Black Rock Page 5

  She dro­ve on to its shing­le fo­re­co­urt, tur­ned off the en­gi­ne and sat lo­oking up at the ho­tel. It was lar­ge and im­po­sing and she sud­denly re­ali­zed that Mar­tin’s Black Rock might be ba­sed on this. He’d me­rely shrunk the ho­tel to the si­ze of a man­si­on be­ca­use sin­ce King had pub­lis­hed The Shi­ning you co­uld no lon­ger do ha­un­ted ho­tels wit­ho­ut be­ing ac­cu­sed of pla­gi­arism.

  A hu­ge gut-twis­ting di­sap­po­int­ment set­tled over her. She didn’t know exactly what she’d ex­pec­ted to find, just that the­re sho­uld be mo­re than this.

  But the­re it was, the dark At­lan­tic sky be­hind it thre­ate­ning a storm.

  But it do­esn’t lo­ok as if it’s cro­uc­hing and abo­ut to po­un­ce, she ob­ser­ved.

  It didn’t. It just lo­oked li­ke a ho­tel that was shortly go­ing to be un­der­go­ing so­me ma­in­te­nan­ce.

  Sa­rah-Jane got out of the car and wal­ked up to the do­or. The­re was no gold knob on it and it was glass-pa­ned. The in­si­de of the ho­tel lo­oked li­ke the in­si­de of a ho­tel: lobby, re­cep­ti­on, thick car­pets, cha­irs, you na­me it. Sa­rah-Jane did na­me it. Se­ve­ral ti­mes. She felt che­ated.

  Back on the fo­re­co­urt she wal­ked over to the bu­il­ding’s left-hand si­de. Be­yond the fen­ce which bor­de­red the par­king area, the land fell away swiftly down to the sea. It wasn’t a cliff on this si­de, just a ste­ep hill which led down to the tiny bay whe­re all that Tin­ta­gel had in the way of a be­ach lay. She co­uldn’t see the be­ach, but re­mem­be­red that it was less than a hund­red met­res long and ac­cess to it was al­most im­pos­sib­le.

  Lo­oking ac­ross at the Cast­le ru­ins, she was mo­re imp­res­sed. She didn’t know who had bu­ilt it, but it was a go­od pla­ce for a cast­le. It sto­od high on a do­ub­le hill which was sha­ped li­ke a fi­gu­re eight and apart from the val­ley that led to its fo­ot, was en­ti­rely sur­ro­un­ded by the sea. The be­ach - pre­su­mably whe­re the in­ha­bi­tants of the Cast­le had mo­ored the­ir bo­ats - lay clo­se by and wo­uld ha­ve be­en easy to de­fend. An­yo­ne fo­olish eno­ugh to in­va­de wo­uld ha­ve a ma­j­or prob­lem on the­ir hands. You send an army down a he­avily de­fen­ded nar­row val­ley, and pretty so­on they’re go­ing to be dog fo­od. And tro­ops at­tac­king from the sea wo­uld ha­ve had to swim to the ba­se of the rock, and then fa­ce a very ste­ep climb in­de­ed be­fo­re they even got to fight.

  ‘Can I help you, lo­ve?’

  Sa­rah-Jane spun ro­und, stif­ling a yelp. A man in pa­int-splat­te­red work­man’s ove­ral­ls was stan­ding be­hind her.

  ‘Sorry, did I frigh­ten you?’ he sa­id, using the words of Mr Win­ter. But Mr Win­ter he was not. He was short and stocky and qu­ite a bit too old. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Uhh… well, I don’t re­al­ly know,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id, fe­eling stu­pid. ‘I just ca­me up he­re to, uhh, lo­ok aro­und.’

  ‘If you want to get to the Cast­le, the­re’s a way down, but you ha­ve to go back thro­ugh the vil­la­ge. The­re’s a car park by the si­de of King Art­hur’s Bo­oks­hop.’

  ‘No, I… I was lo­oking for a pla­ce cal­led Bar­ras No­se. D’you know it?’

  ‘You’re stan­ding on it, lo­ve. Or at le­ast a part of it. Was it the ho­tel you we­re lo­oking for?’

  Sa­rah-Jane ope­ned her mo­uth to spe­ak, then snap­ped it shut aga­in, kno­wing the­re was mo­re to co­me, and kno­wing exactly what it was go­ing to be.

  ‘… or Black Rock?’ the work­man fi­nis­hed.

