Black Rock Page 8

  Up on the tra­iler, ac­ross the val­ley, the big black dog still po­in­ted at her.

  It wasn’t un­til not­hing hap­pe­ned, that S’n’J re­mem­be­red that she was in a ra­dio de­ad spot. The only ot­her op­ti­on was to try to get in­si­de the ho­use and use the pho­ne in the­re. If Mr Win­ter had got out he was go­ing to ha­ve to be ab­le to get in aga­in, so he wo­uld ha­ve left a do­or or win­dow open. Pro­bably ro­und the back of the ho­use.

  And fa­iling that, the mo­bi­le might work ro­und the­re.

  But ha­ving de­ci­ded on this plan of ac­ti­on, she re­ali­zed that now she’d dis­co­ve­red the­re was a re­al Mr Win­ter, she was re­luc­tant to let him out of her sight, even to ma­ke a pho­ne call.

  Be­ca­use you think he might di­sap­pe­ar aga­in, the way the frosty win­dows and the bright light did?

  ‘So­met­hing li­ke that,’ she mut­te­red, and had anot­her idea.

  She went back to the pro­ne body of Mr Win­ter and be­gan to se­arch his poc­kets. Cont­rary to what she might be­li­eve ha­ving re­ad tho­se ma­nusc­ript pa­ges, the front do­or had to ha­ve a lock, and the key to it might just be in one of the poc­kets of Mr Win­ter’s ta­il su­it.

  Thirty se­conds la­ter, S’n’J was he­ading down the path at the si­de of the ho­use with her mo­bi­le. The­re had be­en a lot of in­te­res­ting things in Mr Win­ter’s poc­kets - inc­lu­ding a fo­il-wrap­ped rib­bed con­dom who­se shelf-li­fe had ex­pi­red in 1993, gold-pla­ted flick-kni­fe, two HB pen­cils, a Bri­tish Ra­il tic­ket to Wa­ter­loo, the ig­ni­ti­on key to a Porsc­he and a big bul­let for a hand­gun of so­me desc­rip­ti­on, but no do­or key. And she’d fo­und no mo­ney, wal­let or iden­ti­fi­ca­ti­on of any sort.

  The muddy path that led down the left-hand si­de of the ho­use - the si­de that ga­ve you a cle­ar vi­ew of the ru­ins of King Art­hur’s Cast­le - was abo­ut eigh­te­en inc­hes wi­de and next to a ste­ep drop to the sea. It wasn’t ste­ep eno­ugh to call a cliff, but S’n’J had no do­ubt that if you stumb­led you we­re go­ing in­to the wa­ter be­ca­use the­re was no pro­tec­ti­ve fen­ce.

  Ro­und he­re, the wind was a lit­tle mo­re ke­en and whip­ped the driz­zle in­to her eyes. Squ­in­ting aga­inst the ra­in, and ke­eping her right hand in con­tact with the wall of the ho­use at all ti­mes, S’n’J pro­ce­eded with ext­re­me ca­uti­on.

  The­re was a small, ra­ised rocky gar­den at the back. At so­me ti­me so­me­one had ob­vi­o­usly dum­ped top­so­il upon the rock, wal­led it in with two co­ur­ses of bricks and half co­ve­red it with turf. It hadn’t be­en lo­oked af­ter. The grass was long and the flo­wer­beds we­re thick with we­eds. The­re we­re se­ve­ral items of wo­oden gar­den fur­ni­tu­re too - a rot­ten tab­le, two fal­ling-apart cha­irs and a bench se­at that lo­oked as if it had be­en ad­ded re­cently. Bet­we­en this and the back of the ho­use was a small flags­to­ne pa­tio.

  S’n’J stop­ped, wi­ped her fa­ce and lo­oked ca­re­ful­ly at the ho­use. The­re we­re win­dows he­re in the sa­me con­fi­gu­ra­ti­on as the ones at the front, but the­re was no do­or.

  Not en­ti­rely surp­ri­sed, S’n’J tur­ned on the mo­bi­le, men­tal­ly cros­sing her fin­gers.

  The pho­ne didn’t work. The­re was no blip when she tur­ned it on and no hiss of sta­tic af­ter­wards.

  Bug­ger! she tho­ught.

