Black Rock Read online

  Ange­la ope­ned the kitc­hen do­or and pe­ered down the hall at him, frow­ning. ‘Mar­tin?’ she cal­led.

  Mar­tin lo­oked up at her, blankly. She was dres­sed in cycling shorts, Ni­kes and a baggy cot­ton swe­ater, and the­re was a pan of so­met­hing ste­aming in her hand. It smelt li­ke bo­log­na­ise, but Mar­tin didn’t re­mem­ber her sa­ying she was go­ing to co­ok it. An­ge­la was pretty. She wasn’t thin, but you co­uldn’t desc­ri­be her as over­we­ight eit­her. ‘Vo­lup­tu­o­us’ was the word Mar­tin used to use.

  For a mo­ment, he tri­ed to sum­mon up so­me of the lo­ve he’d on­ce had for her, and when that fa­iled, so­me of the lust. It didn’t work. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en much simp­ler if it had; he co­uld ha­ve fal­len in­to her arms. This was what she’d be­en ho­ping for sin­ce he’d split with Es­se­nj­ay and mo­ved back in as her lod­ger. It was too la­te, he sup­po­sed. Things had mo­ved on and he now lo­oked on An­ge­la as lit­tle mo­re than a fri­end.

  ‘What?’ he as­ked. The kids we­re in the lo­un­ge pla­ying So­nic the Hed­ge­hog II, and squ­e­aling and sho­uting ad­vi­ce over the rac­ket it was ma­king. The who­le thing sho­uld ha­ve be­en a pic­tu­re of do­mes­tic bliss. And if it hadn’t be­en for that sa­les con­fe­ren­ce at which he’d first met Es­se­nj­ay, it still might ha­ve be­en.

  ‘Did you get thro­ugh?’ An­ge­la re­pe­ated, ab­sently stir­ring the ste­aming pot.

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad.

  ‘Oh,’ An­ge­la sa­id, ‘You’d bet­ter co­me and eat then. It’s ne­arly re­ady.’

  Whi­le Mar­tin was trying to de­ci­de whet­her or not she lo­oked smug, he tri­ed the num­ber of Es­se­nj­ay’s next do­or ne­igh­bo­urs, Janet and Da­ve, won­de­ring if he sho­uld ha­ve co­me back he­re at all.

  It only ma­de things mo­re comp­li­ca­ted. The kids wan­ted to know why he and Mummy slept in dif­fe­rent ro­oms for one thing, and whet­her he was he­re to stay for anot­her. Then the­re was An­ge­la. She hadn’t crept in­to his ro­om in the de­ad of night yet, but he kept thin­king that she wo­uld, so­on. And a part of him wan­ted her to. The part that hadn’t be­en anyw­he­re warm and wet ex­cept the bath for the bet­ter part of ten we­eks. Mar­tin knew that if that star­ted aga­in he was go­ing to ha­ve all sorts of tro­ub­le bre­aking off for the se­cond ti­me. The­re might oc­ca­si­onal­ly be such a thing as a free lunch but the­re was cer­ta­inly no such thing as a free shag.

  ‘Hi­ya, you’re spe­aking to a ge­nu­ine ge­ni­us, what can I do for you? Da­ve Bett’s vo­ice sa­id in Mar­tin’s ear.

  If the­re was one thing Mar­tin was cer­ta­in of, it was that Da­ve was no ge­ni­us and ne­ver wo­uld be - at le­ast whi­le he had a ho­le in his ar­se. A ge­nu­ine men­tal mid­get wo­uld ha­ve be­en a mo­re apt desc­rip­ti­on.

  ‘Hi, it’s Mar­tin,’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  ‘What, Mar­tin, the Mar­tin?’ Da­ve en­qu­ired, his to­ne co­oling.

  ‘Ye­ah,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed. He had ne­ver sa­id anyt­hing de­ro­ga­tory abo­ut Da­ve - not in his pre­sen­ce any­way - but he didn’t ha­ve to. Mar­tin was not go­od at con­ce­aling his in­ner­most fe­elings abo­ut pe­op­le at the best of ti­mes, and when fa­ced with so­me­one who had the bra­ins of an iro­ning bo­ard was unab­le to pre­vent him­self from using his su­pe­ri­or in­tel­li­gen­ce to tie that per­son up in knots. Da­ve might not ha­ve be­en ab­le to put his fin­ger on what it was he didn’t li­ke abo­ut Mar­tin, but so­mew­he­re along the li­ne he’d be­gun to fe­el in­fe­ri­or. And pe­op­le didn’t li­ke to fe­el li­ke that - which was one re­ason Mar­tin did it.

