Black Rock Read online

‘De­adly,’ he rep­li­ed, glan­cing up from the pa­per­work. He lo­oked away, then lo­oked back. Twi­ce.

  ‘What?’ S’n’J sa­id.

  James lo­oked down at his pa­per­work. ‘Not­hing,’ he sa­id.

  He’s won­de­ring why you’re ba­re­fo­ot and he’s too em­bar­ras­sed to ask, she told her­self, war­ming to­wards him. He was qu­ite swe­et re­al­ly. If you li­ked yo­ur men a lit­tle grubby.

  ‘My sho­es?’ she as­ked.

  ‘What? Oh, you’re not we­aring any,’ he sa­id. Then he­si­ta­ted, gri­ma­ced and qu­ickly lo­oked away.

  The fa­mo­us old do­ub­le en­tend­re, she tho­ught, smi­ling. ‘I bro­ke the he­el off one of them,’ S’n’J sa­id, ‘and I was clom­ping abo­ut li­ke a mons­ter, so I to­ok them off.’

  ‘Oh,’ James sa­id, not lo­oking up.

  If you didn’t ha­ve all that black muck ac­ross yo­ur fa­ce, you’d be shi­ning li­ke a be­acon, she tho­ught, and smi­led. The dark clo­ud that had be­en cas­ting her mind in­to sha­dow had sud­denly be­en swept away by a sum­mer bre­eze. And it wasn’t just the clo­ud of Black Rock that had go­ne, but al­so the shit-storm clo­ud that Mar­tin had left be­hind him.

  He­re, fi­nal­ly, and in the pla­ce she le­ast ex­pec­ted to find it, was so­met­hing she co­uld un­ders­tand and de­al with. For­get Mr Win­ter, for­get the hal­lu­ci­na­ti­ons and the bad tas­te Mar­tin left in yo­ur mind be­ca­use he­re we ha­ve a guy who’s may­be twenty-fi­ve and a lit­tle bit shy and who wo­uld be qu­ite go­od-lo­oking if all the gri­me was cle­aned off him. A go­od, ho­nest wor­king man and he may not dri­ve a Fer­ra­ri or own a man­si­on and he may not ha­ve two pen­ni­es to rub to­get­her, but you ne­ver know, he might be qu­ite fun to be with.

  For the first ti­me in two months S’n’J felt sunny. The­re was no bet­ter word to desc­ri­be it.

  You’d bet­ter run it up the flag­po­le and see if it flut­ters, she told her­self.

  ‘Sixty-two, sixty,’ James sa­id.

  At le­ast the­re wasn’t a sixty-ni­ne in­vol­ved, S’n’J told her­self, and grin­ned.

  ‘Hey James,’ she sa­id, fe­eling her he­art be­gin to rat­tle in her chest and tel­ling her­self she was silly.

  He lo­oked up at her. ‘Ye­ah?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  He sta­red at her, his mo­uth slightly open.

  He has ni­ce te­eth, she no­ted, then as­ked, So what hap­pe­ned to Miss Sop­his­ti­ca­ted then? Ni­ce te­eth? What are we lo­oking at, a hor­se?

  Twenty-three,’ he sa­id af­ter a long pa­use. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you know when you lo­oked up at me just now?’

  ‘Ye­ah?’

  S’n’J felt a tre­ac­he­ro­us hot flush ri­se thro­ugh her. She ho­ped she wasn’t blus­hing. ‘Well, you we­re go­ing to ask me so­met­hing.’

  James nod­ded, em­bar­ras­sed.

  ‘The ans­wer is yes.’

  The­re! Sa­id it!

  James frow­ned.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he sa­id.

  ‘Yes…’ S’n’J rep­li­ed and he­si­ta­ted. She had in­ten­ded to say Yes, I will go out with you, but ob­vi­o­usly so­me wi­res had got cros­sed so­mew­he­re, ‘… the qu­es­ti­on you we­re go­ing to ask me,’ she fal­te­red.

  He sho­ok his he­ad. ‘It do­esn’t mat­ter. Re­al­ly it do­esn’t,’ he sa­id, glan­cing to­wards the works­hop whe­re his col­le­agu­es we­re wrest­ling with a Mor­gan.

  ‘OK, let me put it li­ke this,’ S’n’J sa­id, han­ding him her cre­dit card. ‘Wo­uld you con­si­der go­ing out with an ol­der wo­man?’

