“Shots?”
“You’re not to worry, Laura. Grey’s got it in hand. Promise me you’ll go home. I could have been imagining things.”
But it was too late to say that. She said she would go home, just to stop him from worrying. In just a few minutes, she promised.
He left it at that, and after a minute or so he went away. She returned to the cliff top, but now her mind wasn’t on the bridge. She couldn’t prevent herself from looking round, searching for a glimpse of Den, and afraid of the decision she would have to face if she saw him. Grey was always in view. She was scared of catching his eye, in case he read what she was thinking.
So in the end she went back to the farm earlier than she had intended.
It was dark, had been for a long time. She knew at once that Den was home, because of the shadow in the barn that was the pick-up. But there was the relief in knowing that at least he was away from the cliff. She went in.
He was stripping and oiling a rifle on her scrubbed pine table.
She went at him in fury. “You’ve got oil on my table!” she screamed at him, because she had to cover her sudden terror.
He laughed, and as she ran at him, nails going for his eyes, he lashed out with his hand and sent her flying across the room.
Then he calmly set about putting it together again.
Thirteen
Marson was half demented with worry. The concrete was in at all four corners, the cables welded to two embedded girders the other side of the river, and the diesel winch bases this side were ready for bolting on, when the concrete was set. On the surface, things were going fine. He stood and watched, believing that nobody could know that he was raging inside at the futility of it. The whole scheme was based on the availability of a crane which could bear the weight of the truck. If he was denied the Jones there could be no happy ending.
He paced and thought, and juggled with permutations of the possibilities, and it all came back to the Jones.
Grey came and stood next to him, staring out at the wagon and saying it was all going well.
“Oh...sure,” Marson said.
“Hear the weather forecast?”
“No.”
“The wind’s easing up a bit, but they reckon on more rain.”
More rain meant less time. “Got any more cheerful news?”
Grey glanced at him. “How long?” he asked. “How long what, for God’s sake?”
“Before you get your cables rigged, and the whole thing suspended.”
“What time is it?” It was ten o’clock. “Five hours,” he said. “Four, perhaps. It depends on how well the concrete sets. How quick.”
“And then,” Grey suggested, “it’ll be safe to drop a team on there, and cut him out?”
He’d got something on his mind, Marson realised. It was clear that he hadn’t been paying enough attention to Grey. He was eager, intense, as far as Marson could tell in that light. But his eyes were deeply sunken and dark, and he seemed to be fading away inside his uniform.
“What gave you that idea?” Marson asked him. “Just a thought.”
Marson couldn’t see what he was getting at. There was an undertone to it he didn’t like. “A team, you say?” He decided to squash it, there and then. “It’d certainly need a team. Six men, perhaps. Even with the cables rigged it’ll be tricky — delicate. I’m not having a team of my men on there, not in any circumstances.”
Grey looked past him, not particularly disturbed that the operation couldn’t be speeded up.
“I’ve got to have the Jones,” Marson told him, trying to spread his desperation.
Then at last Grey turned to face him squarely. “The point is, Marson — I’ve had instructions.” His voice was a grumble — Grey was never pleased to take instructions — yet there was something that suggested he might have found them to his taste. “I’m to turn it back. As soon as it reaches the end of the footings, it’ll be leaving private property, and the question of theft would then arise.”
Marson went straight at him. “Once we get it on public roads, we’ll need a police escort—”
“You didn’t hear what I said. My understanding is that you’ve got no permission to use that crane. In effect, it’ll be stolen when it leaves the footings. I’m going to have to stop it.”
“Going to have to?” Marson shouted, his temper going. “You’re the bloody superintendent around here. Can’t you make your own decisions?”
“Sievewright’s got some very influential connections,” Grey said stiffly.
“So we play with politics and petty restrictions, while there’s a human being out there? We’ve got to do what’s necessary, and argue about it afterwards.”
Grey grimaced. “Shoot first, and argue later? All right for you.”
“It’s you it’s all right for,” Marson snapped.
“It’s not all right for me.”
Then why did Marson get the impression that it suited Grey in some way? Maybe it satisfied his tight little orderly mind.
“And you’ll be breaking the law, Marson,” Grey said, all gloomy self-satisfaction. “The Jones crane isn’t yours to order around.”
Incredible as it might seem, Marson realised that this was what Grey wanted — delay. As he stared at the superintendent in disbelief, he suddenly realised that Grey had said too much. A distant memory: a name, a reputation slotted together. Marson had an idea.
“So you do your duty,” he told Grey. “If it gives you any satisfaction.”
He thought that struck home. Grey looked at him suspiciously, then stalked away.
Marson spent the next few minutes looking for Allison. Things had gone quiet. All the work that was possible to do had been done, and most of the men were resting. The news people had gone away and the locals had lost interest, now that there seemed to be a lack of positive action. He couldn’t find Allison, so decided he must have gone home too. He went to his caravan, to think.
But Allison hadn’t left, and it was at the caravan that he found Marson. He stood in the doorway with his eyes on Marson in mute apology.