  ‘Oh,’ Da­ve sa­id. This ti­me his to­ne re­ad: why are you pho­ning me, you ar­ro­gant mot­her­fuc­ker.

  Mar­tin sa­id, ‘Lo­ok, I’m a bit wor­ri­ed abo­ut Es­se­nj­ay…’

  And Da­ve, se­e­ing his ope­ning, qu­ickly cut in, ‘Well, she wasn’t very wor­ri­ed abo­ut you the last ti­me I spo­ke to her.’

  ‘That may be,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed, ‘but I cal­led her ear­li­er this af­ter­no­on and so­met­hing had hap­pe­ned to her. She sa­id she ne­eded an am­bu­lan­ce and rang off. Now I’ve be­en trying to con­tact her ever sin­ce. Her mo­bi­le won’t res­pond. I tho­ught she might be in hos­pi­tal, but when I tri­ed her ho­me pho­ne, it’s cons­tantly en­ga­ged which sug­gests that she’s in. I’m a lit­tle wor­ri­ed abo­ut her con­di­ti­on and I was rin­ging to ask if you’d se­en her to­day.’

  The­re was a si­len­ce, pre­su­mably whi­le Da­ve di­ges­ted this in­for­ma­ti­on. ‘Saw her this mor­ning when she went out,’ he fi­nal­ly sa­id. ‘She se­emed OK then. Full of the joys of spring in fact. Hang on a mo.’ Da­ve clap­ped his hand over the mo­uth­pi­ece of his te­lep­ho­ne but his muf­fled vo­ice co­uld be he­ard as he sho­uted to Janet: ‘Hey Jan­ny, you se­en Sa­rah-Jane to­night? Only that twat Mar­tin’s on the pho­ne. He says he can’t get hold of her.’

  Mar­tin lis­te­ned to the pa­use, du­ring which, he as­su­med, go­od old Jan­ny was tel­ling Da­ve that it wasn’t surp­ri­sing that twat co­uldn’t get hold of her be­ca­use Sa­rah-Jane no lon­ger wan­ted to ha­ve anyt­hing to do with him. Then he he­ard Da­ve sho­ut aga­in. ‘Ye­ah, I know, but he says she’s had an ac­ci­dent. Am­bu­lan­ce ca­se. Go and knock her up and see if she’s in. Ye­ah?’

  Da­ve to­ok his hand off the pho­ne and sa­id, ‘Janet’s just go­ing to knock on her do­or. D’you wan­na hold on, or will you call back?’

  Til hold on,’ Mar­tin sa­id, ‘if you don’t mind.’

  Da­ve grun­ted, pre­su­mably be­ca­use he did mind. But he was be­ing a go­od ne­igh­bo­ur and if that me­ant let­ting Mar­tin hold on, that was what he was go­ing to do. ‘She won’t be two sha­kes,’ Da­ve sa­id.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed.

  ‘What ha­ve you be­en up to, then?’ Da­ve as­ked.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed.

  Si­len­ce.

  Ange­la ca­me out of the kitc­hen car­rying two pla­tes of spag­het­ti bo­log­na­ise, pas­sed Mar­tin, nod­ded at the fo­od and en­te­red the war zo­ne. The­re was a bri­ef squ­e­ak of pro­test from one child, and So­nic the Hed­ge­hog fell si­lent.

  ‘You didn’t ha­ve to pull the plug, Mum,’ the ot­her child comp­la­ined. ‘We we­re half-way thro­ugh the laby­rinth zo­ne. We’ll ha­ve do it all over aga­in.’

  ‘Not to­night, you won’t,’ An­ge­la sa­id and clo­sed the do­or.

  Ours is still in the pot, Mar­tin told him­self. She’s wa­iting for me to be free so we can eat to­get­her.

  He didn’t fe­el hungry at all. He was still ho­pe­les­sly in lo­ve with Es­sen jay, she was in so­me sort of tro­ub­le, and the­re was a lar­ge, im­mo­vab­le block of ice in his mind which, pre­su­mably, was go­ing to fe­ed him the la­test de­ta­ils abo­ut what was hap­pe­ning - when it got bad eno­ugh.

  ‘Is she back yet?’ Mar­tin as­ked.

  ‘No­pe,’ Da­ve sa­id.

  Si­len­ce.

