Authors: Peter Robinson
Through a thin drizzle, she watched the dull South Yorkshire landscape of slag heaps and motionless pit wheels flash by, and soon they were passing turn-offs for Nottingham and Derby.
Kirsten’s father was a motorway driver as a rule; even if it meant more mileage, he would generally stick to the motorways and drive as fast as he could get away with. But this time, she
realized, as he turned off the M1 near Northampton, before it swung south-east towards London, they were taking the scenic route. Perhaps he thought a good dose of the green and pleasant land would
prove therapeutic. As if to prove the point, the rain slackened off and the sun burst through before they had even skirted the south Midlands.
Kirsten was comfortable in the back. The Mercedes seemed to float on air without making a sound, and after a few attempts at making conversation, her parents had fallen quiet, too. Her father
switched on Radio Three and Kirsten relaxed to the Busoni piano music that was playing. They passed through Banbury and Chipping Norton and soon entered the Cotswolds. By then, it was indeed a
perfect day in the English countryside: blue sky, one or two fleecy white clouds drifting over, rounded green hills and quaint villages. Sunlight warmed the weathered limestone cottages, with their
flagged roofs and gardens full of roses.
They drove straight through Stow-on-the-Wold, which was jampacked with parked cars and tourists, and finally stopped for a pub lunch at a small sixteenth-century inn near Bourton-on-the-Water.
Kirsten’s mother seemed at ease there, back in her natural environment of gentility and well-polished brassware. Kirsten picked at a ploughman’s lunch. After the intravenous drip and so
long on hospital food, she seemed to have lost her appetite.
After lunch, they took a stroll around the town, walked along by the river, and then set off for the last leg of the journey.
Kirsten dozed uneasily as an interminable Mahler symphony played, disturbed even during the clear daylight hours by her dreams of the dark man and the light man cutting at her body, and then, on
the long hill that wound down into Bath, she felt the first twinge of fire deep in her loins. She ignored it and looked on the familiar city, its light stone glinting in the sun below. But before
they even reached Pulteney Road, the fiery, shooting pains between her legs had her almost doubled up, gritting her teeth in the back of the car.
MARTHA
‘Remember you?’ The man looked puzzled. Then he smiled and jerked his thumb back towards the pub. ‘You were in the Fisherman last night with your boyfriend. I
remember that.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Martha said. ‘Besides, he’s moved on now.’
Martha didn’t know whether to feel angry or glad that he didn’t remember her. It was an insult, yes, but one that she could use to her advantage. She had stopped shaking now, and her
blood was warming a little. All she had to do was keep reminding herself what he was, what he had done, and she would find the courage she needed from her anger and disgust. This was her destiny,
after all, her mission; it was the reason she had survived what many had not.
She still found it difficult to look at him, but when she did she noticed, in the dim glow of a street light, that he was not as old as she had first thought: late twenties, perhaps, or early
thirties at the most. For some reason, she had expected him to be older. He stood just an inch or so taller than she, with a shaggy thatch of dark hair and the kind of facial growth that looks like
a perpetual five o’clock shadow. Just as on the previous evening, he was wearing a navy-blue Guernsey jersey and baggy dark pants made of some heavy material. He had a strong local accent.
The voice was right, she was certain. And the face. She had to trust in faith and instinct now; logic alone could never be enough to lead visionaries to their Grails.
‘On holiday?’ he asked, leaning easily against the railing beside her.
‘You could say that.’ Martha looked straight ahead as she spoke. Over the water, St Mary’s stood squat, as bright as polished sand, in its floodlight. The red and blue and
amber lights twisted like oil slicks in the dark harbour below. Footsteps clicked behind her – a woman in high-heeled shoes – and further away, down in the town itself, a group of noisy
kids came out of a pub shouting and whooping. Out to sea, something splashed in the water.
‘It’s just that most people who live here don’t really notice its beauty,’ the man went on. ‘I mean, when it’s all around you, the sea and all, you hardly
bother to stand and gawp at it.’
‘Am I so obvious?’
He laughed. ‘I stand and look myself sometimes, especially way out where it’s all dark and you just get a tiny speck of light moving across in the distance. I often wonder what it
must be like out on the boats like that, in the dark.’
