The First Cut

“Well, yes.” Dr. Craven seemed to miss the irony in Kirsten’s voice. The corners of her lips twitched in one of her rare, brief smiles. “You are rather unique, you know. Few women, if any, have ever survived an attack from such a maniac.”

“I suppose not,” Kirsten said slowly. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way. Like Jack the Ripper, you mean? Did anyone survive him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. Criminology isn’t my forte.” She leaned forward. “What I’m saying, Kirsten, is that there may be some resultant emotional trauma. I want you to know that help is available. You only have to ask for it.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor sat back in her chair and peered at Kirsten over the top of her half-moon glasses. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Feel? Not so bad. The pain’s eased a little now.”

“No, I mean emotionally. What do you feel?”

“What do I feel? I don’t know really. Just blank, numb. I can’t remember anything about the attack.”

“Do you keep ru

“Yes, but I still can’t remember. It keeps me awake sometimes. I can’t concentrate for it. I can’t even sit down and read a book. I used to love reading.”

“The amnesia may only be temporary.”

“I don’t know if I want to remember.”

“That’s understandable, of course. As are all your feelings. You’ve suffered a tremendous shock, Kirsten. Not just to your body but to your whole being. All your symptoms-emotional numbness, bad dreams, inability to concentrate-they’re all perfectly normal given the circumstances. Awful, but normal. In fact, I’d be worried if you didn’t feel like that. You feel no anger, no rage?”

“No. Should I?”

“It’ll come later.”

“I suppose I do feel that I’d like to kill him, the man who did this to me, but it’s more of a cold feeling than an angry one, if you can understand what I mean.” She shrugged. “Still, I don’t imagine I’ll get the chance, will I? I wouldn’t know him from Adam.”

“No. But let’s hope the police find him soon.”

“Before he can attack anyone else?”

“Such people don’t usually stop at one. And the next victim might not be so lucky.” Dr. Craven stood up and held out her hand. “Don’t forget what I said. Take good care of yourself, and I’ll see you next week.” Kirsten shook her hand and left.

Outside, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. The rounded hills that fringed the village seemed to glow bright green with some kind of i

The village stood on the edge of the Mendips, between Bath and Wells, and it had its share of thatched roofs and award-wi

Kirsten took the prescription from her pocket and walked into the chemist’s. It was only a small place, more decorative than functional, and one of the few chemist’s shops that still kept those huge red, green and blue bottles on a shelf high in the window. The sunlight filtered through them onto Mr. Hayes’s wrinkled face. He had a good dispensary, Kirsten knew, especially for female ailments.

“Hello, Kirsten,” he said with a smile. “I noticed you’d come back. Sorry to hear about your trouble.”

“Thank you,” Kirsten said. She hoped he wasn’t going to go on and tell her how you couldn’t be too careful these days, could you. He was that kind of man. But perhaps something in her voice or expression put him off his stroke. Anyway, he just looked puzzled and went to fill the prescription immediately.

With the painkillers in her pocket, Kirsten headed for the house. Brierley Coombe had been her home ever since the family had moved from Bath itself when she was six. Although the village was equidistant from Bristol and Bath, they had always frequented the latter for shopping and entertainment. Her mother regarded Bristol -big city, once busy port-as too vulgar, and Kirsten had consequently only been there twice in her life. It hadn’t seemed so bad to her, but then neither had the north of England.

Kirsten had no friends left in Brierley Coombe, and the way she felt now, that was a blessing; the last thing she wanted was to have to go around explaining herself to people. Indeed, she had to think hard to remember ever having friends or even seeing any young people there at all. That was another way in which it resembled an Agatha Christie village-there were no children, nor could she remember any. It was absurd, she knew, as she had been a child there herself and played with others then, but there was no village school, and, try as she might, she couldn’t bring to mind the voices of children playing on the green. Over the years, they had all drifted apart. They went to prep schools first, of course, then on to public schools as boarders, as she had done, for there were no poor people in Brierley Coombe. After that, it was university-usually Oxford or Cambridge -and a profession in the City. Perhaps when they had inherited their parents’ houses and made their fortunes or retired from public office, they would come home to spend their remaining days tending the garden and playing bridge.

The peace and quiet that Kirsten had enjoyed at home during the long summer and Easter holidays had always suited her after the hectic social life up at university. She was a bright and studious girl and managed to get plenty of work done-but she was easily distracted by a good film, a party or the chance of a couple of drinks and a chat with friends. At home, she had usually been able to catch up with her work and read ahead for the next term.

But what would she do with her time now? Her student days were over; her life was utterly changed, if not ruined entirely. She didn’t know if she would be able to pick up the pieces, let alone put them back together again. Come to that, she didn’t know if there were any pieces left. Perhaps she didn’t even care.

She was still thinking about it when she opened the gate and walked down the broad path to the house-more of a mansion than a cottage. Her mother was in the garden doing something nasty to the honeysuckle with her secateurs. Gardening and bridge, they were the strict borders of her mother’s existence.

When she saw Kirsten coming, she wiped her brow and put down the clippers, which flashed in the light, and shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at her daughter. A difficult smile slowly forced the corners of her lips up, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was going to be a long haul, this recovery, Kirsten thought with a sudden chill of fear. It wasn’t going to be easy at all.