  Insi­de the lo­un­ge, the six o’ clock news be­gan.

  Mar­tin’s men­tal box of ice shim­me­red as if a light had be­en tur­ned on in­si­de it. He frow­ned, wil­ling the block away. A pic­tu­re be­gan to form the­re, pul­ling it­self to­get­her from pas­tel sha­des of co­lo­ur which se­emed to sli­de in­to the crystal block from now­he­re. It didn’t hap­pen ra­pidly, but it was dif­fi­cult to dis­cern what was ta­king pla­ce.

  ‘Be back so­on,’ Da­ve pre­dic­ted.

  Mar­tin didn’t spe­ak. The pic­tu­re had so­li­di­fi­ed now - if that was the right word. (It se­emed mo­re as if it had slid to­get­her li­ke ang­led ge­omet­ric pi­eces which fit­ted to one anot­her to ma­ke a who­le.) And what he was now lo­oking at, whi­le he sat he­r
e and lis­te­ned to Da­ve’s me­asu­red bre­at­hing, was anot­her pic­tu­re of Black Rock.

  Except that this ti­me he was lo­oking at the in­si­de of it. The lo­un­ge. The lo­un­ge was just as he re­mem­be­red it from the bo­ok - if in­de­ed he did re­mem­ber it, and he co­uld no lon­ger be cer­ta­in. It was big and the­re was an open fi­rep­la­ce with a she­eps­kin rug in front of it, and le­at­her so­fas and de­ep pi­le car­pet. Es­se­nj­ay was the­re in that ro­om. Alo­ne. But it was what she was do­ing that se­emed stran­ge. She was to­uring the ro­om adj­us­ting things.

  Except that she wasn’t simply tid­ying up, the way she wo­uld at ho­me; sling this cus­hi­on he­re, chuck the­se ma­ga­zi­nes the­re. Es­se­nj­ay, who nor­mal­ly ti­di­ed only when her be­lon­gings ap­pro­ac­hed cri­ti­cal mass, wasn’t just tid­ying a ro­om that was al­re­ady tidy, she was do­ing it with the ut­most ca­re and a kind of fur­ti­ve­ness.

  In Mar­tin’s mind’s-eye block of ice, he watc­hed her, as she went abo­ut her stran­ge bu­si­ness; al­te­ring the po­si­ti­on of an or­na­ment by a few mil­li­met­res, twis­ting anot­her by only a few deg­re­es. And whi­le she wor­ked, she kept glan­cing over her sho­ul­der. As far as Mar­tin co­uld dis­cern, she was alo­ne in the ro­om. Now she was drag­ging one of the he­avy so­fas aro­und so that the se­ats fa­ced the front win­dows.

  Then Mar­tin be­gan to un­ders­tand.

  If what he was se­e­ing was re­al - and he wasn’t su­re abo­ut that - Es­se­nj­ay had be­en fe­eling the pres­su­re of the­ir par­ting as ke­enly as he had. If he’d crac­ked be­ca­use he ima­gi­ned he co­uld see her do­ing things from afar, then she’d crac­ked too.

  What she was suf­fe­ring from he­re was ob­ses­si­ve com­pul­si­ve di­sor­der syndro­me. It was a fa­irly com­mon be­ha­vi­o­ural comp­la­int of the type which of­ten be­gan with the su­bj­ect fe­eling that the­ir hands we­re dirty and en­ded up with them sho­we­ring twenty or thirty ti­mes a day. Pe­op­le un­der pres­su­re of­ten de­ve­lo­ped it. Mar­tin knew a lit­tle abo­ut it. He’d re­ad of a man in Glo­uces­ter who be­li­eved he was res­pon­sib­le for all hor­ses. If he didn’t li­ne up all his be­lon­gings each mor­ning be­fo­re ni­ne so that they po­in­ted north, a cer­ta­in amo­unt of hor­ses wo­uld die in agony.

  And this was what his ima­ge of Es­sen jay was do­ing. She was mo­ving the fur­ni­tu­re and or­na­ments so that they all fa­ced a cer­ta­in di­rec­ti­on.

  Be­ca­use she was ob­ses­sed.

  Who are you trying to kid, kid­do? Mar­tin as­ked him­self. It’s you who’s sit­ting he­re ha­ving vi­si­ons, not Es­se­nj­ay. It’s you who’s ob­ses­sed, not her.

  He grew inc­re­asingly un­com­for­tab­le.

