When the latch clicked behind her, the small enclosure gave her an odd sense of isolation and sanctuary within the busy church. All around her, tourists walked and cameras flashed, but the box seemed to muffle and distance the outside world. A fanciful idea, to be sure, but it was what she felt. She ran her finger along the worn green baize that lined the sides of the box and the pew bench itself. There was even a red carpet, and patterned cushions to kneel on. Martha’s knees cracked as she knelt. Now she was even further away from the world outside. It would make a good place to hide, if things should ever come to that, she thought. Nobody would be able to find her in a box pew marked FOR STRANGERS ONLY. It was just like being invisible. She smiled and let herself out.
Through the car park by the abbey ruin was a footpath, part of the Cleveland Way. According to Martha’s map, it would take her all the way from East Cliff to Robin Hood’s Bay. For the moment, she decided to explore just a short stretch of it. As she walked, she kept her eyes open for Keith McLaren, just as she had done while touring the cemetery and church. She already had a good idea of the story she would tell him that evening, and if he did happen to see her walking around St Mary’s and the cliff-top, then her lies would gain even more credibility. She didn’t want to run into him by accident, though.
A narrow boardwalk ran right along the edge of the high cliffs. In places, some of the cross-boards were missing, and erosion had eaten away the land right up to the path itself. There was a fence between the walk and the sheer drop, but even that was down here and there, and signs warned people to tread carefully and to walk in single file. It was dizzying to look down on the sea swirling around the sharp rocks way below.
When she got to Saltwick Nab, a long knobbly finger of rock jutting out into the sea, Martha noticed ramshackle wooden stairs and a path leading down. Slowly, she made her way to the pinkish-red rock. It started near the base of the cliff as a big hump, then dropped so that it was hardly visible above the water for a short distance, and finally rose to another knob – rather like a submerged camel with a long way between humps, she thought – further out to sea. There was nobody else around, so Martha sat down on the sparse grass for a rest. In the distance, between the humps, a white tanker was slowly making its way across the horizon. Waves caught the low section of the nab sideways on and spray cascaded over it in a shower of white.
Martha lit her second cigarette of the day. It tasted different out in the fresh, salt air. She crossed her legs and contemplated the rhythms of the sea as it swelled and slapped against the rock. Soon, she could see the waves coming and predict how hard they would break.
She had got the feel of the place now; so much so that she felt quite at home. There were no problems as far as she could see – except perhaps for the Australian. But even he seemed naive and harmless enough. She could string him along over a couple of drinks, and tomorrow he’d be gone. All she had to do now was find the one she was looking for. It might take a day or two, but she would succeed. He was close; of that there could be no doubt. Again, she felt a shiver of fear, and her confidence wavered. When the time came, she would have to summon up the nerve and do what had to be done. She slipped her hand into the holdall and felt for her talisman. That would help her, of course – that and her guiding spirits.
After a while, she flicked her cigarette into the sea and stood up. Fear is for the passive, she told herself. When you act, you don’t have time to feel afraid. She brushed the grass and sand from her jeans and headed back towards the footpath.
12
KIRSTEN
The nurse popped her head around the door. ‘A visitor for you, dearie.’ Beyond her, Kirsten could make out the shoulder of the uniformed policeman sitting outside her room. Then the door opened all the way and Sarah walked in.
‘Sarah! What are you doing here?’
‘Some welcome! Actually, it wasn’t easy. First I had to get permission from that bloody detective superintendent. And as if that wasn’t enough, I had to get past Dixon of Dock Green out there.’ She jerked her thumb towards the door, then pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. For a long moment, she just looked at Kirsten, then she started to cry. She leaned forward and the two of them hugged as best they could without dislodging the intravenous drip.
‘Come on,’ Kirsten said finally, patting her back. ‘You’re hurting my stitches.’
Sarah moved away and managed a smile. ‘Sorry, love. I don’t know what came over me. When I think of everything you must have been through . . .’
‘Don’t,’ Kirsten said. The way she felt, she needed Sarah to be her usual self: outrageous, down-to-earth, solid, funny, angry. She was sick of sympathy; even less did she want empathy. ‘It’s no wonder you had a hard time getting in, dressed like that,’ she hurried on. Sarah wore her usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. This one bore a logo scrawled boldly across the front: A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE. ‘They probably think you’re a terrorist.’
Sarah laughed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘So how are you, then, kid?’
‘I’m all right, I suppose.’ And it was partly true. That day, Kirsten did feel a bit better – at least physically. Her skin felt more like its old self, and the frightening internal aches had diminished during the night. She felt numb inside, though, and she still hadn’t found the courage to look at herself.
‘Do I look a mess?’
Sarah frowned and examined her features. ‘Not so bad. Most of the bruises seem to have gone, and there’s no permanent damage to your face, no disfigurement. In fact, I wouldn’t say you look much worse than usual.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ But Kirsten smiled as she spoke. Sarah was clearly back to normal after her brief bout of tears.