  James fumb­led with the card and drop­ped it. It fell be­hind the co­un­ter and he di­ved af­ter it.

  ‘How much ol­der?’ his di­sem­bo­di­ed vo­ice as­ked, and S’n’J didn’t know whet­her he was be­ing play­ful or not. He se­emed to ha­ve mis­sed the po­int to­tal­ly.

  Are you su­re this is a go­od idea? her Girl Gu­ide as­ked, but S’n’J ig­no­red the qu­es­ti­on. She wasn’t pre­pa­red to ha­ve anyt­hing el­se spo­il her day. What harm co­uld re­sult from go­ing out for a drink? If she fo­und out la­ter that it was a mis­ta­ke, she co­uld call it off then.

  ‘Only two or three ye­ars,’ she sa­id. ‘I’m not that long in the to­oth.’

  James to­ok a long ti­me to get back up to whe­re she co­uld see him. When he did, he was blus­hing fu­ri­o­usly. It sho­wed thro­ugh the gri­me on his fa­ce qu­ite pla­inly.

  ‘You me­an you,’ he sta­ted hal­tingly.

  ‘I me­an me,’ she sa­id, flas­hing him a sunny smi­le.

  ‘But…’ James sa­id, ‘… you li­ve with that rich guy,’ he fi­nis­hed.

  S’n’J sho­ok her he­ad. ‘Not any mo­re,’ she sa­id.

  ‘And you want to go out with… me?’ he as­ked, as if lo­oking for the catch.

  S’n’J nod­ded. ‘You we­re go­ing to ask me out, and I’m sa­ying yes, I’ll go out with you.’

  ‘Was I? ‘he as­ked.

  ‘We­re you what?’

  ‘Go­ing to ask you out?’

  S’n’J co­uld fe­el the first few mo­ving sto­nes of what pro­mi­sed to be a lands­li­de. Go­od old Sa­rah-Jane, the dumb bru­net­te, had be­en tal­king at cross-pur­po­ses for the last mi­nu­te or so. ‘Well, you we­re go­ing to ask me so­met­hing,’ she sa­id.

  James nod­ded as tho­ugh he fi­nal­ly un­ders­to­od. And grin­ned li­ke a man who’s lost a qu­id and fo­und a ten­ner.

  ‘OK,’ he sa­id. ‘Yes. I’d li­ke to go out with you. I re­al­ly wo­uld. Ho­nestly.’ Then he ad­ded, ‘But that wasn’t what I was go­ing to ask you.’

  S’n’J felt her mo­uth be­gin to drop and snap­ped it shut, men­tal­ly bla­ming her mi­sin­terp­re­ta­ti­on on the CO sti­il in her system.

  James pa­used, ob­vi­o­usly we­ig­hing up the chan­ces of his re­al qu­es­ti­on ter­mi­na­ting her of­fer of a da­te. Then he sa­id, ‘I was go­ing to ask you how you got all that pink stuff ac­ross the front of yo­ur car.’

  S’n’J felt as if so­me­one had whac­ked her over the he­ad with a big, soft ham­mer. ‘What pink stuff?’ she he­ard her­self ask. ‘Pa­int?’

  ‘Not pa­int,’ he sa­id. ‘I dun­no what it is, exactly. Didn’t you know it was the­re? It’s li­ke jel­ly, but it’s re­al­ly sticky. Gets on yo­ur fin­gers li­ke glue, and go­es all stringy when you pull yo­ur hand away. We tho­ught it was so­me kind of ad­he­si­ve or so­met­hing. Hey, are you OK?’

  S’n’J wasn’t su­re of anyt­hing any mo­re. All she knew was that she’d ima­gi­ned she’d hit a dog with the car. An ima­gi­nary dog which hadn’t den­ted the car be­ca­use things that exis­ted only in yo­ur mind co­uldn’t da­ma­ge re­al ve­hic­les. And if that dog had not den­ted the car, then it co­uld hardly ha­ve left any of its in­nards the­re eit­her.

  ‘Not blo­od and guts?’ she as­ked, dis­tantly.

  James sho­ok his he­ad. ‘No, not­hing li­ke that. Smells li­ke… I dun­no, it’s kind of li­ke the way dogs smell be­fo­re they get so stinky you ha­ve to put them in the bath. Co­me and ha­ve a lo­ok,’ he ad­ded brightly.