  ‘Oh, he­re she co­mes now,’ Da­ve sud­denly an­no­un­ced and Mar­tin jum­ped

  ‘Hel­lo Mar­tin?’ Janet had evi­dently grab­bed the pho­ne from her hus­band. ‘The­re’s a light on, but if she’s up the­re she isn’t ans­we­ring the do­or. What did you say was the mat­ter with her?’

  ‘When I cal­led her this af­ter­no­on she told me she ne­eded an am­bu­lan­ce,’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  Then Janet as­ked a qu­es­ti­on which stop­ped Mar­tin de­ad in his tracks. It sho­uldn’t ha­ve do­ne, be­ca­use as he fre­qu­ently told his col­le­agu­es, he was kni­fe-sharp. It left him fe­eling a lit­tle bet­ter in one way, and a lot wor­se in anot­her. The qu­es­ti­on was so simp­le he didn’t know how he’d ma­na­ged to miss it.

  ‘Was the am­bu­lan­ce for her­self?’ Janet as­ked.

  And sud­denly Mar­tin knew that it wasn’t. If he’d half a bra­in, he wo­uld ha­ve re­ali­zed that stra­ight away. Pe­op­le who we­re inj­ured didn’t tell you to get off the li­ne be­ca­use they had to get an am­bu­lan­ce qu­ick, they told you they we­re hurt and ne­eded help. And they didn’t so­und so snotty eit­her. In any work of fic­ti­on pre­sen­ted to him, Mar­tin wo­uld ha­ve pic­ked up on this ins­tantly. In re­al li­fe things we­ren’t qu­ite as cut and dri­ed. In re­al li­fe you had yo­ur own emo­ti­onal and men­tal wel­fa­re to ta­ke in­to con­si­de­ra­ti­on on top of ever­yo­ne el­se’s.

  ‘She didn’t say,’ Mar­tin rep­li­ed, fe­eling very stu­pid.

  ‘Oh well, the­re you are then,’ Janet sa­id. ‘Not­hing to worry abo­ut by the so­und of it. The am­bu­lan­ce must’ve be­en for so­me­one el­se. Li­ke I sa­id, her light’s on ups­ta­irs, so she’s be­en ho­me sin­ce it got dark. She’s pro­bably go­ne to the pub or so­met­hing. I sho­uldn’t worry, Mar­tin. I’ll tell her you we­re con­cer­ned when I see her. Per­haps she’ll ring you. Do­es she ha­ve yo­ur wi­fe’s num­ber?’

  ‘I’m not at my wi­fe’s,’ Mar­tin li­ed. He didn’t know how Janet had dis­co­ve­red whe­re he was sta­ying (per­haps Da­ve had he­ard the kids ear­li­er or Es­se­nj­ay had he­ard a ru­mo­ur and told her) but he cer­ta­inly didn’t in­tend to ad­mit it. It wo­uldn’t lo­ok go­od if it ap­pe­ared he’d run ho­me to the wi­fe the mo­ment Es­se­nj­ay had thrown him out. It wo­uld ma­ke him lo­ok exactly li­ke the ste­re­oty­pi­cal phi­lan­de­ring hus­band.

  ‘You’re not?’ Janet as­ked.

  ‘No,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘I’m with fri­ends. Es­se­nj­ay can re­ach me at the of­fi­ce if she wants.’

  ‘Okay,’ Janet sa­id, so­un­ding as if she didn’t be­li­eve him. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  After she rang off, Mar­tin re­ma­ined cro­uc­hed in front of the te­lep­ho­ne un­til An­gie ca­me out of the lo­un­ge and la­id a warm and so­me­how com­for­ting hand on his sho­ul­der. ‘Fo­od?’ she as­ked.

  Mar­tin lo­oked up at her, saw the pa­in in her eyes and knew how she felt. She wan­ted him li­ke he wan­ted Es­se­nj­ay.

  The­re was no sen­se in it. If he was God - or Cu­pid, or who­ever cont­rol­led the­se things - si­tu­ati­ons li­ke this wo­uld not ari­se. If he’d be­en God, An­gie and the kids wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve hap­pe­ned; it wo­uld just be him and Es­se­nj­ay and she wo­uld fe­el the sa­me way to­wards him as he did to­wards her. But the­re we­re parts of An­gie’s cha­rac­ter he wo­uld ha­ve graf­ted on to Es­se­nj­ay first. Li­ke An­gie’s sub­ser­vi­en­ce. She had ne­ver wan­ted to sha­re his pos­ses­si­ons the way Es­se­nj­ay did. His car was his car. It wo­uldn’t ha­ve cros­sed An­gie’s mind to ask to be in­su­red to dri­ve it. Or to ope­ra­te his Bang & Oluf­sen ste­reo, or his com­pu­ter wit­ho­ut his per­mis­si­on. Or to want to spend his mo­ney as tho­ugh it be­lon­ged to her.

