Black Rock Read online

  So what do you do now, Drezy? she as­ked her­self ten mi­nu­tes la­ter when she had wal­ked all ro­und the block. She was stan­ding on the pa­ve­ment on the far si­de of the ro­ad, lo­oking up at her lo­un­ge win­dow.

  She co­uld go in­do­ors aga­in and try to for­ce her­self to en­ter the lo­un­ge. She co­uld pho­ne the po­li­ce and tell them she tho­ught she’d be­en burg­led and that the culp­rit was still in her ho­use, or she co­uld vi­sit Da­ve and Janet and may­be get Da­ve to ha­ve a lo­ok in­si­de her ho­use for her. She fo­und no­ne of the­se plans par­ti­cu­larly ap­pe­aling.

  ‘Excu­se me,’ a vo­ice sa­id.

  S’n’J lo­oked away from her win­dow at a wo­man with a dog who­se path she was bloc­king. The dog was not big and black and it didn’t po­int at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ S’n’J sa­id and mo­ved asi­de, fi­nal­ly re­ali­zing that the wo­man was lo­oking at her as­kan­ce be­ca­use she still had the rol­ling-pin aga­inst her sho­ul­der li­ke a sentry on duty.

  As she be­gan to sum­mon up the co­ura­ge to go back in­si­de, she re­vi­ewed to­day’s con­ver­sa­ti­ons with Mar­tin abo­ut Black Rock. At first it so­un­ded as if he’d go­ne crazy, but she now un­ders­to­od the­re was anot­her exp­la­na­ti­on. A simp­ler one. And the be­a­uty of it was, it fit­ted li­ke a jig­saw with the two to­tal­ly dif­fe­rent styles of handw­ri­ting that we­re on the ma­nusc­ript.

  Now she knew the truth. Mar­tin was not suf­fe­ring from a mul­tip­le per­so­na­lity di­sor­der that ma­de him wri­te the ma­nusc­ript as one per­son, then ma­de him edit it as anot­her. The ma­nusc­ript was writ­ten by so­me­one el­se. And S’n’J sud­denly knew who he tho­ught it was.

  Mar­tin tho­ught she’d writ­ten it.

  Which was why he’d sa­id he was sorry abo­ut the bo­ok. He wasn’t sa­ying sorry be­ca­use he’d writ­ten it abo­ut her, but sorry abo­ut the hatc­het job he’d do­ne on it. He’d fo­und the ma­nusc­ript and be­li­eved she’d left it the­re for him to find. Which was why he’d ta­ken it to pi­eces when he knew it was go­od. Be­ca­use he was up­set with her. And du­ring the­ir con­ver­sa­ti­on - when she’d pic­tu­red him in his ‘do­ing de­als’ mo­de with that smug exp­res­si­on on his fa­ce - he was ac­tu­al­ly trying to do a de­al. With her. That was why he’d ex­pec­ted her to be de­ligh­ted, and be­en so mif­fed when she’d told him to go whist­le.

  And that al­so me­ant that who­ever had left the se­cond en­ve­lo­pe in her flat (the myste­ri­o­us Pe­ter Per­fect, pre­su­mably) hadn’t left it the­re for her to re­ad, but for Mar­tin, not kno­wing that he was long go­ne.

  Which me­ant it was sa­fe for her to go ho­me.

  In spi­te of the fact that Pe­ter Per­fect, who­ever and whe­re­ver he might he, se­ems to know all abo­ut you in fi­ne de­ta­il?

  This was so­met­hing that wo­uldn’t be easily ra­ti­ona­li­zed away. It might be pu­re co­in­ci­den­ce. Mar­tin was al­ways full of sto­ri­es abo­ut li­ti­ga­ti­on by pe­op­le with stran­ge na­mes fin­ding ac­cu­ra­te ver­si­ons of them­sel­ves in bo­oks writ­ten by pe­op­le who co­uldn’t ha­ve known of the­ir exis­ten­ce. It did hap­pen.

  Or per­haps it was so­me­one she’d known in her col­le­ge days. S’n’J didn’t re­call any of her ex-boyf­ri­ends ha­ving li­te­rary pre­ten­si­ons, but one of them might ha­ve de­ve­lo­ped so­me by now. And ever­yo­ne had cer­ta­in things in com­mon. The­re we­re many pe­op­le who didn’t be­li­eve in ghosts and who we­re a lit­tle bit clumsy, for examp­le. The­re we­ren’t many pe­op­le who had wo­ken up in bed na­ked and ent­wi­ned with the­ir best fri­end El­len, of co­ur­se, but this co­uld be exp­la­ined away too. El­len knew abo­ut it and she might ha­ve a guy who was a wan­na­be wri­ter.

