“So I hear,” said Marson. “It was a good try. I’ve been having a few problems myself.”
“Problems?”
The plan to use the Kato had drawn Jeff’s attention away from the rest of the operation. Marson had yet to tell him about Sievewright’s attempts to keep the Jones from them, and about Grey’s efforts to help him. Jeff hadn’t needed to be told to know that there was something wrong; but for the last hour or so he had forgotten even that.
“With the Jones,” explained Marson. “Sievewright’s playing silly buggers, so we have to hire it ourselves, for the day.”
“We what?” This was beyond even Jeff’s suspicions.
“It’s okay. Frank Allison’s sorting it for us. He says that he’s run into a few small problems, but he’ll be along as soon as a fax comes through from Spofford’s.”
“We can’t do anything without the Jones,” muttered Jeff.
“No. We can’t do everything without the Jones,” Marson replied. “That doesn’t mean we can’t do something.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not sitting here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for a piece of paper. The rain’s still falling, the cliffs are still slipping. We have to do everything we can to slow them down. You said an hour; it’s been nearly an hour. Let’s try the cables.”
“But if we wait a little longer—”
“Now. We’ll inspect the concrete again before we try the slings, but we’ll run the cables out now. Cropper, you know what to do.”
Cropper looked at Jeff. Jeff shrugged. Cropper looked back at Marson. Cropper shrugged.
“Okay, boss.”
It was tricky, and slower than Marson had imagined, more of a fiddly process than the big jobs they had been tackling so far. Cropper used light lifting equipment to get the ends of the cables up to the height of the tripods. Then they used lengths of half-inch cable as lead-ins. Despite all the calculations he had made, Marson felt his heart stop several times. He had had to take a shot at guessing the weight of the bridge and the chains and the wagon, and had resolved it all into a load diagram, with all the stresses in all the planes. The whole thing was based on guesses — good guesses perhaps, but guesses nonetheless — and so the whole operation was beset with doubt. Every now and again he would feel sure that he had worked out the distances and the lengths incorrectly for the cables to slope down at a reasonable angle, and at each of these moments, Cropper was little help, occasionally mumbling that the tripods should have been taller, the slings longer. But once they had take-up on the winches and the slings began to draw nearer the bridge, the doubts grew more scarce. Jeff left Marson’s side for a few minutes, then returned to confirm that the concrete was fine, but they had to wait — maybe as much as another hour — before they tried to support the bridge. Marson knew that that was where all the real difficulties would lie, but the small success with the cables helped him immensely. The rescue was beginning to seem more possible than ever before. All they had to do now was wait.
Seventeen
She had stood and watched from her window until the flickering red glow died, and then she realised that she knew where Den was, at least for a time, and spent the best part of the next hour in a frantic search for his gun. But he must have had it with him, she realised.
He came in hours after she’d given up hope, his nose red and swollen, and he demanded food. She cooked for him, not speaking, not really looking at him. She was surprised that he was able to sit at the table, his nerves were on such an edge. It didn’t have to mean he’d achieved much. If he’d managed to do any real harm, he’d have been boasting about it.
No — it was the fire. He’d lit it and watched it, and some of the heat had seeped into his veins. She had seen him like it before, and knew it would fade, probably into sullen fury. So she put food into him. This time his tension faded into a yawn, and he couldn’t even find the energy to snarl at her.
Then he dragged himself into his room.
She had to give him time to get to sleep. She sat at the table for half an hour, and waited. Then she opened his door quietly and peeped in. He hadn’t even taken his boots off, and was snoring, flat on his back.
She was out to the pick-up in seconds. It was the only place the gun could be, and this was an ideal chance to get it and break it in some way.
But she couldn’t see it there, either. Oh, he was clever. Cunning more like. He’d known what she would do, so he’d put it somewhere else before coming into the house.
He’d left the pick-up in the barn, where he kept the tellies from his last job. She realised, then, that the ones he’d taken away had been swapped for the gun. But it could’ve been anywhere. There was no end of hay still around in scattered piles, but it wasn’t in any of them. She couldn’t find it, and was almost sobbing with frustration when her dad came in, giving her quite a start.
Her father always moved quietly, and didn’t usually say much. He just stood in the half-open doorway. “Laura?” he said.
She stood, arms away from her sides, and said: “I’m looking for his gun.”
“I don’t want you to find it,” he said, shaking his head.
It was the way he’d said it: her father had never understood violence, but she realised that he was thinking of it now.
“Why?” she demanded. “Dad...you know where it is.”
“If I tell you, you’ll kill him.” He sounded so calm about it.
She tried to explain that she’d got something different in mind for the gun. “That wasn’t why—” she began.
But he cut in: “I can read you like a book.” He’d never read a book in his life.
But maybe he could, because she’d been trying not to think about killing, and it must have shown. “It’s not that!” she cried. “I only wanted to put it out of action. That’s all.” She wasn’t sure what she wanted, except that it was something to harm Den, to hurt him.
He smiled, his sweet old smile. “I’d have killed him myself, if it hadn’t been for little Harry.”
“You’re talking crazy, Dad,” she told him, worried by the smile. “You keep out of it. Tell me where he hides it.”
