Black Rock Read online

  ‘What is it to do with then?’ he chal­len­ged.

  Janie tho­ught abo­ut it. And re­ali­zed why she was an edi­tor ins­te­ad of a wri­ter. Li­es didn’t co­me easily to her. She sig­hed. ‘Billy,’ she sa­id.

  Mar­tin frow­ned, pe­ering at her scre­en. ‘Billy, as in yo­ur Bil­ly-Joe?’

  She nod­ded.

  ‘You’re gon­na kill him?’

  She nod­ded aga­in, re­sig­nedly.

  Mar­tin’s lips flic­ke­red in­to the clo­sest ap­pro­xi­ma­ti­on of a smi­le she’d se­en sin­ce he’d le­ar­ned that Drezy had cal­led. ‘Fal­len out?’ he as­ked.

  ‘Of an aerop­la­ne,’ she rep­li­ed. ‘At le­ast I ho­pe he has.’

  Mar­tin nod­ded. ‘Men,’ he sa­id, and sto­od the­re, swa­ying slightly and brim­ming with bo­oze.

  At le­ast he do­esn’t smell of Ten­nent’s, Janie tho­ught, ho­ping he wo­uldn’t ask any mo­re qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut her pri­va­te li­fe.

  ‘Did you get hold of Drezy yet?’ Janie as­ked, chan­ging the su­bj­ect.

  ‘Pho­ne’s in a de­ad spot.’ He sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I can’t un­ders­tand her. It’s al­most as if she didn’t want me to pub­lish her dam­ned bo­ok,’ he ad­ded in a wo­un­ded to­ne.

  ‘Per­haps she do­esn’t,’ Janie rep­li­ed.

  ‘Be­ca­use it’s me, I s’po­se,’ Mar­tin re­aso­ned.

  Janie shrug­ged. ‘I’d ta­ke the bo­ok off yo­ur hands if that

  was go­ing to be a prob­lem,’ she ven­tu­red.

  When Mar­tin fi­nal­ly spo­ke it was with the dan­ge­ro­us to­ne of a she­riff tel­ling you you had un­til sun­down to get out of town. I’ fo­und Black Rock, I get to pub­lish it,’ he war­ned.

  Janie shrug­ged

  ‘But she do­esn’t se­em to want that.’

  ‘I won­der why,’ Janie sa­id, in­no­cently.

  Mar­tin ig­no­red this. ‘She can’t be hol­ding out for mo­re mo­ney be­ca­use we ha­ven’t of­fe­red her any yet. But if she didn’t want it pub­lis­hed, why did she le­ave the dam­ned thing whe­re I’d find it?’

  ‘May­be she just did it to pro­ve so­met­hing,’ Janie sa­id. ‘What if she wan­ted to show you that she wasn’t as dumb as you tho­ught? That wo­uld be the best way of do­ing it, wo­uldn’t it? You find an un­so­li­ci­ted ma­nusc­ript, you re­ad it, you ra­te it. Vo­ila! One happy Drezy.’

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I didn’t think she was dumb,’ he sa­id. ‘She knew that.’

  I do­ubt it very much, Janie tho­ught. That isn’t the imp­res­si­on I got from her. ‘Well, per­haps she felt in­se­cu­re,’ she sa­id, bi­ting her ton­gue be­fo­re she co­uld add, Be­ca­use you pro­bably tre­ated her the way you se­em to tre­at all wo­men. As in­fe­ri­or be­ings. She co­uld ha­ve go­ne on to il­lust­ra­te that by re­fer­ring to his list of aut­hors which, as yet, did not inc­lu­de a sing­le fe­ma­le.

  Mar­tin sig­hed. ‘May­be she did,’ he sa­id with that in­fu­ri­ating exp­res­si­on which sa­id: wo­men, huh, they ain’t just a dif­fe­rent sex, they’re a dif­fe­rent spe­ci­es.

  Janie sig­hed too. She co­uld no lon­ger be bot­he­red with the mystery of Drezy’s bo­ok and why she didn’t want it pub­lis­hed.

  ‘She wants it pub­lis­hed,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘She must or she wo­uldn’t ha­ve shown it to me.’

  ‘You’re cer­ta­in it was her work, are you?’ Janie as­ked.

  Mar­tin nod­ded. ‘Po­si­ti­ve. Lo­ok, I’m go­ing to try rin­ging her aga­in.’ He went back to his desk.

