Caedmon’s Song

by Peter Robinson

  Yes, she would miss it all. But Canada would be exciting, especially if Galen came, too, as he intended. Neither of them had ever crossed the Atlantic before. If they could save enough money, they would take a few months after completing their courses and travel the continent together: Montreal, New York, Boston, Washington, Miami, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vancouver. Even the names sent shivers of excitement up Kirsten’s spine. Three years ago she could never have imagined doing such a thing. University hadn’t only given her a first-class education, it had given her freedom and independence, too.

  Soon she got to the centre of the park, near the bowling green. The whole tract of land was slightly convex, and this was the highest part. She could see lights in all directions, defining the valleys and hillsides upon which the city was built. Because of the warm, moist air, the far-off street lights all had haloes.

  Just off the path stood a statue of a lion with a serpent coiled around it. Kirsten had noticed the other day that some idiot – perhaps the skinheads – had spray-painted its head blue and scrawled filthy graffiti in red all over its body. That didn’t matter in the dark, though, and she decided to give in to an impulse she had often felt.

  Swishing over the grass, she went up to the statue and ran her hand over the still-warm stone. Then, with sudden resolve, she jumped astride it.

  The lion was small enough that her feet easily touched the ground. Down the path, she could see through the trees to the lights on the main road and the turning into her own street, only a few hundred yards away. To think she had been here all this time and had always wanted to sit on the lion but hadn’t done so until now, her last night. She must have passed it at least a thousand times. She felt silly, but at the same time she was enjoying herself tremendously. At least nobody was watching.

  She gripped the smooth mane and pretended she was riding through the jungle. In her mind, she could hear screeching cockatoos, chattering monkeys, humming and clicking insects, and snakes slithering through the undergrowth. She raised her head to look for the moon again, but before she could find it, she noticed a strange smell and, a split second later, felt a rough hand cover her mouth and nose.

  5

  MARTHA

  The tide was in when Martha walked back under the whale’s jawbone to Pier Road, and the small fishing boats bobbed at their moorings in the harbour. The sun was going down behind West Cliff, and, at the top of the hill opposite, St Mary’s Church shone warm gold in the last rays.

  There was still nothing happening in the auction sheds, but some of the locals seemed to be pottering around on their own small boats.

  Martha leaned against the railing on St Ann’s Staith and watched two men in navy-blue jerseys washing the deck of a red sailboat. She had brought her quilted jacket with her, but the air was still so warm that she carried it slung over her shoulder. As night came in, the fishy smell of the place seemed to grow stronger.

  Something about the air made her crave a cigarette. She had never smoked before the past year, but now she didn’t care one way or another. Whatever she felt like, she would do, and damn the consequences.

  She went into a small gift shop near the Dracula Museum and bought ten Rothmans; that would do for a while at least. Then she went back to the railing and lit a cigarette. One of the men down in the boat glanced up at her admiringly from time to time, but he didn’t call out or whistle. She was waiting for them to speak. Finally, one said something technical to the other, who replied in equally incomprehensible jargon, and Martha moved on.

  She was hungry, she realized, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out with the ball of her foot on the stone quay. Down by the bridge she saw people ambling along, eating from cardboard cartons of fish and chips. She hadn’t noticed any other kind of food available so far; the place was hardly crammed with French, Italian or Indian restaurants, and she hadn’t even seen a McDonald’s or a Pizza Hut yet. Clearly, it was a fish-and-chips-or-nothing kind of town.

  At the first fish bar she found, she bought haddock and chips and wandered around by the bus station as she ate. The fish was fried in batter, of course, and had a kind of oily taste because the skin had been left on. It was good, though, and Martha licked her fingers when she’d finished, then carefully dumped the carton in a litter bin.

  It was almost dark now. She stood on the bridge for a while, smoking another cigarette to take away the greasy taste. In the lower harbour, the rusted hulk she had seen earlier was still at dock. On the north side of the bridge, where the estuary widened towards the sea, strings of red and yellow quayside lights reflected in the dark water, twisting and bending as it lapped, like people’s reflections in funfair mirrors. On its cliff-top, St Mary’s stood floodlit against the dark violet sky.

