Caedmon’s Song (7 page)

‘Or bad taste,’ Kirsten said.

‘Often the same thing. Now what are we going to do about you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When you get out of here.’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be going home. I don’t really feel right, Sarah. My mind . . . I’m very mixed up.’

Sarah squeezed her hand. ‘Bound to be. It’ll pass, though. Probably the drugs they’re giving you.’

‘I have terrible nightmares.’

‘You don’t remember what happened, do you?’

‘No.’

‘That’ll be it, then. Temporary amnesia. The brain blanks out painful experiences it doesn’t like.’

‘Temporary?’

‘It might come back. Sometimes you have to work at it.’

Kirsten looked away towards the window. Outside, beyond the flowers and the get-well cards on her table, she could see the tops of trees swaying slowly in the wind and a distant block of flats,
white in the July sun. ‘I don’t know if I want to remember,’ she whispered. ‘I feel so empty.’

‘You don’t have to think about it yet, love. Rest and get your strength back. And don’t worry, I won’t be far away. I’ll take good care of you, I
promise.’

Kirsten smiled. ‘Where’s Galen? The police said he’d been here.’

‘Yes. I phoned him and he dashed up to see you as soon as I told him the news. He stayed for three days. He’d have sat by your bedside all the time if they’d let him. Anyway,
his mother’s having a really hard time getting over his grannie’s death so he had to go back. Apparently she’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Very highly strung woman. He
said he’d come again, though, when you regained consciousness. He’s probably on his way right now.’

‘Poor Galen.’

‘Kirsten.’

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t expect too much. I mean . . . Oh, shit, never mind.’

‘What? Tell me.’

‘All I mean is that, sometimes, when things like this happen, men go funny.’

‘How?’

‘They can’t deal with it. They just act strange . . . ashamed, embarrassed. They get turned off. That’s all.’

‘I’m sure Galen will be all right.’

‘Of course he will, love. Of course he will.’

‘Sarah, I’m thirsty. Will you pass me some water please? I’ve got these damn tubes in one arm and the other’s just too tired.’

‘Sure.’ Sarah picked up the plastic bottle from the bedside table and held it for Kirsten, tilting it so that she could suck on the straw easily. ‘Like being a bloody baby
again, isn’t it?’

Kirsten nodded, then removed the straw from her mouth. ‘Okay, that’s enough. Thanks. I hate feeling so helpless.’

Sarah put the bottle back and took her hand again.

‘What’s been happening in the outside world?’ Kirsten asked.

‘Well, we haven’t had a nuclear war yet, if that’s what you’re worried about. And the police came and questioned us all about you.’

‘How did they find out who I am?’

‘They found your bag. Look, you don’t know any of this, I can see, so I might as well tell you what I know. Do you want me to?’

Kirsten nodded slowly. ‘But not about . . . you know . . . the attack’

‘All right. Like I said, I don’t know what actually happened, but apparently a man taking his dog for a walk found you in the park and acted quickly. They reckon he saved your life.
As soon as the police found out who you were from your student card, they were round at the university asking questions about your friends. It didn’t take them long to find out about the
party, so we all got a visit from PC Plod the next day. I suppose they thought one of us might have followed you and tried to do you in, but no one left the party for a long time after you. I
stayed till two, and Hugo was still there trying to put his hand down my knickers. They even found out about the row in the Ring O’Bells. I’ll bet that fascist landlord and his simian
sidekick got a good grilling, too.’

Kirsten nodded. ‘Yes, the superintendent mentioned that. The police moved fast, didn’t they?’

‘Well, what do you expect? You
are
a poor, innocent student, and your father
is
managing director of that hush-hush government electronics firm. Connections, love. It’s
not as if you were just some street tart touting for rough trade, is it?’

‘Don’t be so cynical, Sarah.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound callous. But it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to think they do everything in their power to catch someone who does things like this, no matter who to.’

‘So would I, but dream on, kid.’

‘What about the others? How are they?’

‘Hugo dropped by a couple of times, and Damon put off his summer job for a week to come and see you, but you were out to the world then. They left flowers and cards.’ She gestured
towards the bedside table.

‘Yes I know. Thank them for me, will you?’

‘You’ll be able to thank them yourself. I’m sure they’ll be back now they know you’re in the land of the living again.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Hugo dashed off home to Bedfordshire, no doubt to sponge off his parents and bonk the local milkmaids for the rest of the summer, and Damon’s going hop-picking in Kent. Imagine
that, poor Damon getting those lily-white hands dirty!’

‘So they’re all gone.

‘Yes, love. All but me. And you won’t get rid of me that easily.’ Kirsten smiled and Sarah squeezed her hand again. ‘They’ll be back. Just wait and see. Anyway, I
think I’d better go now. You look all in.’

‘You’ll come again soon?’

‘Promise. Get some rest.’ Sarah bent and kissed her forehead lightly, then left.

As Kirsten lay there, she tried to take in all that Sarah had told her. Of course, she couldn’t expect the others to stick around for so long, and a visit from the police must have given
them a scare. Hugo probably thought they were after that gram of coke he’d bought to celebrate the end of term. But all the same, she felt deserted, abandoned. She knew they all had to go
their separate ways. In fact, she remembered, that had been very much on her mind that last night. (Why did she call it her ‘last’ night? she wondered.) But it wasn’t as if she
had the plague or anything. Was there something in what Sarah had hinted? Were Damon and Hugo embarrassed by what had happened to her? Ashamed even? Afraid to face her? But why should they be? she
asked herself. They had work to do. They would be back as soon as they could get away, just as Sarah had said. And Galen was probably on his way right now.

Sarah’s visit had renewed her spirits a little. It had also inflamed her curiosity. Obviously, there was more to this whole business than she was aware of. Could she really get the doctor
to open up if she kept nagging at him or having screaming fits?