  S’n’J al­re­ady knew she wasn’t go­ing to be ab­le to see anyt­hing. Mo­ving li­ke a zom­bie, she fol­lo­wed James in­to the works­hop. The ot­her two guys we­re un­der­ne­ath the Mor­gan, busy with a wel­ding torch.

  Her own car was still up on the ramps. The bot­tom of the front spo­iler, whe­re the­re sho­uld ha­ve be­en a dent ma­de by a dog, was at the le­vel of her eyes. She fol­lo­wed James ac­ross and when he stop­ped, she stop­ped.

  ‘Oh,’ he sa­id, a no­te of surp­ri­se in his vo­ice.

  When S’n’J lo­oked up, James was run­ning his fin­gers up and down the bum­per and ra­di­ator gril­le.

&nbs
p; The cle­an ra­di­ator gril­le.

  ‘The­re was stuff the­re,’ James comp­la­ined.

  So­me­one is do­ing this to me on pur­po­se, S’n’J tho­ught, and not for the first ti­me. Ear­li­er on she’d ca­ught her­self re­mem­be­ring a hams­ter she used to ha­ve: Snow­ball. A de­mon on the exer­ci­se whe­el and a re­al fin­ger-bi­ter,. Ex­cept that when she tho­ught abo­ut it, she knew the me­mory was spu­ri­o­us. She had ne­ver had a hams­ter cal­led Snow­ball. It was as if so­me­one had pla­ced the me­mory in­si­de her he­ad, re­ady-ma­de.

  James tur­ned ro­und. ‘Don’t know what hap­pe­ned to it,’ he sa­id, and S’n’J didn’t know if he was re­fer­ring to her hams­ter or the va­nis­hing pink stuff that had su­rely ne­ver be­en on the car in the first pla­ce.

  ‘Ge­or­ge!’ he sho­uted. ‘Ge­or­gie!’

  Under­ne­ath the Mor­gan the wel­ding torch went out with a pop.

  ‘What?’ Ge­or­ge yel­led, ir­ri­ta­ted.

  That stuff. On this lady’s car. What hap­pe­ned to it?’

  ‘What, the Crud-u-Lo­at­he?’ the ot­her guy cal­led. He ca­me out from un­der the Mor­gan. He was fa­ir-ha­ired, very yo­ung and dir­ti­er than James. A pa­ir of wel­der’s gog­gles hung aro­und his neck. The­re we­re two cle­an circ­les ro­und his eyes whe­re they had be­en. He sa­un­te­red over.

  ‘Cle­aned it up, didn’t I?’ he sa­id to James, then tur­ned to S’n’J. ‘Any idea what it was? Lo­oked li­ke so­me kind of pa­int strip­per to me; tho­ught I’d bet­ter get it off be­fo­re it did any da­ma­ge. Used a bit of whi­te spi­rit on a rag.’

  ‘Whe­re is the rag?’ S’n’J he­ard her­self ask.

  ‘Over the­re. D’you wan­na see?’

  The boy went and got so­me cloth that stank of whi­te spi­rit but which bo­re not the fa­in­test tra­ce of any pink subs­tan­ce, sticky or ot­her­wi­se.

  ‘Must ha­ve dis­sol­ved,’ the boy sa­id, shrug­ging. He lost in­te­rest and wan­de­red back to­wards the Mor­gan le­aving James and S’n’J.

  ‘Don’t worry abo­ut it,’ James sa­id hap­pily. ‘It’s go­ne now, and if you pick up any mo­re you’ll know just how to get rid of it, won’t you?’

  S’n’J nod­ded.

  Everyt­hing wo­uld be back to nor­mal to­mor­row, she de­ci­ded. Anyt­hing stran­ge that hap­pe­ned bet­we­en now and then wo­uld just ha­ve to be tre­ated as part of this sa­me na­tu­ral men­tal aber­ra­ti­on.

  ‘So what abo­ut to­night?’

  S’n’J was surp­ri­sed to find that she’d fol­lo­wed James back in­to the re­cep­ti­on area and not only had he fi­nis­hed swi­ping her card in the mac­hi­ne, but he had al­so ap­pa­rently be­en car­rying on a con­ver­sa­ti­on with her whi­le he’d be­en do­ing it.