‘You’re not a fisherman?’
‘Me? Good Lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea? I have a small boat and I go out sometimes, but just for myself, and always during the day.’
‘I just . . . oh, never mind.’
‘As a matter of fact I’m a joiner by trade. Do a lot of work for the theatre, too, in season – chief scenery fixer and bottle washer.’
Martha was confused. She had so much expected her quarry to be a fisherman. Now she thought about it, though, she didn’t know how she had got that idea fixed in her mind in the first
place. Perhaps it was the smell, the fishy smell. But anyone who lived by the sea might pick that up easily enough. And he
did
say he went fishing from time to time. No, she told herself,
she had to be right. No excuses. Instinct.
‘Have you been doing it long?’ she asked.
‘What – the joinery or the theatre?’
Martha shrugged. ‘Both, I suppose.’
‘Since I left school. The only thing I was any good at was woodwork, and I’ve always been interested in the theatre. Not acting, just the practical stuff – the illusions it
creates. And you?’
‘Have you worked anywhere else, or are you here all the time?’
‘I’ve travelled a fair bit. The provinces. There’s not enough work to keep me here all the time, but it’s where I live. Home, I suppose.’
‘Born and brought up?’
‘Aye. Born and bred in Whitby. You didn’t answer my question.’
Martha felt a chill in the wind off the sea and put her jacket over her shoulders again. ‘What question?’
‘I asked about you.’
Martha laughed and pushed back a lock of hair that the breeze had displaced. ‘Oh, I’m not very interesting, I’m afraid. I’m from Portsmouth, just a dull typist in a dull
office.’
‘You’ll be used to the sea, then?’
‘Pardon?’
‘The sea. Portsmouth’s a famous naval base, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, the sea. The most I’ve had to do with it is a hovercraft trip to the Isle of Wight. And even that made me feel sick.’
He laughed. ‘Look, would you like to go for a drink somewhere. I hope you don’t think me forward or anything, but . . .’
‘Not at all, no.’ Martha thought quickly. She couldn’t go to a pub with him, that was for certain. So far her only link with him was the lounge of the Lucky Fisherman, and she
didn’t imagine anyone but Keith had noticed their fleeting eye contact the previous evening. But to go about publicly would be courting disaster.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t really fancy a drink. It’s far too lovely an evening to spend sitting in a noisy, smoky bar. Why don’t we just walk?’
‘Fine with me. Where?’
Martha wanted to avoid the town, where the pubs would soon be disgorging groups of drink-jolly tourists and locals who might just remember seeing the two of them together. If they stuck to
quieter, dimly lit streets, nobody would notice them. And she had to get him alone somewhere, somewhere private. No doubt he would have the same thing in mind. He was certainly a cool one. No
matter what he pretended, though, she was certain that he must remember her. How could he forget? And how could she forget what he was? She thought of the beach and the caves.
‘Let’s wander down towards the pier,’ she said, ‘and take it from there.’
‘Okay. By the way, I’m Jack, Jack Grimley.’ He stuck out his hand.
‘Martha. Martha Browne.’ She shook the hand; it was rough with callouses – from sawing and planing planks of wood, no doubt – and touching it made her shudder.
‘Pleased to meet you, Martha.’
They took the steps and cut across Khyber Pass down to Pier Road. It was after ten-thirty now, and all the amusement arcades had closed for the night Only a few pairs of young lovers strolled by
the auction sheds, and they were all absorbed in one another.
They walked out on the pier and sniffed the sea air. Martha lit a cigarette and wrapped her jacket a little tighter around her throat against the chill out there. Jack hadn’t tried to
touch her or make any kind of a pass so far, but she knew it was bound to happen soon. For now, he seemed content to stand quietly as she smoked, watching the distant lights out in the dark sea.
She wondered when he would pounce. The pier was too open. It was dark all around them, but the whole thing stood out rather like a long stone stage in the water. It was the kind of place where he
might make his first move, though – a fleeting caress or a comforting arm around the shoulders to lull her into a false sense of security.
