The First Cut

“It’s just that most people who live here don’t really notice its beauty,” the man went on. “I mean, when it’s all around you, the sea and all, you hardly bother to stand and gawp at it.”

“Am I so obvious?”

He laughed. “I stand and look myself sometimes, especially way out where it’s all dark and you just get a tiny speck of light moving across in the distance. I often wonder what it must be like out on the boats like that, in the dark.”

“You’re not a fisherman?”

“Me? Good Lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea? I have a small boat and I go out sometimes, but just for myself, and always during the day.”

“I just…oh, never mind.”

“As a matter of fact I’m a joiner by trade. Do a lot of work for the theater, too, in season-chief scenery fixer and bottle washer.”

Martha was confused. She had so much expected her quarry to be a fisherman. Now she thought about it, though, she didn’t know how she had got that idea fixed in her mind in the first place. Perhaps it was the smell, the fishy smell. But anyone who lived by the sea might pick that up easily enough. And he did say he went fishing from time to time. No, she told herself, she had to be right. No excuses. Instinct.

“Have you been doing it long?” she asked.

“What-the joinery or the theater?”

Martha shrugged. “Both, I suppose.”

“Since I left school. The only thing I was any good at was woodwork, and I’ve always been interested in the theater. Not acting, just the practical stuff-the illusions it creates. And you?”

“Have you worked anywhere else, or are you here all the time?”

“I’ve traveled a fair bit. The provinces. There’s not enough work to keep me here all the time, but it’s where I live. Home, I suppose.”

“Born and brought up?”

“Aye. Born and bred in Whitby. You didn’t answer my question.”

Martha felt a chill in the wind off the sea and put her jacket over her shoulders again. “What question?”

“I asked about you.”

Martha laughed and pushed back a lock of hair that the breeze had displaced. “Oh, I’m not very interesting, I’m afraid. I’m from Portsmouth, just a dull typist in a dull office.”

“You’ll be used to the sea, then?”

“Pardon?”

“The sea. Portsmouth ’s a famous naval base, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, the sea. The most I’ve had to do with it is a hovercraft trip to the Isle of Wight. And even that made me feel sick.”

He laughed. “Look, would you like to go for a drink somewhere. I hope you don’t think me forward or anything, but…”

“Not at all, no.” Martha thought quickly. She couldn’t go to a pub with him, that was for certain. So far her only link with him was the lounge of the Lucky Fisherman, and she didn’t imagine anyone but Keith had noticed their fleeting eye contact the previous evening. But to go about publicly would be courting disaster.

“Well?”

“I don’t really fancy a drink. It’s far too lovely an evening to spend sitting in a noisy, smoky bar. Why don’t we just walk?”

“Fine with me. Where?”

Martha wanted to avoid the town, where the pubs would soon be disgorging groups of drink-jolly tourists and locals who might just remember seeing the two of them together. If they stuck to quieter, dimly lit streets, nobody would notice them. And she had to get him alone somewhere, somewhere private. No doubt he would have the same thing in mind. He was certainly a cool one. No matter what he pretended, though, she was certain that he must remember her. How could he forget? And how could she forget what he was? She thought of the beach and the caves.

“Let’s wander down toward the pier,” she said, “and take it from there.”

“Okay. By the way, I’m Jack, Jack Grimley.” He stuck out his hand.

“Martha. Martha Browne.” She shook the hand; it was rough with calluses-from sawing and planing planks of wood, no doubt-and touching it made her shudder.

“Pleased to meet you, Martha.”

They took the steps and cut across Khyber Pass down to Pier Road. It was after ten thirty now, and all the amusement arcades had closed for the night Only a few pairs of young lovers strolled by the auction sheds, and they were all absorbed in one another.

They walked out on the pier and sniffed the sea air. Martha lit a cigarette and wrapped her jacket a little tighter around her throat against the chill out there. Jack hadn’t tried to touch her or make any kind of a pass so far, but she knew it was bound to happen soon. For now, he seemed content to stand quietly as she smoked, watching the distant lights out in the dark sea. She wondered when he would pounce. The pier was too open. It was dark all around them, but the whole thing stood out rather like a long stone stage in the water. It was the kind of place where he might make his first move, though-a fleeting caress or a comforting arm around the shoulders to lull her into a false sense of security.

“Fancy the beach?” she asked, dropping her cigarette onto the pier and stepping on it. “I like to listen to the waves.”

“Why not?”

He walked beside her back toward Pier Road and down the stone steps to the deserted beach. A thin line of foam broke along the sands, and after that came the sucking, hissing sound of the sea drawing back. The moon, now almost three-quarters full, stood high and shed its sickly light on the water. It seemed to float there like an incandescent jellyfish just below the water’s surface.

They walked close to the rock face, where the sand was drier. It was pitch-dark down there, apart from the moon. They were hidden from the town by the slightly concave curve of the cliffs.

At last, Jack took hold of her arm gently. This is it, she thought, tensing. She tried to act normally and not freeze as she usually did when a man tried to touch her. She had to distract him for a moment.

“Are you sure you don’t remember?” she asked, dipping her free hand into her bag.

“Remember what?”

“Me.” It still seemed the ultimate insult that he pretended not to remember her after all that had happened.

“I looked a bit different,” she said, her hand closing on the paperweight. Warmth and certainty flooded her senses.

He laughed. “Martha, I’m sure I’d remember if I’d seen you bef-”

“Martha wasn’t my name then.”

It wasn’t at all as she’d imagined, the way she had made it happen so many times in her mind’s eye. He was supposed to just fall down neatly and that was that. But he didn’t. When the heavy paperweight smacked into his temple and made a dull crack, he only dropped to his knees, groaned and put his hand up to the wound in disbelief. Blood bubbled between his fingers and glistened in the moonlight. Then he turned and stared at her, his glittering eyes wide open.

For a moment, Martha froze. She just stood there, hesitating, sure that she couldn’t go on. She had been through this situation so many times, both in her waking mind and in her dreams, but it wasn’t happening the way it was supposed to. Then, out of fear and outrage, she hit out again and heard an even louder crack. This time he pitched forward into the sand. But he wouldn’t lay still. His body jerked and convulsed in spasms like a marionette out of control; his stubby fingers clawed at the sand. Martha stood and watched, horrified, as the prone figure danced on the sand. His arms twitched and his whole body seemed to shudder as if it was about to explode and shatter. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped and he lay still at last. The blood around his head looked viscous in the faint white light.

Martha bent forward and put her hands on her knees. She took a few deep breaths and tried to slow her racing heartbeat. She had almost blown it. Reality never happened the way she thought it would. She had left so much of the business to her instinct and imagination that she should have known to allow for things not going exactly as pla