  S’n’J lo­oked up at the win­dow on­ce mo­re. Shim­me­ring light ref­lec­ted on the ce­iling - pre­su­mably from the big mir­ror which sto­od in front of the fi­rep­la­ce du­ring the sum­mer months - and ga­ve a rip­pling ef­fect which re­min­ded her of the ref­lec­ti­ons you saw when the sun ca­ught a la­ke.

  Ne­ver no­ti­ced that be­fo­re, she told her­self. But this wasn’t strictly true, she had ne­ver no­ti­ced it from out­si­de be­fo­re, but she had no­ti­ced that very pat­tern ref­lec­ted on the ce­iling. The last ti­me she’d no­ti­ced it, she was on her back on the lo­un­ge flo­or, lying still whi­le Mar­tin ple­asu­red him­self in­si­de her.

  On yo­ur bi­ke, Mar­ti­ni she told the men­tal ima­ge that tri­ed to form in her mind, won­de­ring for the nth ti­me how and why she’d put up with him. If she co­uld ha­ve do­ne it all over aga­in, she wo­uldn’t ha­ve do­ne it all over aga­in. Not with Mar­tin any­how.

  S’n’J to­ok anot­her de­ep bre­ath and cros­sed the ro­ad. She was now co­ol, calm and col­lec­ted.

  She ex­pec­ted the en­ve­lo­pe to ha­ve va­nis­hed when she got back in­si­de the flat, just as the vi­si­on of the inj­ured Mr Win­ter had do­ne.

  This ti­me she was di­sap­po­in­ted. The of­fen­ding item was still whe­re she’d left it, fa­ce down on the te­lep­ho­ne tab­le.

  ‘Get to you la­ter,’ she told it, ste­eling her­self to en­ter the lo­un­ge.

  It’s yo­ur own ho­me, she re­min­ded her­self. You don’t ha­ve to be sca­red.

  She re­ac­hed out, to­ok the do­or hand­le, pul­led it down and to­ok a step for­ward as she pus­hed the do­or open.

  And in the te­ete­ring mo­ment whi­le she fo­ught to ke­ep her ba­lan­ce and stop her­self from fal­ling, S’n’J saw what had be­en ca­using the shim­me­ring ref­lec­ti­ons on the lo­un­ge ce­iling.

  It was a glim­me­ring Oc­to­ber sun shi­ning on the At­lan­tic.

  And the At­lan­tic was in her lo­un­ge.

  S’n’J swa­yed and wind mil­led her arms, re­ali­zing dimly that even this wasn’t true: her lo­un­ge had ce­ased to exist. The do­or now ope­ned on to thin air abo­ut a hund­red fe­et abo­ve the sea. So­mew­he­re ne­ar Black Rock, jud­ging from the sce­nery.

  Even the sud­den ter­ror at fin­ding her­self not in her lo­un­ge at all but ga­zing out of her hall and down in­to the sea was ma­de in­sig­ni­fi­cant by the sing­le mas­si­ve sur­vi­val res­pon­se which jol­ted thro­ugh her li­ke an elect­ric shock:

  DON’T FALL!

  This inst­ruc­ti­on was easi­er for her mind to is­sue than it was for her body to fol­low. She was al­re­ady in the at­ti­tu­de of a wo­man on a high bo­ard pre­pa­ring to ma­ke a di­ve, le­aning for­ward at an ang­le of fif­te­en deg­re­es or so from the ver­ti­cal. Her cent­re of gra­vity was over her to­es and be­ing ste­adily suc­ked furt­her away from the po­int of re­co­very, and to­wards the po­int of no re­turn. The do­or had va­nis­hed as it ope­ned over the sea and the­re was not­hing to hang on to with her wind mil­ling arms.

  The two se­conds it to­ok from ope­ning the do­or to re­ali­zing that she wasn’t go­ing to be ab­le to get back to ter­ra fir­ma aga­in, se­emed to last an age. It was long eno­ugh for S’n’J to qu­es­ti­on her swim­ming abi­lity, long eno­ugh for her to wish she’d le­ar­ned to di­ve and long eno­ugh to cur­se who­ever or wha­te­ver had ca­used this to hap­pen.