At least there was one thing she could do right now. Tentatively, she pushed down the bedclothes and started to unbutton the top of her nightgown. It was a slow job, as her good arm was hooked
up to an IV machine and she had to fumble with the weak and awkward fingers of her left hand, the one she hardly ever used. She didn’t really believe that she’d get very far, but, to
her surprise, she found once she’d started she couldn’t stop, no matter how difficult and painful the movements were.

Finally, she managed to get the first four buttons undone. It was hard to bend her head forward and look down, so she shuffled herself back against the pillows and slumped against the headboard.
From there, she could just tilt her head forward without straining her neck too much. At first, she couldn’t see anything at all. The nightgown still seemed to cling around her breasts. She
rested a moment, then pulled at it with her free hand. When she looked down again, she started screaming.

MARTHA

The Lucky Fisherman, a bit off the beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by townspeople. Martha didn’t notice any real difference
between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between
the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven.

There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph,
an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbour and chunky men in sou’westers – like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough
lozenges – leaning against the railing on St Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days, Martha noticed: one long beam held up by occasional
props.

‘Good day?’ Keith said, standing as she came up to him.

‘Good day,’ Martha answered.

He laughed. ‘No, I mean did you
have
a good day? We don’t all talk like Paul Hogan, you know.’

Martha put her holdall on a vacant chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Who?’

‘Paul Hogan.
Crocodile Dundee. A
famous Aussie. Lord, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch television?’

Martha shook her head. She vaguely remembered the name, but it seemed centuries ago, and she could recall no details. Her mind seemed to have no room left for trivia these days.

‘What
do
you do for entertainment?’

‘I read.’

‘Ah. Very sensible. Drink?’

‘Bitter. Just a half, please.’

Keith went to the bar and returned with her beer and another pint for himself.

‘So how
was
your day?’ he asked again.

‘Good.’ It was a long time since Martha had talked like this with a boy – a man, really – or conversed with anyone, for that matter. She seemed to have lost all her skill
at small talk. She must have had it once, she assumed, though she couldn’t remember when. All she could do was let Keith take the lead and follow as best she could. She dipped into her bag
for her cigarettes and offered him one.

‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘But please go ahead.’

She lit the Rothmans, noting that she would soon need another packet, and reached for her drink again.

‘Well . . .’ Keith said.

Martha got the impression that she was supposed to say something, so she forged ahead. ‘What about you? Where did you go?’

‘Oh, I just walked around, visited the usual places. Sat on the beach for a while. I even went for a dip. I’m not used to it being so warm over here.’

‘It is unusual,’ Martha agreed.

‘I’m making my way up the coast to Scotland. I think I told you.’

Martha nodded.

‘Anyway, it’s a complete holiday. No papers, no radio, no TV. I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world.’

‘It’s not usually good,’ Martha agreed.

‘Too true. And what about you? I’m curious. Why are you here all by yourself, if it’s not a rude question?’

Martha thought of saying that yes, it was a rude question, but that would only get his back up. It was much easier to lie. She realized that she could tell him anything she wanted, anything
under the sun – that she lived in Mozambique, for example, and was taking a rest from organizing safaris, or that she had run away from her husband, an Arabian prince to whom she had been
sold as a young girl and shut away in a harem. She could tell him she was travelling around the world alone, as stipulated in the will, on a legacy left by her billionaire arms-dealer father. It
was an exhilarating feeling, a feeling of tremendous power and freedom. Best keep it simple and believable, though, she decided, and told him she was doing research for a book.

‘You a writer, then?’ he asked. ‘Silly of me, I suppose you must be, if you’re working on a book.’

‘Well, I’m not famous or anything. It’s my first one. You won’t have heard of me.’

‘Maybe one day, who knows?’

‘Who knows? It’s a historical book, though, more of an academic study, really. I mean, it’s not fiction or anything.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘That’s hard to say. It’s partly about early Christianity, especially on the east coast here. You know, Bede, Caedmon, St Hilda, the Synod of Whitby.’

Keith shook his head slowly. ‘’Fraid you’ve lost me. I’m just a simple Aussie law student. Sounds fascinating, though.’

‘It is,’ Martha said, glad to have lost him. With luck, there would be no more questions about what she was doing. She finished her cigarette, then drained her glass. Keith
immediately went for refills.

‘Do you know anything about the fishing industry here?’ Martha asked when he came back.

He squinted at her. His eyes really were a sharp blue, as if he had spent so much time staring into blue skies and oceans that they had taken their colour from the water and air. ‘Fishing
industry? That’s a funny question. No, I can’t really say I do.’

‘I just wanted to see them bring in the catch, that’s all,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s supposed to be very interesting. They take them to that long shed down by the
harbour and auction them off.’

‘That’ll be on Friday,’ Keith said.

‘Fish on Friday? Is that a joke?’

Keith laughed. ‘No. What I mean is, I heard they go out on a Sunday and come back Friday, so that’s when the catch comes in. That’s the big boats. Little boats, like keel boats
and cobles, come and go every day, but they’ve so little to sell it’s all over before the sun comes up.’

Martha thought for a moment, making mental calculations, trying to remember what happened on which day. The person she was looking for must have a small boat of his own, she concluded. That
might be easy to trace if she knew where to look. There should be a register of some kind . . .

‘It’s only a couple of days,’ Keith said. ‘Pity I won’t be here. You’ll have to get up early in the morning to see the boats come in, but the auctions go on
for quite a while.’

‘What? Sorry.’

‘To see the boats come in. I said you’ll have to get up early. They come in before dawn.’

‘Oh, well, I’m sure the seagulls will wake me.’

Keith laughed. ‘Noisy little blighters, aren’t they? Tell me, do you come from this part of the country?’