Authors: Peter Robinson
‘I’ve got too many friends,’ Hugo complained. ‘What I want is to get laid.’
Kirsten gestured around the room. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve got a good chance. If there’s anyone here you haven’t slept with already.’
‘That’s not fair. I know I’ve got a reputation, but it’s completely unfounded.’
‘Is it? How disappointing. And here was me thinking you were such an expert.’
‘You could find out for yourself, you know,’ he said, moving closer again. ‘If you play your cards right.’
Kirsten laughed and wriggled out of his grasp. ‘No. Anyway, I’m off home now. I’ve got to be up early to pack in the morning, especially if I’m to have time for
lunch.’
‘I’ll walk you.’
‘No you won’t. It’s not far.’
‘But it’s late. It’s dangerous to walk out by yourself so late.’
‘I’ve done it hundreds of times. You know I have. No thanks. You stay here. I don’t want to end up fighting you off out there. I’d rather take my chances.’
Hugo sighed. ‘And tomorrow we part, perhaps forever. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Nor do you,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure you’ll soon forget all about it. Remember, tomorrow for lunch in the Green Dragon. Remind Sarah and Damon, too.’
‘One o’clock?’
‘That’s right.’ Kirsten pecked him on the cheek and skipped out into the warm night.
MARTHA
The room was perfect. Usually, a single room in a bed and breakfast establishment is nothing more than a cupboard by the toilets, but this one, clearly a converted attic with a
dormer window and white-painted rafters, had been done out nicely. Candy-striped wallpaper brightened the walls, and a salmon-pink candlewick bedspread covered the three-quarter bed. Just to the
left of the window stood the washstand, with clean white towels laid neatly over a chrome rail. The only other furniture consisted of a small wardrobe with metal hangers that jangled together when
Martha opened the flimsy door, and a bedside lamp on a small chest of drawers.
The owner leaned against the door jamb with his arms folded while she made up her mind. He was a coarse man with hairy forearms and even more hair sticking out over the top of his white
open-necked shirt. His face looked like it was made of pink vinyl, and six or seven long fair hairs curled on his chin.
‘We don’t get many girls staying by themselves,’ he said, smiling at her with lashless blue eyes. It was obviously an invitation to state her business.
‘Yes, well I’m here to do some research,’ Martha lied. ‘I’m working on a book.’
‘A book, eh? Romance, is it? I suppose you’ll find plenty of background for that here, what with the abbey ruins and the Dracula legends. Plenty of romance in all that history,
I’d say.’
‘It’s not a romance,’ Martha said.
He didn’t pursue the matter further, but looked at her with a fixed expression, a mixture of superior, mocking humour and disbelief that she had often seen men use on professional
women.
‘I’ll take it,’ she said, mostly to get rid of him as quickly as possible. She didn’t like the way he leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching her. Was he hoping
she’d start taking out her underwear to put in the drawers? The room began to feel claustrophobic.
He stood up straight. ‘Right. Well, here’s the keys. That big one there’s for the front door. Come in any time you want, but try not to disturb the other guests. There’s
a lounge with a colour telly on the ground floor. You can make yourself a cup of tea or instant coffee there, too, if you like. But be sure to wash out your cup afterwards. The wife has enough on.
Breakfast’s at eight-thirty sharp. If you want an evening meal, let the wife know in the morning before you go out. Anything else?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
He closed the door behind him as he left. Martha dumped her holdall on the bed and stretched. The sloping ceiling was so low at that point that her fingers touched the plaster between the beams.
She poked her head out of the window to see what kind of view you got for nine pounds fifty a night. Not bad. On her right, very close, at the top of the street, loomed St Hilda’s Church with
its high, dark tower, like one of the monoliths from
2001;
to her left, on the opposite hillside over the estuary, stood St Mary’s, built of lighter stone, with a smaller, squarish
tower and a white pole sticking up from it like the mast of a ship. Beside it stood what was left of the abbey, where, according to her guidebook, the Synod of Whitby took place in 664 AD, when the
churches in England dumped their Celtic ways and decided to follow Roman usages. The poet Caedmon had lived there at the time, too, and that was more interesting to Martha. After all, Caedmon was
the one who had called her here.
She unpacked her toilet bag and went over to the sink to brush her teeth. The shrimp had left fibres between them and a salty taste in her mouth. As she spat out the water, she glimpsed her face
in the mirror. It was the only part of her that hadn’t changed much over the past year or so.
She wore her sandy hair cut short more for convenience than anything else. As she never had any reason to do herself up to look nice for anyone, it was far easier just to be able to wash it and
forget about it. She didn’t have to wear any make-up either, and that made for less fuss. Her complexion had always been clear anyway, and the smattering of freckles across her nose was
hardly a blemish. Her eyes were a little Oriental – slanted almonds, and about the same light brown colour. Her nose tilted up slightly at the end – snub, they called it – and
revealed the dark ovals of her nostrils. She had always thought it was her ugliest feature, but someone had once told her it was sexy.
Sexy!
Now
there
was a laugh! She had her
mother’s mouth: tight, thin-lipped, downturned at the edges.
All in all, she thought she looked haughty, stiff and aloof – prissy, in fact – but she knew well enough that her appearance had diverse effects on men. Not so long ago, she had
overheard a conversation in a pub between two lads who had been giving her the eye all evening.
