Black Rock Read online

  Janie watc­hed this ta­ke pla­ce and dis­tantly wis­hed that the­re was a ma­gic phra­se she co­uld say to go­od old Bil­ly-Joe which wo­uld do the sa­me.

  ‘What did she want?’ he de­man­ded, the slur comp­le­tely ab­sent from his vo­ice. He lo­oked li­ke a lit­tle boy who’d lost his mummy at a car­ni­val and had just be­en told by a po­li­ce­man that she was on her way to col­lect him: an­xi­o­us and ho­pe­ful.

  ‘She just wan­ted to ask you so­met­hing abo­ut a ma­nusc­ript you left in her flat.’

  Mar­tin’s fa­ce be­ca­me stric­ken. He nod­ded slowly, lo­oking as if he sud­denly un­ders­to­od the worst. ‘She was an­no­yed. Christ, I wish I hadn’t do­ne that. But I was li­vid with her. Blo­ody thing was go­od, see? Even I co­uld see that and I ha­te ha­un­ted ho­use bo­oks. Christ, I’m a wan­ker. Why’d I do it?’

  He’s right abo­ut the wan­ker bit, Janie tho­ught and sa­id, ‘Slow down Mar­tin. You lost me so­mew­he­re. She wasn’t an­no­yed, she was qu­ite calm. What are you on abo­ut?’

  ‘The bo­ok,’ Mar­tin sa­id pla­in­ti­vely. ‘Black Rock. That’s just abo­ut scotc­hed any chan­ce I had. I wish I’d just sa­id I li­ked it.’ He clap­ped his hands to his fa­ce, do­ub­led over and he­aved a sob.

  Janie didn’t much li­ke him, but she li­ked se­e­ing him cry even less. She wasn’t the kind of girl who fo­und it easy to clasp a we­eping com­pa­ni­on to her bre­ast and say, ‘The­re the­re.’ All she did was be­co­me em­bar­ras­sed for the dist­res­sed per­son. Any­way, it sho­uld ha­ve be­en her sit­ting the­re we­eping.

  So­me of us ha­ve to sol­di­er on, she tho­ught. Even when we ha­ve split lips, lo­ose te­eth, bru­ises all over us and a pa­in in our ribs each ti­me we bre­at­he in.

  Whi­le she lo­oked at Mar­tin’s shud­de­ring back, won­de­ring what to do, a de­mon spo­ke up in­si­de her and sug­ges­ted, qu­ite calmly, that she ought to whack him over the back of the he­ad with her com­pu­ter key­bo­ard whi­le she had the chan­ce be­ca­use he wo­uld pro­bably ne­ver ma­ke such a go­od tar­get aga­in. Janie al­most gig­gled, then ha­ted her­self for it. No, I don’t sup­po­se the key­bo­ard wi­re’s long eno­ugh to re­ach any­way, the de­mon sa­id be­fo­re it de­par­ted.

  She sco­oted her cha­ir a lit­tle clo­ser to Mar­tin, he­si­ta­ted for a mo­ment, then re­ac­hed out a hand, in­ten­ding to to­uch him, but not kno­wing whe­re. His arms we­re fol­ded in un­der him and his back was too far away to re­ach, which left his he­ad as the ob­vi­o­us pla­ce. Janie co­uld see his shiny pink scalp be­ne­ath his thin­ning ha­ir and didn’t re­al­ly want to co­me in con­tact with it, but she swal­lo­wed her pri­de and her re­ser­va­ti­ons and did it any­way.

  Mar­tin jum­ped as if he had be­en shot.

  ‘S’okay,’ she sa­id qu­i­etly, ‘I’m he­re,’ she ad­ded, won­de­ring what kind of con­so­la­ti­on that was for him.

  ‘Oh, Janie,’ Mar­tin’s muf­fled vo­ice sa­id from so­mew­he­re be­ne­ath the fol­ded-up tang­le of arms and legs that he’d ma­de of him­self. ‘I still lo­ve her.’

  You sho­uldn’t ha­ve be­en such a shit to her then, was the ob­vi­o­us reply, but Janie did not say it. She sa­id, ‘I know. I know.’

  Mar­tin un­fol­ded him­self and sat up. ‘You don’t un­ders­tand what I’ve do­ne,’ he sa­id sadly, sha­king his he­ad.

  ‘You’re right the­re, Mar­tin,’ Janie sa­id. ‘I ha­ven’t a clue.’

  ‘Black Rock,’ he sa­id.

