har­de­ned. ‘Don’t get me mad, Snowy! You won’t li­ke it!’

  ‘Is that what she did? Got you mad? So mad you kil­led her?’

  ‘I sac­ri­fi­ced her,’ he sa­id.

  ‘Mur­de­red her, you me­an. She up­set you and you mur­de­red her.’

  Phi­lip’s fa­ce cle­ared. S’n’J watc­hed the trans­for­ma­ti­on and was stun­ned. One mo­ment he’d lo­oked li­ke the psycho­path he was, the next every tra­ce of that exp­res­si­on had be­en wi­ped from his fa­ce.

  He smi­led. ‘Just he­ar me out. We mar­ri­ed, Za­ra and I. We we­re blis­sful­ly happy, wor­king all day and lo­ving all night. Then one of her re­la­ti­ves di­ed. Left her a gre­at de­al of mo­ney. We ca­me to Corn­wall and fo­und this ho­use stan­ding empty. We ma­de en­qu­iri­es and bo­ught it. It had a re­pu­ta­ti­on, but we didn’t ca­re. We mo­ved in and mar­vel­led at the stran­ge front do­or and the way you al­ways felt as if you we­re wal­king up or down­hill - so­me­ti­mes ac­ross the sa­me pi­ece of flo­or - un­til you got yo­ur Black Rock legs. We li­ved and lo­ved he­re, too. You know how it went. You’ve re­ad abo­ut it and you’ve li­ved it out. We we­re blis­sful­ly happy.

  ‘And then I ma­de a dis­co­very. It was the dog, you see. Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey. He was ali­ve then, not just a de­ad dog who won’t go away. I no­ti­ced that he co­uld get in­to the ho­use even tho­ugh all the do­ors and win­dows we­re shut. He wo­uld just turn up as he cho­se. I be­gan to re­se­arch. And I dis­co­ve­red that we we­re li­ving in a very spe­ci­al pla­ce. A dor­mant pla­ce that co­uld be put in­to ac­ti­on, if I co­uld so­me­how po­wer it up.

  ‘You see, Za­ra and I used to hold one anot­her and say, “What mo­re co­uld we ask for?” the ans­wer to which is ob­vi­o­us. It’s the ans­wer which any happy per­son wo­uld gi­ve: “I wish it co­uld go on fo­re­ver.” And I be­gan to be­li­eve it co­uld.

  ‘From Cop­pleth­wa­ite’s co­pi­o­us no­tes left in the lib­rary, I dis­co­ve­red how to ma­ke the ho­use work. I was go­ing to ha­ve
to ma­ke blo­od mu­sic. Per­form a sac­ri­fi­ce. Of co­ur­se, I didn’t do it. But the­re are so­me ide­as which, when they’ve oc­cur­red to you, just won’t go away. I be­ca­me ob­ses­sed. Even­tu­al­ly I be­gan to ex­pe­ri­ment. I to­ok small ani­mals to the ba­se­ment and sla­ugh­te­red them. Not­hing hap­pe­ned. I cap­tu­red lar­ger ani­mals - cats and dogs - and tor­tu­red and kil­led tho­se too. Then, one day when Za­ra was away vi­si­ting her pa­rents, and my mot­her was he­re, I to­ok her downs­ta­irs and kil­led her. It’s in the blo­od you see, kil­ling. My fat­her mur­de­red an Ita­li­an girl. He was hung for it.

  ‘But still not­hing hap­pe­ned. It wasn’t un­til I re­ali­zed the true na­tu­re of sac­ri­fi­ce that I dis­co­ve­red whe­re I was go­ing wrong. It’s no go­od sac­ri­fi­cing so­met­hing you don’t ca­re abo­ut, and that’s what I’d be­en do­ing all along. Just kil­ling. A true sac­ri­fi­ce me­ans gi­ving up so­met­hing you ca­re de­eply abo­ut. So­met­hing that it will hurt you to lo­se. So­met­hing you lo­ve. And the only thing I had that I lo­ved was Za­ra. My Snowy Win­ter.’

  Phi­lip’s eyes fil­led with te­ars. ‘I’m sorry my lo­ve,’ he sa­id to S’n’J. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you. But I kept my pro­mi­se. I bro­ught you back and now we can be to­get­her for ever. We’ll ne­ver die. We will be im­mor­tal.’

  S’n’J’s he­ad was spin­ning. She was ahe­ad of him now, way ahe­ad. ‘I’m not yo­ur Snowy,’ she sa­id. ‘I’m not her re­in­car­na­ti­on. She didn’t co­me back. They don’t. It’s one ti­me only.’

  Phi­lip nod­ded. ‘I know,’ he sa­id.

  ‘But you wa­ited for her. You chec­ked out all the lit­tle girls who ca­me by in ca­se one of them was Snowy. Born to dif­fe­rent pa­rents but the sa­me lit­tle girl. You wa­ited and watc­hed and she didn’t co­me. And in the early se­ven­ti­es you de­ci­ded to do so­met­hing const­ruc­ti­ve. Am I right?’

 

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