The First Cut

by Peter Robinson

  “You’re a student?”

  “Yes. Master’s degree in surfing and sunbathing at Bondi Beach University.” He laughed. “Not true. Wish it were. I’m studying law, not half as interesting. I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. Got some family there.”

  Martha nodded politely.

  “Seagulls, too,” Keith said, apropos of nothing, as far as Martha could make out.

  “What?”

  “Bloody seagulls kept me awake too. Didn’t you hear them?”

  “Seagulls, you say?” The owner’s wife arrived at their table and set down two plates, which she held with worn oven gloves. “Mind, they’re hot. Seagulls, eh? You get used to them if you live here. Have to.”

  “They never wake you up?” Keith asked her.

  “Never. Not after the first couple of months.”

  “ ’Fraid I won’t be here that long.” He looked at Martha again. “Moving on tomorrow. Traveling by local buses whenever I can. Walking or hitching if I can’t.”

  “Well, good luck to you,” the woman said, and moved on.

  Keith stared at his plate and prodded a dark medallion of reddish black stuff with his fork. “What’s that?” he asked, turning up his nose and leaning forward to whisper. “Whatever it is, I don’t remember asking for it.”

  Martha examined the contents of his plate. They were the same as hers: bacon, egg, grilled tomato and mushrooms, fried bread, and the thing that Keith was pointing to. “Black pudding, I think,” she said. “Must be today’s special.”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “You don’t want to know. Not at this time in the morning.”

  Keith laughed and tucked in. “Well, it sure tastes all right. That’s what I like about staying at these places. They always give you a breakfast that sets you up for the entire day. I won’t need much more than a sandwich till the evening meal. Are you eating here?”

  “Not in the evenings, no.”

  “Oh, you should. I usually come back. Well, I say usually, but this is only my third day. They do a decent spread. Good value, too.”

  When he went back to his food he stopped talking and left Martha in peace. She ate quickly, hoping to get away before he started up again, even though she knew a rushed meal would give her indigestion. Across the room, one of the children flicked a slice of tomato at the wall with his spoon. It splattered on the faded rose-patterned paper and slithered down, leaving a pink trail behind. His father reddened and took the spoon from him angrily, and his mother looked as if she were about to die from embarrassment.

  Martha pushed her chair back and stood up to leave. “Excuse me,” she said to Keith. “Must be off. Lots to do.”

  “Aren’t you going to finish your cup of tea?” Keith asked.

  “I’ve had two already. Anyway, it’s stewed.” And she hurried upstairs to her room. There, she locked the door, opened the window and enjoyed a cigarette as she leaned on the sill and looked at the small white clouds over St. Mary’s.

  After she’d finished the Rothmans and paid a visit to the toilet, she picked up her holdall and set off down the stairs again. At the first-floor landing, she bumped into Keith coming out of his room. Just my luck, she thought.

  “Want to show me around?” he asked. “What with both of us being alone here…Well, it seems a shame.”

  “I’m sure you know more about the place than I do. I’ve just arrived, and you’ve been here three days already.”

  “Yes, but you’re a native. I’m just a poor ignorant foreigner.”

  “I’m sorry,” Martha said, “but I’ve got work to do.”

  “Oh? What would that be, then?”

  “Research. I’m working on a book.”

  They were walking down the last flight of carpeted stairs to the hallway. Martha couldn’t just break away from him. She wanted to see which way he turned in the street so that she could walk the other way.

  “Well, maybe we can have a drink this evening, after you’ve finished work and I’ve worn out my poor feet?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what time I’ll be finished.”

  “Oh, come on. Say seven o’clock, all right? You know what they say: All work and no play…There’s a nice, quiet little pub just on the corner at the end of the street. The Lucky Fisherman, I think it’s called. Is it a date? I’m away tomorrow anyway, so you’ll only have to put up with me the once.”

  Martha thought quickly. They had passed the door now and were already walking down the front steps to the path. If she said no, it would look very odd indeed, and the last thing she wanted was to appear conspicuous in any way. It was bad enough being a woman by herself here. If she acted strangely, then this Keith might just have cause to remember her as some kind of oddball, and that wouldn’t do at all. On the other hand, if she did agree to have a drink with him, he would no doubt ask her all kinds of questions about her life. Still, she thought, there was no reason why she couldn’t tell him a pack of lies. That should be easy enough for a woman with her imagination.

  “All right,” she said as they reached the gate. “Seven o’clock in the Lucky Fisherman.”

  Keith smiled. “Great. See you then. Have a good day.”

  He turned left, and Martha turned right.

