Black Rock Read online

  Esse­nj­ay ma­de what lo­oked li­ke a ma­gi­cal pass with her right hand and spo­ke so­me words. Then she frow­ned and wa­ited. Then she re­pe­ated the pro­cess.

  And then the ima­ge va­nis­hed.

  But the ice block in Mar­tin’s bra­in re­ma­ined. Eit­her he’d go­ne ba­na­nas, or the­re was such a thing as te­le­pathy and he was get­ting a de­monst­ra­ti­on. And te­le­pathy was easi­er to ac­cept than mad­ness.

  Fuck the pho­ne, he tho­ught, and tri­ed to con­tact Es­se­nj­ay by the po­wer of his mind, con­cent­ra­ting just the way a cha­rac­ter in one of the bo­oks he edi­ted might ha­ve do­ne. He even put the tips of his fin­gers to his temp­les.

  Esse­nj­ay, can you he­ar me? he as­ked. Or bro­ad­cast, or wha­te­ver you did when sen­ding men­tal mes­sa­ges.

  He tri­ed aga­in, ra­ising the vo­lu­me this ti­me. Es­se­nj­ay, are you all right? he as­ked.

  Con­tact was not ma­de.

  Then he qu­it. It was all so stu­pid. Te­le­pathy was for hack wri­ters and film-ma­kers. If the ima­gi­nary ice block in his mind wo­uldn’t go away, it wasn’t be­ca­use Es­se­nj­ay was trying to con­tact him, but be­ca­use a part of him didn’t want it to go away.

  Or may­be it was a kind of cons­ci­o­us dre­am sta­te. The re­ason he felt Es­se­nj­ay was in dan­ger had not­hing to do with the part of his mind that was dre­aming. It had everyt­hing to do with the fact that Es­se­nj­ay had told him her­self that she ne­eded an am­bu­lan­ce. The rest was ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  Even the pic­tu­re of Black Rock he’d had be­fo­re he first cal­led her me­ant not­hing in psychic terms. His mind might ha­ve strip­ped a cog, OK, but it hadn’t sud­denly be­co­me im­bu­ed with the mysti­cal po­wer of ESP. It was me­re co­in­ci­den­ce that he’d ima­gi­ned she was in tro­ub­le and had then pho­ned her only to find she was.

  She didn’t say she’d fal­len half-way down so­met­hing al­most ste­ep eno­ugh to be cal­led a cliff, did she? he as­ked him­self. She didn’t say she was hurt eit­her. Which me­ant the who­le thing had be­en a gi­gan­tic mi­sun­ders­tan­ding, ca­used pu­rely by the men­tal cog he’d so­me­how strip­ped.

  Not con­vin­ced, Mar­tin pho­ned her aga­in.

  And al­most suf­fe­red a he­art at­tack when her li­ne clic­ked open.

  He had al­re­ady star­ted to blab­ber how re­li­eved he was that she was OK when he re­ali­zed he was en­ga­ged in con­ver­sa­ti­on with her ans­we­ring mac­hi­ne which sa­id, ‘Sa­rah-Jane can­not co­me to the pho­ne at this pre­ci­se mo­ment be­ca­use she is cur­rently in her bo­udo­ir be­ing en­ter­ta­ined by se­ve­ral mem­bers of the Chip­pen­da­les. If you wo­uld li­ke to le­ave a mes­sa­ge and yo­ur num­ber, she will call you back as so­on as pos­sib­le - if she isn’t too ti­red, that is.’

  Mar­tin lis­te­ned, figh­ting his ri­sing an­ger at her whimsy, and af­ter the to­ne left a mes­sa­ge as­king her to call and let him know if she was all right.

  If Bu­de had be­en a co­up­le of ho­urs clo­ser to Lon­don, he wo­uld ha­ve le­apt in the Fer­ra­ri and dri­ven down to find out for him­self exactly what was go­ing on.

  Mar­tin shi­ve­red. At so­me po­int du­ring the day, his cle­ar and in­ci­si­ve mind had tur­ned in­to so­met­hing akin to mas­hed swe­de. He was no lon­ger su­re who or what his an­ger ought to be di­rec­ted at. He didn’t know if he was angry at Es­se­nj­ay for not ta­king his calls when she co­uld ha­ve do­ne, or angry at An­gie for trying to ent­rap him aga­in, or what. All he knew was that he was li­vid.