  Janie sud­denly felt very we­ary. No­ne of this is ne­ces­sary, she tho­ught. Not the tro­ub­le bet­we­en Mar­tin and Drezy or the tro­ub­le bet­we­en me and the unc­row­ned king of the rock gu­ita­rists Billy McAl­lis­ter. All this he­ar­tac­he co­uld be avo­ided if men wo­uld just lo­osen up a lit­tle and tre­at wo­men how they’d li­ke to be tre­ated them­sel­ves. We’re not a dif­fe­rent spe­ci­es, in­fe­ri­or, insc­ru­tab­le or ge­ne­ti­cal­ly inc­li­ned to ser­vi­tu­de, we’re just li­ke men ex­cept for the va­ri­an­ce in se­xu­al equ­ip­ment. And the ag­gres­si­on, of co­ur­se…

  She to­uc­hed her lo­ose te­eth with her ton­gue and ma­de a de­ci­si­on. As from to­night Billy was his­tory. She wo­uld go ho­me, pick up a few things and le­ave the ho­use - and him in it. She co­uld get him to le­ave la­ter. She wo­uld tell Jill, the Edi­to­ri­al Di­rec­tor, she was go­ing to be wor­king from her mot­her’s for a few days.

  ‘Damn!’ Mar­tin sho­uted and slam­med the pho­ne back in­to its crad­le. ‘I’ve…’ he ta­iled off, sha­king his he­ad. Janie wa­ited.

  ‘I’ve got this odd sen­sa­ti­on,’ Mar­tin fi­nal­ly con­fi­ded. ‘A hor­rib­le fe­eling that Es­se­nj­ay is in tro­ub­le. Big tro­ub­le.’ He lo­oked as­ha­med. ‘It’s not li­ke it’s my ima­gi­na­ti­on wor­king over­ti­me, just be­ca­use the pho­ne won’t work,’ he sa­id. ‘It’s mo­re than that. It’s li­ke a pi­ece of my bra­in has tur­ned in­to a kind of rec­tan­gu­lar box ma­de of bright crystal,’ he sa­id, lo­oking at her ca­re­ful­ly to ga­uge her re­ac­ti­on.

  Janie had ne­ver se­en Mar­tin em­bar­ras­sed be­fo­re, but he was blus­hing li­ke Bash­ful from the se­ven dwarfs.

  ‘I can’t exp­la­in it any bet­ter than that,’ he sa­id, con­ti­nu­ing in spi­te of him­self. ‘It’s li­ke this bright rec­tang­le in the cent­re of my bra­in and in it, I can see this big ho­use.’

  ‘Lo­oks li­ke a ha­un­ted ho­use,’ Janie sa­id. ‘Ma­de of grey sto­ne. Two sto­reys high, grey sla­te ro­of. Se­ven win­dows and a do­or. The­re’s sea all aro­und it. It’s Black Rock, isn’t it?’

  Half-way thro­ugh her first sen­ten­ce, Mar­tin’s jaw be­gan to fall. By the ti­me she’d fi­nis­hed, it was al­most on his chest. ‘How did you know?’ he as­ked in won­der.

  Janie didn’t know how she knew. All she knew was that it was un­set­tling. Janie had he­ard that cra­zi­ness was in­fec­ti­o­us and if Mar­tin had it, she didn’t want to wa­ke up in the mor­ning and find she had it too.

  ‘I tho­ught I was go­ing in­sa­ne,’ Mar­tin sa­id. ‘But I can’t be if you can pic­tu­re it in exactly the sa­me way. I can see it the­re now, hunc­hed li­ke it’s go­ing to po­un­ce. Only I can see Es­sen jay stan­ding in front of it, lo­oking at so­met­hing. I can’t see what the thing is, but it’s dan­ge­ro­us. And it’s go­ing to hurt her.’

  Janie’s po­int of vi­ew was a lit­tle dif­fe­rent, but not much. She co­uld pic­tu­re the ho­use, she co­uld pic­tu­re Drezy stan­ding in front of it, and she knew the­re was dan­ger in­vol­ved, but she didn’t think it was just Drezy who was go­ing to get hurt if this Black Rock thing wasn’t sor­ted out so­on and put to bed. She tho­ught it was go­ing to be all three of them.

  ‘Can I ask you a qu­es­ti­on, Mar­tin?’ she sa­id. ‘One to which you will reply truth­ful­ly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sco­uts ho­no­ur?’