  ‘Ye­ah, I’ve gat­he­red by now that Black Rock is the word-pa­iring of the day. You’d bet­ter exp­la­in its sig­ni­fi­can­ce.’

  ‘I wro­te on it,’ Mar­tin sa­id, as if wri­ting on a ma­nusc­ript was a sin akin to chi­sel­ling a smi­ley fa­ce on one of the tab­lets be­aring the Ten Com­mand­ments.

  ‘That’s what edi­tors are for, isn’t it?’ Janie rep­li­ed.

  ‘It was go­od.’

  ‘Ye­ah, you sa­id that. Nod if I ha­ve it so far. You had this bit of ma­nusc­ript - twenty-fo­ur pa­ges, so Drezy sa­id - and it was cal­led Black Rock and you wro­te on it.’

  Mar­tin lo­oked at her in tor­ment.

  ‘You didn’t nod.’

  For one ugly mo­ment she tho­ught he’d slip­ped in­to a ca­ta­to­nic tran­ce. ‘Mar­tin?’ she as­ked.

  He nod­ded.

  ‘Right. Now tell me why you sho­uldn’t ha­ve writ­ten on it.’

  ‘Be­ca­use it was go­od.’

  That ne­ver stop­ped you be­fo­re, she wan­ted to say, or me, co­me to that. But Mar­tin hadn’t fi­nis­hed yet.

  ‘It sa­id it was writ­ten by so­me­one cal­led Pe­ter Per­fect, down in the fo­oter, it sa­id, Pe­ter Per­fect, Black Rock, Tin­ta­gel.’

  ‘Ye­ah?’

  ‘But it was such a stu­pid na­me and the ad­dress be­lon­ged to the ha­un­ted ho­use in the story… so I knew.’

  ‘Knew what, exactly?’

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad. ‘It didn’t co­me in the post you see. The en­ve­lo­pe was se­aled but the­re was no stamp on it, or ad­dres­see writ­ten on the front. So I knew. She left it the­re on the mat.’

  ‘Sa­rah-Jane left it the­re?’

  Mar­tin nod­ded. ‘Sa­rah-Jane wro­te it. That’s why she used a silly na­me and ad­dress. She wro­te the first few pa­ges of a no­vel - so­met­hing that co­uld ha­ve be­en ex­cel­lent - and left it for me to find. And I pla­yed the ga­me. I didn’t men­ti­on it to her. I pic­ked it up and re­ad it and wro­te so­me edi­to­ri­al com­ments on it. It was go­od, but I sa­id it was crap be­ca­use I was mad with her when I re­ad it. I left it un­der the bed whe­re I tho­ught she’d find it, but she didn’t and I for­got all abo­ut it. Now she’s se­en what I wro­te on it the­re’s no chan­ce of a re­con­ci­li­ati­on.’

  Two lar­ge te­ars for­med in the cor­ners of Mar­tin’s eyes. Janie watc­hed them gat­her, no lon­ger thin­king of her col­le­ague’s dist­ress or her own tro­ub­les at all. The words that swam in her he­ad pus­hed everyt­hing el­se asi­de:

  Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den has be­gun to wri­te a bo­ok.

  Janie felt a mo­ment of li­te­ral­ly in­sa­ne je­alo­usy be­ca­use this was the very thing she’d be­en pro­mi­sing her­self she wo­uld do any day now, kno­wing she’d ne­ver get aro­und to it. Then she felt a sud­den sur­ge of warmth for her fri­end who had star­ted a bo­ok that wasn’t go­ing to be an or­di­nary ‘I wish I co­uld wri­te a bo­ok’ bo­ok, but one that - in Mar­tin’s own words -‘co­uld ha­ve be­en ex­cel­lent.’

  In the mo­ment of edi­to­ri­al com­pe­ti­ti­ve­ness that fol­lo­wed, Janie had to stop her­self as­king if Mar­tin had a copy that she co­uld lo­ok at. Then she star­ted to play Agony Aunt aga­in.

  ‘I think you sho­uld pho­ne her and tell her the truth,’ she ad­vi­sed.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Turn ro­und, pick up that pho­ne and tell her how go­od you think her wri­ting is. I’ll va­ca­te the pre­mi­ses whi­le you do it, if you li­ke.’

  ‘Thanks Janie, I’ll ring her mo­bi­le now,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘And you can stay too, if you li­ke.’

  Janie li­ked.