He sucked in his lips, his teeth clicking. “It’s under the seats of the pick-up.”
She ran across to it. What her father had said was giving her frightening ideas. But she didn’t dare to dwell on them, because she didn’t dare to assume that Den was lying.
It was where he’d said. She couldn’t see how she’d missed it before. She drew it out. It seemed heavy, but not unwieldy. Her heart was hammering, and for a few seconds the gun was just a blur in her hands.
From behind her, her father said quietly: “But we don’t need Den.”
She turned with it, and took two paces towards the barn door. The old man was watching her. They were going to kill Den. That was clearly the best thing to do. And afterwards...There was a chilling void afterwards. Her father nodded. Then Den was there, in the doorway, his head tilted forwards.
“Give it to me,” he said. His voice was blurred with sleep.
She pointed it at him, the stock under her arm. Suddenly it felt awkward. He laughed at her. “You don’t think I’d leave one up the spout,” he said.
That didn’t mean anything to her. She raised the stock to her shoulder. He was in the sights, and coming at her, his laugh gone but his lips twisted. But when she pulled the trigger all her determination seemed to melt away, and she moved the barrel as the shot rang out.
A thin line of red appeared along his neck, but he carried on walking forward as though he felt nothing. He took the gun from her hands and brought the stock round and hard down on her shoulder, his teeth showing because he enjoyed it. She thought she cried out, and she went down into the hay, half fainting, and saw that he’d raised the gun high and was aiming the stock at her face. She rolled free, and again it caught her on the shoulder. But she didn’t dare to give way to the pain, and had to struggle away and somehow get to her feet. Then
she scrambled for the doorway, and heard the hard, metallic sound as he reloaded it. When the first shot rang out she was running, right arm held across her chest, running down the mud of the lane, slipping and sliding and sobbing. There was another shot, and another. She thought he must be firing in the air.
She stopped and turned. There was no point. She stared back at him, waiting for him to shoot her, but he was standing there laughing viciously. Her dad was standing behind him in the doorway, bending over slightly. He had the silhouette of a beaten man. She was determined not to give in so easily.
She turned slowly and walked away from him, striding down the drive, her steps beating out a measured defiance. She was heading for Prescott’s Bridge. She didn’t look back once, but she could tell that Den was not coming after her. There were no footsteps other than her own, and this alone felt like a victory. Her shoulder began to throb. She’d taken beatings from him before, and she was no stranger to pain, but pain had never been this bad. It grew like a ball of fire, sparking suddenly as she moved out of the light from the farm, taking on a life of its own once she was in darkness. She tried to concentrate on the rain which drove against her face, on the feel of her matted hair along the back of her neck, but the pain engulfed her. It spread from her shoulder to the side of her head, down her arm, through her body. She could think of nothing but death; she was sure the pain would kill her. It never eased, only grew. She would die, because death would be a relief. Still, she forced one foot in front of the other, knowing that it was only her momentum which kept her going.
Within a few minutes, Den was beside her, trundling along at her own steady pace in the Mini. His window was open and he was leaning out, laughing.
“Don’t be a fool, Laura,” he mocked. “I’ll take you back.”
She kept her head still, eyes front.
“Get in the car.”
Her course was fixed.
“Go on,” he laughed, “get in the car. I’ll take you back to your dad.”
Laura froze. The mention of her father stopped her dead in her tracks. She looked across. Den was still smiling. She saw the gun his lap as he drew the car to a halt alongside her. All at once the pain overwhelmed her. She dropped to her knees, clutching her shoulder in agony, so far from being able to think that she could not even hate herself for her weakness. She reached out for the car door. Den gave a short laugh, and accelerated away, leaving her to fall flat in the tracks he left behind. He drove back home, where he slept briefly and fitfully, with the gun in his arms like a teddy bear.
Laura watched the Mini disappear, and cried and cried. It was many minutes before she dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards the cliffs. When she arrived, the scene seemed to her altogether different. There was a new, tense atmosphere, unlike anything she had felt there so far. The news seemed to have gone round that something critical was afoot. The crowd, which had dwindled earlier in the evening, had now grown to over a hundred locals, kept back from the cliff with some difficulty by only a dozen or so policeman. The TV cameramen had brought their van up with the camera on its roof, to give themselves a good view of the bridge. Two other men had smaller versions resting on their shoulders. An interviewer was in amongst the crowd, attempting to extract angry soundbites by sticking a microphone into the faces of members of the public, prompting them to doubt the competence of those in charge, inciting them to make their presence felt.
One woman broke free of the inadequate police cordon and ran to the loudhailer. The feedback pierced the noise as she began to scream: “They’ve been lying to us. All along they’ve been lying. I’ve seen their boss. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. No more than my ol’ feller would. No more than me. He told us it’d be safe.” She gestured frantically behind her. “Does this sound safe to you?” A charged hush had greeted her words. Everyone could feel the vibrations through the soles of their feet. They could hear the rock groan. “They’re playing, that’s all. Like little boys with Lego. But their playing with our homes, our families, our lives!”