  Martha walked over the bridge to Church Street, in the oldest section of town just below East Cliff, stopping to buy a newspaper on her way, just before the shop closed. It was that quiet time after dinner and before bed. Places like Whitby shut down early. Martha was thirsty, but already the Monk’s Haven cafe was shut; there was nowhere you could just drop in for a cup of tea or coffee. She also needed to sit down and think for a while.

  The Black Horse pub across the street looked inviting enough. Martha went in. Antique brass fixtures attached to the walls shed real gaslight on the small, wainscoted room. The lounge was cosy, with narrow, pew-like wooden benches and scored oblong tables. It was also quiet.

  Martha bought a half of bitter and found a free corner. A few years ago, she would never have thought of even entering a pub by herself, let alone sitting in one. But this place felt safe enough. The few people who were there seemed to know each other and were already involved in conversation. There were no lone wolves on the lookout for female flesh; it clearly wasn’t a pick-up joint.

  She glanced quickly through the copy of the Independent she’d bought. Finding nothing of interest, she folded the paper and put it aside. What she really had to do, she thought, was work out some kind of plan. Nothing too detailed or elaborate, because she had recently learned that serendipity and intuition played a greater part in events than anyone imagined. And she had to remember that she wasn’t alone in her task; she had spirits to guide her. Nonetheless, she couldn’t just wander the place aimlessly for days. Right now, it was all right; she was finding her way around, becoming familiar with the environment. There were certain spots she needed to know about: sheltered places, isolated paths, the shadows of the town. But she needed a plan of action.

  Taking out a small notebook and her guidebook, she set to work. First of all, she scanned the map and made a note of places that looked like they were worth exploring: the beach area, St Mary’s graveyard, the abbey grounds, a long cliff walk towards Robin Hood’s Bay. Then she turned her mind to a more serious problem: where could she find someone who actually lived and worked in Whitby? Where would he be likely to live, for example? So far she had seen no one but holidaymakers and those residents who ran guesthouses, pubs and shops. Nobody else actually seemed to live around the harbour area, where the men worked on their boats.

  She flipped back to her map to see how far the town spread. It was small, with a population of about thirteen thousand, and East Cliff didn’t seem to extend much at all beyond St Mary’s. That left the southern area, further inland along the Esk estuary, and West Cliff itself. Up there, according to her map, housing estates seemed to stretch almost as far as Sandsend. And then there were smaller places nearby, like Sandsend itself, and Robin Hood’s Bay. They weren’t exactly suburbs, but it was possible that some people lived there and commuted to and from Whitby.

  At one time, she might have felt as if she was looking for a needle in a haystack. After all, she had so little to go on. But she trusted her instincts now. There could be no doubt about it; she would know when she had found the one she was looking for. Her spirits would help guide her towards him. And Whitby felt like the right place; she could sense his nearness.

  Martha sipped her beer. Somebody put
an old rock and roll song on the jukebox and it reminded her of something a long time ago, another evening listening to old songs on a jukebox. She shut it out. Memories and sentiment were luxuries she couldn’t afford these days. She stuck her hand in her holdall and felt for the smooth, hard sphere.

  6

  KIRSTEN

  A long, oily blackness punctuated by quick, vivid dreams. A figure hunched over her, dark and hooded, and a blade flashed. It seemed to slice at her skin. Long cuts flapped open and blood welled, but there was no pain. She saw, as if from a great distance, the sharp steel pierce the pale flesh of her thigh. It went in deep and when it slid out, blood oozed around the edges of the gash. But she felt nothing at all. Then the darkness came again.

  This time it was a figure all in white, a human shape with no face. The same things happened. The knife was different, but it cut just like the other, and again there was no sensation.

  They were all just dreams. She couldn’t possibly see these things, could she? Her eyes were closed. And if they had really happened, then she would have screamed out in agony from the pain, wouldn’t she?