  4 - Romantic Interlude

  Sa­rah-Jane’s mo­bi­le te­lep­ho­ne was sup­pli­ed and pa­id for by Ace Pub­lis­hing. This was not an act of kind­ness by Ace. In fact, so­me of the sa­les for­ce re­gar­ded the sud­den int­ro­duc­ti­on of the mo­bi­les as an act of tre­ac­hery by the­ir emp­lo­yer. A tigh­ter re­in co­uld now be kept upon the sa­les staff. Which me­ant no mo­re bun­king off to go shop­ping, no mo­re PO­ETS days (Piss Off Early To­mor­row’s Sa­tur­day) and no ex­cu­ses abo­ut not get­ting mes­sa­ges. If Mar­ke­ting Di­rec­tor Del Blass sent you a me­mo, you co­uld say you didn’t re­ce­ive it - if he left a mes­sa
­ge on yo­ur ans­werp­ho­ne, you co­uld lie that the mac­hi­ne was cranky, but if he spo­ke the words of his ur­gent mes­sa­ge in yo­ur very ear, the only ex­cu­se you had la­ter was that you for­got.

  Sa­rah-Jane had mi­xed fe­elings. Su­re, it was equ­iva­lent to ha­ving Del sit­ting in the pas­sen­ger se­at of yo­ur car, but Del didn’t ma­ke a po­int of rin­ging you every fi­ve mi­nu­tes and if you did yo­ur job you didn’t ha­ve a lot to worry abo­ut. You co­uld still fit in tho­se lit­tle trips to the shops and whe­re­ver you we­re (the­ore­ti­cal­ly, at le­ast), you had ins­tant con­tact with the world at lar­ge. This was a go­od thing.

  Be­ca­use alt­ho­ugh Sa­rah-Jane didn’t be­li­eve in ghosts, she did ha­ve so­me fe­ars. For examp­le, wal­king back to her car in any one of a hund­red dimly-lit and de­ser­ted mul­ti-sto­rey car parks, her red Ford Si­er­ra es­ta­te al­ways se­emed to be a go­od fifty yards away from the sta­irs and the­re was al­ways a he­ap of bo­xes or pro­mo­ti­onal stands in the back which wo­uld ma­gi­cal­ly trans­form the­ir out­li­nes to re­semb­le a fi­gu­re. Wa­iting for her. And the pho­ne was handy be­ca­use Sa­rah-Jane wo­uld wa­it a few se­conds, her fin­gers re­ady to turn on the pho­ne and punch three ni­nes if that va­gue sha­pe on her back se­at mo­ved so much as an inch.

  But it was not yet dark and Sa­rah-Jane was thin­king not abo­ut fin­ding men in her car, but bad-mo­ut­hing the wo­man in the Aus­tin Al­leg­ro that she’d be­en stuck be­hind for fi­ve mi­les on the A3 84 to La­un­ces­ton. She mut­te­red cur­ses by ro­te whi­le she tre­ated her­self to a fra­me of Snowy Dres­den’s world; a sce­ne star­ring Mr Win­ter and the fur rug in front of the fi­rep­la­ce. Sa­rah-Jane’s ima­gi­na­ti­on was fer­ti­le but she wasn’t abo­ve ste­aling so­me­one el­se’s fan­tasy if it su­ited her. And the got­hic ro­man­ce Pe­ter Per­fect had set up in Black Rock su­ited her.

  When the pho­ne be­gan to ble­at, she jum­ped and felt ab­surdly gu­ilty - as if she’d be­en ca­ught mas­tur­ba­ting.

  Which was true - up to a po­int, she told her­self.

  She pul­led over, put the car in ne­ut­ral, ap­pli­ed the handb­ra­ke and le­aned down to­wards the pas­sen­ger’s si­de of the car for the mo­bi­le. The se­at­belt loc­ked. Sa­rah-Jane fo­ught a bri­ef bat­tle with it be­fo­re get­ting it un­do­ne. She le­aned over, grab­bed the ble­ating pho­ne then lost her grip on it.

  Dropsy! she scol­ded.

  And stop­ped de­ad, sta­ring at the pho­ne.

  Sud­denly she didn’t want to ans­wer it.

  Be­ca­use so­met­hing had go­ne awry.

  In Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den’s twenty-eight ye­ars on the pla­net Earth, she had cal­led her­self Dropsy exactly no ti­mes at all.

  But it wasn’t just that. She al­so had the dis­tinct fe­eling that when she put the pho­ne to her ear she was go­ing to be lis­te­ning to the dul­cet to­nes, not of Del Blass, but of Mr Win­ter him­self; sud­denly fic­ti­onal no mo­re, but ali­ve and kic­king. She was sharply awa­re that in the story Snowy had felt as if re­ality had subtly al­te­red to ac­cept her in­to a new ver­si­on of it.

