Final Toll Page 8

By that time she was caught in a small crowd of watchers, up around the hand winch, holding her breath, and when the whole thing just dropped she couldn’t help screaming. Then one of the men pushed her and sent her flying, quite shaking her up, and when she looked again he was winding it in. She edged through, and saw them bring the doctor up, then she moved away. Way down the slope she saw somebody running away into the darkness.

  Then she stayed. There wasn’t anything to go home to. She stayed, getting soaked, and not caring. And watched. They had every available workman hard at it, though it was all a mystery to her. A strange little man with nice eyes started to drill holes in the rock, about fifteen yards back from the cliff edge, and explode little charges in them. The dust flew, and she could feel the tiny vibrations through the soles of her shoes. But she couldn’t take her eyes from the bridge for long. Gently moving, sighing. She stood by one of the big chains, where it went over a pile of rocks, and she could hear it whispering away to itself. And Johnny was out there.

  That was where she was when Grey came and stood by her. He was so tall. And that uniform. She’d always been a bit scared of policemen, and Den had never given up carping about them. This one was so sour that he terrified her. He looked cold, about dead on his feet, but give him his due he did try to be pleasant.

  “You’ll be Laura,” he said, nodding. “I’ve heard about you.”

  She wasn’t feeling too good before that, and could only stare at him. Then away...

  “I understand,” he went on chattily, “that you know our friend out there.” But he’d managed to make it sound like a threat.

  She couldn’t think where that left her. “He was coming to me,” she admitted.

  “You’re his wife?” As though he didn’t believe a word of it.

  She couldn’t say she was. “His name’s Johnny Parfitt.”

  When he didn’t go on, she glanced up at him. It was the way he was so still that terrified her. She thought the light was moving across his face, then saw it was his jaw muscles moving.

  “He was coming to me,” she said again.

  “So you’re not his wife,” he said, and she recalled that Chris had made a similar assumption. His voice had become tight. “He got himself some strange transport to pay a visit—”

  She tried to make it sound like more than a casual visit: “I haven’t seen him since...” And just managed to stop herself.

  He wouldn’t let anything go. “Since?” he insisted.

  His steady eyes unnerved her, and she couldn’t think of a decent lie. “Since he went to prison,” she whispered.

  “Ah.” He was nodding and nodding, and it seemed to her that he was excited, and tense. “So it’s that Johnny Parfitt.”

  “What d’you mean ‘that’?” She couldn’t stop herself.

  “Coming to you, you say? With a wagon-load of whisky?”

  “It’s his way. No, no — I didn’t mean that. Not his way to steal it. He’d never do that. Never would, not for what was on it. But it’s...it was his work, driving. That’s all I meant.” And while she was saying it, she knew she was talking too much. She bit her lip, stopping herself.

  “And whisky,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It was whisky before,” he explained.

  Then she could see that he knew all about it. He was staring into her brain with those bright, beady eyes of his and picking out every thought. He knew about Johnny and what had happened all those years ago, and he would come for Den and take him away, and then where would she be?

  She laughed. How she got it out she didn’t know. It must have sounded awful. “Oh, you don’t want to take any notice of that!” So light, so full of amusement. She felt ill. “Johnny wouldn’t be interested in what was on the wagon. He wouldn’t want to keep it. Johnny isn’t a thief.”

  “Then what the hell d’you call him?” he asked, as though he was genuinely interested.

  “He’s...he’s...” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t think what Johnny was, except that she could remember the laughter and happy times and Johnny’s strength and his strange, gentle pleasure with Harry. “He’s a good man,” she said, stupidly and weakly. “But it’s just the sort of thing he’d do, ridiculous Johnny, taking the first thing he could see, just to get home to me.”

  But she knew she hadn’t convinced him. He took off his cap and shook the drops from it, his eyes not leaving her.

  “We’ll have to ask him,” he said. “When we get him out, we’ll ask him where he was going with a wagonload of scotch. And perhaps we’ll find it wasn’t to you.”

