Caedmon’s Song (6 page)

‘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 calloused 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 any more. 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.

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 chiselled 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 because of 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.

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.

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 reason, 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.