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Black Rock

Page 50

by Steve Harris


  The li­on, when it was comp­le­te, was to­tal­ly gol­den. Its eyes, its te­eth, its claws. A tra­vesty of a re­al li­on, its he­ad se­emed to be all jaws and te­eth. It did not lo­ok at all nob­le, mo­re li­ke a be­ast that had be­en de­sig­ned and bu­ilt in hell.

  It ro­ared and re­ared up on its hind legs li­ke a frigh­te­ned hor­se, swi­ping at the air in front of it, strug­gling for­wards aga­inst the mol­ten gold that was still po­uring in­to it.

  And then it was free.

  So­mew­he­re out to sea, thun­der crac­ked.

  And in the fo­re­co­urt of Black Rock, it be­gan to snow.

  The snow fell in hu­ge blin­ding fla­kes that blur­red James’ vi­si­on.

  And the gol­den ani­mal char­ged out from the do­or­way, ste­aming as it met the snow, le­aving mel­ted fo­otp­rints in the frost.

  It got to Mar­tin in three hu­ge bo­unds.

  James saw Mar­tin’s axe-hand­le fly and he­ard the de­ade­ned thud as it sto­ve in­to the li­on’s he­ad. Then the li­on was re­aring up and slas­hing with its claws.

  James ham­me­red ac­ross the fo­re­co­urt, brin­ging the axe up as he ran.

  Mar­tin scre­amed and struck out aga­in.

  The li­on bel­lo­wed, bac­ked off and le­apt at him.

  Thro­ugh the blin­ding snow, James ca­ught glimp­ses of the be­ast hit­ting Mar­tin in the chest, and Mar­tin fal­ling.

  As James ar­ri­ved, the li­on sank its te­eth in­to Mar­tin’s leg. James saw his chan­ce. The li­on’s hind­qu­ar­ters we­re fa­cing him, its ta­il was up and it was ma­le. James he­aved the axe at its tes­tic­les. Gol­den flesh split, ste­aming yel­low li­qu­id po­ured out and the li­on ro­ared in what James ho­ped was ext­re­me pa­in.

  The ani­mal tur­ned to­wards him, but he was re­ady and wa­iting for it. As its paw ca­me up, claws ex­ten­ded, James struck aga­in. The jar­ring shock al­most to­re the axe from his hands. He bac­ked away as the li­on slas­hed at him, its paw now half se­ve­red and its claws ret­rac­ted. The hot yel­low li­qu­id was po­uring from the wo­und.

  The li­on snar­led at him and tur­ned away. It lim­ped past Mar­tin who was trying to get him­self up off the gro­und, then tur­ned aro­und and cro­uc­hed. The mo­ment that James re­ali­zed it was not sit­ting down be­ca­use it was hurt but be­ca­use it in­ten­ded to po­un­ce, it was in the air.

  It ca­me down on Mar­tin and its jaws loc­ked aro­und his inj­ured leg.

  ‘get it off me!’ Mar­tin shri­eked, thum­ping at its he­ad with the pick-axe hand­le. Aro­und his legs the snow was red with his blo­od.

  James le­apt over his body, skid­ded to a halt be­si­de the li­on, bro­ught the axe up over his he­ad and bro­ught it down with all his strength in­to the li­on’s back­bo­ne.

  The li­on scre­amed, but it didn’t let go of Mar­tin’s leg.

  Mar­tin scre­ec­hed.

  James sto­od ast­ri­de Mar­tin, aimed and whac­ked the axe down in­to the li­on’s fa­ce. Ste­aming yel­low blo­od po­ured in­to the snow, mi­xing with the red from Mar­tin’s leg.

  The li­on ra­ised its bro­ken he­ad.

  James hit it aga­in.

  The li­on how­led, long and hard.

  And then it ce­ased to exist.

  What it had do­ne, ho­we­ver, re­ma­ined.

  ‘My leg. Fuck fuck fuck. It hurts!’ Mar­tin squ­e­aled.

  James knelt be­si­de him. Mar­tin’s right leg was so badly mang­led bet­we­en the knee and the hip that it was dif­fi­cult to tell which bits we­re the ma­te­ri­al of his torn tro­users, and which we­re torn pi­eces of flesh. The­re was an ar­tery go­ne in the­re so­mew­he­re, James knew, be­ca­use down by Mar­tin’s knee, blo­od was jet­ting, just li­ke it did in the films.

