Black Rock Read online

  To com­po­und the mystery, the­re we­re nu­me­ro­us spel­ling cor­rec­ti­ons, and an­no­ta­ted sen­ten­ces in a dif­fe­rent hand and gra­de of pen­cil. Which co­uld me­an eit­her of two things. The first was that Mar­tin was suf­fe­ring from a mul­tip­le per­so­na­lity di­sor­der (of which she had se­en no sign du­ring the­ir fo­ur ye­ars to­get­her) and the se­cond was that the pa­ges had be­en writ­ten and an­no­ta­ted by so­me­one ot­her than Mar­tin.

  The first was imp­la­usib­le, the se­cond, im­pos­sib­le.

  When S’n’J was a bright yo­ung thing at col­le­ge in Exe­ter, she had en­ter­ta­ined ro­man­tic ho­pes of be­co­ming a pri­va­te eye. She knew how to be disc­re­et and she had an al­most in­sa­ti­ab­le cu­ri­osity. So­me of her fri­ends had cal­led her Par­ker, as in Nosy. But when she left col­le­ge for her first two ye­ars of work in the re­al world - as an as­sis­tant in a bo­oks­hop -her ho­pes be­gan to fa­de. The re­al world had a way of grin­ding you down and ma­king yo­ur on­ce fan­tas­tic ho­pes and dre­ams be­co­me as wor­ka­day as ever­yo­ne el­se’s. So­mew­he­re bet­we­en her se­cond ye­ar at the bo­oks­hop and the job co­ming up as sa­les rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve for Ace Pub­lis­hing (Pub­lis­her of the Ye­ar 1992 and still he­ading the­ir let­ters such -wit­ho­ut the ye­ar, of co­ur­se - three ye­ars on), she’d qu­it thin­king of be­ing an in­ves­ti­ga­tor, and star­ted thin­king how ni­ce it wo­uld be to ha­ve so­mew­he­re she co­uld call her own. And a dog, may­be, and a car - and if a su­itab­le one hap­pe­ned by, a man too.

  And shortly af­ter star­ting work as Ace’s Wes­tern Area sa­les rep (ter­ri­tory: Bris­tol to Land’s End and a tho­usand mi­les a we­ek to co­ver), she had all of them ex­cept the dog. And sin­ce then, she’d tho­ught no mo­re abo­ut be­co­ming a pri­va­te dick (or a pri­va­te fanny, per­haps, if you wan­ted to be co­ar­se).

  Until she dis­co­ve­red the ma­nusc­ript in her flat.

  When she’d first fo­und the uns­tam­ped A4 en­ve­lo­pe un­der the re­cently de­par­ted Mar­tin’s si­de of the bed, she’d pul­led out the con­tents far eno­ugh for a qu­ick glan­ce and had de­ci­ded that if Mar­tin wan­ted his ma­nusc­ript, Mar­tin co­uld damn well pho­ne and ask for it and if she was fe­eling par­ti­cu­larly mag­na­ni­mo­us she might send it to him.

  Mar­tin had pho­ned. Oh how he had pho­ned - every sing­le day for a fort­night. But he’d had ot­her things on his mind than work. Such as what he wasn’t go­ing to do to his lit­tle Es­sen jay if only she wo­uld ha­ve him back!

  But his lit­tle Es­se­nj­ay was not the sa­me girl she’d be­en when he’d first mo­ved in and bro­ught the spro­uting se­eds of his nasty lit­tle ha­bits with him. His lit­tle Es­se­nj­ay was a go­od de­al mo­re worldly-wi­se the­se days. She now un­ders­to­od the wis­dom of that old saw, You can’t ma­ke a silk pur­se out of a sow’s ear and alt­ho­ugh not fe­ma­le, Mar­tin was un­do­ub­tedly an ear of the por­ci­ne va­ri­ety. She told him this, along with the fact that she didn’t be­li­eve his pro­mi­ses of re­for­ma­ti­on; of how he wo­uld be­co­me a mo­del part­ner.

  It ser­ved him right, of co­ur­se, but it had al­so ali­ena­ted him. Even­tu­al­ly he’d conc­lu­ded that his days of do­mi­nan­ce over this par­ti­cu­lar lit­tle girl - who ne­eded an aut­ho­ri­ta­ti­ve fat­her fi­gu­re to ke­ep her in her pla­ce - we­re well and truly go­ne and he had ce­ased cal­ling.

  And go­od rid­dan­ce to him, Sa­rah-Jane tho­ught, de­fi­ant, even now.