  ‘Dib dib dib,’ Mar­tin sa­id grin­ning and gi­ving her the sco­ut’s two-fin­ge­red sa­lu­te. In that mo­ment he lo­oked qu­ite in­sa­ne.

  ‘Did you wri­te Black Rock?’ she as­ked.

  Mar­tin lo­oked ab­so­lu­tely as­to­nis­hed. ‘What?’

  ‘Answer the qu­es­ti­on, Mar­tin. This might sa­ve us a lot of tro­ub­le la­ter.’

  ‘No, I did not wri­te Black Rock, he sa­id.

  Janie nod­ded. She was temp­ted to be­li­eve him. But only temp­ted.

  ‘So why did she pro­mi­se not to sue you?’

  Mar­tin sho­ok his he­ad. ‘I’m as puz­zled abo­ut that as you are,’ he sa­id.

  ‘She’s in the bo­ok, isn’t she?’ Janie sa­id.

  Mar­tin nod­ded. ‘Ye­ah, she is. I don’t know how you knew un­less she sho­wed
it to you, or told you.’

  Janie nod­ded too. Drezy was in dan­ger, but not from a ha­un­ted ho­use. She was in dan­ger from Mar­tin. At so­me po­int du­ring the co­up­le of months sin­ce they’d split, he had de­par­ted from re­ality in a big way. He’d star­ted wri­ting a ‘ha­un­ted ho­use’ bo­ok, in which Drezy pla­yed a part. She had se­en so­me of it and con­se­qu­ently she had be­en nonp­lus­sed when Mar­tin had pho­ned her and of­fe­red to pub­lish it. It all fit­ted. You wo­uld be nonp­lus­sed if an edi­tor you knew wro­te a bo­ok with you in it and then told you he was go­ing to pub­lish it. And if, when he ma­de that pho­ne call, he tre­ated you not as if you we­re a cha­rac­ter in it, but as if you ac­tu­al­ly wro­te it, you wo­uld be dumbst­ruck. And you might not want to spe­ak to him aga­in.

  Janie San­der­son sol­ves anot­her mystery, she told her­self.

  But for so­me re­ason she didn’t fe­el any bet­ter abo­ut things. She co­uld still see Black Rock it­self etc­hed on her mind’s eye, and she still had the dis­tinct fe­eling that Drezy was in im­me­di­ate dan­ger.

  6 - Sarah Jane Takes a Tumble

  After abo­ut thirty se­conds of stan­ding in the ra­in on the fo­re­co­urt of Black Rock and bre­at­hing de­eply, so­me of the wo­ol be­gan to cle­ar from Sa­rah-Jane’s he­ad, le­aving ro­om for the do­ubts to cre­ep in. She eit­her had to be­li­eve she’d be­en po­iso­ned by the le­aky ex­ha­ust, or that Black Rock re­al­ly was dif­fe­rent when vi­ewed in a mir­ror.

  Whi­le she didn’t fe­el a bit po­iso­ned, S’n’J tho­ught that Le­wis Car­roll’s Red Qu­e­en, who prac­ti­sed be­li­eving two im­pos­sib­le things be­fo­re bre­ak­fast every day, wo­uld ha­ve had tro­ub­le with the ot­her al­ter­na­ti­ve.

  The­re was a part of her that badly wan­ted to dri­ve away, scat­te­ring the pa­ges of the ma­nusc­ript as she went. She didn’t ne­ed to know what hap­pe­ned to Snowy Dres­den, or what Black Rock ac­tu­al­ly was. But anot­her part of her knew a mo­re ba­sic truth. Ne­eding so­met­hing was a mi­le away from wan­ting it.

  And S’n’J wan­ted to know.

  She got back in­si­de the car and sta­red ac­ross the val­ley to whe­re the big black dog still po­in­ted at her.

  Whe­re the su­per­na­tu­ral was con­cer­ned, Sa­rah-Jane Dres­den was not a wo­man who to­ok fright easily. She co­uld sit thro­ugh the spo­oki­est of films then hap­pily wan­der thro­ugh her flat in the dark wit­ho­ut so much as a tho­ught abo­ut the vam­pi­res or gho­uls wa­iting for her in the sha­dows. But she al­so knew that she pos­ses­sed the po­ten­ti­al for be­co­ming a Born Aga­in sca­redy-cat; she was by no me­ans fe­ar­less now, whe­re dark car parks we­re con­cer­ned, but she wasn’t frigh­te­ned by the su­per­na­tu­ral be­ca­use it didn’t exist.