  ‘Sorry, I was mi­les away,’ S’n’J sa­id, snap­ping her­self out of her re­ve­rie. She lo­oked up at James and felt a sur­ge of warmth. The eighty per cent clo­ud-co­ver over her mind bro­ke aga­in and al­lo­wed a lit­tle suns­hi­ne thro­ugh. A guy that co­uld ma­ke that hap­pen had po­ten­ti­al.

  ‘So what abo­ut co­ming out with me to­night?’ James re­pe­ated.

  And a part of her told her that it wo­uld be a very go­od idea in­de­ed. She hadn’t had any half-way de­cent ma­le com­pany for a long ti­me. But she was dra­ined, and knew she wasn’t go­ing to be a bar­rel of la­ughs this eve­ning. When she went out with him she wan­ted to be on pe­ak form. Be­ca­use her li­bi­do had be­en get­ting rest­less for qu­ite a ti­me now and she tho­ught that at the end of the­ir first eve­ning to­get­her, she might well end up fuc­king his bra­ins out. And if that was go­ing to hap­pen, she wan­ted to be fit for it. To­day she didn’t fe­el so much a tig­ress as a three-to­ed sloth.

  ‘How abo­ut to­mor­row?’ she as­ked. ‘Gi­ve me yo­ur pho­ne num­ber and I’ll ring you.’

  James lo­oked at her ca­re­ful­ly - pre­su­mably for signs that she was al­re­ady gi­ving him the bum’s rush - then ap­pa­rently de­ci­ded she was se­ri­o­us and wro­te his num­ber in a bo­ok­let of Cars Inc. matc­hes and slid it ac­ross the co­un­ter to her with the bill. ‘I’ll lo­ok for­ward to it,’ he ad­ded.

  So will J, S’n’J tho­ught, sig­ning the Vi­sa slip and poc­ke­ting the matc­hes.

  On the way ho­me, in the Si­er­ra which was now gu­aran­te­ed sa­fe to dri­ve with the win­dows rol­led up, she be­gan to fe­el bet­ter. The­re was so­met­hing to lo­ok for­ward to now. So­met­hing that exis­ted in the re­al world. She no lon­ger ne­eded ro­man­tic no­ti­ons of be­ing swept off her fe­et by the tall dark and hal­lu­ci­na­tory Mr Win­ter.

  She par­ked out­si­de her flat, saw the ma­nusc­ript still on the pas­sen­ger se­at, pic­ked it up and tos­sed it in­to the mess in the back of the car, thin­king, So long and go­od rid­dan­ce, I dont want you any mo­re!

  Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den had es­ca­ped Black Rock.

  Physi­cal­ly and men­tal­ly.

  It felt very go­od in­de­ed.

  9 - Another Sample for Sarah-Jane

  The glo­wing fe­eling of ha­ving be­aten her fan­ta­si­es las­ted for less than three mi­nu­tes.

  Which was how long it to­ok for her to lock the car, wrink­le her no­se at the smell of pa­int bur­ning off the new ex­ha­ust system, walk up the steps to her first-flo­or flat, un­lock the. do­or and clo­se it be­hind her.

  She tur­ned aro­und, saw the A4 en­ve­lo­pe lying on the te­lep­ho­ne tab­le in the hall, and her fe­eling of ela­ti­on va­po­ri­zed.

  ‘Oh, cri­key!’ she mo­aned.

  She had not left the en­ve­lo­pe the­re, which me­ant only one thing. So­me­one had be­en in the ho­use and pla­ced it the­re.

  Pro­bably the hol­der of the only ot­her key to this flat.

  ‘Mar­tin?’ S’n’J cal­led, al­re­ady wis­hing for her rol­ling-pin.

  ‘MAR­TIN? IF YOU’RE HE­RE I WANT TO KNOW ABO­UT IT. NOW WO­ULD BE A GO­OD TI­ME IF YOU WANT TO LE­AVE ON YO­UR OWN TWO FE­ET RAT­HER THAN ON A STRETC­HER.” she sho­uted,

  eye­ing the en­ve­lo­pe.

  The­re was no so­und ex­cept the squ­e­aky thud of her he­art po­un­ding blo­od in her ears Mar­tin didn’t ap­pe­ar we­aring his fa­mo­us she­epish grin.

  If he ap­pe­ars at all, he’s go­ing to ap­pe­ar lo­oking so­met­hing li­ke Jack Nic­hol­son in The Shi­ning, and he’ll be ar­med with the fi­re-axe too! You know that, don’t you? Mar­tin’s go­ne crazy.