  She swa­yed and fran­ti­cal­ly gras­ped be­hind her whi­le she felt her cent­re of gra­vity mo­ving ine­xo­rably for­ward, mil­li­met­re by mil­li­met­re. And knew that she was go­ing to die.

  The warm At­lan­tic bre­eze to­us­led her ha­ir. The smell and tas­te of the oce­an fil­led her no­se and mo­uth. The po­wer of its hu­ge gra­vi­ta­ti­onal for­ce was too gre­at to over­co­me. It was go­ing to suck her in. She was now le­aning for­ward at twenty deg­re­es and the­re was not­hing she co­uld do to re­co­ver her ba­lan­ce. She was go­ing to fall.

  Her hands fr
o­ze in the air be­fo­re her fa­ce and S’n’J saw the bro­ken na­ils that she wo­uld ne­ver get to grow now. A small, still part of her mind told them go­odb­ye and shut up shop. She knew she was be­aten and felt the fight go out of her.

  The tran­si­ti­on from le­aning for­ward to fal­ling se­emed to hap­pen in slow mo­ti­on. Then she was fal­ling he­ad­long to­wards the sea and the do­or­way was abo­ve her, a small, ra­pidly re­ce­ding rec­tang­le which hung in mid air sho­wing the in­te­ri­or of her hal­lway.

  S’n’J lost cons­ci­o­us­ness be­fo­re she hit the wa­ter.

  10 - Black Rock, Chapter Two, Bluebeard

  Snowy wo­ke up sca­red.

  It was dark in the ro­om and for a few mo­ments she didn’t know whe­re she was or what had hap­pe­ned. Only that she had enj­oyed it a lit­tle mo­re than she ought to ha­ve do­ne.

  When she fi­nal­ly re­ali­zed that she was not at ho­me, but in the mas­ter bed­ro­om of Black Rock - and alo­ne in the hu­ge bed - the fe­ar be­gan to fa­de and she re­la­xed.

  You are no lon­ger in­no­cent lit­tle Snow Whi­te, she told her­self, grin­ning. You know now. You know just what it’s all abo­ut and you’re a part of it, just li­ke you al­ways wan­ted to be. You wan­ted ex­ci­te­ment and you got it. Boy did you get it!

  It had be­en a dre­am, of co­ur­se and now she was awa­ke she co­uld ba­rely re­mem­ber it. Only that it - li­ke all the ot­her dre­ams she’d had sin­ce she mo­ved in - had fil­led her with the per­ver­se kind of se­xu­al ecs­tasy she wo­uld only ex­pect to en­co­un­ter if Co­unt Dra­cu­la pa­id her a mid­night vi­sit.

  If Phi­lip had be­en he­re be­si­de her on the bed now, she wo­uld ha­ve ma­de him hard aga­in and fuc­ked him till do­oms­day. But Phi­lip wasn’t he­re. He had put her to bed ear­li­er (and Mar­tin had cer­ta­inly ne­ver put her to bed that way), and af­ter she had be­en re­du­ced to so­met­hing akin to a tremb­ling jel­ly, had left her and go­ne ac­ross the cor­ri­dor to his work-ro­om, just as he did every night. Whe­re he was, even now, hard at it, wri­ting his bo­ok with the com­pu­ter ge­ar she’d sold him be­fo­re she jac­ked her job to co­me he­re and be a kept wo­man.

  His wo­man.

  Just as she had do­ne on ot­her nights when she’d wo­ken up from one of her jung­le ste­amy dre­ams, she lis­te­ned. For the so­und of keys clat­te­ring as he wor­ked. And just as it had on tho­se ot­her nights, her ima­gi­na­ti­on pro­vi­ded the so­und her ears we­re unab­le to he­ar. That of Phi­lip, her very own Mr Win­ter, hard at work.

  Snowy wan­ted him. So­met­hing had hap­pe­ned to her sin­ce she mo­ved in three we­eks ago. So­met­hing in the co­re of her had wo­ken up. Phi­lip cal­led it her fe­ma­le so­ul, the es­sen­ce of her fe­mi­ni­nity, but this didn’t se­em to fit. It se­emed too flimsy - a lit­tle li­ke cal­ling a bul­ldo­zer a big sho­vel. Her ‘fe­ma­le so­ul’ was a mas­si­ve, ra­ve­ning thing. It was as if a hu­ge po­wer so­ur­ce had sud­denly re­ve­aled it­self, cran­ked it­self up and go­ne to work li­ke the world’s big­gest dyna­mo. Snowy, who had pre­vi­o­usly enj­oyed her sex li­fe as well as the next wo­man, now had a sex-dri­ve that was so fe­ro­ci­o­us it wo­uld ha­ve left a nympho­ma­ni­ac stan­ding in the star­ting blocks.