  But if she lo­oked aga­in, and tho­se win­dows we­re fros­ted and that bril­li­ant light was shi­ning out from ups­ta­irs, she was go­ing to be for­ced to chan­ge her vi­ews.

  S’n’J to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, held in and lo­oked up at the mir­ror.

  The up­per win­dow, which had ear­li­er sho­ne with a blin­ding light, was now just an or­di­nary win­dow.

  She let her bre­ath out in a long, re­li­eved sigh. One down, six to go, she told her­self, mo­ving the mir­ror so that she co­uld see the win­dow abo­ve the front do­or. This was all fi­ne and dandy too. The chan­ces of se­e­ing so­met­hing wrong we­re ste­adily di­mi­nis­hing. Es­pe­ci­al­ly as the right-hand ups­ta­irs win­dow - the one that had ear­li­er lo­oked li­ke an empty black rec­tang­le - was pre­sent and cor­rect.

  Smi­ling, she ang­led the mir­ror so she co­uld run thro­ugh the rest of the ho­use. Sa­me story. Di­sap­po­in­ting even, in a per­ver­se kind of way.

  It wasn’t un­til she’d fi­nis­hed chec­king and was tur­ning the mir­ror to its ori­gi­nal po­si­ti­on that she re­ali­zed she’d just se­en the ed­ge of so­met­hing she didn’t re­call from be­fo­re. So­met­hing that had mo­ved. Skit­te­red, per­haps.

  Don’t lo­ok back! her Girl Gu­ide vo­ice sud­denly or­de­red. Don’t lo­ok back be­ca­use if you do so­met­hing will go wrong. If you do, it’ll be too la­te to stop!

  Igno­ring this ad­vi­ce in much the sa­me way as Lot’s wi­fe had ig­no­red it be­fo­re her, and for the sa­me re­asons, S’n’J tur­ned the mir­ror back.

  And felt that odd sen­sa­ti­on of re­ality chan­ging aga­in. It was al­most as if the very air had split, swept the rent in it­self over her, then knit­ted to­get­her be­hind her, so that she was on the wrong si­de of the old re­ality. Or in an en­ti­rely new one. It was not a ple­asant sen­sa­ti­on, and if she’d be­en the scre­aming type, she wo­uld ha­ve scre­amed then. Not a long thro­at-te­aring scre­ech of ter­ror, but a short, sharp yelp of surp­ri­se. As it was, she just sa­id, ‘Oh my!’

  Be­ca­use the im­pos­sib­le had just hap­pe­ned aga­in.

  Her bra­in, ob­vi­o­usly not used to such qu­ick chan­ges in the world abo­ut her, first in­terp­re­ted what she saw lying on the wet shing­les as a very lar­ge black bird, cras­hed to earth and dying, its wings twitc­hing the­ir last. Then she de­ci­ded it was the black dog, big­ger than it sho­uld be, and bro­ken be­yond re­pa­ir.

  The truth was just as sur­re­al.

  It was a man spraw­led the­re as if he’d just fal­len. He was on his back, his limbs at crazy ang­les, and he was dres­sed li­ke Fred As­ta­ire: top hat, whi­te tie and ta­ils. And whi­te spats on pa­tent le­at­her sho­es. Ex­cept that the hat, crus­hed be­yond re­demp­ti­on, lay ne­arby, and one of the sho­es was half off his fo­ot.

  S’n’J co­uldn’t see his fa­ce, and co­uldn’t tell if he was ali­ve or de­ad, but she knew exactly who he was.

  Mr Win­ter.

  A ghost from a bygo­ne age.

  No­ne of this can be hap­pe­ning! she comp­la­ined, frigh­te­ned to lo­ok any mo­re and yet frigh­te­ned to ta­ke her eyes off the mir­ror in ca­se the vi­ew chan­ged aga­in when she lo­oked di­rectly at the sce­ne.

  Ste­eling her­self, she to­re her eyes away from the mir­ror and lo­oked over her sho­ul­der out of the car’s re­ar win­dow.

  The man was ne­it­her ghost nor op­ti­cal il­lu­si­on. He still lay the­re, one of his co­at ta­ils flap­ping la­zily in the bre­eze.