  ‘It hurts!’ Mar­tin mo­aned aga­in. His jac­ket and shirt we­re in rib­bons too, his chest was badly cut and the­re we­re fo­ur punc­tu­re marks on his left hip but the­se wo­unds we­re not the im­por­tant ones. The im­por­tant one was the ar­tery. That was whe­re Mar­tin’s li­fe was pum­ping away from him.

  ‘We’ve got to get you to hos­pi­tal,’ James sa­id, pus­hing his thumbs in­to the knee wo­und. It didn’t clamp off the flow of blo­od li­ke it did in the mo­vi­es; all it did was ma­ke Mar­tin scre­am and ma­ke the blo­od squ­irt out un­der high pres­su­re.

  ‘Get in the­re and get Essy!’ Mar­tin mo­aned. ‘Don’t worry abo­ut me. He’ll be we­ak now. Just get in the­re and get her out!’

  ‘You’ll die!’ James sa­id.

  Mar­tin pus­hed him­self up on his el­bows. ‘Every­body di­es,’ he his­sed. ‘It’s just a qu­es­ti­on of when.’

  ‘I can’t just let you die,’ James sa­id.

  Mar­tin grit­ted his te­eth. ‘Then pull my belt off me and put a fuc­king to­ur­ni­qu­et aro­und my fuc­king knee, you wan­ker! Don’t you know an­y­t­hing abo­ut first aid?’

  Wor­king qu­ickly, James got the belt aro­und Mar­tin’s knee and pul­led it tight. It didn’t stem the flow of blo­od en­ti­rely, but it had sub­si­ded qu­ite a lot.

  ‘That’ll be fi­ne,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘Now get in the­re and get yo­ur Drezy, we can fight abo­ut who gets to ke­ep her af­ter­wards. And if you’re not out in fi­ve mi­nu­tes, I’m get­ting up, go­ing back to my car and dri­ving myself to Barns­tap­le hos­pi­tal. So hurry up.’

  James do­ub­ted that Mar­tin co­uld stand, let alo­ne walk. It was all just co­ura­ge­o­us talk. But it wor­ked.

  James re­ac­hed the do­or, to­ok hold of the do­or knob - from the cent­re of which the we­re-li­on gla­red sul­lenly at him - and pus­hed.

  The do­or, as he had an­ti­ci­pa­ted, re­ma­ined firmly clo­sed aga­inst him.

  He tur­ned ro­und to glan­ce at Mar­tin and co­uldn’t see him thro­ugh the flur­ri­es of snow that we­re fal­ling.

  He al­re­ady knew that the fi­re-axe wo­uldn’t ta­ke the do­or down, but the­re didn’t se­em to be any ot­her way. He sto­od back and swung the axe.

  He might just as well ha­ve tri­ed to chop the bar­rel off a Chi­ef­ta­in tank. In fact, he de­ci­ded, ins­pec­ting the spot whe­re the axe had struck, you wo­uld ha­ve pro­bably had mo­re suc­cess do­ing that.

  He swung the axe aga­in, at the do­or knob this ti­me. He tho­ught he saw sparks and a few glit­te­ring flecks of gold fal­ling, but when he lo­oked, the knob was as un­da­ma­ged as the do­or it­self had be­en.

  De­fe­ated, he glan­ced at the snow be­hind him - which was ra­pidly tur­ning in­to a bliz­zard - then he bal­led his fist and knoc­ked gently.

  And the do­or ope­ned.

  The hall was as ba­re as it had be­en ear­li­er. James went in­si­de. The first do­or he ope­ned was the one that led in­to the lo­un­ge. This ti­me the­re was no sea bed in the­re. It was just an or­di­nary empty ro­om. He went to the far end of the lo­un­ge and lo­oked out of the back win­dow. Out­si­de, abo­ve the overg­rown gar­den, the sky was cle­ar. The­re was a pro­fu­si­on of wild spring flo­wers gro­wing in the gar­den. The sea down be­hind the rock was calm.

  James hur­ri­ed back to the win­dow which lo­oked out on the fo­re­co­urt. It se­emed im­pos­sib­le that it was win­ter on one si­de of the bu­il­ding and spring on the ot­her.