“Come in and shut the door,” Marson said.
“You didn’t give me a firm answer,” Allison reproved him gently.
This was no game for a man like Allison, with his life involved in words and their precise meanings, in theory. This was all too close to human life and suffering, and he couldn’t handle it.
“I don’t remember the question. Remind me.” “How long now — before it’s safe?”
Marson took him to the graph they had started, and which he had pinned to the wall. The slide of the bridge was plotted against time. This thing was going to be an acceleration; not an arithmetic progression but a logarithmic one. So that the graph was going to be an exponential curve, like the bell of a trumpet.
Marson explained it in detail. The curve had just begun to dip. Slip against time.
“When it goes vertical,” he explained carefully; patiently, “then the cliff’s gone. You can see, it’s beginning to progress. The curve’s indicating its line. I could develop it right now — and get an answer.” Marson showed him with a pencil.
“What time’s that?” Allison asked.
“Twelve hours from now.” Marson said it with the dedicated confidence of the theorist.
“You’re so certain.”
“With the weather as it is now. If it dries out, we’ll get a few more hours. More rain and we’ll have a few less.”
“And then the cliff will be safe?”
The man hadn’t understood a word. “No,” said Marson. “At that time the cliff’ll come down.”
Allison blinked. Sheer, blind weariness was blunting his thinking. He had always been proud of his clarity of mind, and was vexed with himself.
“It’ll be safe when I’ve got the slings under it. Then the cliffs will stop sliding. And that’s in about five hours.”
“Have I got your word for that?”
“Of course.”
; Allison nodded. Marson had presented him with time, a luxury now in Allison’s life. Time to make decisions; time to which he could put them off. He smiled wearily. “Thank you.”
He turned to leave. “Don’t go,” Marson said quickly. “I’m making coffee.”
“I’ll get off home...some rest...”
“I need your advice.”
“Mine?” Allison sat, more from surprise than intention.
“If you’re the Allison I’m thinking of. Haven’t I heard your name somewhere before?”
“Chris, the doctor. He’s a friend of mine. He might have mentioned me.”
“No, no. Years ago. When I was working at head office. Sevco.”
Frank was beginning to realise what Marson could have been getting at, but he had no idea why. “It’s possible.”
“You had something of a reputation, didn’t you? They always said the same thing: that you could work your way out of any contract, find a way to make anything legal.”
“Now look here—”
“It was you, wasn’t it? Frank Allison? Sievewright used to curse you every day.”
Despite Frank’s attempts to feign outrage, Marson’s words found their target with relative ease. Frank had been good at his job, and the pride he had taken in his work still remained, a memory made all the more glorious by the years that had passed. He had always fought for the underdog. The motorway campaign was the greatest challenge he had ever taken on, a fight that was all but hopeless. But he missed the victories. The times when he had got one over on Sievewright and his ilk — the millionaire businessmen squeezing every last penny out of the smaller firms they used — were the times he had felt happiest. Whether forcing them to pay a fair fee or tightening a clause which they had exploited for years or even finding a loop-hole they would never have dreamed of, he had come to know them. He liked to think that his name still gave them sleepless nights.
Marson watched him closely. The faint flicker of a smile told him all he needed to know. He launched at once into a detailed explanation of the problems with the Jones: Sievewright’s objections, Grey’s obstructions, the distance it still had to travel and the time it would take. Frank listened carefully, mulling over every word.
“Sievewright hasn’t changed then,” he said.
“Not one bit,” replied Marson.
“I’d never have expected him to care about the driver, but the publicity...can’t he see how well he’d do out of the whole thing?”
“All he can see is failure.” Marson shook his head miserably. “And he doesn’t want Sevco to have anything to do with failure.”
“And you really think Grey has his own agenda?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it is just that he has his hands tied by Sievewright. But he sounds to me like he’s got more on his mind than orders.”
“But why on earth would he want to delay things?” Allison’s tone was more of confusion than disbelief. “I mean, he won’t be able to arrest the driver if he’s stuck on the bridge; and surely it’s not in his interests — or anybody’s for that matter — for the bridge to fall?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Marson. “He’s a law unto himself.”
Frank gave a little smile, but Marson didn’t hear the joke. Allison was forced to get to the point. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Anything,” implored Marson, “anything at all. Use every trick in the book. Anything and everything you can think of. Just get me the Jones.”
Allison thought for a moment. It seemed to Marson that he already had an idea.
“This Jones. If I remember rightly, Sievewright doesn’t actually own it, does he?”
“As good as. He hires it. Says that he doesn’t have to pay for the maintenance that way. I can’t remember the firm...I think it begins with ‘s’...something like...”
“...Spofford’s” Allison finished for him.
“That’s it, Spofford’s. That’s quite a memory. But I don’t see how it will help. Sievewright’s got them wrapped around his little finger. The firm’s been using the Jones for God knows how many years. He’s got some special kind of renewable contract, I’m sure. An option. They can’t do anything without his say so.”
