The First Cut

“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, i

“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 toward 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.

13 Martha

The Lucky Fisherman, a bit off the beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by towns-people. 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 harbor and chunky men in sou’westers-like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough lozenges-leaning against the railing on St. A

“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.