  Du­ring the pro­nun­ci­ati­on of tho­se last three words, the man’s vo­ice to­ok on an en­ti­rely new to­ne. It was both sly and kno­wing: the vo­ice of a Transyl­va­ni­an vil­la­ger who has had plenty of vam­pi­re hun­ters stop him and ask him the way to Cast­le Dra­cu­la and who has ne­ver se­en any of them aga­in.

  You’re ima­gi­ning it, Sa­rah-Jane qu­ickly told her­self. You didn’t switch out of fan­tasy mo­de pro­perly.

  This had to be true. What ot­her re­ason co­uld the­re be for her he­art to ham­mer and her he­ad to swim li­ke that of a girl abo­ut to open her first ma­le zip­per? Simply be­ca­use she now had con­fir­ma­ti­on that the pla­ce exis­ted?

  ‘Black Rock, ac­tu­al­ly,’ Sa­rah-Jane sa­id, he­aring the fa­int tre­mor in her vo­ice and fe­eling as­ha­med of her­self. As if the­re was anyt­hing wrong in wan­ting to be the he­ro­ine of a got­hic ro­man­ce!

  The work­man held her ga­ze and nod­ded slowly. ‘Down the­re,’ he sa­id, po­in­ting be­hind him at the ho­tel as if it we­re trans­pa­rent and the land sho­wed thro­ugh it. ‘Down the hill. It’s that big lump of rock at the bot­tom, stuck out in the sea.’ Then he ad­ded the old tra­vel­ler’s joke: ‘You can’t get the­re from he­re tho­ugh.’

  ‘Whe­re can I get the­re from?’ Sa­rah-Jane as­ked, mes­me­ri­zed. The man was sta­ring at her so in­tently he might ha­ve be­en at­temp­ting hypno­sis.

  ‘Go back up the ro­ad to whe­re the cor­ner turns and ins­te­ad of tur­ning with it, you turn left aga­inst it. The­re’s a lit­tle ro­ad that lo­oks li­ke it go­es in­to the ca­ra­van si­te, but if you ke­ep left, you’ll see a muddy track. You can ta­ke a car down it, but the­re’s so­met­hing you may want to ask yo­ur­self be­fo­re you do that.’

  ‘And that is?’ Sa­rah-Jane.

  The work­man smi­led. ‘“Can I get my car back up aga­in?”’ he sa­id.

  Sa­rah-Jane nod­ded. ‘Thanks.’

  The man lo­oked at her for a few se­conds lon­ger, then, as if de­ci­ding bu­si­ness had be­en conc­lu­ded, ab­ruptly tur­ned away. Sa­rah-Jane watc­hed him go, her brow fur­ro­wed. Abo­ut half­way back to the ho­tel’s ent­ran­ce, he stop­ped de­ad, lo­oked ro­und and cal­led, ‘Best of luck, lo­ve,’ then went on his way.

  You don’t sup­po­se he was trying to tell you so­met­hing, do you? Sa­rah-Jane’s Girl Gu­ide as­ked her.

  Li­ke what, d’you sup­po­se? she ans­we­red men­tal­ly. Be­wa­re the Ides of Oc­to­ber? Don’t for­get yo­ur sta­ke? I do­ubt it most sin­ce­rely. He was pro­bably trying to let me know that when I get the car stuck and ask for help, he’ll be the one with the Land Ro­ver char­ging twenty-fi­ve qu­id to tow me out.

  Sa­rah-Jane went back to the car, trying to cont­rol her ex­ci­te­ment. The­re was not­hing to be ex­ci­ted abo­ut, when you tho­ught abo­ut it. The work­man had me­rely sa­id that Black Rock was down the­re. Just that it exis­ted. And the way he’d spo­ken sug­ges­ted she wo­uld find only a lump of rock stuck out in the sea. He hadn’t men­ti­oned a ho­use or its ow­ner, so the­re was not­hing to get wor­ked up abo­ut.

  Not yet, any­way.

  Sa­rah-Jane pa­used at the top of the hill whe­re the ‘muddy track’ be­gan and lo­oked down it at the sea. You co­uldn’t see the bit of Bar­ras No­se cal­led Black Rock from he­re be­ca­use the track wo­und ro­und be­hind the hill on which the ho­tel sto­od, so the­re was still not­hing to set the pul­se ra­cing.

  The­re was, ho­we­ver, so­met­hing to be con­cer­ned abo­ut.