“Spofford’s of Leicester,” Frank continued, as though Marson hadn’t spoken at all. “I used to represent them, now and again.”
Marson came alive. “You used to what?”
“Represent them. Against Sevco, as often as not. They think of me quite fondly, as I recall.”
“Even so,” thought Marson out loud, “if they renege on their contract, Sievewright’ll have them in court before the Jones even gets here.”
“True enough,” Frank admitted. “But you said a very important little word just then. ‘Renewable.’ That’s exactly it: renewable. Sievewright keeps all his lenders on the same tight lease. Renewal every calendar month. That way he holds on to their machinery as long as he wants — they’ll never find so constant a source with another contractor — but he can throw it straight back at them at a moment’s notice.” Judging by his words, Marson would have expected a certain amount of disgust to be prevalent in Allison’s tone, but instead there was a hint of pleasure, and it grew stronger all the time.
“And how does this help us?” asked Marson, predictably.
“What is the time, Mr Marson?” smiled Allison.
Marson glanced at his watch. “Half-past ten.”
“And the date?”
“The date?” repeated Marson incredulously. “The thirtieth of September.”
“So there’s still time.”
“Time?” Time, as far as Marson knew, was the one thing they didn’t have.
“Time. To renew the contract for ourselves. We can hire the Jones. Starting from the first of October. Midnight.”
Marson was stunned. He reached for the first thing that entered his mind: “But it would cost—”
“A phone call,” interrupted Allison. “I told you, they think of me fondly.”
“What about Sievewright?”
“There’d be nothing he could do. If he really needs the Jones, he won’t have time to find another one, especially when Spofford’s offer him their services as soon as the rescue is complete. So Spofford’s will lose only a day’s rental; and they will appreciate the publicity.”
Marson noticed that the rescue he had hitherto thought of as impossible was now — in the hands of this enthusiastic lawyer — being referred to as though it were a certainty.
“And best of all,” Allison carried on, “Sievewright has no recourse to the law. None whatsoever. Because we will have done absolutely nothing wrong.”
Marson felt he could see how the man had got his reputation. Frank, meanwhile, was taken with the beauty of his own idea. He seemed a different person: for the first time in years there was hope, more than hope, of something other than failure.
He smiled winningly at Marson. “I’ll get back to my office. I should be able to reach Jon Spofford at home. And he can fax me the documentation. You get some rest.” He headed off into the cold.
Rest, thought Marson. How can I rest? Already he could hear the wind tumbling round the caravan. He put his coat on again and went out to check the bridge. He found Tony sitting in the Land-rover.
“Tony? Can’t you sleep?”
“Somebody’s got to listen out.”
“Hear anything?”
“He groans and mutters,” Tony said. “It gives me the creeps.”
“Then get out of there.” He did. Marson caught his shoulder as he turned away. “The Jones is on its way.”
Tony turned and walked away briskly, his shoulders squared.
“There’s some coffee in my caravan,” Marson shouted after him.
But Tony didn’t get to it. Before he was half-way there, Marson saw a small spark of red down in the shadowed cluster. Then it bloomed, and a sheet of flame ran up the end of his caravan.
He began to run towards it. The caravan went up in an explosion of f
ire when he was a hundred yards short.
Fourteen
There was no point, she knew, in fighting with him.
No point, really, in arguing, because Den couldn’t ever see any point but his own. But she tried. She stood over him at the table and said:
“So it was you. I might have guessed.”
He didn’t even look up, just went on sliding bits of metal together. “Didn’t I say?” he asked. “Didn’t I just warn you?”
“But it’s pointless.” She sat opposite to him, trying to hammer it in, and do it calmly. “Johnny’s not going to say anything, not even when they get him out of there. He wouldn’t let you down.”
“They ain’t gonna get him out.”
“If they do, he still won’t say anything,” she insisted. “Why should he? He didn’t before.”
“He ain’t gonna get the chance.”
She had to keep trying. “What could he say, Den? Except that he was coming home.”
“To you?” he shouted, and he thumped the table. “It was to me, you stupid bitch, with all that whisky.”
“But I’ve persuaded everybody that he was coming to me,” she told him wearily.
“Heard you at it.” And now he was sneering. He lifted his eyes and stared at her. “‘Johnny, I love you.’ All that twaddle. You did well, I’ll give you that. Fooled everybody good and proper. Yes, they all reckon he was coming to you.”
She screamed at him because he’d made a mockery of it. “Because I meant it!” she shouted into his face. “Because I’m doing everything I can to keep him alive. Lies, if you like, but it might help him.”
She had taken her eyes from his hands. Now he was waving a gleaming piece of metal under her nose.
“I’m telling yer—” he started, but she’d had enough.
“But you go on with it, you crazy bastard,” she sobbed. “Go on, get back to the bridge. They’re waiting for you, all the police they can get their hands on. Did you think they wouldn’t...?”
He slashed at her. The metal winked with light and she threw herself back, the edge of it just catching her cheek like a touch of ice. Then she was over backwards with the chair flying, and Den was coming after her.
Final Toll Page 11