‘Fancy the beach?’ she asked, dropping her cigarette onto the pier and stepping on it. ‘I like to listen to the waves.’
‘Why not?’
He walked beside her back towards Pier Road and down the stone steps to the deserted beach. A thin line of foam broke along the sands, and after that came the sucking, hissing sound of the sea
drawing back. The moon, now almost three-quarters full, stood high and shed its sickly light on the water. It seemed to float there like an incandescent jellyfish just below the water’s
surface.
They walked close to the rock face, where the sand was drier. It was pitch dark down there, apart from the moon. They were hidden from the town by the slightly concave curve of the cliffs.
At last, Jack took hold of her arm gently. This is it, she thought, tensing. She tried to act normally and not freeze as she usually did when a man tried to touch her. She had to distract him
for a moment.
‘Are you sure you don’t remember?’ she asked, dipping her free hand into her bag.
‘Remember what?’
‘Me.’ It still seemed the ultimate insult that he pretended not to remember her after all that had happened.
‘I looked a bit different,’ she said, her hand closing on the paperweight. Warmth and certainty flooded her senses.
He laughed. ‘Martha, I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen you bef—’
‘Martha wasn’t my name then.’
It wasn’t at all as she’d imagined, the way she had made it happen so many times in her mind’s eye. He was supposed to just fall down neatly and that was that. But he
didn’t. When the heavy paperweight smacked into his temple and made a dull crack, he only dropped to his knees, groaned and put his hand up to the wound in disbelief. Blood bubbled between
his fingers and glistened in the moonlight. Then he turned and stared at her, his glittering eyes wide open.
For a moment, Martha froze. She just stood there, hesitating, sure that she couldn’t go on. She had been through this situation so many times, both in her waking mind and in her dreams,
but it wasn’t happening the way it was supposed to. Then, out of fear and outrage, she hit out again and heard an even louder crack. This time he pitched forward into the sand. But he
wouldn’t lay still. His body jerked and convulsed in spasms like a marionette out of control; his stubby fingers clawed at the sand. Martha stood and watched, horrified, as the prone figure
danced on the sand. His arms twitched and his whole body seemed to shudder as if it was about to explode and shatter. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped and he lay still at last. The blood around
his head looked viscous in the faint white light.
Martha bent forward and put her hands on her knees. She took a few deep breaths and tried to slow her racing heartbeat. She had almost blown it. Reality never happened the way she thought it
would. She had left so much of the business to her instinct and imagination that she should have known to allow for things not going exactly as planned. At least it was done now, and he lay at her
feet, even if the deed itself had been more horrible and frightening than she had expected. But it wasn’t over yet. She couldn’t just leave him out here on the beach, and she
couldn’t stay in the open herself any longer. Glancing around nervously, Martha steeled herself and set to work.
Gasping for breath, she struggled with the heavy body and slowly dragged it into the mouth of the nearest cave. The opening was a rough arch about six feet high, but it narrowed quickly the
further in it went. In all, it only extended about fifteen feet into the cliff, curving as it went and ending almost in a point, but that was enough for Martha’s purposes. The dark walls
glistened with slime, as if the very rock itself were sweating in anticipation.
As soon as she had hauled the body inside the opening, Martha paused and listened. It was after eleven now. The pubs would have closed and some people might fancy a drunken walk on the beach.
Moments later, someone giggled by the pier, and then she could hear voices coming closer. Quickly, she braced herself and heaved the body by its ankles back into the cave as far as it would go,
just beyond the slight bend in the middle. She almost screamed when she snagged a broken nail on one of his woollen socks and couldn’t free it without a struggle.
Finally, she got him as deep in the cave as she could. The effort exhausted her – sweat beaded on her forehead – but at least she was safe now. The slanting moonlight only
illuminated the first four or five feet of the interior, and beyond that it was cut off by the top of the arched entrance. Nobody could see them so far back, behind small boulders set in the sand
past the kink in the wall.
Cautiously, Martha peered from behind a boulder and saw a young couple framed in the cave’s opening. She held her breath. They were about thirty yards away, down by the breaking waves.
Even at that distance she could catch fragments of their conversation.