  It was im­pos­sib­le. It was spring on this si­de of the bu­il­ding too.

  And the­re we­re ot­her chan­ges: the fo­re­co­urt was no lon­ger co­ve­red in gra­vel; the­re was a bar­red ga­te ac­ross the ent­ran­ce; the bus­hes that ran aro­und the pe­ri­me­ter of the pro­perty we­re go­ne. And last, but hardly le­ast, the­re was no sign of Mar­tin.

  I’ve go­ne back in ti­me, James told him­self. Back to be­fo­re Pe­ter Per­fect mo­ved in. That’s why the­re’s no fur­ni­tu­re or fit­tings in he­re. That’s how t
he se­asons ha­ve chan­ged. The bus­hes aro­und the pe­ri­me­ter ha­ven’t even be­en plan­ted yet. What ye­ar is this then?

  What ye­ar it was didn’t mat­ter, he knew. The im­por­tant thing was fin­ding out if the­re was a link from whe­re he was now to the ti­me at which he’d en­te­red the bu­il­ding. Drezy wasn’t go­ing to be back he­re in ni­ne­te­en hund­red and wha­te­ver it was. From whe­re he was stan­ding she was in the fu­tu­re.

  What if you can’t get back to whe­re you star­ted from? he as­ked him­self as he hur­ri­ed back down the lo­un­ge to­wards its re­ar do­or. It might be eighty-odd ye­ars ago out the­re.

  He thrust the tho­ught out of his mind and be­gan to se­arch. The en­ti­re bu­il­ding was empty but in the ro­om ups­ta­irs, the one that Drezy sa­id was Pe­ter Per­fect’s wri­ting ro­om, he tho­ught that when he lis­te­ned ca­re­ful­ly he co­uld he­ar ec­ho­es of Drezy’s vo­ice.

  But the­re was no ho­le in the fab­ric of re­ality to crawl thro­ugh, no ve­il who­se cor­ner co­uld be lif­ted to al­low him un­der.

  Even­tu­al­ly he ga­ve up lis­te­ning for the ec­ho­es of the fu­tu­re and went back downs­ta­irs, to whe­re the clo­sed front do­or was wa­iting for him.

  He re­ac­hed out and to­ok hold of the cold do­or knob and the do­or ope­ned.

  The blast of cold air and snow that shot in at him al­most knoc­ked him over. Out­si­de, a bliz­zard was in full swing.

  James tur­ned back, but the in­te­ri­or of the ho­use was still in the past. The­re we­re no fix­tu­res or fit­tings, no de­ep pi­le car­pet. The ho­use wasn’t go­ing to let him in and that was that.

  He ran out in­to the snow - which was ank­le de­ep - and he­aded for the pink-tin­ged patch whe­re Mar­tin lay. He was half-bu­ri­ed. His eyes we­re clo­sed and snow had set­tled over his eye­lids and down the li­ne of his no­se.

  ‘Wwwww?’ Mar­tin mur­mu­red in a shud­de­ring qu­es­ti­oning to­ne.

  ‘I co­uldn’t get her,’ James sa­id, kne­eling in the snow be­si­de Mar­tin and sit­ting him up. The ho­use is fle­xib­le in ti­me. It let me in but on the in­si­de it’s ye­ars ago. Be­fo­re Pe­ter Per­fect ca­me. I co­uldn’t find a way to Drezy.’

  ‘Got­tta­a­a­ah­hh,’ Mar­tin shud­de­red. His he­ad fell aga­inst James’ chest.

  James sho­ok his he­ad. His eyes blur­red with te­ars. ‘Can’t do it,’ he sa­id. ‘And any­way I’m go­ing to ha­ve to get you out of he­re be­fo­re you die. I’ll co­me back af­ter­wards. And I’ll ke­ep co­ming back un­til I get Drezy back. I swe­ar.’

  He sto­od, ho­is­ted Mar­tin up, put him over his sho­ul­der and be­gan to walk back to­wards the car.

  This was the re­sult of ac­ting li­ke a bo­ok he­ro, he re­ali­zed as he trud­ged up to­wards the car. If he hadn’t be­en so stu­pid last night, no­ne of this ne­ed ha­ve hap­pe­ned. He co­uld ha­ve stop­ped Drezy co­ming he­re.