  She sat in the Si­er­ra with the en­gi­ne run­ning and as­ked her­self the sixty-fo­ur tho­usand dol­lar qu­es­ti­on as sug­ges­ted by Mr We­ird the bu­il­der.

  Will I be ab­le to get my car back up aga­in?

  The track wasn’t mud, it was the kind of gra­vel-clay mix­tu­re her dad cal­led ‘hog­gin’. It was al­so very ste­ep and very nar­row and lo­oked as if it wo­uld be­co­me slip­pery the mo­ment any ra­in fell. She de­ci­ded she sho­uld just go for it any­way. So what if the track only ga­ve her a fo­ot eit­her si­de of the car? She was a go­od dri­ver, wasn’t she?

  Abo­ut half-way down, the mo­bi­le be­gan to ble­at. Sa­rah-Jane glan­ced at it, cur­sed and bro­ught the car to a stands­till which
en­ded in a two-fo­ot skid. She yan­ked on the handb­ra­ke and snatc­hed up the pho­ne.

  ‘Esse­nj­ay, lo­ok, we se­em to ha­ve a bit of a mi­sun­ders­tan­ding,’ Mar­tin sa­id, wit­ho­ut any pre­amb­le.

  ‘I’ll say we ha­ve!’ Sa­rah-Jane snap­ped and tur­ned him off.

  She put the car back in first and rol­led slowly down the ste­ep track, ke­eping the pho­ne on her lap. What she ex­pec­ted to hap­pen next, hap­pe­ned at the exact mo­ment she saw the whi­te farm bu­il­ding set in­to the si­de of the hill.

  The pho­ne rang aga­in.

  Still rol­ling, she pic­ked it up, tur­ned it on and held it to her ear. Her eyes dar­ted from the track to the farm bu­il­ding and she dis­tantly no­ted that it was inac­ces­sib­le from he­re - you’d ha­ve to cross a go­od two hund­red yards of ste­ep val­ley and hill to re­ach it. The­re had to be anot­her track down to it that she hadn’t no­ti­ced.

  ‘Drezy, lo­ok,’ Janie’s vo­ice was sa­ying. ‘Mar­tin re­al­ly did me­an what he sa­id abo­ut the bo­ok. You ought to be thril­led.’ The li­ne had de­ve­lo­ped a dis­tinct hiss sin­ce the last ti­me Sa­rah-Jane had ans­we­red it.

  ‘I am thril­led,’ she sa­id, ‘I’m just abo­ut tick­led pink, but I ab­so­lu­tely don’t want to talk to him any mo­re.’

  ‘He me­ans it when he says he wants to pub­lish it,’ Janie sa­id. ‘And he isn’t just do­ing it be­ca­use he thinks it’s a way back in­to yo­ur he­art.’

  The hiss was mo­re pro­no­un­ced now.

  ‘It isn’t and I’m thril­led for him,’ Sa­rah-Jane rep­li­ed. ‘Just tell him to ke­ep on…’ She was go­ing to add the words ‘wri­ting it,’ but she had ap­pa­rently en­te­red one of tho­se fa­med zo­nes thro­ugh which mic­ro­wa­ve sig­nals se­emed re­luc­tant to pass and the li­ne had go­ne de­ad. At the sa­me ti­me she be­gan to fe­el dizzy. And sca­red. When her he­ad cle­ared she was left with a dis­con­cer­ting fe­eling that ever­y­t­hing had chan­ged. Es­pe­ci­al­ly as she co­uld now see the tra­iler par­ked out­si­de the whi­te farm bu­il­ding. And the big black dog on it, still as sto­ne and po­in­ting.

  At her.

  The wi­de-eyed lit­tle girl in­si­de Sa­rah-Jane wo­ke up and was de­ligh­ted. It’s all co­ming true! she sa­id. Lo­ok, the­re’s Di­amond Amb­ro­se Ans­tey, King of All the Dogs!

  She shi­ve­red. This wi­de-eyed lit­tle girl part of her had co­me wit­hin an ace, she was cer­ta­in, of cal­ling her ‘Snowy’.

  So the dog’s re­al, so what? she as­ked her­self. So Mar­tin ca­me he­re for a lo­ok ro­und on one of tho­se Sa­tur­days when he used to va­nish and re­fu­se to say whe­re he was go­ing. And he saw the lie of the land and got ins­pi­red, and the­re just hap­pe­ned to be this big black dog han­ging aro­und. So what?