  She lay the­re ac­hing for him but she didn’t mo­ve.

  Phi­lip, who­se own li­bi­do wo­uld ha­ve kept any wo­man in a sta­te of per­ma­nent tremb­le-leg­ged as­to­nish­ment, wo­uld not be ple­ased. He didn’t li­ke to be dis­tur­bed when he was wor­king. Un­der any cir­cums­tan­ces.

  Snowy had le­ar­ned du­ring the early part of her li­fe that ho­we­ver go­od things we­re, ho­we­ver per­fect, the­re was al­ways a ca­ve­at. Al­ways a con­di­ti­on that had to be ob­ser­ved.

  He­re, the­re we­re only three ru­les which had to be obe­yed and she’d tho­ught abo­ut them long and hard be­fo­re she’d fi­nal­ly mo­ved in. Two of them had be­en easy eno­ugh to ac­cept, but it was the third that had gi­ven her so­met­hing to think abo­ut. And even that had se­emed unim­por­tant af­ter one of the­ir blis­te­ring lo­ve-ma­king ses­si­ons.

  The ru­les we­re:

  1) On no ac­co­unt must she en­ter Phi­lip’s work-ro­om or dis­turb him whi­le he was in the­re,

  2) On no ac­co­unt must she pass thro­ugh any loc­ked do­or on the gro­und flo­or.

  3) On no ac­co­unt must she le­ave the ho­use wit­ho­ut Phi­lip’s per­mis­si­on.

  It was the third ru­le which for a whi­le had ca­ught in Snowy’s craw. She had spent a long we­ekend thin­king abo­ut it.

  The ot­her ru­les we­re stra­ight­for­ward eno­ugh - wri­ters didn’t li­ke to be dis­tur­bed by even the­ir ne­arest and de­arest, and the loc­ked do­or thing was of no con­cern to her at all. The do­or in qu­es­ti­on was the one which led down to the ba­se­ment or cel­lar or wha­te­ver it was cal­led. Phi­lip just re­fer­red to it as ‘downs­ta­irs’ but the only downs­ta­irs it co­uld be was a cel­lar. The­re cer­ta­inly wasn’t anot­her lo­wer le­vel car­ved out of the so­lid rock on which the ho­use sto­od. She had told him that if he wan­ted to play Blu­ebe­ard he was wel­co­me, and had en­qu­ired as to the wel­fa­re of his six ot­her wi­ves. The loc­ked do­or held no fas­ci­na­ti­on for her what­so­ever. She al­re­ady knew whe­re the key was - han­ging up by the big mir­ror in the hall. But if he ex­pec­ted her to get her­self in­to tro­ub­le by pla­ying the cu­ri­o­us wo­man, he was go­ing to ha­ve a long wa­it.

  But the third ru­le was a hor­se of anot­her co­lo­ur in­de­ed. It was the kind of ru­le a wo­man might ex­pect to co­me up aga­inst in the Mid­dle East, but not one which a fe­ma­le li­ving in mo­dern Eng­land of­ten had to con­si­der. It re­eked of to­tal sub­mis­si­on.

  And Snowy hadn’t tho­ught very highly of that idea.

  Her re­sis­tan­ce to it had las­ted a we­ek, un­til the lo­ve-ma­king ses­si­on that had awo­ken the dyna­mo lur­king de­ep in­si­de her.

  After­wards, he’d as­ked her to ma­ke the­se so­lemn pro­mi­ses and had re­fu­sed po­int blank to ar­gue abo­ut them.

  ‘Tho­se are the con­di­ti­ons,’ he’d sa­id, ‘and they’re not up for dis­cus­si­on. Ac­cept them or re­j­ect them. It’s en­ti­rely up to you.’

  He was tes­ting her in­ten­ti­ons. She had sud­denly un­ders­to­od this. It was a kind of mo­dern equ­iva­lent to ha­ving to go out and slay a dra­gon to pro­ve her­self worthy of the prin­ce’s hand.

  So Snowy had sa­id, ‘OK, I’ve re­ad the cont­ract, I’ve co­oled off du­ring the co­oling-off pe­ri­od and ha­ving gi­ven it due con­si­de­ra­ti­on, I he­reby ac­cept the con­di­ti­ons.’