  The prob­lem was, that now she’d re­ad the ma­nusc­ript, she wan­ted to talk to him abo­ut it. May­be to tell him it was much bet­ter than he re­ali­zed and to en­co­ura­ge him to per­se­ve­re with it, but ma­inly to ask him why he’d sig­ned him­self as Pe­ter Per­fect (Pe­ne­lo­pe Pits­top’s boyf­ri­end, she tho­ught, from Wacky Ra­ces) and why he’d writ­ten his ad­dress as Black Rock.

  So pho­ne him up, she told her­self, and lo­oked at the cel­lnet pho­ne which lay in its le­at­her ca­se on the car’s pas­sen­ger se­at. She do­ub­ted that Pe­ter Per­fect (and he’d pro­bably cho­sen the na­me be­ca­use he tho­ught he was per­fect) wo­uld spe­ak to her. And if she left a mes­sa­ge she didn’t know if he wo­uld re­turn her call.

  What Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den did know, was the re­ason she was he­si­ta­ting. A con­ver­sa­ti­on with Mar­tin might not turn out the way she wan­ted it to. Mar­tin wasn’t just go­ing to talk abo­ut the we­at­her and the fa­mo­us twenty-fo­ur pa­ge samp­le of an unw­rit­ten no­vel cal­led Black Rock. Mar­tin was un­do­ub­tedly go­ing to bro­ach the ta­boo su­bj­ect of Me and You and that was so­met­hing she ne­eded less than a six-inch na­il dri­ven bet­we­en each of the pu­pils of her eyes.

  But to­day was the last day this we­ek that Mar­tin wo­uld be in the of­fi­ce at Ace Pub­lis­hing. Be­ca­use he was fre­elan­ce he only spent Tu­es­days, Wed­nes­days and Thurs­days at Ace.

  And Sa­rah-Jane badly wan­ted con­fir­ma­ti­on that he’d writ­ten the pa­ges.

  Except that what you re­al­ly want, my girl, is con­fir­ma­ti­on that he didn’t wri­te it, isn’t it?

  But she ig­no­red this be­ca­use it was ab­surdly ro­man­tic wan­ting to be­li­eve that the­re was an ac­tu­al pla­ce cal­led Black Rock. And even mo­re ri­di­cu­lo­us wan­ting the­re to be a man in­si­de it who’d sat down and writ­ten ac­cu­ra­tely abo­ut her wit­ho­ut even kno­wing of her exis­ten­ce.

  Sha­king her he­ad, be­ca­use when you se­ri­o­usly star­ted to en­ter­ta­in such fan­ci­es you had a job to sort out whe­re fic­ti­on en­ded and re­ality be­gan, she re­ac­hed for the pho­ne. She had to know.

  The Ace switch­bo­ard ope­ra­tor comp­le­tely ig­no­red her re­qu­est for con­nec­ti­on to Mar­tin and plum­bed her thro­ugh to Del Blass, the mar­ke­ting ma­na­ger, and for her sins, her boss.

  ‘Blass, mar­ke­ting,’ his vo­ice sa­id. ‘Drezy, ni­ce of you to pho­ne. Got a prob­lem?’

  ‘Only if you’re not ans­we­ring Mar­tin’s pho­ne,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id. ‘I as­ked for his of­fi­ce.’

  ‘How’s tricks?’ Del as­ked. ‘Any prob­lems down yo­ur way?’

  ‘No Del, no­ne, now lo­ok…’

  ‘The new Ka­minsky sub­bing in okay for Christ­mas?’

  ‘Li­ke hot ca­kes, surp­ri­se, surp­ri­se,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id. Lu­lu Ka­minsky’s al­re­ady sky-high sa­les had treb­led sin­ce so­me­one had pus­hed her down one of Lon­don un­derg­ro­und’s tal­lest es­ca­la­tors and kil­led her. Aided by Melvyn Bragg and a So­uth Bank Show spe­ci­al en­tit­led, ‘Who Kil­led Ka­minsky?’ Lu­lu’s first post­hu­mo­us bo­ok, Cla­ris­sa, was set to bre­ak all sa­les re­cords sin­ce God was a kid. Lu­lu Ka­minsky was al­re­ady the world’s nu­me­ro uno shop­ping and fuc­king no­ve­list; now she wo­uld be a re­cord-bre­aking de­ad one.