  But if the dog was re­al, and po­in­ting li­ke it did in the bo­ok, it me­ant that Mar­tin’s ima­gi­na­ti­on hadn’t stretc­hed as far as in­ven­ting it. Which al­so me­ant that per­haps his ima­gi­na­ti­on hadn’t stretc­hed as far as in­ven­ting the ho­use eit­her.

  The dog - whet­her it was cal­led Di­amond or not - still ga­ve her so­met­hing ap­pro­ac­hing the cre­eps. It wasn’t na­tu­ral for dogs to stand as still as that, for as long as that, po­in­ters or ot­her­wi­se.

  Except that he’s no or­di­nary dog, the lit­tle girl slip­ped in be­fo­re she co­uld stop her.

  Bul­lshit, S’n’J told her go­od-na­tu­redly and sud­denly felt a lit­tle bet­ter abo­ut things. She gla­red up at the dog, told her­self it was just a mangy mutt, and let the car roll down the track, a lit­tle furt­her aro­und a bend.

  And the­re it was: the si­te of Mar­tin Din­sey’s fa­mo­us ha­un­ted ho­use - the lump of rock it­self.

  It was no hal­lu­ci­na­ti­on: the­re was the ho­use exactly as she had en­vi­sa­ged it whi­le re­ading the ma­nusc­ript - two sto­reys high, wi­der than Vis­ta­vi­si­on and lo­oking for all the world as if it was re­ady to po­un­ce. For the first ti­me in all her ye­ars, Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den ga­zed upon a bu­il­ding that lo­oked as if it pos­ses­sed li­fe.

  S’n’J smi­led. She knew exactly how Mar­tin must ha­ve felt at exactly this po­int on this very track. It not only lo­oked as if it was ha­un­ted, it lo­oked as if it was sup­po­sed to lo­ok that way - as Mar­tin had writ­ten, it was li­ke so­me hor­ror hack’s ver­si­on of a ha­un­ted ho­use.

  ‘So what do you do now, my girl?’ she as­ked her­self. ‘Go down the­re and ask them if they want to stock the new Lu­lu Ka­minsky no­vel?’

  You co­uld al­ways say you we­re lo­oking for Mis­ter Win­ter, her in­ner vo­ice sug­ges­ted. That’d be tru­el

  Anyway, she was al­re­ady com­mit­ted. It wasn’t pos­sib­le to turn the car aro­und wit­ho­ut dri­ving up to the ho­use and you’d ha­ve to be pretty nifty at re­ver­sing to go back­wards all that way up a ste­ep and nar­row track. Apart from anyt­hing el­se, she wan­ted to go down the­re to see if the­re was a big re­in­for­ced do­or with no let­ter box and no lock, just a shiny do­or knob that lo­oked li­ke gold.

  But the ho­use won’t be cal­led Black Rock, that’s a for-cer­ta­in, she told her­self. It’ll be End of the World Ho­use, or At­lan­tic Man­si­on, or Sea Vi­ew or so­met­hing li­ke that. Mar­tin wo­uldn’t ha­ve used the ho­use’s re­al na­me. Its ow­ner might sue.

  Of co­ur­se it wo­uld be very ni­ce in­de­ed if the ho­use was cal­led Black Rock and was in­ha­bi­ted by a Mr Win­ter, as per the ima­gi­na­ti­on of Mar­tin Din­sey, but that was he­ading to­wards fan­tasy-land…

  And be­si­des, you don’t ha­ve a com­pu­ter system to sell, she tho­ught, put­ting the car in­to ge­ar and fol­lo­wing the track down the hill.

  The we­at­her-be­aten sign on the ga­te­post sa­id ‘Black Rock’ just as it had do­ne in the text, the ho­use’s fo­re­co­urt was shing­le and S’n’J par­ked whe­re Snowy had par­ked.

  Well, it might ha­ve lo­oked as if it we­re a hu­ge hunc­hed grey ani­mal, but the­re was no bad at­mosp­he­re. The pla­ce felt sa­fe.

  S’n’J knew that if she did not­hing el­se, she was go­ing to ha­ve to get out of the car and lo­ok at that front do­or, be­ca­use the­re re­al­ly was no let­ter box or lock on it - not that you co­uld see from he­re, any­way.

  You’re crazy, she told her­self, but she tur­ned off the car’s en­gi­ne any­way. She put the keys in her jac­ket poc­ket. I’m get­ting out of the car and I’m go­ing over the­re and I might even knock on the do­or, she told her­self, be­ca­use so far, no­ne of this has be­en a lie. So far, everyt­hing in the bo­ok has be­en true, which isn’t what fic­ti­on is sup­po­sed to be abo­ut. And I’m cu­ri­o­us as to the re­asons why.