  And even that wasn’t eno­ugh. ‘You ha­ve to pro­mi­se on yo­ur ho­no­ur to ob­ser­ve the ru­les at all ti­mes,’ Phi­lip had sa­id.

  ‘I pro­mi­se,’ Snowy had ans­we­red.

  And that was that.

  And each ti­me it oc­cur­red to her that she had pro­mi­sed away her in­de­pen­den­ce, she re­min­ded her­self that ru­les we­re ma­de to be bro­ken and - as Phi­lip of­ten sa­id be­fo­re a wri­ting ses­si­on - that ‘li­es we­re the­re to be told’.

  Which, she sup­po­sed had be­en the be­gin­ning of the end of her in­no­cen­ce. And sin­ce Phi­lip had mo­re stra­ta than a mil­li­on-ye­ar-old rock fa­ce, that was pro­bably exactly what he had be­en aiming at. He wan­ted her to lie. She didn’t know why. Not yet. But she had the fe­eling she was go­ing to find out. So­oner or la­ter.

  Snowy tur­ned over, snug­gled down in the warm bed and re­j­ec­ted the idea of bre­aking ru­le num­ber one. Let him work in pe­ace, she tho­ught. If he’d rat­her tell li­es than ma­ke lo­ve, then that’s up to him.

  She lay the­re in the dark­ness, not kno­wing what ti­me it was and not ca­rin
g two ho­ots. She was warm, ca­red for, happy and mo­re re­la­xed than sin­ce she’d be­en a tiny tot.

  She clo­sed her eyes, lis­te­ned for com­pu­ter keys rat­tling un­der deft fin­gers and tri­ed to pi­ece to­get­her the dre­am she’d be­en ha­ving.

  She co­uldn’t re­call. It had pro­bably be­en anot­her dre­am abo­ut the ba­se­ment. The dre­ams she’d had abo­ut El­len had be­en set in the ba­se­ment. El­len, whom she had on­ce lo­ved, not just as a sis­ter, but in the full, pas­si­ona­te sen­se of the word, had be­en pre­sent in se­ve­ral of tho­se dre­ams which she co­uld re­mem­ber. All of them had be­en set in the for­bid­den ba­se­ment.

  See, you don’t ha­ve to ban me from the­re, she tho­ught, I al­re­ady know exactly what it lo­oks li­ke - and so­me of what hap­pens the­re.

  The ba­se­ment of her dre­ams was a box-sha­ped cham­ber per­haps fif­te­en fe­et along each wall and ten fe­et high. The walls we­re un­fa­ced, but per­fectly flat gra­ni­te. Ex­cept the gra­ni­te wasn’t grey, it was black.

  And it was kit­ted out rat­her li­ke a dun­ge­on, or an in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on cell. It was lit by a sing­le van­dal-pro­of light fit­ting and the­re was a wo­oden work bench along one wall, upon which sat an old-fas­hi­oned re­el-to-re­el ta­pe re­cor­der and mic­rop­ho­ne. Each wall had set in­to it two sets of ma­nac­les which dang­led on cha­ins, and the­re was an as­sort­ment of inst­ru­ments of tor­tu­re lying he­re and the­re. Bull-whips, thumbsc­rews, dag­gers and va­ri­o­us small items of mac­hi­nery who­se pur­po­se was not sug­ges­ted by the­ir sha­pe.

  In each of Snowy’s dre­ams of El­len, El­len had be­en na­ked and ma­nac­led to the wall. She had be­en hor­ribly tor­tu­red and was writ­hing in agony, ple­ading for de­ath to end her mi­sery. And in each dre­am Snowy had tur­ned on the ta­pe re­cor­der, kno­wing she wan­ted to pre­ser­ve the­se cri­es for pos­te­rity. She felt no sympathy for El­len, just a stran­ge kind of warm joy at the so­unds she was ma­king and the sta­te she was in. She didn’t know if she had ca­used El­len the pa­in she was suf­fe­ring, but she did know that the­re was a part of her that badly wan­ted to inc­re­ase that pa­in and sub­se­qu­ently inc­re­ase the le­vel of ple­asu­re she felt. And she al­so knew that the­re was a va­lid pur­po­se for the tor­tu­re. But whe­ne­ver she awo­ke, that know­led­ge di­sap­pe­ared and was ins­tantly rep­la­ced by gu­ilt.