Black Rock Read online

  The tro­ub­le with mot­hers was that they still pus­hed you aro­und even af­ter they’d step­ped off this mor­tal co­il.

  S’n’J knew that this vo­ice wo­uld nag at her exu­be­ran­ce un­til she did what she was told so she got back in­to the car. It sa­id in the bo­ok that if Snowy had tur­ned her car aro­und and lo­oked at Black Rock in its re­ar-vi­ew mir­rors, a dif­fe­rent story wo­uld ha­ve be­en fol­lo­wed (or no story at all!). S’n’J’s Girl Gu­ide in­sis­ted that she check it out and Be Pre­pa­red.

  As S’n’J star­ted the car, she se­arc­hed the win­dows of the ho­use in ca­se he was in the­re, lo­oking out at her. The win­dows we­re dark and not­hing mo­ved be­hind them.

  Unda­un­ted she tur­ned the car thro­ugh a hund­red and eighty deg­re­es and bro­ught it to a stands­till on the spot she had star­ted from. She had in­ten­ded to turn off the en­gi­ne, but her Girl Gu­ide wasn’t ha­ving it.

  Up on the hill in front of her, whe­re the farm sto­od, the big black dog was still on the tra­iler, still po­in­ting at her. It must ha­ve al­te­red its po­si­ti­on by abo­ut ni­nety deg­re­es from when she saw it ear­li­er, but she got the stran­ge fe­eling that it hadn’t mo­ved a musc­le. It se­emed to her that the ani­mal was so­me kind of ca­ni­ne op­ti­cal il­lu­si­on - li­ke tho­se oil-pa­in­tings you saw who­se fi­gu­res lo­oked di­rectly at you whe­re­ver you hap­pe­ned to be in the ro­om. The dog pro­bably wasn’t po­in­ting at her at all - it just lo­oked as if it was.

  As long as it do­esn’t co­me down he­re lo­oking for a fight, I don’t mind, S’n’J told her­self, and tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to the re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror.

  All it sho­wed was a sec­ti­on of Black Rock’s grey wall. The wing mir­rors ga­ve a wi­der ang­le of vi­ew, but we­re til­ted for the ro­ad, and ang­led too low to help.

  Not­hing much chan­ged so far, she told her­self bob­bing abo­ut li­ke a bo­xer to gi­ve her­self dif­fe­rent ang­les of vi­ew.

  Li­ke many pe­op­le who dri­ve for a li­ving, S’n’J wo­uld ha­ve bro­ken yo­ur fin­gers for you be­fo­re al­lo­wing you to screw up her mir­rors, but she co­uldn’t get a cle­ar vi­ew of the ho­use wit­ho­ut mo­ving at le­ast one of them. She grab­bed hold of the in­ter­nal mir­ror and ma­ni­pu­la­ted it.

  Her mo­uth drop­ped open.

  The two win­dows she co­uld now see we­re pat­ter­ned with a co­ating of frost.

  S’n’J twis­ted ro­und and lo­oked over her sho­ul­der. The win­dows we­re not frosty.

  She lo­oked in the re­ar-vi­ew mir­ror aga­in, her he­art be­ating fast. Im­pos­sib­le!

  The frost was not the thick ri­me you had to scra­pe off the windsc­re­en on a Janu­ary mor­ning, but de­li­ca­te fi­lig­ree tra­ce­ri­es, the cent­res of which se­emed al­most to desc­ri­be a fle­ur-de-lis. Both win­dows we­re si­mi­lar, but not iden­ti­cal, and she be­gan to won­der whet­her the frost ef­fect was a pat­tern etc­hed in­to the glass.

  But that su­rely had to be what it was. The pat­terns we­re etc­hed in­to the win­dows, per­haps by hand. She still didn’t know why they ap­pe­ared pla­in when you lo­oked stra­ight at the win­dows tho­ugh.

  S’n’J adj­us­ted the mir­ror so that she co­uld see anot­her downs­ta­irs win­dow on the left-hand si­de of the ho­use. This too was fros­ted but the de­sign se­emed to be of fe­at­hery arcs. The­re was no frost at all on the pa­nes of its part­ner on the right-hand si­de of the ho­use. Ins­te­ad the­re ap­pe­ared to be an ob­long of dark­ness that ref­lec­ted no light what­so­ever. It co­uld ha­ve be­en pa­in­ted the­re in matt black.