‘You must have taken a hell of a beating, though.’
‘I must?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Nobody’s told me what happened.’
‘That’s typical of bloody doctors, that is. I suppose he’s a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you are, then. What about the nurse?’
‘She seems too timid to talk much.’
‘Frightened of him, I should think. He’s probably a real tyrant. Most of them are.’
‘The police have been, too.’
‘They’re even worse.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
All I know, love, is what it said in the paper. You were attacked by some maniac in the park and stabbed and beaten.’
‘Stabbed?’
‘That’s what it said.’
Perhaps that explained the stitches and the way her skin had felt puckered and snagged. She took a deep breath and asked, ‘Did it say if I was raped as well?’
‘If you were, the newspaper didn’t report it. And knowing the press, they’d have made a field day out of something like that.’
‘It’s just that I feel so strange down there.’
‘Really!’ said Sarah. ‘Bloody doctors act like they own your body. They ought to tell you what’s wrong.’
‘Maybe I haven’t pushed hard enough. Or maybe they don’t think I’m strong enough yet. I’ve been feeling very weak and tired.’
‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll soon get your strength back. You know, I’m sure if you refuse to take your pills or start screaming in the night, they’ll tell you what’s wrong. Would you like me to tackle the doctor for you?’
Kirsten managed a weak smile. ‘No, thanks. I need him in one piece. I’ll try later.’
‘All right.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘What question’s that?’
‘What are you doing here? I thought you were going home for the summer.’
Sarah reached out and took Kirsten’s hand. Her own was small and soft with long fingers and short, bitten nails. ‘Someone’s got to look out for you, love,’ she said.
‘But seriously.’
‘Seriously. That’s the main r
eason, I tell no lie. Oh, it’d only be rows at home anyway. You know how much my parents approve of me. I lower the tone of the neighbourhood. Besides, who wants to spend a bloody summer in Hereford, of all places.’
‘Lots of people would,’ Kirsten said. ‘It’s in the country.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll pay a brief visit, but that’s all. I’m here to stay. We’re getting a feminist bookshop together where that old second-hand record shop used to be. Know what we’re going to call it?’
Kirsten shook her head.
‘Harridan.’
‘Harridan? But doesn’t that mean—’
‘Yes, a bad-tempered old bag. Remember all that fuss when Anthony Burgess said Virago was a poor choice of name for a woman’s press because it meant a fierce or abusive woman? Well, we’re going a step further. We’ll show them that feminists can have just as much sense of irony as anyone else.’ She laughed.
‘Or bad taste,’ Kirsten said.
‘Often the same thing. Now what are we going to do about you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you get out of here.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be going home. I don’t really feel right, Sarah. My mind . . . I’m very mixed up.’
Sarah squeezed her hand. ‘Bound to be. It’ll pass, though. Probably the drugs they’re giving you.’
‘I have terrible nightmares.’
‘You don’t remember what happened, do you?’
‘No.’
‘That’ll be it, then. Temporary amnesia. The brain blanks out painful experiences it doesn’t like.’
‘Temporary?’
‘It might come back. Sometimes you have to work at it.’
Kirsten looked away towards the window. Outside, beyond the flowers and the get-well cards on her table, she could see the tops of trees swaying slowly in the wind and a distant block of flats, white in the July sun. ‘I don’t know if I want to remember,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so empty.’
‘You don’t have to think about it yet, love. Rest and get your strength back. And don’t worry, I won’t be far away. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.’
Kirsten smiled. ‘Where’s Galen? The police said he’d been here.’
‘Yes. I phoned him and he dashed up to see you as soon as I told him the news. He stayed for three days. He’d have sat by your bedside all the time if they’d let him. Anyway, his mother’s having a really hard time getting over his grannie’s death so he had to go back. Apparently she’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Very highly strung woman. He said he’d come again, though, when you regained consciousness. He’s probably on his way right now.’
‘Poor Galen.’
‘Kirsten.’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t expect too much. I mean . . . Oh, shit, never mind.’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘All I mean is that, sometimes, when things like this happen, men go funny.’
‘How?’
‘They can’t deal with it. They just act strange . . . ashamed, embarrassed. They get turned off. That’s all.’
‘I’m sure Galen will be all right.’
‘Of course he will, love. Of course he will.’
‘Sarah, I’m thirsty. Will you pass me some water please? I’ve got these damn tubes in one arm and the other’s just too tired.’
‘Sure.’ Sarah picked up the plastic bottle from the bedside table and held it for Kirsten, tilting it so that she could suck on the straw easily. ‘Like being a bloody baby again, isn’t it?’
Kirsten nodded, then removed the straw from her mouth. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Thanks. I hate feeling so helpless.’