  And that the­re was a su­re fi­re way to as­su­age his an­ger.

  He sto­od up, went in­to the lo­un­ge, po­in­ted at the child­ren and sa­id, ‘You and you, bed!’

  He didn’t ex­pect any comp­la­ints and he wasn’t di­sap­po­in­ted; even tho­ugh it was only eight o’ clock and it was a Fri­day, the­ir sta­ying up la­te eve­ning, ne­it­her child comp­la­ined. Both of them lo­oked up at him with so­met­hing in the­ir eyes which might ha­ve be­en fe­ar and might ha­ve be­en hat­red. He pre­fer­red to think it was fe­ar.

  The child­ren got up, gat­he­red up the­ir be­lon­gings and he­aded for the do­or.

  ‘And when you get ups­ta­irs, tell yo­ur mot­her I want her.’

  Mar­tin sat down and wa­ited. An­gie wo­uld un­ders­tand the sum­mons, that was a cer­ta­inty, but the­re was a chan­ce that she wo­uld eit­her re­fu­se po­int blank to co­me down, or she wo­uld waltz in with a list of things she wan­ted him to do to her: to­uch he­re, stro­ke the­re, kiss this, lick that.

  And that kind of thing he co­uld do wit­ho­ut.

  He grin­ned when she did co­me in. She had sho­we­red and was we­aring only her bath­ro­be.

  ‘They sa­id you wan­ted me,’ she sa­id, so­un­ding both ho­pe­ful and be­aten.

  ‘And they we­re right,’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  The com­bi­na­ti­on of his an­ger, his se­xu­al frust­ra­ti­on and the an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on he’d felt whi­le awa­iting her ar­ri­val al­most dro­ve him over the ed­ge. He was iron-bar hard and throb­bing.

  ‘You want to ma­ke lo­ve,’ she sa­id.

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad, stan­ding up. His pe­nis ten­ted his tro­users. ‘No,’ he sa­id, ‘I want to fuck you*. Now ta­ke off yo­ur ro­be and lie down.’

  Angie se­emed to want the sa­me thing, and lay down on the car­pet on her back, kne­es ra­ised, legs spre­ad.

  Mar­tin lo­oked at her and for a mo­ment des­pi­sed him­self. Then he shed his tro­users and bo­xers, went to her, knelt bet­we­en her legs and en­te­red her. She was warm and wet and a lit­tle lo­ose - exactly as he had an­ti­ci­pa­ted. He po­si­ti­oned him­self on his el­bows, lo­oking down in­to her fa­ce and he thrust at her, hard. An­gie win­ced.

  ‘This do­esn’t me­an anyt­hing,’ he told her, thrus­ting aga­in, har­der this ti­me. ‘It do­esn’t me­an I lo­ve you and it do­esn’t me­an I want you back. It just me­ans I want to fuck you.’

  Angie shut her eyes and bit her bot­tom lip as he whac­ked him­self in­to her for a third ti­me. A gasp es­ca­ped her and Mar­tin thrust aga­in, so hard his pu­bic bo­ne was go­ing to be bru­ised in the mor­ning.

  Angie’s arms ca­me up and tri­ed to en­fold his neck; Mar­tin ca­ught them and pres­sed them back to the flo­or, squ­e­ezing her bi­ceps as he dro­ve him­self in­to her.

  After the fifth angry thrust, he re­ali­zed that the ice block in his bra­in had go­ne. Af­ter the sixth he tho­ught of Es­sen jay, who wo­uldn’t just lie the­re and be fuc­ked, but who wo­uld fuck him in re­turn, and even ra­ke skin from his back li­ke an ani­mal. Af­ter the se­venth he re­ali­zed that this was the right way: the man on top pro­ving his do­mi­nan­ce, pro­ving his mas­cu­li­nity.

  After the eighth vi­olent thrust, An­gie ga­ve a lit­tle squ­e­al which eit­her me­ant it hurt or she’d co­me. Mar­tin didn’t know which.