  Frow­ning at this op­ti­cal il­lu­si­on, she dro­ve the car away from the ho­use, stop­ping clo­se to the ga­te. From he­re she co­uld see the ups­ta­irs win­dows in the mir­ror. The one on the right al­so ap­pe­ared to be a black ho­le in the wall.

  Except that when she ac­tu­al­ly got out of the car to lo­ok di­rectly at them, the mis­sing win­dows we­re pre­sent. No­ne of them was fros­ted, they all had cur­ta­ins, open and fri­endly, and not one of them twitc­hed sug­ges­ting a hid­den watc­her.

  The­re was evi­dently no one at ho­me, or she wo­uld ha­ve be­en spot­ted by now and as­ked what she was do­ing on pri­va­te pro­perty.

  On any or­di­nary day, Sa­rah-Jane wo­uld ha­ve be­en wor­ri­ed abo­ut tres­pas­sing, and it wo­uld ha­ve oc­cur­red to her to be de­ad ca­re­ful be­ca­use she was so­me dis­tan­ce away from ci­vi­li­za­ti­on and an­yo­ne co­uld co­me scre­aming out of that ho­use and lay in­to her, But this, ap­pa­rently, was no or­di­nary day. She felt sa­fe he­re. As if she be­lon­ged.

  And be­si­des, the­re’s so­met­hing very in­te­res­ting go­ing on he­re, she told her­self, get­ting back in­to the car.

  The Girl Gu­ide spo­ke up as she sat down. The only re­ason you’re han­ging aro­und he­re is be­ca­use you’re wa­iting for Mr Win­ter to show up and swe­ep you off yo­ur fe­et and down on to his fur rug in front of the fi­rep­la­ce. The­se things don’t hap­pen in re­al li­fe. No one is co­ming to swe­ep you off yo­ur fe­et!

  But li­ke her na­me­sa­ke, Sa­rah-Jane co­uld ima­gi­ne it. Very cle­arly and in fi­ne de­ta­il. Mr Win­ter’s hard body, his soft and warm skin. His gent­le and ex­pe­ri­en­ced hands.

  A pic­tu­re of Mar­tin grew in her mind then. Mar­tin, stan­ding na­ked in front of her, his sho­ul­ders slum­ped for­ward from ye­ars at a desk, his small, slack belly lo­oking li­ke a pink bum-bag ti­ed aro­und his wa­ist and a fi­ve-and-a-half-inch erec­ti­on (he was one of tho­se men who in­ces­santly me­asu­red, per­haps ex­pec­ting furt­her growth) stic­king up at an ang­le of forty-fi­ve deg­re­es or so and lo­oking a bit li­ke the neck that you pul­led out of a fro­zen tur­key. ‘Do you want to suck my lol­li­pop, lit­tle girl?’ he as­ked in her mind. At the ti­me, it had be­en funny. Lo­oking back, she felt only dis­tas­te.

  Be­ca­use be was crap at sex, she told her­self, ang­ling the wing mir­ror on her si­de of the car so that she co­uld see the ups­ta­irs win­dow on the left si­de of the ho­use. Be­ca­use he didn’t li­ke ha­ving me on top be­ca­use it thre­ate­ned him. S’n’J had ne­ver cal­led him Mr Mis­si­onary to his fa­ce but to­wards the end she’d tho­ught it a gre­at de­al.

  The­re had be­en a ti­me when no­ne of this mat­te­red. Un­for­tu­na­tely, S’n’J had be­en a bit gre­en then and it didn’t for one mo­ment oc­cur to her that that lit­tle thing cal­led ‘qu­ality of li­fe’ was im­por­tant. A co­up­le of ye­ars with Mar­tin had ta­ught her dif­fe­rently.

  The only or­gasms you got we­re the ones you ga­ve yo­ur­self, S’n’J ne­ed­les­sly re­min­ded her­self as she pus­hed the ima­ge of Mar­tin off the re­ti­na of her mind’s eye and rep­la­ced it with one of Mr Win­ter, who co­uld pro­bably ma­ke you co­me yo­ur­self to de­ath.