  But it was too la­te for this now. You only got one chan­ce and if you fuc­ked it up, that was to­ugh. That was re­al li­fe. One ti­me only, no rep­lays.

  He re­ac­hed Mar­tin’s car and prop­ped him up aga­inst the si­de of it whi­le he yan­ked open the car do­or. Mar­tin was too far go­ne to even squ­e­ak at the ro­ugh tre­at­ment his leg was re­ce­iving as James put him in the car.

  James got in, star­ted the car, pus­hed the he­ater cont­rols to ma­xi­mum, tur­ned on the fan, se­lec­ted re­ver­se and lo­oked up the hill over his sho­ul­der. It was a long, ste­ep back­wards dri­ve to the top and the­re was snow on the gro­und. The­re wasn’t so much of it up he­re, but eno­ugh to ma­ke it dif­fi­cult.

  But James tho­ught he co­uld ma­na­ge it.

  ‘You’re go­ing to be OK,’ he told Mar­tin and be­gan to dri­ve.

  I’ll co­me back, he told him­self as he re­ver­sed away from Drezy. Hang on Drezy, I’ll co­me back!

  33 - The Story’s End

  The words she had writ­ten ear­li­er rang thro­ugh S’n’J’s he­ad as she sto­od at the win­dow watc­hing James carry Mar­tin away thro­ugh the snow.

  And now that po­wer was dra­ining away. The­re wasn’t eno­ugh of it to hold everyt­hing in pla­ce, she tho­ught to her­self bit­terly as James and Mar­tin re­ac­hed the ga­te­posts and slip­ped out of vi­ew be­hind a swir­ling blan­ket of fal­ling snow. For so­me­one who was now sup­po­sed to be mor­tal aga­in and ra­pidly lo­sing his grip, Phi­lip had just ma­na­ged a mind-wrenc­hing show of for­ce.

  Po­wer­less to in­ter­ve­ne sin­ce the do­or had clo­sed on her, trap­ping her in the work-ro­om, S’n’J had sto­od at the win­dow watc­hing it all fif­te­en fe­et be­low her on the fo­re­co­urt. She’d wit­nes­sed the whirl­winds and when James and Mar­tin had sur­vi­ved them, she’d che­ered and punc­hed the air with her fist, kno­wing in her he­art that her pi­ece of wri­ting was go­ing to co­me true.

  She’d he­ard what hap­pe­ned when the do­or ope­ned for them downs­ta­irs, and abo­ve the cons­tant wa­il that Janie had be­en ma­king - and still was - she’d de­tec­ted the so­unds of ra­ised vo­ices and anot­her vo­ice that so­un­ded li­ke Bil­ly-Joe’s.

  Then her in­tu­iti­on told her that Phi­lip was lo­sing po­wer and in a mo­ment Mar­tin and James wo­uld be char­ging up the sta­irs to res­cue her.

  But it didn’t hap­pen.

  Inste­ad, they be­gan to sho­ut at one anot­her, the­ir vo­ices tight with pa­nic. And as she lis­te­ned, trying to work out what they we­re sa­ying, the who­le ho­use se­emed to shift on its fo­un­da­ti­ons. And S’n’J be­gan to un­he­ar what James and Mar­tin had al­re­ady sa­id. The­ir calls and res­pon­ses rep­la­yed them­sel­ves back­wards, fa­ding away. It was al­most as if they we­re be­ing thrust away from her, back­wards in ti­me.

  No ti­me pas­sed at all be­fo­re they ca­me sprin­ting back out of the ho­use with a tho­usand tiny balls of fi­re cha­sing them. Then, out the­re on the fo­re­co­urt, Mar­tin and James we­re ob­vi­o­usly re­ad­ying them­sel­ves for an at­tack which was go­ing to co­me from the vi­ci­nity of the front do­or. S’n’J co­uld only ma­ke gu­es­ses as to its na­tu­re.

  Her mind re­al­ly be­gan to re­el when a black prin­ted li­ne of mu­sic ap­pe­ared in the glass of the win­dow in front of her. She co­uld not re­ad mu­sic at all, but she knew what tu­ne she was be­ing shown.