  And from then on he was a fu­ri­o­us pi­le-dri­ver un­til the mo­ment of his or­gasm ap­pro­ac­hed, dra­wing clo­ser with each stro­ke. And just as his musc­les we­re stra­ined tight and he clo­sed in on the exor­cism of his ra­ge, the te­lep­ho­ne be­gan to ring.

  Mar­tin was out of An­gie and in­to the hall be­fo­re it had rung three ti­mes. He snatc­hed the re­ce­iver off the ba­se and held it to his ear.

  ‘Mar­tin?’

  Mar­tin lo­oked down at his throb­bing pe­nis. ‘Esse­nj­ay?’

  The li­ne went de­ad.

  ‘COW!’ Mar­tin sho­uted. And flung the’ pho­ne back in­to the crad­le. It bo­un­ced out aga­in and he left it swin­ging by its cab­le and stro­de back in­to the lo­un­ge.

  Angie had got up and put on her ro­be.

  ‘Get back on the flo­or,’ he com­man­ded.

 
; Angie sho­ok her he­ad. ‘Eno­ugh,’ she sta­ted. ‘I’m fi­nis­hed.’

  ‘Eno­ugh? What do you me­an, eno­ugh?

  ‘You he­ard me, Mar­tin. I’m not pre­pa­red to com­pe­te with that girl. You eit­her want me or you want her. I’ll ha­ve you back if you want me, and you can stay he­re. Or if you want her, you can go. You can’t stay he­re and ha­ve both. You can’t stay he­re and ha­ve us both.’

  Mar­tin’s an­ger re­ac­hed fe­ver-pitch. The­re was li­fe in the old girl yet. ‘It’s ul­ti­ma­tum ti­me, is it?’ he sa­id, ke­eping his vo­ice calm, the way he did when he exp­la­ined to his aut­hors what was wrong with the­ir crappy bo­oks.

  Angie nod­ded. ‘You’ve had yo­ur fling and it’s abo­ut ti­me you be­gan to re­ali­ze that it’s over. She do­esn’t want you.’

  Mar­tin nod­ded. She was right of co­ur­se. That was what an­ge­red him even mo­re.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he sa­id, still bi­ting down on his ra­ge. ‘I’ve be­en the world’s cham­pi­on ar­se­ho­le over the past co­up­le of ye­ars. You’re right, it’s over bet­we­en me and Sa­rah-Jane. Has be­en for six or se­ven months, re­al­ly. We we­re just ra­king over the em­bers to­wards the end. It’s you I want. That’s why I ca­me back he­re. I’ve be­en ho­ping we can get to­get­her aga­in. I’d li­ke you to ta­ke me back. What el­se can I say?’

  Mar­tin sup­po­sed he ought to fe­el li­ke a lying to­ad, but he didn’t fe­el any gu­ilt what­so­ever. All he felt was a ra­ging an­ger which co­uld only be fuc­ked away.

  Angie nod­ded word­les­sly.

  8 - Escape from Black Rock

  It was du­ring the fran­tic dri­ve away from Black Rock that she hit the black dog, Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey.

  It just ap­pe­ared be­fo­re her on the track, sud­denly and wit­ho­ut war­ning. It didn’t so­li­dify out of a shim­me­ring ha­ze or un­fold it­self the sa­me way as Mr Win­ter had fol­ded him­self up… One mo­ment the track was empty, and the next, the dog sto­od the­re. Po­in­ting at her.

  S’n’J didn’t ha­ve ti­me to re­act. The car was only mo­ving at aro­und twenty mi­les an ho­ur, but by the ti­me she’d fo­und the bra­ke and clutch, it was all over.

  The so­und of the im­pact was not the soft thud S’n’J an­ti­ci­pa­ted. It was clo­ser to the me­tal­lic ham­mer-blow you he­ard when one car bum­ped anot­her car from be­hind at low spe­ed. A so­lid thonk!

  What hap­pe­ned next was that the car skid­ded to a pre­ca­ri­o­us halt on the very ed­ge of the track. Cur­sing, S’n’J bac­ked up.

  The dog sho­uld ha­ve be­en in front of her. When you ran over things, they eit­her ca­me up the bon­net at you, or got pus­hed along by the car.