  The odd sen­sa­ti­on of fe­ar and ex­ci­te­ment ce­ased at the mo­ment the pho­ne stop­ped rin­ging.

  Just be­ing silly, Sa­rah-Jane told her­self. Get on yo­ur bi­ke and get out­ta he­re!

  She used this ot­her Snowy Dres­den exp­res­si­on pur­po­sely, as tho­ugh cons­ci­o­usly adop­ting it wo­uld sap wha­te­ver po­wer that fic­ti­onal world might ha­ve. Then she grin­ned. The tro­ub­le with fic­ti­ona­li­zing yo­ur­self, she tho­ught, was that af­ter a whi­le, you wo­uldn’t be qu­ite su­re whe­re fic­ti­on fi­nis­hed and re­ality be­gan. Li­ke the man sa­id, get­ting in was easy, it was the get­ting out aga­in you had to worry abo­ut. But it wasn’t as if she was go­ing to vi­sit a re­al pla­ce cal­led Black Rock and a re­al Mr Win­ter, me­rely the re­al lo­ca­ti­on upon which her ex-lo­ver had si­ted his fan­tasy ha­un­ted ho­use. What kind of tro­ub­le co­uld you get yo­ur­self in­to by vi­si­ting Tin­ta­gel Cast­le? Ot­her than fal­ling off it in­to the sea?

  The pho­ne didn’t ring aga­in un­til Sa­rah-Jane was on the A39 at Ca­mel­ford. This ti­me the­re was no sen­se of fo­re­bo­ding. But this ti­me its rin­ging hadn’t bro­ken in­to one of her fan­ta­si­es.

  ‘Lo­ok, Es­se­nj­ay, I’m cal­ling abo­ut the bo­ok.’ Si­len­ce.

  For a mo­ment, Sa­rah-Jane didn’t ha­ve the fa­in­test idea who it was. Then she twig­ged. Mar­tin, of co­ur­se. How co­uld she ha­ve for­got­ten his vo­ice so easily?

  ‘Black Rock?’ she as­ked, kno­wing that was exactly what he me­ant. He tho­ught his use of her as his he­ro­ine had of­fen­ded her.

  ‘Ye­ah…’ he sa­id and pa­used the way he al­ways did be­fo­re he sa­id so­met­hing ni­ce to her. Han­ding out a comp­li­ment al­ways se­emed to hurt him badly - al­most as if he we­re be­ing for­ced to open his belly with his fin­ger­na­il and pull you out a length of in­tes­ti­ne which he badly wan­ted to ke­ep for him­self.

  Sa­rah-Jane pre-empted him. ‘It’s go­od,’ she sa­id. ‘Very go­od. You sho­uld be ple­ased.’

  ‘I am ple­ased,’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  ‘You don’t so­und as if you are,’ she rep­li­ed.

  ‘It’s dif­fi­cult for me,’ he sa­id. ‘Y’know.’

  Sa­rah-Jane didn’t qu­ite know whet­her he me­ant that wri­ting it was dif­fi­cult for him, now that she and he we­re par­ted, or that it was dif­fi­cult for him to ask her if he co­uld con­ti­nue with it wit­ho­ut her even­tu­al­ly su­ing him.

  ‘You carry on,’ she sa­id brightly. ‘I’m flat­te­red.’

  Si­len­ce.

  ‘I sa­id I’m flat­te­red,’ she re­pe­ated. ‘You carry on. Do what you want to do. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I pho­ned to say I was sorry,’ Mar­tin sa­id.

  ‘It’s OK, re­al­ly Mar­tin. I don’t mind.’

  For so­me re­ason Mar­tin still didn’t so­und as if he be­li­eved her. ‘You don’t?’ he sa­id. ‘You’re su­re?’

  ‘Su­re I’m su­re. I won’t sue you.’

  Mar­tin chuck­led then and Sa­rah-Jane wasn’t su­re why. Re­li­ef per­haps. ‘I’d li­ke to talk to you,’ he sa­id.

  Sa­rah-Jane was ins­tantly on her gu­ard aga­inst any ons­la­ught he might be plan­ning. She wo­uld not be emo­ti­onal­ly black­ma­iled. ‘You’re tal­king to me now,’ she sa­id, kno­wing that this sta­te­ment might not be true for very much lon­ger. Her fin­ger was a mil­li­met­re from the switch and if Mar­tin star­ted on his fa­vo­uri­te su­bj­ect, ‘Us’, he wo­uld be tal­king to a de­ad li­ne in very short or­der.