  ‘Go­od,’ Del sa­id, and Sa­rah-Jane co­uld pic­tu­re his hu­ge he­ad nod­ding slowly. Del was one of tho­se pe­op­le you cras­hed in­to full spe­ed ahe­ad and hyped up and bo­un­ced off fe­eling mel­low and co­ol.

  ‘Now lo­ok, Del, can you put Mar­tin on the li­ne ple­ase?’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id, qu­ickly be­fo­re he co­uld calm her any mo­re.

  ‘I’m not in his of­fi­ce, I’m in mi­ne,’ Del sa­id. ‘How you fe­eling Drezy? Okay?’

  ‘I’m fi­ne, Del. Just put me thro­ugh to Mar­tin, and I’ll fe­el a damn sight fi­ner.’

  ‘Is it work re­la­ted?’ Del as­ked.

  ‘Yes Del,’ Sa­rah sa­id.

  ‘Oh,’ Del sa­id so­un­ding di­sap­po­in­ted. ‘Tho­ught the­re might be a chan­ce, y’know…’

  ‘Of a re­con­ci­li­ati­on?’

  The tro­ub­le with the pub­lis­hing in­dustry was that the fu­el that ran it was int­ri­gue and s
can­dal. Ever­yo­ne knew ever­yo­ne el­se and word spre­ad li­ke wild­fi­re, not just thro­ugh the pub­lis­hing ho­use you wor­ked for but all the ot­hers too. Al­most ever­yo­ne in the in­dustry knew Mar­tin Din­sey the co­untry’s most res­pec­ted sci­en­ce fic­ti­on edi­tor, and ever­yo­ne now knew that he’d be­en blown-out by so­me jum­ped up bitch of a sa­les rep.

  ‘Abso­lu­tely no chan­ce,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id. ‘Will you put me thro­ugh to him now?’

  Del he­si­ta­ted. ‘The switch­bo­ard has be­en inst­ruc­ted to di­vert yo­ur calls to me,’ he sa­id. ‘I’m… uhh… sup­po­sed to exp­la­in to you that Mar­tin do­esn’t want any con­tact with you.’

  ‘Well, I ha­ve a qu­es­ti­on I want to ask him abo­ut one of his bo­oks,’ Sa­rah-Jane li­ed, ‘and I’d li­ke him to ans­wer it for me.’

  Del sig­hed. ‘Hold on Drezy, I’ll see if he’ll spe­ak to you.’

  The li­ne went de­ad and Sa­rah-Jane wa­ited.

  When it clic­ked in­to li­fe aga­in, she’d al­re­ady sa­id, ‘Lo­ok Mar­tin, I want to talk to you abo­ut Black Rock,’ be­fo­re the per­son on the ot­her end cut in.

  ‘It’s me, Janie,’ Janie San­der­son sa­id. ‘Mar­tin’s go­ne to lunch with Mi­ke Shar­land. So­met­hing to do with a telly de­al for Gray Eli­ot’s Rep­li­cant bo­ok.’

  ‘Shit,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id.

  ‘What’s up? You we­ren’t pi­ning, su­rely?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’ll be di­sap­po­in­ted if he finds out. He’s con­vin­ced you’re a sha­dow of yo­ur for­mer self sin­ce he left you,’ Janie sa­id.

  ‘So­unds li­ke him all over, that do­es. Sin­ce he left me?

  ‘He wants you back y’know. He’s stric­ken.’

  ‘He can stay stric­ken.’

  ‘I think it did him so­me go­od. Not that I’m ad­ver­ti­sing him or anyt­hing. I cer­ta­inly wo­uldn’t want to li­ve with him.’

  ‘You’re slur­ring my cha­rac­ter!’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id. ‘Ever­yo­ne’s en­tit­led to one mis­ta­ke.’

  ‘Ye­ah, but I wo­uldn’t li­ke to see you ma­king it aga­in. What did you want to talk to him abo­ut, any­way? So­met­hing abo­ut a rock, wasn’t it? It must ha­ve be­en ur­gent for you to ha­ve pho­ned him’

  ‘Black Rock,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id. ‘I fo­und this twenty-fo­ur pa­ge samp­le of a bo­ok cal­led Black Rock in my flat af­ter Mar­tin left. It’s a ha­un­ted ho­use story, ap­pa­rently and I… well, I just wan­ted to ask if he wan­ted it back.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Janie sa­id, ‘I’ll gi­ve him the mes­sa­ge. Okey-do­key?’