  But the dog wasn’t lying at the ed­ge of the track, dying or de­ad.

  It wasn’t the­re at all.

  S’n’J clim­bed out of the car. The dog was not in the ro­ad be­hind her. She got down on her hands and kne­es on the wet gro­und and pe­ered un­der the car. It wasn’t the­re eit­her.

  Which me­ant it had to ha­ve be­en knoc­ked down in­to the val­ley.

  Except that the dog was not in sight anyw­he­re in the val­ley. Ne­it­her was it up on its tra­iler on the ot­her si­de of the val­ley.

  I’m sorry, Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey, she tho­ught. If that was you I ran over and kil­led, I’m truly sorry. You didn’t hurt me and I’m sorry I had to hurt you.

  Then, no lon­ger fe­eling li­ke Miss Han­ging-on-to-her-Sa­nity, but rat­her li­ke Miss Lost-it-Comp­le­tely, she re­tur­ned to the car and dro­ve away.

  Up on the ma­in ro­ad thro­ugh Tin­ta­gel, she had to pull over to al­low an am­bu­lan­ce to pass. She sta­red at its flas­hing lights as it squ­e­ezed by and didn’t re­ali­ze un­til it had go­ne that it was the one she had sum­mo­ned.

  That’s one mo­re fal­se alarm for them, she told her­self. They we­ren’t go­ing to find any cus­to­mers down the­re now, that was for su­re.

  By the ti­me she was half-way back to Bu­de, S’n’J was a lit­tle less men­tal­ly fraz­zled. As she got furt­her away from Black Rock she be­gan to think mo­re cle­arly.

  She re­ali­zed she was dri­ving in one shoe and de­ci­ded it might be bet­ter, all things con­si­de­red, if she was to ta­ke that shoe off and dri­ve ba­re­fo­ot. She pul­led in to a lay-by, tur­ned off the car’s en­gi­ne, re­mo­ved the shoe, nod­ded to her­self that this was go­ing to be mo­re com­for­tab­le and that she was go­ing to be okay now, and just as she tho­ught she had everyt­hing un­der cont­rol, suf­fe­red a fi­ve-mi­nu­te-long at­tack of what her mot­her wo­uld ha­ve cal­led the trem­b­li­es.

  Except that she didn’t just tremb­le, she sho­ok vi­olently.

  S’n’J bre­at­hed de­eply, tri­ed to re­lax and told her­self it was only to be ex­pec­ted. She had al­most fal­len to her de­ath; she’d se­en an inj­ured man fold him­self up and va­nish and she’d run over a dog that didn’t se­em to exist. And that wasn’t even co­un­ting the hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons of the frost on the win­dow, the bril­li­ant lights or what had hap­pe­ned to the sea and the sky.

  Funny stuff car­bon mo­no­xi­de, she told her­self, ope­ning the win­dow a lit­tle furt­her, and tri­ed on a grin. It didn’t fit and when she chec­ked it in the re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror, what sta­red back at her lo­oked mo­re li­ke a kil­ler clown in a che­ap hor­ror flick than go­od old Sa­rah-Jane. She fo­ught back the te­ars which wan­ted to vi­sit and ro­de out the tremb­li­es.

  When they’d ce­ased, she felt sa­ne aga­in. Shoc­ked but sa­ne. As far as she co­uld see, the prob­lem was not go­ing to be get­ting the ima­ge of Black Rock out of her he­ad, but co­ming to terms with the half-ho­ur pe­ri­od of in­sa­nity she had ex­pe­ri­en­ced. It hung the­re in her mind li­ke a ga­ping ho­le in her pre­vi­o­usly se­am­less re­ality.

  You’ll lo­ok back on all this so­on, she tho­ught, and you’ll see what a dummy you we­re. Re­al­ly you will.

  She ne­eded to cle­an her­self up if she was go­ing to vi­sit James at Cars Inc. and ha­ve the ex­ha­ust rep­la­ced. She ope­ned her hand­bag and fo­und a tis­sue to use on her sme­ared fa­ce, then used her brush to te­ase the tang­les from her ha­ir. Af­ter she’d cle­aned mud and blo­od off her kne­es and re­mo­ved her so­aked and torn jac­ket she lo­oked a lit­tle less li­ke a wo­man who had al­most lost her li­fe and a lit­tle mo­re li­ke a wo­man who might ha­ve re­cently trip­ped up so­me steps. That wo­uld be far easi­er to exp­la­in.