  Kno­wing that it was too much to ask that a man cal­led Mr Win­ter li­ved in­si­de the ho­use, Sa­rah-Jane re­ac­hed over to pick up her te­lep­ho­ne, fumb­led and bro­ke two fin­ger­na­ils.

  It’s all co­ming true, Dropsy! she told her­self and no lon­ger knew whet­her she sho­uld be shoc­ked or de­ligh­ted. What she did know was that she was fil­led with that de­li­ci­o­us kind of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on she used to fe­el back at the be­gin­ning of her re­la­ti­ons­hip with Mar­tin when he was due down to Corn­wall af­ter his three day stint at Ace. She was al­so awa­re that the­re was a small part of her bu­sily tot­ting up the list of co­in­ci­den­ces so far and re­du­cing the odds aga­inst the rest of the first chap­ter of Black Rock not hap­pe­ning. It lo­oked very much as if fic­ti­on was so­me­how chan­ging in­to fact. Snowy’s ro­man­tic ex­pe­ri­en­ce sud­denly se­emed to ha­ve a very go­od chan­ce of hap­pe­ning to Sa­rah-Jane.

  Sho­ul­de­ring open the stiff car do­or, she lo­oked at the ho­use, mar­vel­ling at it, and at her­self. Be­ca­use what they wo­uld say in bo­oks at this po�
�int (and what Mar­tin had sa­id in his bo­ok) was that the per­son stan­ding in front of the ho­use wo­uld be over­co­me by an emo­ti­on of be­lon­ging - as if they’d fi­nal­ly co­me ho­me. At this po­int, even if the story was inc­re­dibly go­od, you’d find yo­ur­self cur­ling yo­ur lip and thin­king, Oh ye­ah, very li­kely! The re­al mar­vel was, that now she was stan­ding he­re, the sen­sa­ti­on didn’t se­em clic­hed at all. She re­al­ly did fe­el as if she be­lon­ged. It was stu­pid and her own lip cur­led as she re­ali­zed it, but it was the cur­led lip that went away, not the sen­sa­ti­on of be­ing ho­me.

  This me­ans, yo­ung lady, that ac­cor­ding to the usu­al prin­cip­les of hack fic­ti­on you’re pretty cer­ta­in to end the story ha­un­ting Black Rock un­til the end of ti­me. Eit­her that or you’re a ghost al­re­ady!

  S’n’J grin­ned, be­ca­use she felt go­od - bet­ter, in fact, than she had do­ne sin­ce gi­ving Mar­tin ‘the flick’ as they sa­id on ‘Ne­igh­bo­urs’. But al­so be­ca­use she had men­tal­ly be­gun to sing Ka­te Bush’s ‘Wut­he­ring He­ights’: He­at­h­c­liff, it’s me, Cathy, co­me ho­me … It se­emed to fit the cir­cums­tan­ces so­me­how.

  Must re­ad the bo­ok one day, Snowy, she told her­self. I may find I’m in that too!.

  She chuck­led. The warm At­lan­tic wind to­us­led her ha­ir and the first warm ra­ind­rop to­uc­hed her no­se. The storm had star­ted, ap­pa­rently. She didn’t ca­re. Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den was be­gin­ning to ha­ve fun.

  But hadn’t you bet­ter turn the car aro­und? her Girl Gu­ide vo­ice sud­denly cut in.

  The­re we­re ac­tu­al­ly such things as ghosts, S’n’J sud­denly de­ci­ded, and she had pro­of of it. When her mot­her di­ed, she left be­hind a ghost and its so­le pur­po­se was to ha­unt her only da­ugh­ter. It li­ved in­si­de her da­ugh­ter’s he­ad, pre­ten­ding to be the Girl Gu­ide vo­ice of her cons­ci­en­ce. If they’d han­ded out me­dals for be­ing a spo­ils­port, this ghost’s me­taphy­si­cal chest wo­uld be we­ig­hed down. It ma­de su­re you we­re we­aring cle­an and unf­ra­yed un­der­we­ar, that you brus­hed yo­ur te­eth, and amongst its many ot­her sins, it had be­en res­pon­sib­le for S’n’J spen­ding her first night with Mar­tin alo­ne in the spa­re ro­om when she’d badly ne­eded to shag him till he scre­amed for mercy.