  Then Sa­rah-Jane fo­und the ups­ta­irs left-hand win­dow with the re­ar-vi­ew and her fan­tasy shat­te­red.

  This win­dow was thick with frost.

  And it sho­ne with a daz­zling gol­den light.

  In qu­ick suc­ces­si­on, three tho­ughts whic­ke­red ac­ross the empty pla­ne of S’n’J’s mind. The first was that Mr Win­ter was in this ro­om and you co­uld be cer­ta­in of that be­ca­use of the depth of the frost. The se­cond was that the le­vel of light in­si­de the ro­om wo­uld be eno­ugh to cha­se any semb­lan­ce of a sha­dow out of Wemb­ley Sta­di­um. And the third was that the light was not in­ter­nal, but a ref­lec­ti­on of the sun.

  ‘All of the­se things are im­pos­sib­le,’ she whis­pe­red to her­self. ‘I am lo­oking North. The front of the ho­use fa­ces So­uth. The sun do­esn’t ref­lect on that win­dow. Ever. Even if it was shi­ning, and the sky wasn’t dark with ra­in clo­ud, the­re is no way the s
un co­uld ref­lect in that win­dow. The­re is al­so no earthly way it co­uld be as bright as that in­si­de the ho­use, and in the re­al world, the one that you don’t se­em to be do­ing a very go­od job of ke­eping in to­uch with just re­cently, men cal­led Mr Win­ter do not frost up the­ir ho­uses me­rely by be­ing in them.’

  She be­gan to won­der if the­re’d be­en a lar­ge whack of er­go­ta­mi­ne in her lunch­ti­me pasty and she was trip­ping out of her bra­in. It was eit­her that, or the ho­use was enc­han­ted.

  Lo­oking in­to the light, Sa­rah-Jane told her­self that her re­ti­nas wo­uld be get­ting a tan, and grin­ned.

  Be­fo­re she was com­p­le­tely ma­gic­ked, she sup­po­sed, she ought to put her he­ad out­si­de the car and lo­ok at the shi­ning win­dow wit­ho­ut the use of the mir­ror. It was dif­fi­cult to bre­ak away and for a few mo­ments she un­ders­to­od how a moth must fe­el when pre­sen­ted with an uns­ha­ded hund­red-watt lamp. When she to­re her­self away, she felt a snap in­si­de her he­ad, as if so­me­one had pin­ged the cent­re of her bra­in with an elas­tic band. Dis­tantly she told her­self it had to be so­met­hing to do with her pi­ne­al gland which was the thing that sen­sed light and dark. Left over from an­ci­ent ti­mes, the gland told you to hi­ber­na­te when the days got short. S’n’J tho­ught it had a po­int.

  She stuck her he­ad out of the car and cra­ned ro­und at the of­fen­ding win­dow. Two hu­ge blue and yel­low af­ter ima­ges of it swam on her re­ti­nas, but thro­ugh them she co­uld see that the win­dow was not lit. Or fros­ted.

  Her left temp­le throb­bed - the­re was a blunt inst­ru­ment in the­re that wo­uld do­ubt­less so­on turn in­to a po­in­ted one. S’n’J rub­bed the hol­low be­si­de her eye, win­cing. She glan­ced at her watch and was surp­ri­sed that fif­te­en mi­nu­tes had pas­sed sin­ce she’d ar­ri­ved.

  Now you know what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned, she told her­self, sud­denly di­sap­po­in­ted. As in all the lo­usi­est bo­oks, everyt­hing had be­en a dre­am. She re­mem­be­red fe­eling ti­red and she re­mem­be­red le­aving the en­gi­ne run­ning, and now she tho­ught abo­ut it, she al­so re­mem­be­red what James in Cars Inc. had sa­id when she’d go­ne in for her new front tyres a fort­night ago: that the ex­ha­ust down­pi­pe was blo­wing and wan­ted fi­xing pretty dam­ned qu­ick. He’d as­ked her if she co­uld smell the ex­ha­ust co­ming in­to the car and when she’d sa­id no she co­uldn’t, his reply was, That’s how it kills you.’ S’n’J had nod­ded du­ti­ful­ly, sa­id she didn’t ha­ve ti­me to ha­ve it do­ne now, but wo­uld get back as so­on as pos­sib­le to ha­ve it fi­xed, and sin­ce then she had en­ti­rely for­got­ten abo­ut the le­aky pi­pe.