  She got back in the car, spot­ted the sing­le shoe and told it go­odb­ye.

  Then she threw it out of the win­dow.

  Twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter, S’n’J sat in the re­cep­ti­on area of Cars Inc. with a cup of we­ak tea and a pi­le of Truc­ker ma­ga­zi­nes to le­af thro­ugh whi­le she wa­ited.

  But S’n’J didn’t re­ad. She to­ok an A5 si­ze she­et of no­te-pa­per from her hand­bag and fol­ded it in half ac­ross the mid­dle.

  One, she co­un­ted.

  Then she fol­ded it in half the ot­her way. Two.

  Then she re­pe­ated the pro­cess.

  The she­et of pa­per now me­asu­red so­mew­he­re in the re­gi­on of three inc­hes by two inc­hes.

  S’n’J fol­ded it aga­in. Fo­ur.

  So­me­one had on­ce told her that it was im­pos­sib­le to fold a she­et of pa­per mo­re than six ti­mes. No mat­ter how big it was to start with, or how thin.

  She had ma­de qu­ite a tight wad af­ter fi­ve folds, and the sixth tur­ned it in­to a de­ep let­ter U rat­her than a ne­atly fol­ded pi­ece of pa­per. It was im­pos­sib­le to ma­ke anot­her fold.

  S’n’J spot­ted a pri­ce list on the re­cep­ti­on area’s co­un­ter, pic­ked it up and to­ok it back to her se­at. This was A4 si­ze. Twi­ce the area of her no­te­pa­per. When you fol­de
d it on­ce and the A5 si­ze on­ce, the re­sul­tant area was still two to one. And so it re­ma­ined, right down to the sixth fold. But she was unab­le to ma­ke a se­venth. A strong man might ha­ve ma­na­ged it, al­most.

  S’n’J shrug­ged. She didn’t know what she was trying to pro­ve. Mr Win­ter’s va­nis­hing trick had hap­pe­ned to a re­al man, not a pi­ece of pa­per.

  She glan­ced down at her ori­ga­mi, fe­eling a lit­tle sorry for her­self and be­gan to re­const­ruct the af­ter­no­on.

  When she tho­ught abo­ut it with a cle­ar mind, it be­ca­me gla­ringly ob­vi­o­us what had ta­ken pla­ce.

  When she had left the car park in Fal­mo­uth af­ter eating her lunch-ti­me pasty, she’d had the win­dows up and the he­ater off. The­re had be­en no fresh air get­ting in­to the car. Only the dre­aded CO. By the ti­me she’d ar­ri­ved at the King Art­hur Ho­tel in Tin­ta­gel, she had be­en well and truly wi­ped out. She didn’t know whet­her or not she had ac­tu­al­ly spo­ken to the bu­il­der who was wor­king the­re, but she sus­pec­ted she had. He hadn’t ne­ces­sa­rily sa­id any of tho­se things which se­emed to ha­ve a dark un­der­to­ne to them tho­ugh. He’d pro­bably just po­in­ted her in the right di­rec­ti­on for the track down to the sea.

  And the twenty-fo­ur pa­ges of ma­nusc­ript that had se­emed so ali­ve in­si­de her he­ad had pro­vi­ded the rest. Su­re, the rock was the­re and the track led to it, but S’n’J had just wan­ted the ho­use to be the­re too. And had hal­lu­ci­na­ted it in­to be­ing. Along with the fas­test dog in the West and the ori­ga­mi man.

  ‘All do­ne!’ James sa­id, stri­ding back in­to the of­fi­ce. He was sme­ared black from he­ad to toe and lo­oked mo­re li­ke he’d be­en mi­ning co­al than fit­ting an ex­ha­ust.

  Thanks James,’ S’n’J sa­id, se­arc­hing in her bag for her cre­dit card, ‘I was be­gin­ning to fe­el a bit sle­epy when I was dri­ving.’