  Oh Jesus, God and lit­tle fis­hi­es! she tho­ught, He was on the ro­of watc­hing me and he fell off.

  She clim­bed out of the car, her body no lon­ger wa­iting for her mind to tell it what to do; it was res­pon­ding to an emer­gency and ac­ting of its own ac­cord. If the­re was anyt­hing she co­uld do to help the man on the gro­und, she wo­uld do it.

  S’n’J went ro­und to the far si­de of him, be­ca­use his fa­ce was po­in­ting at the ho­use and be­ca­use she didn’t want to start pul­ling him abo­ut in ca­se his back was bro­ken. She spot­ted the blo­od drip­ping from his mo­uth and swo­re. The­re was so much of it that he’d eit­her bit­ten his ton­gue half off or he had in­ter­nal inj­uri­es. It wasn’t lung blo­od, tho­ugh, which was go­od. It wasn’t bright eno­ugh for that.

  S’n’J squ­at­ted down be­si­de him, en­ter­ta­ining a bri­ef fan­tasy that he was go­ing to jump up and grab her (li­ke an ugly jack-in-the-box) which wo­uld be par for the co­ur­se if this had be­en con­ta­ined bet­we­en the pa­ges of a hor­ror story. A qu­ick vi­su­al check-over con­fir­med that this man was too badly bro­ken to do that. One of his thighs had a thirty-deg­ree kink in it, his right fe­mur was su­rely snap­ped in se­ve­ral pla­ces, both his thumbs and his right sho­ul­der ap­pe­ared to be dis­lo­ca­ted and his knuck­les we­re badly la­ce­ra­ted. In short, he lo­oked li­ke so­me­one who had fal­len off a ro­of and lan­ded badly. Even his clot­hes we­re rip­ped and sme­ared with the gre­en moss from the ro­ofing ti­les. He was
not go­ing to be jum­ping up at anyt­hing for a go­od long ti­me, cer­ta­inly not up at her.

  But it was Mr Win­ter. The­re was no de­ta­iled physi­cal desc­rip­ti­on of him in the pa­ges of Black Rock, only the way Snowy had vi­su­ali­zed him, but he fit­ted the pic­tu­re that had for­med in S’n’J’s ima­gi­na­ti­on, right down to the last de­ta­il.

  She la­id her fin­gers on the si­de of his thro­at, fe­eling for his ca­ro­tid. His skin was co­ol and mo­ist with the ra­in, but his he­art was be­ating. And he was bre­at­hing qu­ite re­gu­larly. This wasn’t a man abo­ut to pop his socks.

  S’n’J pul­led open one of his eye­lids. His eye was rol­led up. She co­uld just see the ed­ge of his smoky grey iris. She let the lid drop aga­in, then pri­sed his mo­uth open and felt in­si­de. His ton­gue wasn’t bit­ten off and no­ne of his te­eth we­re lo­ose, but the­re was plenty of blo­od abo­ut in the­re. She wasn’t su­re whe­re it was co­ming from un­less it was from the back of his no­se - he was bre­at­hing thro­ugh his mo­uth, so it co­uld be. He wasn’t in­ha­ling it, eit­her, so it was un­li­kely to be co­ming up from his sto­mach, un­less he’d pu­ked this lot. S’n’J wan­ted to roll him on his si­de and put him in the co­ma po­si­ti­on so the blo­od ran out, but she was wor­ri­ed that his back might be bro­ken and didn’t want to ma­ke it wor­se if it was. If he was cons­ci­o­us she co­uld get an idea as to its sta­te, but he was still out cold. The best thing she co­uld do, she de­ci­ded, was to call for an am­bu­lan­ce.

  She lo­oked at him for a few se­conds, frow­ning. Then she gently slap­ped his che­ek in a kind of pat­ting mo­ti­on. He didn’t stir. She hit him a lit­tle har­der and when this didn’t work she went back to­wards the car to call for help. She co­uld ke­ep her eye on him whi­le she wa­ited for the am­bu­lan­ce to co­me. She wo­uldn’t let him cho­ke.

  Igno­ring all the qu­es­ti­ons qu­e­u­ing up in her he­ad that badly wan­ted ans­wers, S’n’J snatc­hed the pho­ne out of the car, drop­ped it, ret­ri­eved it, dis­tantly re­min­ded her­self abo­ut be­ing a Va­ude­vil­le act lo­oking for so­mew­he­re to per­form, tur­ned it on and punc­hed three ni­nes.