Final Toll Read online

  Big Jim was a legend. They said he’d wander round in circles, stop, dig his heel in the ground, and there they’d find bedrock for a pile. They said he could find a roadway across a swamp in the dead of night. His men had worshipped him. Marson, with his soundings and his calculations, could also find the same bedrock. But Big Jim did it in minutes; it took Marson days.

  They didn’t trust Marson, and he couldn’t get near them. He was the theory boy, and apparently they couldn’t even bring themselves to drink tea with him. They drifted away. He went to find where they’d put his caravan, and tried to dry out. But he hadn’t been doing the job long enough, so hadn’t got all the waterproofs he really needed. A cup of coffee, a few biscuits, then he headed back to the cliff, still wet and not feeling too good.

  The trouble was that he’d tried to do what Big Jim would’ve done: make instant decisions. There, in the back of the truck, he’d produced a scheme that he’d hardly had time to consider properly. It’d sounded good. ‘This is what we’ll do, and it’ll work.’ Yet there were so many imponderables: how high for the main tripods, how far apart, what lengths of cable for the support slings? None of these details had been computed, and yet already a start had been made on the main tripods. Now he was aching to get at his paperwork and calculator, to lay out his force projections, and prove to himself that it had a possibility of working.

  The chairlift was no more than an elementary exercise. The two teams had been rehearsed, three men each side of the river with control ropes. Cropper had charge of the winch. Marson had simply omitted to tell him to remain by it, and not take his great fist off the handle. But once they had the chairlift at the correct height, and the ratchet pawl home, there wasn’t really any more for Cropper to do. Natural curiosity lured him to Marson’s elbow. Marson didn’t notice him there, being too concentrated on that stubborn idiot Chris Keene and what he was doing at the bridge. At one stage it seemed that he was going to climb right inside the cab.

  Marson went wild with the loudhailer, but as far as he could tell, Chris wasn’t hearing. Then, when he finally crouched down on the plank they’d rigged for him, Marson was sure he’d finished. He called out that they were bringing him in. Chris simply squatted, not lifting his head, and for a moment Marson was worried that he was hurt. Then, just as he was going to give the order to haul him in, abruptly he fell away as though the cable had broken. At the same time Marson heard a snap, which it took him a split-second to identify as coming from the winch. He whirled round, but it was ten yards away. He could do nothing but shout out frantically.

  But Cropper was already moving. He was a bulky man, with a chubby, vacant face that gave the impression of stupidity. In one dive he was scattering the group of public gawpers, and Marson saw then the rapidly rotating handle of the winch. It was not much more than a blur, and he wouldn’t have dared put a limb near it. But Cropper threw himself on it, then he was grappling with both hands, and holding it. He got to his knees, his head hanging for one second. He stared back at Marson.

  Marson looked for Chris, and he could see nothing of him. He’d fallen way down beneath the concentration of light. All they could do was pray that he was there. Marson turned back to Cropper.

  “Wind him up!” he shouted.

  Cropper got to his feet and wound stolidly with one hand. His other arm hung slack, and his face was expressionless. Marson was shouting for a torch. There was one in the Land-rover they’d brought up, but there wasn’t time. He stared down. The cable creaked tautly, and slowly, into the shadows and then into the light, the chairlift came up.

  Chris was hanging face down across it, one arm over the side, and ridiculously dangling the medical bag in his fingers. They brought him in slowly and gently. Marson wouldn’t let Cropper leave the winch, even when he’d got the cable taut. He heard the ratchet pawl locked in again.

  Jeff and Marson hauled Chris off the board. He wasn’t unconscious, just hanging with his mouth open, gasping on the edge of terror. They sat him on the cliff top. Blood was running from his hands. Cropper stood with his legs apart, staring.

  Chris levered himself to his feet, like a rugby player who’d been pounded into the mud. His breathing was still bad. They could barely understand him.

  “What happened?” he managed to get out. “I wanted to...”

  “The ratchet slipped. Cropper got to the handle.”

  Chris looked at Cropper, but he was talking to Marson. “I wanted to get some antibiotic...into him. It’s not finished. I’ll have to go back.”