  She told her­self that she was lucky that one qu­ick night­ma­re and a he­adac­he to fol­low we­re the only things she had to worry abo­ut. If she had slept a lit­tle lon­ger with that go­od old car­bon mo­no­xi­de co­ming in the car, she might not ha­ve wo­ken up at all.

  Tur­ning off the en­gi­ne, she clim­bed out, fe­eling a lit­tle shaky and di­so­ri­en­ta­ted, and bre­at­hed de­eply. The air tas­ted very fresh and cle­an and damp; it had be­gun to ra­in. It wasn’t qu­ite the storm she’d ex­pec­ted tho­ugh, just one of Corn­wall’s fa­mo­us light and ste­ady driz­zles.

  It felt go­od on her skin.

  5 - Janie

  So­me­ti­mes - usu­al­ly on the days that Mar­tin was in the of­fi­ce - Janie San­der­son wis­hed she’d sta­yed in bed and cal­led in sick. To­day hadn’t yet tur­ned in­to one of tho­se, but its sta­tus was bor­der­li­ne and ed­ging to­wards why didn’t you stay ho­me?

  The re­ason she al­most ne­ver sta­yed ho­me, even when she felt po­orly, was back the­re lur­king in her ho­use in Brack­nell.

  It was cal­led Billy McAl­lis­ter and it pur­por­ted to be a mu­si­ci­an. Three ye­ars ago, in a fit of what she co­uld only desc­ri­be as juve­ni­le op­ti­mism, she had mar­ri­ed him.

  The oft-qu­oted pi­ece of wis­dom which ran along the so­mew­hat se­xist li­nes of, so­on as you marry this gor­ge­o­us Vo­gue mo­del she’ll turn in­to a hor­rib­le old drud­ge be­ca­use she no lon­ger has to bot­her be­ing lo­vely, al­so wor­ked in re­ver­se, Janie had dis­co­ve­red. Billy (also known as Bil­ly-Joe af­ter the fa­mo­us song in which his na­me­sa­ke jum­ped off the Tal­la­has­see Brid­ge - and so­me­ti­mes Janie wis­hed he’d li­ve up to the song) had be­en in full pos­ses­si­on of a very go­od day job as an analy­ti­cal che­mist when they’d mar­ri­ed and he’d be­en hand­so­me, de­bo­na­ir, and fun to be with. But a we­ek af­ter they’d mo­ved in­to the­ir new ho­me Bil­ly-Joe had jac­ked his job.

  And sin­ce then he had be­en a ‘pro­fes­si­onal mu­si­ci­an’ -which in re­ality me­ant that he did one gig a month if he was lucky and bro­ught ho­me abo­ut thirty qu­id - mi­nus what he’d drunk, of co­ur­se. Which, in turn, me­ant that Billy li­ved off Janie.

  It had be­en OK in the early days when Billy hadn’t yet de­ve­lo­ped his aver­si­on to ho­use­work, co­oking or was­hing up, but the sub­se­qu­ent two and a half ye­ars had be­en dif­fe­rent. It got to be we­aring af­ter a ti­me.

  The­se days Billy was the re­gu­lar co­uch-po­ta­to; trans­fi­xed by te­le­vi­si­on, tur­ning to fat and chug­ging down all the cans of li­qu­id ref­resh­ment he co­uld lay his hands on. Janie had de­ve­lo­ped the abi­lity to pick out the smell of Ten­nent’s Ext­ra from fifty fe­et, and li­ke many wi­ves be­fo­re her, had dis­co­ve­red that when yo­ur spo­use was cros­sing the slen­der bor­der bet­we­en drin­ker and al­co­ho­lic, com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on be­ca­me im­pos­sib­le. No­wa­days the­re we­re only two ways Billy wan­ted to com­mu­ni­ca­te with her: with his dick and with his fists. And qu­ite of­ten, one of the­se mo­des of exp­res­si­on wo­uld le­ad to the ot­her. Be­ca­use as much as you - might want to, you co­uldn’t com­mu­ni­ca­te with a wo­man that way when yo­ur dick re­so­lu­tely po­in­ted so­uth and swung li­ke a dow­ser’s pen­du­lum.