  “Yes, you do that,” she told him, trying to be defiant and confident. And for a while afterwards, watching the men working on the chairlift — and in the end throwing into the cab what looked like a small radio — she did think that what Grey had said was the idea behind it all: to ask Johnny where he’d been heading, with the question of rescuing him in the background. She was tired. Her thoughts were limping.

  But the policeman had gone away, though not far enough for her liking.

  They’d got a grubby old Land-rover on the top of the cliff, one with a canvas top, and it was covered all over with dents and rust marks. There was an old man working inside it, lying upside-down along the front seats. For a while she watched him, knowing she ought to go home. He grinned at her, his upper plate showing, and told her she looked like a drowned rat from where he was. And she supposed she did, at that.

  “Going to ask him questions?” she asked, because she couldn’t shake free of the idea.

  He pulled himself upright and said: “Not exactly ask. But we’ll hear on this thing if he says anything. Though what good...” He shook his head. “But it was his idea, so that makes it law.”

  He nodded towards the man she already knew to be in charge of it all — Colin Marson? Yes. To her, he didn’t look big enough to be in charge of it. He knew how he wanted things, and he tried to make sure it was done as he instructed. But though they were all working away like mad, there wasn’t any...well, certainty.

  The old man climbed out of the Land-rover. He wasn’t any taller than she was.

  “Why don’t you sit inside, missy, out of the rain?” he was good enough to suggest.

  But she shook her head. She had to keep moving.

  “And listen out for us?” he asked, cocking his head.

  Oh, but she couldn’t do that. Not listen for Johnny. “No!” She knew it sounded a bit abrupt, so she gave him a weak version of a smile. “I don’t think I’d want to do that.”

  But she was watching her, his old, pouched eyes very keen. “We’ll get him out. You’ll see. You a friend of his?”

  She nodded. “Sort of.” He was only the father of her boy. “Yes, I’m a friend.”

  “Then you sit in here, love. I’ll pass the word around, and the lads’ll leave you in peace.”

  She was tempted. There were pains in her legs and back that she hadn’t noticed before. But then Colin Marson marched across and said: “You got it working yet, Foster?”

  He wasn’t glancing at her, not noticing her, she supposed, in his concentration.

  “We’re not gonna know that till he says something —are we, Mr Marson?” the old man asked, and Marson nodded, frowning.

  “Well, you’d better get back to the radio van.” He looked at his watch. Then his eyes went over her. He looked her up and down. “Who’re you? You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous near this edge.”

  “She’s a friend of Johnny,” Foster said quickly. “Oh.” He was considering her with more interest. “It was you he was heading for, was it?”

  She had to seize hold of that. “Oh, yes.”

  Then he suddenly smiled. It took away some of the tightness from his features, and his eyes came alive. He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “Then make yourself useful, eh? How’s about using the loudhailer, and talking to him?”

  She saw it was hanging from his left hand. He’d been usin
g it to call instructions across the river, so she already knew how loud it could be. “Talking?” She didn’t know whether he was serious.

  “So that he’ll know he’s nearly made it, and you’re here, waiting for him. Perhaps he can hear. If he says anything, we’ll know that Foster here has done a good job.”

  “But what could I say?” She felt hot with embarrassment.

  Again he smiled. “Tell him you love him, dear. Tell him you’re waiting for him.”

  “But...but everybody will hear.”

  He pulled his ear lobe, then thrust the loudhailer at her. She couldn’t help but take it. “So what if they do? Maybe it’ll help us all realise that there’s a human being out there, and not just a pile of old iron.” He made a little gesture, almost as though he was apologising. “And maybe,” he said quite quietly, “it’ll help Johnny. So what the hell does it matter what anybody thinks?”

  She stood there like a fool. “You press that button,” he explained. She did that, and lifted it to her lips, and whispered: “Johnny! Can you hear me? It’s Laura.”

  It went in as a whisper and came bouncing out as a great shout. The men stopped working and lifted their heads, one or two smiling. She felt defiant, and tried again.