  The bat­tery co­uldn’t be flat be­ca­use the pho­ne had held a full char­ge when she left ho­me this mor­ning, so it sho­uld ha­ve ma­de so­me sort of no­ise, even if it was only a buzz or hiss. Fe­eling a numb kind of pa­nic, she held it to her ear. If you lis­te­ned ca­re­ful­ly you co­uld he­ar a si­mi­lar so­und to the one ma­de by a se­as­hell if you held one to yo­ur ear. The dis­tant ro­ar of the sea.

  Gre­at, S’n’J tho­ught, my mo­bi­le’s con­nec­ted to the At­lan­tic

  And as if the pho­ne was ali­ve and knew that it had only a li­mi­ted amo­unt of ti­me be­fo­re she tur­ned it off, it ac­ted.

  And sud­denly blas­ted her ear with a ra­ging full-vo­lu­me scre­ech.

  After­wards, S’n’J tho­ught it had so­un­ded li­ke a high-spe­ed saw te­aring thro­ugh me­tal. Now, she simply re­ac­ted to the pa­in and mo­ved so qu­ickly the­re wasn’t ti­me for tho­ught.

  She threw the pho­ne down be­fo­re the so­und had ti­me to burst her eard­rum - and pro­bably min­ce her bra­in too.

  It hit the wet flags­to­nes, bo­un­ced and fi­nal­ly ca­me to rest in a shal­low pud­dle.

  S’n’J lo­oked at it for a se­cond, si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly re­ali­zing two things. The first was that the ter­rib­le no­ise had stop­ped; the se­cond - and les­ser - re­ali­za­ti­on was that she’d al­most cer­ta­inly bro­ken an ex­pen­si­ve pi­ece of kit that be­lon­ged to Ace Pub­lis­hing.

  When she ret­ri­eved the pho­ne, the­re was a crack which ran al­most its en­ti­re length and it was wet, but the po­wer light was still on. Gla­ring at it, she shut it off and stuf­fed the pho­ne in­to her jac­ket. She co­uld think abo­ut the da­ma­ge la­ter. The im­por­tant thing was to get help and get it fast. If Mr Win­ter ca­me to and star­ted trying to mo­ve, he co­uld well crip­ple him­self.

  If he isn’t crip­pled al­re­ady, that is, she told her­self.

  She hur­ri­ed to the ot­her end of the pa­tio and fol­lo­wed the path ro­und the far si­de of the ho­use. The do­or had to be up the­re.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  This si­de of the ho­use was iden­ti­cal to the ot­her - no do­ors, no win­dows. Which me­ant, S’n’J tho­ught, that Mr Win­ter must ha­ve eit­her co­me out of the front do­or and clim­bed up on to Black Rock’s ro­of, or clim­bed out from an ups­ta­irs win­dow.

  La­ter, S’n’J, wo­uld tell her­self she sho­uld ha­ve se­en the sig­ni­fi­can­ce in this and she wo­uld men­tal­ly kick her­self for be­ing such a dummy. As it was, she ma­de a snap de­ci­si­on. She wo­uld bre­ak in­to the ho­use and use the pho­ne in­si­de to call an am­bu­lan­ce.

  Back at the re­ar of the ho­use she pe­ered in­to the lo­un­ge win­dow. Her mind had al­re­ady fur­nis­hed the ro­om. And he­re it was, re­al: big, open fi­rep­la­ce, fur rug and two le­at­her so­fas.

  She ga­zed in at it and shi­ve­red. Not a cold-wa­ter-down-yo­ur-back shi­ver, but one of de­light. The op­ti­mis­tic si­de of her was bu­sily tel­ling her that so­me­ti­mes things co­uld be per­fect and just as you had ima­gi­ned them.

  One of the go­od things abo­ut ha­ving ac­cess to everyt­hing Ace pub­lis­hed was that over the ye­ars you pic­ked up many snip­pets of exo­tic in­for­ma­ti­on. So­me­ti­mes the­se pro­ved use­ful.

  This was one of tho­se ti­mes. When you wan­ted to en­ter a bu­il­ding thro­ugh a win­dow and you didn’t ha­ve any met­hod of for­cing it, you co­uld bre­ak a ho­le in it that was just abo­ut big eno­ugh to put yo­ur hand thro­ugh and open the catch. The no­ise wo­uldn’t be too gre­at - which wasn’t her ma­j­or con­cern he­re - and the­re wo­uldn’t be too much bro­ken glass. All you did was to tap gently on the pa­ne with a po­in­ted obj­ect. Or in S’n’J’s ca­se a go­od-si­zed chunk of Bar­ras No­se rock pul­led from the mo­ist earth be­hind her.

