Caedmon’s Song (5 page)

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 hair 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.

Just after she had given her order for crispy bacon and medium-poached eggs, the final guest came down, ordered and helped himself to cereal and juice, which he brought over to Martha’s
table and plonked down opposite her. He was tall and athletic-looking, probably a jogger, with a deep suntan, thin face, aquiline nose and lively blue eyes. His short, curly black hair still
glistened from the shower. He smelled of Old Spice aftershave.

He poured some tea and grinned broadly, showing a perfect set of dazzling teeth, the kind one rarely sees in English mouths. My God, Martha thought, a morning person. Probably been for a run
around the town before breakfast. She managed to muster a tiny, brief smile, then looked away again to see how the couple were coping with the two kids.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Pardon?’

The young man leaned forward again and lowered his voice. ‘I said, did you sleep well?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just put me right next to the bathroom, didn’t they? Six o’clock the blooming parade starts – one after the other – and they all have to flush the loo. I think the
pipes run right through my bed. Talk about clatter and bang. Keith’s the name, by the way.’ He stuck out his hand and smiled. ‘Keith McLaren.’ His accent was Australian,
certainly, Martha thought, but as she had specialized only in regional British accents, she couldn’t pin it down to any specific area.

Martha took his hand reluctantly and gave it a quick, limp shake. ‘Martha Browne.’

‘And before you ask, yes, I’m an Aussie. I’m just taking a little time off from university to travel this lovely country of yours.’

‘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. Travelling 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 was 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.

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 grey 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 grey 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 short cut. 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.