  7

  MARTHA

  A loud shrieking woke Martha at four o’clock in the morning. She turned over in bed and frowned as she looked at the luminous dial of her watch. The row went on. It sounded very close. Finally, she realized it was the seagulls. They must have found a shoal of fish, or perhaps a cat had spilled the dustbin at the back of one of the fish bars and they had zoomed in on that. It was a terrible noise: the sound of raw hunger and greed. She pictured the gulls ripping dead fish apart, blank white faces speckled with blood.

  She sighed and turned over again, pulling the sheet up around her ears. The gulls had woken her from a dream. Maybe she could get back to it. All her dreams were good these days – technicolour jaunts of indescribable beauty, full of ecstasy and excitement, visits to alien worlds, flying easily through space and time.

  They hadn’t always been like that. For a long time she had suffered from terrifying nightmares, dreams of blood and shadows, and then for a while she hadn’t seemed to dream at all. The good dreams only started when the dark cloud in her mind disappeared. At least, she had always thought of it as a cloud, or perhaps a bubble. It was opaque, and whichever way she looked at it, it always deflected the light so that she couldn’t see inside. She knew it was filled with all her agony and anger, yet it refused her entry.

  For so long she had walked around on the edge because of that cloud inside her. Always on the verge of violence, despair or madness. But then one day, when she found the right perspective, she saw inside and the darkness dispersed like a monster that vanishes when you discover its true name.

  The seagulls were still wailing over their early breakfast when Martha drifted off to sleep again and dreamed about her secret lake. Its waters flowed from the fountain of youth, clear and sparkling in the sun that never stopped shining, and she had to swim through narrow coral caverns to get to it. Only she knew about the lake. Only she could swim so effortlessly so far without the need for breath. And as she swam, the sharp, pinkish coral cut thin red lines across her breasts, stomach and thighs.

  8

  KIRSTEN

  The first thing Kirsten saw when she opened her eyes was a long curving crack in the white ceiling. It looked like an island coastline or the crude outline of a whale. Her mouth was dry and tasted bad. With difficulty, she swallowed, but the vile taste wouldn’t go away. Around her she could hear only quiet sounds: a steady hissing; a high-pitched, rhythmic bleeping. She couldn’t smell anything at all.

  She moved her head and glimpsed shadowy figures sitting beside her bed. It was difficult to focus from so close, and she couldn’t make out who they were. Then she became aware of muffled voices.

  ‘Look, she’s coming round . . . she’s opened her eyes.’

  ‘Careful . . . don’t touch her . . . she’ll wake up in her own time.’

  And someone bent over her: a faceless figure all in white. Kirsten tried to scream, but no sound came out. Gentle hands touched her brow and pushed her shoulders firmly back onto the hard bed. She let her head fall on the pillow again and sighed. The voices were clearer now, like a finely tuned radio.

  ‘Is she all right? Can we stay and talk to her?’

  ‘She’ll talk if she wants to. Don’t push her. She’s bound to be feeling disoriented.’

  Kirsten tried to speak but her mouth was still too dry. She croaked, ‘Water,’ and someone seemed to understand. An angled straw neared her mouth and she sucked greedily on it. Some of the water dribbled down the edges of her dry, cracked lips, but she managed to swallow a little. That felt better.

  ‘I must go and fetch the doctor.’

  The door opened and hissed shut slowly.

  ‘Kirstie? Kirstie, love?’

  She turned her head again and found it easier to focus this time. Her mother and father sat beside her. She tried to smile but it felt like it came out all crooked. Her teeth felt too big for her mouth. Her mother looked beside herself, as if she hadn’t slept for days, and her father had dark heavy bags under his eyes. He looked down on her with a mixture of love and relief.

  ‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said.

  He reached out and she felt his soft hand close on hers, just like when they used to go for walks in the woods when she was a child.

  ‘Oh, Kirstie,’ her mother said, taking out a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbing her eyes. ‘We were so worried.’

  Her father still said nothing. His touch told Kirsten all she needed to know.

  ‘What about? Where . . .’

  ‘Don’t try to speak,’ her father said softly. ‘It’s all right. It’s all over now. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Her mother was still patting away at her eyes and making little snuffling noises.