  “No.” Marson wasn’t having that. “The ratchet’s faulty. Later, perhaps.” He was having to be firm. Chris had a startled look of incomprehension about him. Besides, he looked dangerous. “We’ll re-rig it. Safer. You’ll see. But later.”

  Jeff had a hand round Chris’s shoulders. Chris was trying to throw him off.

  “He’s half unconscious,” he was stammering. “Shock. Exposure. God knows what else. I can’t do anything — anything — through that sodding window.” He was close to sobbing, Marson saw. “You’ve got to get me to him, for Christ’s sake. I’ll have to get a drip...have to...”

  Then it all tailed away, with him shaking his head and groaning, and he just started walking. Allison reached out to pat his shoulder, but Chris didn’t even see him. People stood aside, whispering, and he moved through them as though he was blind, until he stood in front of Cropper. He stared at his hands, shook his head, then muttered: “Thanks. I’ll see you...” Then he moved on, and a woman ran out of the darkness and took his arm. They went away together.

  Grey had come to life, aware of the growing crowd of sightseers. With growls and oaths he got his men moving, and the area was cleared rapidly. Jeff was at Marson’s elbow, Cropper still at his winch. Marson spoke to him.

  “Want a word with you, Cropper. Why the hell did you leave the damned thing?” He believed he was speaking calmly, but his nerves were on edge and it came out as a snarl.

  Cropper jerked his head. “It seemed safe.” His voice had no intonation in it. “I wanted to watch.”

  Jeff put in: “Hold on. What’s that on the ground? Look.” He was gesturing with his toe.

  Somebody had found the torch. It shone on a crowbar they’d used for the rigging. It lay now beside the winch. Marson dropped to one knee.

  “You think...?”

  Slowly, Allison and Grey became aware of the interest and joined the group. Grey crouched beside Marson. “Could it have been deliberate?” he asked quietly.

  Cropper was still there. “Ratchet pawls don’t just jump out. But one bang with that thing...”

  “Oh no,” said Marson quickly. It was something beyond his imagination.

  Allison got to his feet. He was solemn and ponderous. “There’s a mood,” he said. “I’ve been moving around, listening. There’s real fear in the air. You can almost smell it. This bridge, sitting here, it’s a threat. A...a person could want it down, before it takes the cliffs with it.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Marson replied, unconvincingly.

  “If your whole life was in a farm down on the low ground, it’d seem very valid.” Grey nodded, pressing it home. “Not everybody thinks logically. And of course, it may not be so. But just in case it is, I’ll tighten things up around here. And you’d better get things moving, whatever it is you’ve got in mind. Let ‘em see something happening.”

  He’d got Marson’s mind whirling and for a few moments he couldn’t concentrate. What was there to do? Then Jeff brought him back.

  “Cropper’s finished one of the main tripods,” he said. “Done a good job.”

  Marson went with him to have a look at it. These things had to be strong, as they were going to take the whole weight — bridge, wagon, the lot — two each side of the river. This one was fine, but Marson, unable to prevent himself from worrying about Chris, failed to compliment Cropper.

  “Jeff,” he said, “why not throw a transceiver into the cab. Tune it to the radio in the Land
-rover, then we can hear him if he speaks.”

  Jeff said, voice clipped: “I’ll do it, Colin. Later. We’ve got to get on, though. The other crane...”

  Marson forced his mind to it. The idea was to put a strong tripod, eight feet tall, on the peaks of the two cliffs each side of the river. They would use the two-inch cable over them, and anchor it into the rock, well back, using two diesel-powered winches this side. Then they would rig slings under the bridge and wind in the main cables, and...the Jones.

  The Jones was a different crane altogether from the Kato. It had a rigid, latticed boom, which had to be rigged — or stripped down — manually; it ran on tracks instead of wheels, like a huge, lumbersome tank, and had a maximum mobile speed of five miles an hour. Above all, the Kato was their equipment; but the Jones was the main lifting tackle at the construction site, twenty miles behind them. And whereas the advance team could afford to lose a day or two, and pull it back, the main team was on a tight schedule, with crippling penalty clauses in the contract. Jeff might not have understood the implications as Marson did. The main team could not afford to release the Jones.