  The no­tes all lo­oked so­lid and as if they we­re three-di­men­si­onal rat­her than flat print. In a da­ze she re­ac­hed up and to­uc­hed the co­ol glass, ex­pec­ting to fe­el rid­ges. But the no­tes we­re in­si­de the glass.

  This didn’t stop them from pla­ying the­ir tu­ne for her when she ran her fin­ger along the staff that con­ta­ined them. The tu­ne was the Pe­ter Per­fect ren­di­ti­on of ‘Frosty the Snow­man’ and the mo­ment she he­ard the me­lody, snow be­gan to fall out­si­de and so­met­hing gol­den that lo­oked li­ke a li­on with its gra­ce and no­bi­lity re­mo­ved sprang from the step, ro­aring.

  S’n’J be­gan to scre­am when the li­onthing fo­und Mar­tin, then clam­ped her mo­uth shut be­ca­use she co­uld fe­el the ho­use sip­ho­ning the scre­am away from her and fe­eding on it. Downs­ta­irs in the cel­lar, Janie’s scre­ams we­re gro­wing fa­in­ter so the­re was a go­od chan­ce Black Rock was go­ing to run out of po­wer if, for on­ce in her li­fe, Sa­rah-Jane co­uld ke­ep her ter­ror un­der cont­rol.

  Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey lay cur­led up on the flo­or be­si­de the bro­ken com­pu­ter ca­se and she fo­cu­sed on him.

  ‘Get up dog!’ she his­sed, thin­king, I ha­ve no fe­ar. Tho­ugh I walk thro­ugh the val­ley of the sha­dow of de­ath I will fe­ar no evil. I will fe­ar no evil. I will fe­ar no Phi­lip.

  Di­amond ra­ised his he­ad, coc­ked an ear, lis­te­ned, then put his no­se back un­d
er his ta­il.

  Downs­ta­irs Janie sud­denly fell si­lent.

  S’n’J felt her die. The sen­sa­ti­on was that of so­me­one pluc­king a bri­ef, sad glis­san­do upon the strings of her he­art.

  Go­ne, S’n’J told her­self and felt te­ars be­gin to fill her eyes.

  Ten se­conds la­ter, the li­on ce­ased ro­aring and S’n’J drew a de­ep shud­de­ring bre­ath. We­re Mar­tin and James go­ne too?

  Ten se­conds af­ter that, she he­ard so­me­one char­ge in­to the ho­use and re­ali­zed that, aga­inst all the odds, James had sur­vi­ved. A tiny fla­me of ho­pe lit in her he­art… and was ex­tin­gu­is­hed aga­in when she cal­led out for him be­ca­use her vo­ice ca­ught in her thro­at and sud­denly James was un­run­ning in­to the ho­use, va­nis­hing back­wards in ti­me aga­in.

  S’n’J tur­ned to go back to the win­dow simply be­ca­use the­re was not­hing el­se she co­uld do.

  And the­re was James in front of her.

  ‘James!’ she cri­ed.

  He lo­oked di­rectly at her but didn’t se­em to see her. He ca­me to­wards her as she spo­ke aga­in, and her ho­pes we­re das­hed. He was he­re but he was not he­re. The sur­fa­ce of his body rip­pled as tho­ugh he was ma­de of gently stir­ring wa­ter and when he mo­ved she co­uld see thro­ugh him.

  ‘Whe­re are you?’ she mo­aned. ‘I’m he­re, in front of you! Co­me back to me!’

  She held out her arms to him as he ca­me clo­ser and her hands pas­sed thro­ugh him. The pla­ce whe­re he sto­od was ma­de of fre­ezing air.

  She fol­lo­wed James to the end of the ro­om, yel­ling at him, then she fol­lo­wed him back aga­in, to the do­or.

  ‘Don’t go out!’ she wa­iled as he to­ok hold of the do­or hand­le and tur­ned it. I’m he­re!’

  James ope­ned the do­or.

  Except that it didn’t open. He lo­oked as if he was mi­ming the ac­ti­on.

  So­mew­he­re, S’n’J knew, in anot­her ti­me, the in­vi­sib­le do­or he was ope­ning re­al­ly did exist. She just co­uldn’t see it be­ca­use James was in the past or the fu­tu­re. All she was se­e­ing was a ref­lec­ti­on of James ac­ross ti­me.

 

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