  10

  Kirsten

  When Kirsten drifted out of the comforting darkness for the second time, she noticed the vases of red and yellow flowers and the cards standing on her bedside table. Then she turned her head and saw a stranger sitting at the other side of the bed. She gripped the sheets around her throat and looked around the rest of the room. The white-smocked nurse still hovered in the background—that, at least, was reassuring—and sitting against the wall by the door was a man in a light gray suit with a notebook on his lap and a pencil poised, ready to write. Kirsten couldn’t focus all that clearly on him, but he looked too young to be as bald as he seemed.

  The man beside her leaned forward and rested his chin on his fists. He was about her father’s age—early fifties—with short, spiky gray hair and a red complexion. His eyes were brown, and a tiny wen grew between his right eye and his nose. Wedged between his left nostril and his upper lip was a dark mole with a couple of hairs sprouting from it. He wore a navy-blue suit, white shirt and a black-and-amber-striped tie. His expression was kindly and concerned.

  “How are you feeling, Kirsten?” he asked. “Do you feel like talking?”

  “A bit groggy,” she replied. “Can you tell me what’s happened to me? Nobody’s told me anything.”

  “You were attacked. You’ve been hurt, but you’re going to be all right.”

  “Who are you? Are you a doctor?”

  “I’m Detective Superintendent Elswick. The bright young lad over by the door there is Detective Sergeant Haywood. We’re here to see if you can tell us anything that might help us catch whoever did this.”

  Kirsten shook her head. “It’s all dark…I…I can’t…”

  “Stay calm,” Elswick said softly. “Don’t struggle with it. Just relax and let me ask the questions. If you don’t know the answers, shake your head or say no. Don’t get worked up about it. All right?”

  Kirsten swallowed. “I’ll try.”

  “Good. You were at a party the night it happened. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes. Vaguely. There was music, dancing. It was the end of term bash.”

  “That’s right. Now, as far as we can gather, you left alone at about one o’clock. Am I right?”

  “I…I think so. I don’t remember the time. I did go out by myself, though. It was a lovely warm night.” Kirsten remembered standing by the door of Oastler Hall and breathing in the honeyed air.

  “And then you walked through the park.”

  “Yes. It’s a shortcut. I’ve done it lots of times. Nothing ever—”

  “Relax, Kirsten. We know. Nobody’s blaming you. Don’t get upset about it. Now, did you notice anyone else around at all?”

  “No. It was quiet. There was no
one.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “Only the cars on the road.”

  “Nobody left the party and followed you?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Were you aware at any time of someone following you?”

  “No. I suppose I might have run if I had been. But no.”

  “What about earlier in the evening? As I understand it, you were at a pub with some friends: the Ring O’Bells. Is that right?”

  Kirsten nodded.

  “Did you notice anyone taking an unusual interest in you, anyone who seemed to be watching you closely?”

  “No.”

  “Any strangers there?”

  “I…I don’t remember. It was busy earlier, but…”

  “There was some trouble, wasn’t there? Could you tell me about it?”

  Kirsten told him what she could remember about the incident with the landlord. It seemed so silly now; she felt embarrassed to think of it.

  “So you and your friends were the last to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone hanging around outside?”

  “No.”

  “What about the attack itself? Do you remember anything about how it happened?”

  Kirsten closed her eyes and confronted only darkness. It was as if a black cloud had formed somewhere in her mind, and inside it was trapped everything that this man wanted to know. The rest of her—memories, feelings, sensations—could only circle the thick darkness helplessly. It was a chunk of her life, a package of pain and terror that had been wrapped up and hidden away in the dark. She didn’t know if she could penetrate it, or if she wanted to; inside, she sensed, lived horrors too monstrous to confront.

  “I was looking for the moon,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I sat on the lion—you know, that statue in the middle of the park—and I threw my head back. I was looking for the moon. I know it sounds silly. I wasn’t drunk or anything. It’s just that it was my last night and I’d always wanted to…to just…sit. That’s all I can remember.”

  “What happened?”

  “When? What do you mean?”

  “You were sitting on the lion looking for the moon. What happened next?”

  Superintendent Elswick’s voice was soft and hypnotic. It was making Kirsten feel sleepy again. Now that she had come round fully, she could feel her aching body with its tight skin, and she wanted to sail out on the tide again and leave it behind.

  “A hand,” she said. “That’s all I remember. A hand came from behind, over my nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe. And then it all went black.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “No. I’m sorry…I…There was something…”

  “Yes?”