  “...let’s go and start it moving,” Jeff said with quiet enthusiasm. Still Marson hesitated. But he could do nothing to overcome the main team’s obstructions until he knew what those obstructions would be. “Let’s do that,” he agreed, and he moved away, leaving Jeff to fall into step.

  They had brought in the radio wagon along with the rest. The complete outfit was assembled in a scattered circle on the flat ground over by the line of trees. Like a circus. The light was just coming into the sky, sluggish, though there was a hopeful line of clear orange over in the east. It caught the bright blue and yellow motif of the Sevco vehicles.

  Jeff was talking anxiously as they walked. “How’re we going to anchor the main cables each side?”

  Marson shrugged impatiently. “I thought we’d dig channels. Say ten feet by four by four. Over the other side we’ll have a girder welded to each cable and buried in concrete. This side, two diesel winches bolted onto the concrete beds. Better get the compressor up and the pneumatic drills going.”

  “We can’t do that.” Jeff was emphatic. “Not pneumatic drills on that rock. The vibration’d have it down.”

  “Then how?”

  “I’ll get Charlie Maine to blast ‘em out.”

  “Explosives? That’d be crazy.”

  Jeff was shaking his head. “Little blasts. A lot of ‘em. Charlie can do it. I’ve seen him lift a single brick from a wall.”

  After a second, Marson nodded, and they continued walking. “Anything else?”

  “We’re a bit short of high-alumina cement.”

  The stuff was rarely used in high-quality work. But it was fast setting, and speed was what they needed. “How short?”

  “It’ll be a sixty-forty mix.”

  “That’ll have to do.”

  “It’ll slow down the setting.”

  “Then you’ll have to get the channels dug that much quicker. This Charlie Maine of yours...” Marson shrugged, and let it ride. They plodded along side by side.

  “And we’re not too well off for two-inch cable,” Jeff said at last. He sounded mournful, but Marson could have sworn Jeff was enjoying it.

  “For God’s sake. What’ve we got?”

  “Three lengths; eighty metres each.”

  Marson did it in his head. One length cut in half for the slings. That left the two main support cables, each 80 metres — only 250 feet. With 135 feet of river to span, they would have little to spare each side. Take away waste in the sag, in the peaks over the tripods, in the take-up for the winches, and the anchors would be only 45 feet from the cliff edges. It was not enough, Marson felt, not with that cliff.

  He groaned, but kept moving. His mind was racing. Stresses, angles, pressures. “Then we’ll have to make the channels twenty feet long,” he decided. He glanced at Jeff. “Twice as long, but just as soon, Jeff. There might not be much time.”

  Jeff grunted. “Bigger channels, slower setting.”

  Marson shouldered open the door into the radio shack. Ray Foster lived there. He kept the walkie-talkies working, and operated the radio that kept them in touch with the main team. He would supply a transceiver for the wagon’s cab, when they were ready for it.

  He was asleep in the bunk beside his bench, asleep in his old set of dungarees, but was awake in an instant. His mongrel growled warningly in his ear. Foster was going on sixty, and he looked undressed without his headphones. Jeff told him that Mr Marson wanted to speak to the main team, which wasn’t quite true. Marson really wanted to talk to Sievewright at head office first — it was ultimately his decision — but that would have to be on the phone, and Marson hadn’t got one yet. So he nodded Okay. He could start things off, anyway, he thought. Put out feelers.

  “They’ll have their heads down,” he said doubtfully.

  Jeff shook his head. Foster was plugging things in, throwing switches. Dials glowed and meters flicked their fingers. A speaker on its back in the corner of his bench squawked once, then said: “Ray — that you?”

  Foster offered Marson a hand microphone, but Marson hesitated, unsure what to say. He’d had little contact with any of that crew.

  Jeff rescued him. “Let me.” Then he took the mike, shed a kind of formal skin, and was instantly affable, chatty.

  “Rob! You old skinner.” How the hell he knew who it was, Marson couldn’t guess. “How’s things?”