‘Now there’s a bird looks like she needs a bloody good fuck,’ the first one had said.
‘Rubbish,’ his mate had replied. ‘I’ll bet she’s had enough cock to pave the road from here to Land’s End – ends up!’ And they had laughed at
that.
So much for her looks. Perhaps men just saw in her what they wanted to see. They used her as a mirror to reflect their own vile natures, or as a screen onto which they projected their obscene
fantasies.
She put her toothbrush in the chrome holder on the wall and turned away from the mirror. It was early evening now. The tide would be on its way in.
She had enough money with her to survive away from home for far longer than she needed to, and though she was almost certain that this was the place where she would find what she was looking
for, she knew there was always a chance she could be wrong. It might be one of the smaller fishing villages along the coast: Staithes, Runswick Bay or Robin Hood’s Bay. No matter: she would
check them all out if she had to. For now, Whitby felt right enough.
She was tired after her long journey. Maybe later, around sunset, she would go out and explore the town and find something to eat, but for now a nap was her best bet. First, though, she took
what clothes she’d brought with her out of the holdall and put them in the drawers by the bed. There wasn’t much, all of it casual: jeans, cords, denim shirts, a jersey, underwear. The
grey quilted jacket in case of chilly evenings, she hung in the wardrobe.
Finally, she took out the most important thing she’d brought and smiled to herself at how it seemed to have become a ritual object, a talisman, and how simply handling it gave her a sense
of awe and reverence.
It was a small, globe-shaped glass paperweight, flattened at the bottom, smooth and heavy on her palm. Ten pounds she’d paid for it at the craft centre. For ages she had stood there in the
heat of the kilns and watched the man making the glassware he sold, explaining the process as he went along. He thrust the long blow-pipe into the white-hot heart of the furnace and brought out a
blob of molten glass. Then he dipped this in the dishes of bright colours: vermilion, aquamarine, saffron, indigo. Martha had always thought you were supposed to keep blowing down the tube, but he
had simply blown into it quickly and then covered the end with his hand. When the air heated, it expanded and puffed out the glass. She never did find out how he got the colours inside the
paperweight, though, or how he made it so heavy and solid. This one was all dark shades of red: carmine, crimson and scarlet. The folds and curves they made looked like a rose. When Martha turned
it in the light, the rose seemed to move slowly, as if under water. If ever she felt herself slipping away from her mission, denying her destiny, she knew that all she had to do was reach for it,
and the smooth, hard glass would strengthen her resolve.
She placed it beside her on the bedspread and lay down. The rose seemed to open and pulse in the changing light as she stared into it. Soon she was sleeping soundly beside it.
KIRSTEN
Kirsten lingered on the pavement outside Oastler Hall and took a deep breath. She could still hear the music – Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’
– above the muffled talk and laughter behind her. Taking stock of herself, she found that she didn’t feel any more tipsy than she had earlier – less so, if anything. At the party
she had drunk only about a can and a half of lager, and the dancing seemed to have driven much of the alcohol out of her system. She must have sweated it out, she supposed, considering the way her
blouse was sticking to her.
The night was warm and muggy. There was no breeze to speak of, just an occasional breath of warm air such as one feels on opening an oven. Everything was still and quiet.
Kirsten headed for the park. She had crossed it plenty of times before, day and night, and never had any cause to worry about the journey. The worst that ever happened was that the gang of
skinheads who hung out there early in the evening might hurl an insult or two at passing students. But the skins would all be tucked up safely in bed at this time of night.
Most of the houses in the area were old and far too large for one family these days, so they had been bought by landlords and divided into flats and bedsits for the students. It was a
comfortable neighbourhood, Kirsten thought. No matter what time of day or night, if you had a problem or just wanted a cup of tea and a chat, there was always likely to be someone you knew burning
the midnight oil not much more than five or ten minutes’ walk away. Like a village within the city, really. Even now, soft, inviting lights burned behind many of the windows. She would miss
it all very much. This was the place where she had grown up, lost her virginity, changed from a shy, awkward teenager into a wiser, more confident woman.
The park was a large square bordered on all sides by well-lit roads. Tree-lined avenues criss-crossed the cropped grass. In the daytime, students would lie out in the sun reading or playing
makeshift games of cricket or football. Up near the main road were the public toilets – said to be a favourite haunt of local homosexuals – and colourful flower beds. At the centre of
the park, thick shrubbery grew around the bowling green and the children’s playground.
At night the place felt a little spookier, perhaps because there was no lighting in the park itself. But you could always see the tall, amber street lights on the roads, and the sound of nearby
traffic was comforting.
Kirsten’s trainers made no sound on the tarmac as she followed the path under the dark trees. There was very little traffic about. The only thing she could hear was the odd car revving up
in the distance and the sound of her shoulder bag brushing against her hips. Somewhere, a dog barked. The sky was clear and the stars, magnified by the haze, looked fatter and softer than usual.
How different from winter stars, Kirsten thought, all cold and sharp and merciless. These ones looked like they were melting. She looked up and turned her head in all directions but couldn’t
find a moon. It had to be there somewhere – perhaps behind the trees.
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.