  Sud­denly he was angry. Any fo­ol knew that wo­men sho­uld sup­port the­ir men rat­her than im­bu­ing them­sel­ves with the sa­me sta­tus. And even if Es­se­nj­ay co­uld wri­te a bo­ok - and even if it pro­mi­sed to be a dam­ned go­od one - it didn’t ma­ke her equ­al to him. Who had the po­wer to de­ci­de whet­her or not the pub­lic got to re­ad that bo­ok?

  And now he was angry at An­gie too. Be­ca­use she had a bo­vi­ne exp­res­si­on and be­ca­use ha­ving two kids had gi­ven her a slack belly and stretch-marks, but most of all he was angry be­ca­use her spark had go­ne. Stan­ding the­re be­fo­re him, she lo­oked li­ke a wo­man who­se spi­rit had be­en bro­ken.

  ‘what do you want from me?’ he de­man­ded, slam­ming the pho­ne down.

  Angie jum­ped back a fo­ot, then crin­ged li­ke a dog who knows it’s be­en bad. She didn’t say anyt­hing at all.

  ‘well?’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  Insi­de the lo­un­ge, the so­und of the te­le­vi­si­on fa­ded. The kids had tur­ned it down. They wo­uld be at the do­or now, lis­te­ning, the­ir eyes wi­de and fe­ar­ful. It was a sce­ne Mar­tin had pla­yed out many ti­mes be­fo­re and he didn’t li­ke it. Be­ca­use it up­set An­gie and sca­red the kids, but most of all be­ca­use he co­uldn’t stop him�
�self. And the re­ason he co­uldn’t stop him­self was the sa­me re­ason ma­soc­hists wil­lingly sub­mit­ted them­sel­ves to tor­tu­re: it felt so go­od. Mar­tin, who was fa­mo­us for his vo­la­ti­le tem­per, lit up li­ke a high-po­wer ha­lo­gen bulb when it hap­pe­ned.

  ‘I just wan­ted to know if you want to eat now,’ An­gie sa­id in a tiny vo­ice.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ Mar­tin his­sed. ‘What you wan­ted to know was, am I re­ady to co­me back to you yet, wasn’t it? What you wan­ted to know was when yo­ur me­al-tic­ket is re­tur­ning.’

  Mar­tin wa­ited. The ten­si­on struck him as se­xu­al. The ga­me was do­mi­na­ti­on, po­wer mon­ge­ring. Not physi­cal, but men­tal. Ex­cept that it wasn’t a ga­me, it was re­al. And he had no cont­rol over it, no sen­se of pla­ying a ro­le.

  Esse­nj­ay hadn’t ta­ken kindly to his at­tempts at do­mi­na­ting her. Es­se­nj­ay had hit him with a rol­ling-pin, just as she’d desc­ri­bed it in her bo­ok. And if he wan­ted pro­of, he only had to dip his he­ad and lo­ok in a mir­ror. Just be­ne­ath the pe­ak of his thin­ning ha­ir was a lar­ge, li­vid scar whe­re the rol­ling-pin had split his scalp. You co­uld still see whe­re the eight stitc­hes had be­en.

  ‘Din­ner,’ An­gie mew­led in her lit­tle vo­ice. ‘I just wan­ted to know if you wan­ted din­ner.’ Her vo­ice was ste­ady, but the­re we­re te­ars run­ning down her fa­ce.

  Mar­tin gla­red at her for a few se­conds as his an­ger pas­sed. Then he dis­mis­sed her with a we­ary ges­tu­re.

  And An­gie went, le­aving him alo­ne with the pho­ne and his ice-crystal vi­si­on of the wo­man who, for so­me unk­nown re­ason, he lo­ved.

  Esse­nj­ay was now in the hall of the ho­use, fa­cing the front do­or. The do­or se­emed to ha­ve no hand­le or let­ter box. And no hin­ges, eit­her. It was just a hu­ge black do­or, stud­ded with brass po­ints. Mar­tin co­uldn’t even dis­cern whe­re the do­or en­ded and its fra­me be­gan.