  Kirsten rolled onto her back again and stared at the scar on the ceiling. She licked her dry lips. Sensation was returning to her bit by bit. Now she could catch the clean, white, antiseptic smell of the hospital room. She could also feel her body. Her skin felt taut, stretched too tightly over her flesh and bones. In places, it pinched at her as if it had snagged on something and puckered.

  But worse than that was the burning ache in her breasts and in her loins. She had no sensation of the tight flesh there, just of a painful, throbbing absence.

  The door opened and a white-coated man walked over to her. She flinched and tried to roll away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she heard someone say. ‘The doctor’s here to take care of you.’

  Then she felt her sleeve pulled up, and a cool swab touched her arm. She didn’t feel the needle going in, but it made a sharp prick when it slid out. The pain began to recede. Warm, soothing waves came to carry it far out to sea.

  Her senses ebbed and the long darkness advanced to reclaim her. As she slipped away, she could still feel her father’s hand in hers. She turned her head slowly and asked, ‘What’s happened to me, Daddy? My skin feels funny. It doesn’t fit right.’

  9

  MARTHA

  When Martha got downstairs for breakfast the next morning, the other guests were already seated. Only one small table, set for two, remained. Beyond the bay window, the sun was shining on Abbey Terrace, and the sky was blue again.

  By the door stood a help-yourself trolley: jugs of orange or grapefruit juice; milk and miniature packets of Corn Flakes, Special K, Rice Krispies, Alpen and Frosties. Martha took some Alpen, poured herself a glass of juice and sat down. She helped herself to a cup of tea from the stainless-steel pot on the table. Judging by its colour, the tea had been stewing too long. She looked at the place opposite her and hoped that no one would join her for breakfast. Never very cheerful first thing in the morning, she had just about managed to nod and say hello to the others. Conversation would be out of the question.

  As she sipped the bitter tea, she cast her eyes around the room. In the bay window sat an old couple. The man’s dark brown hai
r was swept straight back from his wrinkled forehead and plastered down with Brylcreem. He had smiled when she came in, showing a set of stained and crooked teeth. His greyish face had the lined and hollow look of a fifty-a-day man, and his breath came in short emphysematic gasps, confirming the diagnosis. His wife hadn’t smiled. She had simply stared at Martha with suspicious, beady eyes, as if to say, ‘I know your type, young lady.’ Blue-grey hair hovered around her moon-shaped head like mist.

  By the opposite wall sat a young couple, probably on their honeymoon, Martha guessed. They both looked very serious. The man was thin, swarthy, bearded, and precise in his tea-pouring; the woman’s face, as she sat bowed forward, was almost completely hidden by a cascade of glossy black hair. When she looked up at him, a shy, secret smile lit her eyes. They hadn’t even noticed Martha come in.

  Most of the noise came from the third table, near the serve-yourself trolley, where a tired-looking young woman and an equally exhausted man both struggled to put on a brave face as they tried to control two finicky youngsters. The children looked like twins: same blond colouring, same whiny voices: ‘I don’t like Shreddies, Daddy! Why aren’t there any Sugar Puffs? I want Sugar Puffs!’ ‘Have some Frosties,’ the pale mother said, trying to placate them, but to no avail. She glanced up and smiled weakly at the others. The father, dressed for a day on the beach in white slacks and a pale blue sports shirt showing the curly ginger hairs on his forearms, looked over and gave Martha a what-can-you-do-with-them shrug.

  The owner’s wife came in to take their orders. Not that there was much choice: you could have your eggs soft or hard, your bacon medium or crispy. There was a determined set to the woman’s mouth, and she moved about her business with a brusque, no-nonsense certainty, all the while managing to smile and respond to small talk about the weather. Perhaps if anyone wore the pants around here, Martha thought, it was the wife. Her husband probably had a day job and only happened to be around because Martha had arrived late in the afternoon. Perhaps he was even a fisherman. If she could get a chance to chat casually with him, she might be able to find out something about how the local operation worked.