  “Johnny, it’s Laura. Can you speak to me? Please!”

  Then all she could hear was the roar of the river, the occasional groan of the metal, because the hammering and shouting and the banging of those little explosions stopped. They were all waiting, and behind her, in the Land-rover, she could hear the hiss of the radio, and then, suddenly, a break in that sound, a sob and a whimper that was as piercing as a full-throated cry. She couldn’t hold back a choked cry for herself, and dropped the loudhailer. Marson grabbed for it, and as he straightened up she clung to his shoulder. They stood together like that.

  The loudspeaker sound couldn’t have reached many of the men, but Marson put the loudhailer to his lips and called out: “We’re in touch. He’s okay. Let’s get on with it.”

  He didn’t let her try again at that time. Her legs felt like putty, but she could no more have sat in that cab. She had to walk away. A few of the men nodded and smiled at her, but she was unable to smile back. Not even at the two or three men who were walking around with television cameras on their shoulders. Somebody thrust a microphone in her face, but she flinched away, and he shrugged.

  It must have been about midday. She knew she ought to get back and cook her dad’s dinner, but he always said he could manage. She was hypnotised by the bridge, and couldn’t move far from it. While she stood watching, the old man called Foster came limping up the slope, shouting: “He’s on the radio, Mr Marson.”

  “Radio?” Marson seemed a little slow on the uptake.

  “Mr Sievewright. He’s at the main site.”

  “Oh Christ!” And Marson hurried away, looking anxious.

  She didn’t know what it meant, but couldn’t take her eyes from him. He was half running down towards the collection of caravans and vehicles.

  Then a man at her elbow spoke. “I’m wondering if it shouldn’t be stopped.”

  “Stopped!” she cried out. “But Johnny’s out there.” Then she recognised him. He was Frank Allison, who’d done all the hard work trying to stop the motorway from coming through. He’d lost a lot of weight since she’d seen him last, and he had that look in his eyes they all get — a fanatic. Worry, worry, worry. They all go crazy in the end, she thought. He was staring at her solemnly, nodding.

  “Ah. You’ll be his lady-friend.”

  She wasn’t going to be taken in by his friendly tone. “He was coming home to me.”

  “A bit foolish, perhaps, to choose this bridge.” He smiled wearily. “Though I understand he was trying to evade the police.”

  “That make it different, does it?” she asked him bitterly. “That makes him a criminal, so’s nobody’s got to worry about him?”

  “Not a criminal, perhaps. Shall we say anti-social?”

  Everything he’d said had been in a gentle voice, and as she’d been furious with him it made him sound sad for her. She made an effort to be very calm.

  “You’re a solicitor,” she said. “It’s your job, playing around with words,” she said. “But you’re not going to get me arguing with you, because you’ll only prove I’m selfish, just for praying they’ll rescue Johnny.”

  He smiled, but it did no more than distort his features. “I’d never say that, my dear. Of course you’re selfish. Anyone in your position would be just aching.” Then he put his fingers to his lips. “They haven’t told you about the cliffs?”

  “Nobody’s told me anything,” she complained. “What about them?”

  “I have it on good authority...” All pompous. “...if you can call Colin Marson a good authority — on his word, then — that the weight of all that metal and whisky out there is pulling down the cliffs. Not yet —” He had noticed how startled she was “— but gradually. And of course, if it did, the valley above here would be completely flooded.”

  She supposed it was his formal court voice. No feeling in it. She stared at him, then told him: “Our farm’s two or three miles back.”

  He was very gentle. “I know, my dear. I remember —from the motorway inquiry.”

  So what did he want her to say? “All right then,” she burst out. “So I’m selfish. I don’t care if the cliffs come down.” So there, she thought.

  “But it’d take Johnny with it,” he pointed out.

  He’d done it after all, got her tied-up with his smooth words. She had said what she didn’t mean, but somehow she’d felt what he was getting at — that Johnny had been anti-social in trying to cross the bridge, and now was being even more anti-social by being stubborn and staying alive. She too, she sup-posed, by praying for him.