  She cho­se her spot, and tap­ped gently.

  The win­dow­pa­ne clin­ked li­ke ste­el when the rock hit it.

  She frow­ned and tap­ped aga­in. It re­al­ly did so­und li­ke a ham­mer hit­ting me­tal. And a fa­irly so­lid pi­ece of me­tal at that. Things don’t al­ways work out just li­ke they do in fic­ti­on, her Girl Gu­ide vo­ice told her, so­mew­hat ne­ed­les­sly.

  Sud­denly mad­de­ned, S’n’J tri­ed aga­in, this ti­me swin­ging the rock from a dis­tan­ce and with a lot mo­re for­ce. In the mo­ment be­fo­re the rock to­uc­hed the glass, when it was
too la­te to stop, a tho­ught struck her: when the pi­ece of Bar­ras No­se went thro­ugh the glass, her hand wo­uld still be wrap­ped aro­und it. The con­se­qu­en­ces of this didn’t re­qu­ire ext­ra tho­ught. Her fin­gers and wrist we­re un­do­ub­tedly go­ing to be slas­hed. The only qu­es­ti­on was, how badly?

  The rock hit the glass, ma­king a tink! no­ise and bo­un­ced off. The re­sul­tant shock wa­ve to­re thro­ugh S’n’J’s hand and up her arm. The rock flew from her fin­gers.

  ‘Oo­oo … .you blo­ody … bas­tard!’ S’n’J spat, clenc­hing her te­eth and sha­king her hurt hand. When the pa­in eased, her hand felt hot and fat and her el­bow ac­hed.

  Bul­let-pro­of glass, her mind in­for­med her as she stro­de pur­po­se­ful­ly to­wards the rock. You won’t bre­ak it with a brick.

  But she snatc­hed the rock from the gro­und, wal­ked in­to the overg­rown back gar­den, tar­ge­ted the win­dow and la­unc­hed the rock at it as hard as she co­uld.

  The rock bo­un­ced off with that all-too-fa­mi­li­ar tink! no­ise and flew stra­ight back to­wards her with a spe­ed and pre­ci­si­on that it had no bu­si­ness ha­ving. The win­dow se­emed to ha­ve ab­sor­bed no­ne of the rock’s ki­ne­tic energy at all. And it didn’t se­em to ha­ve simply bo­un­ced off the win­dow eit­her, but ap­pe­ared to be tra­cing its in­bo­und co­ur­se in re­ver­se - li­ke a vi­deo pla­ying back­wards.

  Cur­sing, S’n’J le­apt to her left, dod­ging it. The stran­ge thing was that when the rock re­ac­hed the po­int whe­re she es­ti­ma­ted she’d star­ted her swing to fling it, it ran out of energy. It re­ac­hed the po­int whe­re her hand had be­en, stop­ped tra­vel­ling thro­ugh the air and fell stra­ight down in­to the wet grass.

  The­re was only one thing left to be do­ne and that was to dri­ve up to the vil­la­ge and sum­mon help.

  Half-way along the muddy path - which she wasn’t tre­ating with qu­ite as much ca­uti­on this ti­me - S’n’J’s legs bet­ra­yed her.

  Not so long ago, Sa­rah-Jane had le­apt to her own de­fen­ce when Mar­tin had ac­cu­sed her of be­ing clumsy. ‘I may not be a bal­let-dan­cer, but / am not clumsy! I am as su­re-fo­oted as a mo­un­ta­in go­at!’ she had told him. But tho­se cri­ti­cisms that hurt the most we­re the ones which con­ta­ined a gra­in of truth, and alt­ho­ugh S’n’J wo­uldn’t ha­ve ad­mit­ted it un­der tor­tu­re, she was not only not as su­re-fo­oted as a mo­un­ta­in go­at, but she was so­mew­hat pro­ne to fal­ling over.