  ‘Fi­ne.’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id, qu­ickly we­ig­hing up the odds. If she told Janie she wo­uld pho­ne Mar­tin back, the Ace bush te­leg­raph wo­uld be afi­re wit­hin se­conds. She and Mar­tin had ap­pa­rently be­co­me the li­te­rary world’s equ­iva­lent of Char­les and Di.

  Sod it! she tho­ught. ‘Lo­ok, Janie, I’ll ring him back this af­ter­no­on,’ she sa­id.

  ‘Ohhh-kay,’ Janie sa­id, pre­su­mably al­re­ady se­arc­hing un­der her desk for her tab­la drums or wha­te­ver they used to spre­ad the word.

  ‘Spe­ak to you so­on,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id, and rang off.

  And that was yes­ter­day. Sa­rah-Jane had not cal­led Mar­tin back as she had pro­mi­sed, be­ca­use for one thing she tho­ught she might inad­ver­tently be sen­ding him sig­nals which he wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly in­terp­ret to re­ad ‘she wants me back’, and for anot­her, the pri­va­te dick in her had de­ci­ded to ta­ke ac­ti­on.

  The­re was a very easy way of fin­ding out if ‘Pe­ter Per­fect’ was Mar­tin or so­me­one el­se. Last night she had ac­tu­al­ly dre­amed of Black Rock - as a windb­lown, god­for­sa­ken pla­ce, shi­ning li­ke a be­acon in the eye of a storm. And this mor­ning she had wo­ken, kno­wing she was go­ing to tra­vel mi­les out of her way in or­der to vi­sit the spot whe­re Black Rock was set.

  You’re ob­ses­sed, the Girl Gu­ide vo­ice of her cons­ci­en­ce in­for­med her.

  The­re’s not­hing wrong with a lit­tle ob­ses­si­on, now and aga­in, Sa­rah-Jane tho­ught back. Just lo­ok at … just lo­ok at … and was unab­le to bring to mind any gre­at his­to­ri­cal fi­gu­re who hadn’t pa­id the pri­ce of the­ir ob­ses­si­on. The­re had to be so­me, but she co­uldn’t qu­ite bring them to mind.

  In fact, if she was truth­ful with her­self, she was ha­ving tro­ub­le brin­ging an­y­t­hing to mind sin­ce she’d fo­und the ma­nusc­ript. Ex­cept the ma­nusc­ript it­self, of co­ur­se. She was suc­ke­red, just as the wri­ter had in­ten­ded. She re­al­ly did want to know what hap­pe­ned to Snowy. Wild go­ose cha­se or not, she had plan­ned her who­le day so that she co­uld get so­me work do­ne and still ha­ve ti­me to dri­ve over to Tin­ta­gel and check out the lo­ca­ti­on.

  She’d last be­en to see the ru­ins of King Art­hur’s Cast­le when she was a lit­tle girl, and she cer­ta­inly didn’t re­call se­e­ing any spo­oky ho­uses ne­arby. The rock - Bar­ras No­se it was cal­led in the ma­nusc­ript - might be the­re, but the­re wo­uld be no ho­use upon it. It was all Na­ti­onal Trust land the­re any­way.

  So I’m go­ing to be di­sap­po­in­ted. So what? I can stand in the Cast­le and lo­ok at the empty pi­ece of rock whe­re Mar­tin set his ha­un­ted ho­use and won­der how he sud­denly be­ca­me so in­s­pi­red.

  Sa­rah-Jane tur­ned over pa­ge twenty-fo­ur’s cliff han­ger (whe­re Snowy was abo­ut to be vi­ola­ted by an ext­re­mely nasty ap­pa­ri­ti­on), ti­di­ed up the thin stack of pa­ges and fed them back in­to the­ir en­ve­lo­pe.

  But you’d li­ke it bet­ter if Black Rock re­al­ly tur­ned out to be stan­ding the­re on top of Bar­ras No­se, wo­uldn’t you? her Girl Gu­ide vo­ice chip­ped in. You’d li­ke to walk up that shing­le dri­ve with that ho­use cro­uc­hing be­fo­re you and lay yo­ur fin­gers on that so­lid gold do­or knob, wo­uldn’t you? You’d li­ke to me­et Mr Win­ter, too. Very much.

  ‘And I wo­uldn’t be frigh­te­ned, eit­her,’ she mut­te­red.

  Just li­ke Snow­d­rop.

  ‘Be­ca­use the­re are no such things as ghosts,’ she sa­id, star­ting the car.

  As she dro­ve out of the car park, Sa­rah-Jane’s sto­mach fil­led with but­terf­li­es.