  ‘You’re pla­ying hard to get,’ he sa­id, al­most cer­ta­inly with a smug exp­res­si­on on his fa­ce. She co­uld pic­tu­re how he lo­oked sit­ting in his of­fi­ce in ‘do­ing de­als’ mo­de. She sud­denly re­mem­be­red why she’d thre­ate­ned him with a rol­ling-pin and thrown him out. Mar­tin had a go­od si­de, but it was his bad si­de she was re­min­ded of now. If he was trying to get back in­to her fa­vo­ur, he was go­ing abo­ut it en­ti­rely the wrong way. A red ro­se every day for a we­ek wo­uld ha­ve be­en a start. An apo­logy for his aw­ful be­ha­vi­o­ur, ac­com­pan­ying sa­id ro­ses, might ha­ve sof­te­ned her still furt­her - and if the we­ek’s last ro­se had bro­ught with it a re­ce­ipt which sa­id he’d ad­ded her to the in­su­ran­ce for the Fer­ra­ri, she might ha­ve be­gun to be­li­eve he’d chan­ged.

  ‘So what?’ she sa­id, sud­denly bo­red with the con­ver­sa­ti­on. If Mar­tin wan­ted to no­ve­li­ze all her per­so­nal de­ta­ils, let him. As long as he kept out of her way, anyt­hing was fi­ne by her.

  ‘I want to pub­lish it,’ Mar­tin sa­id with a dis­tinct qu­es­ti­on in his vo­ice. That qu�
�es­ti­on as­ked: Aren’t you just ecs­ta­tic? and it was pro­bably pre­sent in the vo­ice of God when he exp­la­ined to Job what all the tri­bu­la­ti­ons had be­en abo­ut.

  ‘Oh, go whist­le, Mar­tin,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id mildly and rang off.

  When the pho­ne rang aga­in, she ig­no­red it. She did so all the rest of the way to Tin­ta­gel. The bo­ok wo­uld be go­od, and if it was pub­lis­hed she wo­uld buy her­self a copy, be­ca­use Mar­tin had ac­hi­eved the wri­ter’s go­al of ma­king her re­al­ly want to know what hap­pe­ned next.

  But as far as scre­wing the aut­hor went, well, she’d tri­ed that and didn’t dam­ned well want to do it aga­in.

  Big he­aded bas­tard, she tho­ught as she dro­ve in­to Tin­ta­gel. He’s wri­ting a bo­ok abo­ut me and he’s pub­lis­hing it him­self and he ex­pects me to be thril­led.

  Then her Girl Gu­ide ad­ded, but you are thril­led. You’ve dri­ven all the way over he­re just to lo­ok at the pla­ce in which the bo­ok is set,

  Sa­rah-Jane no lon­ger re­al­ly knew what she felt abo­ut the who­le thing. All she knew was that the Girl Gu­ide spo­ke in the emi­nently re­aso­nab­le vo­ice of her de­ar de­par­ted mot­her.

  Tin­ta­gel in la­te Oc­to­ber lo­oked much the sa­me as all the ot­her small towns in De­von and Corn­wall: clo­sed. The­re was one gift shop still open, but most of the ho­tels and gu­est ho­uses we­re shut down for the win­ter. Bar­ring the few la­te trip­pers, only the na­ti­ves we­re he­re now and Tin­ta­gel had chan­ged back from a pretty lit­tle to­urist vil­la­ge to a drab-lo­oking far­ming com­mu­nity. Bu­de, whe­re Sa­rah-Jane li­ved, lo­oked much the sa­me at this ti­me of ye­ar, but big­ger.

  She dro­ve down the ma­in stre­et, past the si­lent Tin­ta­gel Toy Mu­se­um and the clo­sed Wo­oton’s Co­untry Ho­tel. King Art­hur’s Bo­oks­hop sto­od at the top of the walk down to the ru­ins of King Art­hur’s Cast­le and ap­pe­ared to be shut for the win­ter too. Sa­rah-Jane fol­lo­wed the ro­ad ro­und to the right, he­ading to­wards the ho­tel which sto­od on a cliff on the ed­ge of town. Whe­re the row of ho­uses en­ded, the ro­ad tur­ned sharp left to­wards the sea and ter­mi­na­ted at the ho­tel. This ho­tel was cal­led The King Art­hur. Sa­rah-Jane re­mem­be­red it from the last ti­me she was he­re ye­ars ago. It too was clo­sed.