The woman’s speech was having a palpable effect. At first, the crowd had quietened to hear her, and everyone on this side of the river had stopped and listened. Everyone except Marson. He saw the danger at once and began running towards her. Jeff took off immediately after him, but couldn’t keep up. Marson stole up behind her and wrenched the loudhailer from her grasp, pushing her to the ground. The mob surged, apparently ready to burst forward and sweep him from the cliff. Their faces were distorted as they waved and pointed, their mouths open and their eyes wide.
“Don’t listen to this mad woman!” Marson yelled into the loudhailer. Jeff drew up beside him, willing him to choose his words more carefully. Lower Prescott was a small town. Most of these inhabitants knew each other; at least half would know the woman. If Marson carried on as tactlessly, they would have a riot on their hands. “We’ll save your homes, your land,” he continued. “We know what we’re doing.” He turned to face Jeff. Though he wasn’t speaking into the loud hailer, he left it on deliberately, wanting the crowd to hear him. “Jeff, let’s take up the slack.”
Jeff had to stop and think. He wasn’t sure what Marson was referring to.
“It’s ready, Jeff. The concrete’s ready. It’s time to support the bridge.”
“But, Colin—”
“It’s now or never. If we don’t do something now, this lot’ll ruin everything. They’ll act first and think later. It’s up to us to keep that driver alive.”
Jeff had no option but to give in. As he stepped back, out of Marson’s way, he prayed that the concrete would not do the same.
Marson headed across to the diesel winches; Jeff followed loyally. Cropper had got both winches chugging away, keeping them ready for whenever the time was said to be right. Marson took one, Jeff the other. They stood either side of the cutting. He held the loudhailer down at his side — the winches at full blast would be deafening. All eyes were on him. His were on the bridge.
It was now swaying gently, a movement of no more than a foot, taking several seconds each way. The tripods looked firm and well placed, sufficiently back from the edge. The pulleys at their apexes were well greased. It occurred to both Marson and Jeff that the main cables were too level. Cropper saw the moment of hesitation, the look that passed between them, and felt that he had been right. But it was done; whether or not it could have been better, there was no turning back now. Chris sat in the Land-rover; listening to Johnny’s sounds over the radio was as close as he could get to reaching his patient. Marson looked around. His mouth was dry. Jeff lifted a hand to his throttle. Marson nodded.
“Okay, Jeff?” he spoke into the loudhailer.
Jeff waved and shouted something out, at the same time returning his nod.
“Right,” called Marson. “On the count of three — and dead slow. One...two...three...”
In unison, they advanced the throttles. The two diesels took on a solid, more throaty sound. The winches slowly revolved and over the pulleys the cables gradually tensed. Then the slings tightened as the weight came on, and the tripods bit into the rock. Jeff thought he could feel the concrete crumbling, but told himself that all he could feel was fear. The exhausts thudded. Marson shouted out a command. Only Jeff could hear him, but he waved an acknowledgement and eased off a little. Marson’s side of the bridge had the lower dip, so he had to take in more cable. He advanced his throttle a fraction.
There was a cracking sound from the bridge, and a six-foot length of parapet flew high into the air. The rain battered it back down, and the wind hurled it towards the river. The winch beside Marson howled and the cable chattered as it dug down onto itself. The winding slowed considerably as the winches felt the load. The exhausts threw out separate belches of thick black smoke. Sweat was trickling down his back.
The bridge moved again, more discernibly. More metal flew away, hanger bars flicked and writhed. All eyes were turned now to the bridge. The movement was most easily observed in the angle of the
lorry’s slant. The wagon rose steadily — an inch, two inches. Everything was fine. Everything but Marson’s nerves. The rock vibrated beneath him. He waved to Jeff and called out: “Hold it!”
They locked on the brakes. There was a sigh from the crowd. Marson went forward to have a look. It needed calculation. He had 167 tons of breaking strain on each cable, but as the angle of the fall shallowed, the load on them increased. They would have to take it further. Not to take all the load, but more of it. Most of it.
Chris, in the Land-rover, had his hands covering his face.
Marson turned back to Jeff. “Again,” he called through the loudhailer. “And slowly.”
Jeff wanted them to stop there. He wanted to discuss the decision — such an enormous decision — but Mar-son wouldn’t even have been able to hear him. And because there was no chance of being heard, Jeff lowered his head and agreed.
Marson was taking in two inches to Jeff’s one, trying to lift the wagon level. The cab lifted, an inch at a time, gradually levelling off. But so slowly. No — it was not right. Marson felt old and battered, his legs shaking.
There was a confluence of forces out there, something impossible to have calculated or compensated for. Something was restraining it.
The cables were now down to a mere creep. The bridge wasn’t moving any more, the cables taking it all, the whine from them rising in pitch until it was a shriek. Jeff was standing as though part of the rock, just as grey. Marson held on, forcing it, pushing it. It was just possible to detect the winch drum moving. But the bridge was not, and they had to have more. He was whispering to it, as though it was a child. It cried out, like a creature in pain. No! Suddenly Marson knew it. He felt the knowledge run through him.
There was a crack across the water, and a booming shudder. The wagon lurched and the cables whipped, and for one moment Marson thought they’d lost it, lost everything.
Final Toll Page 13