  It was so­met­hing to do with her skinny lit­tle ank­les. They might, on the odd oc­ca­si­on, ha­ve drawn ad­mi­ring glan­ces, but they we­re pre­dis­po­sed to tur­ning them­sel­ves at the sligh­test pro­vo­ca­ti­on. If the­re was any une­ven­ness on an ot­her­wi­se flat sur­fa­ce, she wo­uld be su­re to find it and catch it with a fo­ot, which wo­uld turn up si­de­ways, twis­ting one of tho­se ank­les al­most to the li­mit.

  This hap­pe­ned now.

  S’n’J’s right fo­ot - the one ne­arest the drop to the sea -flip­ped up si­de­ways, pla­cing her who­le body we­ight on her ank­le jo­int. It hurt and if the­re had be­en ti­me for her to yelp be­fo­re she went down, she wo­uld ha­ve.

  She top­pled si­de­ways to her right. On the pe­rip­hery of her vi­si­on the angry grey sea ro­se to­wards her and thro­ugh the hor­rib­le out-of-cont­rol fe­eling adults al­ways ex­pe­ri­en­ce du­ring a fall, S’n’J’s mind blas­ted one pet­ri­fi­ed tho­ught in­to her mind: you don’t want to fall in that sea!

  But she didn’t think she was go­ing to be ab­le to stop her­self.

  She hit the ste­ep slo­pe fo­ur fe­et down and be­gan to sli­de, he­ad first. Down the­re, a hund­red fe­et be­low her, the At­lan­tic was re­ady to swal­low her.

  She threw out both her arms in front of her and plo­ug­hed her spre­ad fin­gers in­to the thin grass, whi­le she dug her fe­et in li­ke anc­hors.

  But she wasn’t stop­ping.

  I’m go­ing to die, a small part of her tho­ught calmly. It wo­uldn’t be de­ath by drow­ning tho­ugh - she was a strong swim­mer. It wo­uld be de­ath by be­ing dri­ven on to the rocks by the swell of the sea.

  S’n’J ma­de a pas­sing grab for the ro­ot of a bush with her numb right hand, felt her fin­gers sli­de off it, and knew that it was all over.

  The te­lep­ho­ne sa­ved her li­fe.

  Ace Pub­lis­hing’s crap mo­bi­le pho­ne was not the new slim li­ne kind. It was one of the old bulky ones. And when she’d stuf­fed it in­to her jac­ket poc­ket in dis­gust, it still prot­ru­ded from the top.

  Now it ca­ught in the ro­ot of the bush she had tri­ed to grab. The ro­ot ho­oked bet­we­en the prot­ru­ding he­ad of the pho­ne and S’n’J’s jac­ket and she slid to a stands­till.

  It wasn’t un­til she he­ard the tell-ta­le so­und of te­aring ma­te­ri­al, that she re­ali­zed what had hap­pe­ned. A sob that she didn’t know was co­ming es­ca­ped her lips and she drew a de­ep bre­ath. The­re’s still ho­pe. Still ho­pe for at le­ast one happy en­ding to­day, she told her­self, re­ac­hing back for the ro­ot.

  She fas­te­ned her fin­gers aro­und it and tes­ted it, kno­wing it was go­ing to gi­ve way.

  It didn’t.

  Her he­ad was still spin­ning with the sen­sa­ti­on of fal­ling and sli­ding out of cont­rol, and be­ne­ath her the sea lo­oked as if it hadn’t gi­ven up ho­pe of ha­ving her, so she wa­ited, figh­ting off the ur­ge to scramb­le back up in ca­re­less has­te.

  When she’d ca­ught her bre­ath, she ca­re­ful­ly ma­no­e­uv­red her­self so that she was fa­cing up the slo­pe ins­te­ad of down. The climb back up to the ho­use was pro­bably less than fif­te­en fe­et - alt­ho­ugh it se­emed furt­her - and the­re we­re qu­ite a few pi­eces of rock prot­ru­ding thro­ugh so­il that she was su­re she co­uld use for hand and fo­ot­holds. All she had to do was mo­ve very slowly and try to for­get that up the­re was a man in ne­ed of ur­gent me­di­cal at­ten­ti­on. It wasn’t go­ing to do eit­her of them any go­od if she fell off.