  Be­ca­use she lo­ved him (or at le­ast lo­ved what he had be­en) Janie had tri­ed to ma­ke Mr Flac­cid in­to Mr Stiff. She had stro­ked, ca­res­sed, pul­led, nib­bled, lic­ked and suc­ked li­ke a ho­over, all to no ava­il. And gu­ess who col­lec­ted the bla­me? She’d emas­cu­la­ted him, he sa­id, that was why he co­uldn’t get a hard-on for her. Af­ter which he wo­uld rap ho­me the mes­sa­ge on her body with tho­se parts of him that did still work.

  It had go­ne far eno­ugh now. Last night’s enth­ral­ling epi­so­de was the last she wan­ted to be in. You co­uldn’t say that Janie San­der­son hadn’t sto­od up and ta­ken her lumps li­ke a wo­man (or a man co­me to that) but last night the ru­les had chan­ged from blows to the tor­so only to open se­ason and whi­le she co­uld carry a stab­bing pa­in in her ribs or big purp­le bru­ises on her ab­do­men, the­re was a li­mit and that li­mit had be­en ex­ce­eded last night.

  If Janie put her ton­gue to her two up­per front te­eth she wo­uld be ab­le to mo­ve them both, easily and to an ex­tent which frigh­te­ned her. If she ran her ton­gue bet­we­en tho­se lo­ose te­eth and her top lip she wo­uld fe­el the cuts the­re, ca­used by the pe­net­ra­ti­on of the lo­ose te­eth un­der the im­pact of Billy’s de­li­ca­te mu­si­ci­an’s hand. Her top lip was swol­len to what se­emed li­ke the si­ze of a bicyc­le tyre.

  So far no­body se­emed to ha­ve no­ti­ced the fat lip, which was go­od, but it had to end he­re. Janie didn’t in­tend to spend the next we­eks, months or ye­ars con­coc­ting sto­ri­es abo­ut how she’d wal­ked in­to do­ors or fal­len down the sta­irs.

  THE BAS­TARD’S GOT TO GO, she typed on the scre­en in ca­pi­tals, HOW DO I GET HIM OUT OF THE HO­USE?

  ANSWER: KILL HIM STO­NE DE­AD AND CHUCK HIM DOWN THE WELL.

  She lo­oked at the new
plot-li­ne for her li­fe, and grin­ned.

  It hurt.

  ‘Who you gon­na kill?’ Mar­tin as­ked.

  When Janie lo­oked ro­und she fo­und he was stan­ding right be­hind her. Nor­mal­ly she knew when he clo­sed in on her. His ego ar­ri­ved be­fo­re him. But to­day, sa­id ego was so­mew­hat shat­te­red. He’d of­fe­red to pub­lish a bo­ok the lo­ve of his li­fe had writ­ten, and she’d told him to go whist­le, which wasn’t how you we­re sup­po­sed to tre­at the fa­med Mar­tin Din­sey.

  ‘Kill?’ Janie as­ked, tur­ning back to the scre­en to buy her­self ti­me whi­le she fran­ti­cal­ly tri­ed to con­coct a su­itab­le story. No one he­re knew abo­ut her tro­ub­le with Billy. ” ‘Ye­ah. If it’s a re­fe­ren­ce to me, I think I ough­ta know.’

  Janie lo­oked up at him and saw that he me­ant it. If she hadn’t spent the last fi­ve ye­ars de­aling with wri­ters, she pro­bably wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught he’d thrown a cog. Ni­nety-eight per cent of wri­ters had egos the si­ze of Chi­na thro­ugh which ran a stre­ak of pa­ra­no­ia which was as black as tar­mac and a hund­red mi­les wi­de. Ap­pa­rently it rub­bed off. It had on Mar­tin any­way.

  ‘Is that what she sa­id when you spo­ke to her?’ Mar­tin as­ked.

  Janie sho­ok her he­ad. ‘No, Mar­tin. It’s not­hing to do with Drezy.’