  Kirsten frowned and shook her head. “It’s no good. I can’t remember.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Kirsten. Just take it slowly. You can’t remember anything at all about the person who attacked you, no matter how insignificant it might seem?”

  “No. Only the hand.”

  “What was the hand like? Was it big or small?”

  “I…I…it’s hard to say. It covered my nose and mouth…It was strong. And rough.”

  “Rough? In what way?”

  “Like someone who’s done a lot of hard work, I suppose. You know, lifting things. I don’t know. I’ve never felt a hand that rough before. We had a gardener once, and his hands looked like this one felt. I never touched them, but they looked rough and callused from doing manual work.”

  “This gardener,” Elswick said, “what’s his name?”

  “It was a long time ago. I was just a little girl.”

  “Do you remember his name, Kirsten?”

  “I think it was Walberton. My daddy called him Mal. Short for Malcolm, I suppose. But I don’t see why—”

  “At this point, Kirsten, we know nothing. We need everything we can get. Everything. No matter how absurd it seems. Is the gardener still around?”

  “No, not anymore. Daddy knows. He’ll tell you.”

  “All right. Is there anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember what happened after the hand grabbed me. How long have I been here?”

  “Ten days. That’s why we have to act as quickly as we can. The more time goes by, the harder it is to pick up a trail. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm you? Any enemies? An angry boyfriend, perhaps?”

  Ten days! It was hard to believe. What had she been doing here for ten days? Just sleeping and dreaming? She shook her head. “No, there’s only Galen. There’s no one who’d do something like this. I don’t understand it. I never did any harm to anyone in my life.” Tears began to trickle from the corners of her eyes into the fine hair above her ears. “I’m tired. I hurt.” She felt herself fading again and didn’t want to stop.

  “That’s all right,” Elswick said. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll go now and let you get some rest.” He stood up and patted her arm, then nodded to Sergeant Haywood that it was time to go. “I’ll come back and see you again soon, Kirsten, when you’re feeling better. Your mother and father are still here, waiting outside. Do you want to see them?”

  “Later,” Kirsten said. “Wait. Where’s Galen? Have you seen Galen?”

  “Your boyfriend? Yes,” Elswick said. “He was here. He said he’d come back. He left those flowers.” He pointed to a vase of red roses.

  When Elswick and Haywood left, the nurse came over to straighten the bed. Just as the door was closing, Kirsten could hear Elswick saying, “Better keep a man here twenty-four hours a day…Might come back to finish what he started.”

  Before the nurse could move away, Kirsten grabbed her wrist.

  “What’s happened to me?” she whispered. “My skin feels tight and twisted. Something’s wrong.”

  The nurse smiled. “That’ll be the stitches, dearie. They do pull a bit sometimes.” She ruffled the pillow and hurried out.

  Stitches! Kirsten had had stitches before when she fell off her bicycle and cut her arm on some broken glass. It was true, they did pull. But those stitches had been put in her arm; she had felt only very minor, localized pain. If stitches were the cause of her discomfort this time, then why did her whole body feel as if it had been sewn tightly and ineptly around its frame?

  She could have a look, of course. Ease down the covers and open her nightdress. Surely nothing could be simpler. But the effort was too much for her. She could manage the movements all right, but what really stopped her was fear: fear of what she might find. Instead, she welcomed oblivion.

  11

  Martha

  There were no names on the gravestones. Martha stood in the cliff-top cemetery by St. Mary’s and stared in horror. Most of the stones were blackened around their edges, and where the chiseled details should have been, there was just pitted sandstone. On some of them, she could see faint traces of lettering, but many were completely blank. It must be the salt wind, she thought, come from the sea and stolen their names away. It made her feel suddenly and inexplicably sad. She looked down at the ruffled blue water and the thin line of foam as waves broke along the beach. It didn’t seem fair. The dead should be remembered, as she remembered them. Shivering despite the heat, she wandered over to the church itself.

  It was an impressive place inside. She skipped the taped lecture and, instead, picked up a printed guide and wandered around. At the front stood a huge, three-tier pulpit, and below it stretched a honeycomb of rectangular box pews said to resemble the “ ’tween-decks” of a wooden battleship. Some of the boxes had engraved brass nameplates screwed to their doors, marking them out as reserved for notable local families. Most of these were at the back, where the minister would have a hard time seeing for all the fluted pillars in the way. The rich could sleep with impunity through his sermons. But at the front, right under his eyes, some boxes were marked FREE, and others, FOR STRANGERS ONLY.

  That�
��s me, Martha thought, opening the catch on one and stepping inside: a stranger only.

  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.