Sarah put the bottle back and took her hand again.
‘What’s been happening in the outside world?’ Kirsten asked.
‘Well, we haven’t had a nuclear war yet, if that’s what you’re worried about. And the police came and questioned us all about you.’
‘How did they find out who I am?’
‘They found your bag. Look, you don’t know any of this, I can see, so I might as well tell you what I know. Do you want me to?’
Kirsten nodded slowly. ‘But not about . . . you know . . . the attack’
‘All right. Like I said, I don’t know what actually happened, but apparently a man taking his dog for a walk found you in the park and acted quickly. They reckon he saved your life. As soon as the police found out who you were from your student card, they were round at the university asking questions about your friends. It didn’t take them long to find out about the party, so we all got a visit from PC Plod the next day. I suppose they thought one of us might have followed you and tried to do you in, but no one left the party for a long time after you. I stayed till two, and Hugo was still there trying to put his hand down my knickers. They even found out about the row in the Ring O’Bells. I’ll bet that fascist landlord and his simian sidekick got a good grilling, too.’
Kirsten nodded. ‘Yes, the superintendent mentioned that. The police moved fast, didn’t they?’
‘Well, what do you expect? You are a poor, innocent student, and your father is managing director of that hush-hush government electronics firm. Connections, love. It’s not as if you were just some street tart touting for rough trade, is it?’
‘Don’t be so cynical, Sarah.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound callous. But it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to think they do everything in their power to catch someone who does things like this, no matter who to.’
‘So would I, but dream on, kid.’
‘What about the others? How are they?’
‘Hugo dropped by a couple of times, and Damon put off his summer job for a week to come and see you, but you were out to the world then. They left flowers and cards.’ She gestured towards the bedside table.
‘Yes I know. Thank them for me, will you?’
‘You’ll be able to thank them yourself. I’m sure they’ll be back now they know you’re in the land of the living again.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Hugo dashed off home to Bedfordshire, no doubt to sponge off his parents and bonk the local milkmaids for the rest of the summer, and Damon’s going hop-picking in Kent. Imagine that, poor Damon getting those lily-white hands dirty!’
‘So they’re all gone.
‘Yes, love. All but me. And you won’t get rid of me that easily.’ Kirsten smiled and Sarah squeezed her hand again. ‘They’ll be back. Just wait and see. Anyway, I think I’d better go now. You look all in.’
‘You’ll come again soon?’
‘Promise. Get some rest.’ Sarah bent and kissed her forehead lightly, then left.
As Kirsten lay there, she tried to take in all that Sarah had told her. Of course, she couldn’t expect the others to stick around for so long, and a visit from the police must have given them a scare. Hugo probably thought they were after that gram of coke he’d bought to celebrate the end of term. But all the same, she felt deserted, abandoned. She knew they all had to go their separate ways. In fact, she remembered, that had been very much on her mind that last night. (Why did she call it her ‘last’ night? she wondered.) But it wasn’t as if she had the plague or anything. Was there something in what Sarah had hinted? Were Damon and Hugo embarrassed by what had happened to her? Ashamed even? Afraid to face her? But why should they be? she asked herself. They had work to do. They would be back as soon as they could get away, just as Sarah had said. And Galen was probably on his way right now.
Sarah’s visit had renewed her spirits a little. It had also inflamed her curiosity. Obviously, there was more to this whole business than she was aware of. Could she really get the doctor to open up if she kept nagging at him or having screaming fits?
At least there was one thing she could do right now. Tentatively, she pushed down the bedclothes and started to unbutton the top of her nightgown. It was a slow job, as her good a
rm was hooked up to an IV machine and she had to fumble with the weak and awkward fingers of her left hand, the one she hardly ever used. She didn’t really believe that she’d get very far, but, to her surprise, she found once she’d started she couldn’t stop, no matter how difficult and painful the movements were.
Finally, she managed to get the first four buttons undone. It was hard to bend her head forward and look down, so she shuffled herself back against the pillows and slumped against the headboard. From there, she could just tilt her head forward without straining her neck too much. At first, she couldn’t see anything at all. The nightgown still seemed to cling around her breasts. She rested a moment, then pulled at it with her free hand. When she looked down again, she started screaming.
13
MARTHA
The Lucky Fisherman, a bit off the beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by townspeople. Martha didn’t notice any real difference between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven.
There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph, an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbour and chunky men in sou’westers – like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough lozenges – leaning against the railing on St Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days, Martha noticed: one long beam held up by occasional props.
‘Good day?’ Keith said, standing as she came up to him.
‘Good day,’ Martha answered.
He laughed. ‘No, I mean did you have a good day? We don’t all talk like Paul Hogan, you know.’
Martha put her holdall on a vacant chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Who?’
‘Paul Hogan. Crocodile Dundee. A famous Aussie. Lord, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch television?’
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