The First Cut

The cappuccino turned out to be half a cup of Nescafé with what tasted like condensed milk, all churned up by a steam machine and dusted with a few grains of chocolate. The lovers talked in whispers, occasionally laughing and stroking one another’s bare arms on the tablecloth.

Martha could stand it no longer. She demanded the bill rather snappily as the waitress was dashing off with the couple’s order. It was still a good ten minutes before it arrived. Not bothering to leave a tip, Martha took the slip of paper upstairs and paid a sullen young man, who actually did look Italian, at the till.

Outside, it was already getting dark; the narrow cha

The man called Jack had left the pub at a quarter to ten the previous evening. Though the whole scene had the appearance of a ritual to Martha, she couldn’t be sure he would leave at exactly the same time again, or even if he’d be in the pub. For one thing, the darts game-part of the ritual-might last longer. What was even worse was that he might leave with his friend. Still, Martha pla

It was her intention to lean against the iron railing close to the pub, near the jawbone at the top of West Cliff, and wait for him to come out. She would take note of which way he walked and would follow. She had thought of going inside the Lucky Fisherman again, alone this time, but that would only draw attention to her. He might even talk to her and try to pick her up, then everybody would see them. That was too dangerous to be worth the risk.

If she got there for nine thirty, she would probably be all right. He would hardly leave before then. More likely later than earlier. That left her time for a quick nip to calm her nerves. She went into the first pub she saw, a bustling tourist place, and ordered a double whisky. She drank it slowly so it wouldn’t go straight to her head. The last thing she needed was to get drunk. But the cardboard pizza should be enough to soak up anything that came along in the next hour or so.

At quarter past nine, when she could wait no longer, she set off for the Lucky Fisherman. It was dark by then, and the town’s usual illuminations were all on. It took her five minutes to reach her waiting place. Once there, she leaned forward on the railing and looked over first at St. Mary’s, basking in its sandy light directly opposite, then to her left, out to sea beyond the pincerlike piers, where all was dark. She could see the thin white line of waves breaking on the sand.

She looked at her watch. Nine thirty-five. It seemed to be taking forever. Time for a cigarette. No one but the occasional courting couple ambled by. They would pause for a moment, arm in arm, look out to sea by Captain Cook’s statue, perhaps kiss, and then walk around the corner by the white hotels along North Terrace. A strong fishy smell drifted up from the harbor. Martha remembered it was Thursday evening. The fishing boats would be coming in tomorrow.

Nine forty-six. He was late. Must be having trouble getting that last double twenty or whatever it was he needed. She pictured him carrying his empty glass over to the bar and saying, “Well, that’s my limit for tonight. See you tomorrow, Bobby.” Yes, he would be there! He had actually said so, she remembered: “See you tomorrow, Bobby.” And Bobby would say, “Night, Jack,” as usual. Any moment he would be walking out of that door. Martha was hardly breathing; her chest felt tight with excitement and apprehension. She ground out the cigarette and glanced over at the pub.

At ten o’clock, it happened. The door rattled open and one man-her man-walked out in his dark jersey and baggy jeans. She stayed where she was, as if rooted to the spot, her hands frozen to the railing. She must try to look like a casual tourist, she told herself, just admiring the nighttime view: St. Mary’s, the abbey ruin, the lights reflected in the harbor. A slight breeze ruffled her hair and brushed along her cheek like cold fingers.

He was walking in her direction, toward the Cook statue. She turned her head to watch him coming. How it happened, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was just the sudden movement, or maybe the light from a street lamp had caught her face as she turned. But he saw her. She could have sworn that he smiled and his eyes glittered more than usual. He started walking toward her.

She felt pure terror, as if her very bone marrow had turned to ice. He walked up beside her and rested his hands on the railing too.

“Hello,” he said, in that familiar, hoarse voice. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

Martha could hardly catch her breath. She was shaking so much that she had to clutch the railings tight to stay on her feet. But she had to go through with it. It was too late to back off now. She turned to face him.

“Hello,” she said, in a voice that she hoped wasn’t trembling too much. “Don’t you remember me?”

18 Kirsten

The doctor insisted that Kirsten leave the hospital in a wheel-chair, though by then she was quite capable of walking unaided. The demand was made even more ridiculous when she reached the top of the front steps and had to get up out of the chair and walk down them.

Her father’s Mercedes was parked right outside. With Galen in front, carrying her things, and one parent on each side, Kirsten made her way toward it.

At the car, Galen-who, true to his word, had visited her almost every day that week-shook hands with her father, said good-bye to her mother, who inclined her head regally, and gave Kirsten a peck on the cheek. He had learned, she noticed, not to expect too much from her physically, though she still hadn’t told him the full extent of her injuries.

“Are you sure I can’t offer you a lift anywhere?” her father asked him.

“No, thank you,” Galen said. “The station’s not much of a walk, and it’s out of your way. I’ll be fine.”

“Back or front?” her father asked Kirsten.

“Back, please.”

In the spacious rear of the car she could stretch out, her head propped up against the window on a cushion, blanket over her knees, and watch the world go by.

“Are you sure you want me to go ahead?” Galen asked her through the open window.

Kirsten nodded. “Be sensible, Galen. There’s no point missing the start of term. If you do that, you might as well not bother.”

“And I can’t persuade you to come with me?”

“Not yet, no. I told you, don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

“And you’ll join me soon?”

“Yes.”

She had finally managed to convince him to go to Toronto, partly by insisting that she was fine and needed only rest, and partly by promising to join him as soon as she felt well enough. When he agreed, she wasn’t sure if it was due to the logic of her arguments or because she had given him an easy way of getting off the hook. He had acted a little stranger each day-distant, embarrassed-and Kirsten had come to believe that perhaps there was something in what Sarah had hinted about men friends turning “fu

Galen stretched his arm through the window and patted Kirsten’s hand. “Take care,” he said. “And remember, I want to see a full recovery soon.” Kirsten smiled at him and the car pulled away. She watched him waving as the Mercedes headed down the road, until it turned a corner and she could see him no longer.