  But Mar­tin co­uldn’t ha­ve got in, she re­ali­zed with a shock, be­ca­use he no lon­ger held the only ot­her key to her flat. She had ta­ken it from him her­self. That key, as she pro­ved to her­self by mo­ving si­lently to the kitc­hen, was han­ging on its ho­ok. S’n’J ar­med her­self with her we­apon of cho­ice - the de­adly rol­ling-pin - and se­arc­hed the ho­use for signs of a bre­ak-in or that so­me­one ot­her than her was, or had be­en, in the flat. The­re we­re no­ne.

  Which me­ant that the en­ve­lo­pe had ma­gic­ked it­self on to the te­lep­ho­ne tab­le.

  ‘How did you get the­re?’ she as­ked it, vo­wing ne­ver to pick it up, let alo­ne open it or re­ad what was con­ta­ined wit­hin. That wo­uld be akin to ope­ning a jar mar­ked with a skull and cros­sbo­nes and the words: be­wa­re: zyklon b - de­adly po­ison to sa­te yo­ur cu­ri­osity abo­ut how it might smell.

  She sta­red at the en­ve­lo­pe, ima­gi­ning she co­uld see the pa­ges in­si­de it pul­sa­ting with the­ir own in­ner li­fe. An in­ner li­fe that in­vol­ved her too, not in­di­rectly as a re­ader, but as part of the story.

  Mar­tin didn’t wri­te it, she sud­denly tho­ught.

  Then she as­ked her­self what evi­den­ce she had to sup­port this. The­re was eno­ugh. The story se­emed too go­od for dull old Mar­tin to ha­ve writ­ten it. It con�
�ta­ined a po­wer that Mar­tin did not pos­sess. He co­uldn’t ha­ve de­li­ve­red it he­re and left it on the te­lep­ho­ne tab­le be­ca­use he’d still be­en in Lon­don when she’d spo­ken to him ear­li­er.

  Not­hing fit­ted the ru­les of nor­ma­lity any mo­re.

  And she co­uldn’t go on bla­ming it on the car­bon mo­no­xi­de for ever; she hadn’t in­ha­led any for a go­od long ti­me now.

  Li­ke a wo­man hand­ling so­met­hing that might just be in­fec­ted, S’n’J pic­ked up the un­mar­ked and unad­dres­sed en­ve­lo­pe bet­we­en fin­ger and thumb, tur­ned it over and put it back, fa­ce down. The bad news was that the back wasn’t mar­ked eit­her. The go­od news was that no stran­ge sen­sa­ti­on had run up her arm when she had to­uc­hed the en­ve­lo­pe. She had not be­en suc­ked in, hypno­ti­zed or com­pel­led to open the en­ve­lo­pe. In a Step­hen Byrne story this was exactly what you wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted to hap­pen.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ S’n’J sud­denly gas­ped and felt a mix­tu­re of diz­zi­ness and fe­ar.

  She hadn’t chec­ked the lo­un­ge.

  She sto­od just out­si­de the lo­un­ge do­or, tel­ling her­self that this was her ho­me and that she co­uldn’t ima­gi­ne why she was too sca­red to go in­to her own lo­un­ge be­ca­use the­re co­uldn’t be anyt­hing nasty wa­iting for her in the­re - and fo­und the ar­gu­ment un­con­vin­cing.

  If this was a film, you’d go in the­re and so­met­hing wo­uld fall down and ever­yo­ne wo­uld scre­am, but the­re wo­uldn’t be anyt­hing in the­re, she told her­self. Or you’d go in the­re and Mr Win­ter wo­uld be wa­iting, which wo­uld be wor­se. But this isn’t a film or a bo­ok, so you can just walk in and sit down and put the telly on. Not­hing will hap­pen.

  But she did not be­li­eve her­self.

  She dis­be­li­eved her­self so strongly that she did so­met­hing the to­ugh he­ro­ine in a mo­vie or bo­ok wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve do­ne. Her he­art clat­te­ring aga­inst her ribs, her ears sin­ging, and her body so ten­se she co­uld ha­ve scre­amed, S’n’J col­lec­ted her keys, went out thro­ugh the front do­or, clo­sed it gently be­hind her, wal­ked downs­ta­irs and let her­self out of the bu­il­ding.