  “Fine here,” said the speaker. “Where are you Jeff?”

  “At the river. We’ve got a spot of trouble.”

  “We heard.” There was a note of authority in the voice, and Marson realised this was Robert Newby, Jeff’s counterpart there, site foreman. “I’ve been waiting here for a word from you, Jeff. You’re going big on the radio, did you know?”

  Jeff glanced at Foster, who shook his head. Probably he’d slept through the trip here. But Jeff was delighted. “We are?”

  “You want any help?”

  “The team can handle it,” said Jeff, rather more confidently than Marson would have claimed. “But we’re short of a crane.”

  “We guessed that.”

  “And we thought of the Jones.”

  “Yeah, of course. We reckoned you’d need a crane each side—”

  “Let me have that,” Marson said quickly, reaching for the mike.

  Jeff raised his eyebrows, but handed it over. Marson grabbed the mike.

  “This is Colin Marson,” he said. “Is your site manager available?”

  A pause. Then the voice was more formal. “He’s at head office for a few days. But I can—”

  “We need that Jones,” said Marson sharply. “Need it urgently. As soon as I can get to a phone, I’ll have a word with Sievewright, and he’ll give you a release. I merely thought...as the Jones takes an hour or two to strip...you might start on that...” It hadn’t been firm, but it was a decision.

  The loudspeaker jerked on the bench. “Already doing that, Mr Marson. Nearly ready to go, as a matter of fact.”

  “Go?”

  Then another voice took over, a chipper voice, eager and brash. “Hey there, Jeff. It’s Marty.”

  Marson held the mike, lost for a moment. Jeff leaned to it.

  “Marty! Great to hear from you.”

  “We’re about ready to roll,” cried the voice. “Coming along the footings, so be ready for us at the end. Gives you time to fix it with the boss. Eh...Jeff?”

  “Who is this fool?” Marson asked, still holding the mike.

  There was silence. The loudspeaker hummed.

  “It’s Marty Summers,” Jeff told him quietly. “The Jones operator. Used to be with our team, when we had the Jones.”

  “Tell him—”

  “I’ll try.” Jeff took the mike from him. “You still there, Marty?”

  “Who was that?” Suspicious and angry.

  “My boss. Now listen. Calm down. We’ve got to get permission. O
fficial. So sit tight and wait, Marty. All right?”

  “We only do five miles an hour,” Marty protested in a high, injured voice.

  “All the same...”

  “You want it, don’t you?”

  Marson groaned. “We want it,” he agreed, not realising Marty would hear.

  “Then you’re getting it.” And suddenly the radio was dead.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Jeff said.

  Marson shrugged. He would be able to contact Sievewright in an hour or so, and in that time Marty would’ve moved only five miles. The situation was not irretrievable. He turned to the door. “Where’s this Charlie Maine of yours?”

  Jeff was quiet and confident. “I’ve already told him,” he said.

  Nine

  Laura lay awake on her bed, waiting for the click of the latch that would mean Den had gone to his own room. She could not relax, and as soon as she dozed she again heard him moving about in the living-room. It was still dark when she heard her father go out to the milking shed, but the two men did not speak to each other. Then she heard Den go out too, and a few minutes later the Ford pick-up starting. She hoped he’d be gone for the day, but she still couldn’t relax properly, not with Johnny on the bridge. So she got up.

  She made a pot of tea, but she couldn’t eat a thing. When she went outside with a torch in her hand she discovered that Den had taken a couple of the big TV sets he’d got in the barn, and she hoped he’d gone searching for a buyer. That could well keep him out of the way for quite a while. She took the Mini and headed for the bridge.

  The doctor was driving just in front of her along the road to the river. She watched him park, and followed him on foot to the cliff top, but not getting too close.

  Her head was light and humming from lack of sleep, and her mind was in a jumble, trying to get a firm line on her attitude to what was going on. That was the first time Chris went down to the cab. And there she’d been, all wrapped up in her own miseries, and he...She could see he was reluctant. They as good as shoved him out there, not giving him a chance. And it was terrifying, just to watch.