  S’n’J’s right shoe was abo­ut half-way up and she clim­bed ca­re­ful­ly to­wards it, dis­tantly awa­re that re­ality didn’t al­ways mi­mic fic­ti­on. This par­ti­cu­lar turn of events hadn’t ta­ken pla­ce wit­hin the pa­ges of Black Rock - not the pa­ges she had any­way. Mr Pe­ter Per­fect, bless his cot­ton socks, had mis­sed a go­od one he­re.

  S’n’J re­ac­hed the shoe and stuf­fed it in­to her free poc­ket. Li­ke an ex­pe­ri­en­ced mo­un­ta­ine­er, S’n’J to­ok her ti­me cho­osing her ro­ute, then to­ok her ti­me pla­cing her hands and fe­et and tes­ted be­fo­re she let anyt­hing ta­ke her full we­ight.

  She didn’t al­low her­self to re­lax un­til she was sit­ting in a pud­dle on the path with her back aga­inst the wall of the ho­use.

  Sa­rah-Jane ac­hed all over and was awa­re that everyt­hing was go­ing to hurt twi­ce as badly to­mor­row. She didn’t ha­ve a sing­le long fin­ger­na­il any mo­re, the palms of both her hands we­re ble­eding, as we­re her kne­es; her tights we­re in ho­les, her skirt was so­aked in mud and split to the wa­ist in­to the bar­ga­in, and so­mew­he­re on her fo­re­he­ad the­re was a cut which was ble­eding ste­adily.

  And the ank­le that had ca­used all of this (S’n’J ima­gi­ned it snig­ge­ring) didn’t hurt a bit.

  She conc­lu­ded that she’d be­en a very lucky girl in­de­ed and be­gan to thank God, then than­ked Marks & Spen­cer ins­te­ad. It had be­en the go­od qu­ality of the­ir jac­ket that had bro­ught her to a halt. She put her bro­ken shoe on to her cut and ble­eding fo­ot. The he­el was bro­ken so she was go­ing to be wal­king li­ke a wo­man with one leg lon­ger than the ot­her, but the al­ter­na­ti­ve - wal­king in ba­re fe­et - so­un­ded mo­re pa­in­ful.

  And you know exactly what’s go­ing to
hap­pen next, don’t you? she as­ked her­self as she strug­gled up and sto­le a glan­ce at the At­lan­tic, which was pre­su­mably fe­eling che­ated. You’re go­ing to walk aro­und the cor­ner of the ho­use and Mr Win­ter will ha­ve go­ne.

  S’n’J felt this wit­ho­ut a sha­dow of a do­ubt. That was the re­ason she hadn’t wan­ted to dri­ve back up to Tin­ta­gel to pho­ne for help in the first pla­ce - he was bo­und to ha­ve va­nis­hed the mo­ment she to­ok her eyes off him. Even she knew that much abo­ut how sto­ri­es de­ve­lo­ped.

  But this wasn’t a story. This was re­al li­fe - even if back the­re she had tho­ught for a whi­le that she was Snowy and that the story told by Pe­ter Per­fect was hers. Now, she’d de­ci­ded that fic­ti­on was al­ways much mo­re gent­le than bru­tal re­ality. That was why pe­op­le re­ad it. It didn’t hurt li­ke the re­al thing.

  And if this isn’t a story, Mr Win­ter can’t ha­ve va­nis­hed. If this is re­ality he’ll still he lying the­re, pro­bably dying by now.

  S’n’J hob­bled along the path to find out, hol­ding her bre­ath as she tur­ned the cor­ner.

  And the­re he is, go­ne!

  Except that this wasn’t a fa­iry ta­le and he wasn’t go­ne. S’n’J mo­aned, fe­eling rat­her li­ke she did in her night­ma­res: ne­eding to act qu­ickly but fe­eling as if she we­re stuck in tre­ac­le. She hob­bled over to him, knelt be­si­de him and tri­ed aga­in, wit­ho­ut suc­cess, to wa­ke him.

  Plan B, she told her­self, trying to fight off the fe­eling that she was not only lo­sing gro­und and ti­me, but al­so her self-cont­rol. She sto­od up and hob­bled back to the Si­er­ra.

  It won’t start now, she told her­self con­fi­dently as she re­ac­hed for the key.

  But if God, or Pe­ter Per­fect, was ar­ran­ging things for her to­day, he wan­ted to ke­ep her gu­es­sing: the car star­ted on the first turn of the key.