  3 - Martin’s Confession

  Mar­tin Lo­u­is Din­sey, re­now­ned and res­pec­ted edi­tor of sci­en­ce fic­ti­on, fan­tasy and a co­up­le of hack hor­ror wri­ters that he pre­fer­red not to talk abo­ut, threw the of­fi­ce do­or open, yel­led, ‘Hi­ya gor­ge­o­us!’ at Janie San­der­son, flung him­self down in his cha­ir and be­gan to pull off his tie.

  From whe­re Janie sat, it lo­oked as if the lunch had be­en a go­od one. She scow­led at him, to­uc­hing her two lo­ose front te­eth with her ton­gue. Drunks we­re not her fa­vo­uri­te ani­mals to­day.

  Mar­tin smel­led li­ke a dis­til­lery. Which was a chan­ge from the re­ek of Ten­nent’s Ext­ra she was used to at ho­me, but still not go­od. It was still bo­oze.

  For the last ho­ur, Janie had be­en trying to wri­te a co­ver blurb for a ro­man­ce and it wasn’t go­ing well. An epic sa­ga of a nob­le ni­ne­te­enth cen­tury fa­mily’s fall from ric­hes to the gut­ter, she’d writ­ten, and of the yo­un­gest da­ugh­ter’s climb back in­to so­ci­ety. Kitty’s path from kitc­hen ma­id to lady of the night, to com­pa­ni­on of the Prin­ce Con­sort, is a ma­rat­hon strug­gle aga­inst the ti­de of the ti­mes. Bet­ra­yal, je­alo­usy, lust and he­re Janie had run out of ste­am: and bro­ken dre­ams… bug­ger bug­ger shit bum bol­locks, I’m crap at this. Get the aut­hor to send in a draft.

  She con­si­de­red re­ading it out to Mar­tin and as­king him what he tho­ught, then chan­ged her mind. He wo­uld say it was a pi­ece of shit, just li­ke he al­ways did.

 
; Mar­tin swung ro­und in his cha­ir. Janie co­uld fe­el his eyes bo­ring in­to the back of her he­ad. She tur­ned to fa­ce him and re­ali­zed the­re was a cer­ta­in truth in the exp­res­si­on ‘tan­ked-up’. Her col­le­ague lo­oked li­ke a hol­low man, al­most fil­led with li­qu­id. You co­uld all but see the bo­oze slop­ping abo­ut be­hind his eyes. His fa­ce was swim­ming - the­re was no bet­ter way of desc­ri­bing it.

  Janie’s hus­band, her own per­so­nal drun­kard, and pre­sently her num­ber one worry, ne­ver lo­oked li­ke this, no mat­ter how much he drank. And he drank a lot.

  ‘Busy?’ Mar­tin as­ked.

  Janie nod­ded. The ac­ti­on ma­de her lip hurt and she men­tal­ly cur­sed her hus­band and tho­ught, No mo­re, Bil­ly-]oe.

  ‘Ye­ah,’ she sa­id won­de­ring if Mar­tin had no­ti­ced anyt­hing abo­ut her - li­ke her fat lip or the slight bru­ise on her right che­ek­bo­ne. ‘You?’

  ‘Got­ta cut twenty per cent out­ta this tur­key Davy Ro­sen­burg just de­li­ve­red,’ Mar­tin sa­id, po­in­ting at the pi­le of pa­ges on his desk. ‘Hor­ror crap. S’cal­led Lucy’s Birth­day. Ne­arly half a mil­li­on words. Dun­no why an­yo­ne buys his stuff. S’crap an’ full of pad­ding. Any calls, dar­ling?’

  Janie, who was most cer­ta­inly not his dar­ling, lo­oked at her pad. The­re we­re three calls. The first was from Davy Ro­sen­burg thre­ate­ning vi­olent ret­ri­bu­ti­on if Mar­tin didn’t pho­ne him im­me­di­ately. The se­cond was from an agent set­ting up an auc­ti­on for a first no­vel from an sf wri­ter who was ‘go­ing to be big­ger than Wil­li­am Gib­son’. And the­re was the one for which Mar­tin had be­en wa­iting for over two months. From Drezy.

  When she told him that Ro­sen­burg had thre­ate­ned to kill him, Mar­tin shrug­ged and grin­ned and sa­id, ‘He’s a pus­sycat’. But he so­be­red up in­si­de two se­conds when he he­ard that Sa­rah-Jane had pho­ned.