  “What d’you want me to say?” she asked, and suddenly she was desperately tired. “What will make you happy?”

  “Happy is hardly the word.”

  “Relieved, then. What d’you want — that they’ll stop doing what they’re doing, and...what then?”

  And then she realised he hadn’t been asking her anything, he’d just been talking to himself, playing with the two sides of the argument. And he was losing both ways. There was pain in the line of his mouth.

  “I want something,” he said quietly, “completely outside all moral inclinations.” His voice seemed so distorted that she barely understood him. He was turning away. “Something...” His voice floated away. “...unthinkable.”

  She watched him go. He was walking aimlessly. Then he seemed to lift his head, and he made for the cluster of caravans.

  Passing him, on his way up to the cliff, was Chris Keene.

  Ten

  Jeff Fisher told Chris that Marson had been called to the radio. Jeff was all for getting on with it — meaning Chris’s part in the big effort. He had Cropper with him, and from what Chris was able to make out they were thinking up a few fancy ideas. Chris nudged Cropper’s elbow.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly,” he said, and Cropper simply looked embarrassed and mumbled: “Nothin’ to it.”

  Jeff cut in. “This is what we thought. It was Cropper’s idea, really. He reckons he could cut the whole driver’s door out in a couple of minutes. Then you could really get at him.”

  They were looking at him like a couple of eager kids, and he sensed how much his approval meant to them. “And what does Colin say about it?” he asked.

  Jeff shrugged. “Oh, he says we’d never get Johnny out, with all that metalwork trapping his foot, and with the door missing...but they do it in motorway crashes, cut ‘em out. Take off a limb, if they have to.” He was talking glibly, not allowing himself to visualise what he was saying. “We could ask for the team.” He was silent.

  Chris could see that there must have been strong words between Jeff and Marson. He nodded. “He’s correct there, Jeff. It’d mean something drastic. And with the door missing, we’d be losing too much heat. We�
�ve got to keep him warm, and if the wind veered enough it’d be blowing rain on him. No. Better leave the door alone for now. And can you really see an operating team out there? We need some other way we can get at him. He’ll be dehydrated, so I’ll have to get a drip working, and I ought to get a close look at that foot of his.” He turned to Cropper. “How about a smaller hole, right opposite the foot pedals? A foot square, say. Could you do that?”

  Cropper nodded. “Sure could.”

  “Is there room for two of us on that thing?” He asked, as though his heart wasn’t thumping.

  They had improved the chairlift, but it still looked frail. There was now a thin rail round the back and sides, which might have been enough to stop his bag slipping off. It wouldn’t hold him, though, if the thing tilted.

  “You an’ me?” said Cropper. “Just about.”

  Cropper’s words seemed to comfort Chris. He was trying as hard as he could to share the others’ confidence. The solid presence of the man who had just saved his life was probably as close as he could get to reassurance out on that death trap. Then, as if suddenly noticing that something was missing, he began to look about him anxiously. “Isn’t Colin going to be here?”

  Jeff sounded serious. “I saw him go into the radio shack. That was ten minutes ago. I reckon he’s tied up.”

  Chris moistened his lips. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, as though he’d been sucking a penny, and a high hard pain between his eyes. “You want us to go without him?”

  “We’ll be fine.” Jeff’s reach for a casual tone rang a little hollow.

  The pallor deepened in Chris’s cheeks. “But—”

  “Tell you what,” Jeff interrupted, keen to get on with it before Marson emerged, “we’ll rig you up a safety line.”

  “A what?” said Cropper.

  “A safety line. We could take it over the pulley and pay it out.”

  “Not for me.” Cropper was more curt than ever. “It’d get in the way.”

  “Of course not for you,” Jeff replied impatiently. “Just for the doctor.”

  Chris nodded. The fear with which he had held on to those rapidly slackening ropes, the sick lurch in the centre of his body as the fragile plank had plummeted, were fresh in his mind. A safety line would keep him alive, whatever happened. “Okay. A safety line.”