The First Cut

When she had finally gone, the doctor sighed and sat on the edge of the bed beside Kirsten. “She means well, you know,” she said.

Kirsten nodded. “I know.”

Dr. Craven let the silence stretch for a while before she said, in a tone far gentler than Kirsten would have believed possible for her, “But it was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Kirsten didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure.

“Look,” Dr. Craven went on, “I can’t pretend to know what you feel like after what happened. I can’t even imagine what you went through, what you’re still going through, but I can tell you this: suicide isn’t the answer. Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Kirsten said. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m not being facetious. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Dr. Craven looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t enjoy being outside. I wasn’t really hungry. I didn’t fancy reading a book or watching television. I was just at a loose end. Then I thought I’d get drunk, then…I’ve not been sleeping well.”

“There are other options, Kirsten. That’s what you’ve got to remember. I don’t suppose I should be all that surprised you tried something foolish. As I said, I can’t imagine how you feel, but I know it must be terrible. What you have to do now is understand that there’s no quick and easy way back to health. Your body is taking care of itself well enough, but your emotions, your feelings are damaged, too, perhaps even more than we realize. Rest will help, of course, and time, but you won’t be able to go on hiding forever. There’ll come a time when you have to make the effort to start living again, to get out and about, meet people, get involved in life. I know it probably sounds terrifying just at the moment, but you must make that your goal. If you let your fears dominate you, then you’ve lost. You mustn’t give in, you have to fight it. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I think so,” Kirsten said. “I…I just don’t know if I can. I don’t know how.”

“Sermon over.” Dr. Craven’s lips twitched in a smile again. “Now back to practicalities. Nobody can make you, but I strongly suggest that you see a specialist in Bath, someone who knows about the kinds of things you’re feeling. I can recommend just the right person.”

“A psychiatrist, like you mentioned before?”

“Yes. I feel it’s even more important now. I’ll set up an appointment for you, but what I want to know, Kirsten, is will you go?”

Kirsten turned her head aside and looked through the small window at the sky and treetops. At least it had stopped snowing, she thought. That had been the last thing she had registered before coming over faint and retching on the carpet: how odd that it was snowing in August. It hadn’t been snowing at all, of course; it had just been her vision going haywire.

She turned back to Dr. Craven. “All right,” she said, “I’ll go. I don’t suppose I’ve got anything to lose.”

“You’ve got quite a lot to gain, young lady,” the doctor said, patting her hand. “Good. I’ll fix up an appointment and let you know. Now are you sure you’re feeling all right physically? No ill effects?”

“No, I’m fine. Just a bit woozy. Mostly I feel silly.”

“And so you jolly well should.” Back to her normal self, the doctor stood up and walked to the bedroom door. Just before she left, she turned and said, “You can stay in bed till tomorrow morning, that’s quite reasonable for someone who’s done what you just did, but after that I want to see you up and about. Understood?”

Kirsten nodded. Left alone, she pulled the sheets up to her chin and stared at the long, faint crack in the ceiling. Her head was still throbbing and her stomach felt sore, but apart from that, everything seemed in working order, considering the mixture of pills and the amount of alcohol she had taken. As Dr. Craven had said, none of the tablets had had time to do any damage, and she was suffering more from the effects of the Scotch, which was all the stomach wall had had time to absorb.

She would go to the specialist in Bath, she decided. Though she had little faith in psychiatrists, having studied and dismissed both Freud and Jung in a first-year general studies course, she felt desperate enough to try anything. If only he could get that dark cloud out of her mind and give her something-anything-to replace the terrible cold emptiness that she felt about everything. It wasn’t fear that kept her indoors, in her bed, it was just apathy. There was nothing she wanted to do, nothing at all. She felt foolish and despised, and that was about it. With a bit of luck, perhaps the specialist really could help. Maybe he could give her something to live for.

29 Susan

During the night, the seagulls by the lower harbor were just as noisy as the ones on West Cliff, but breakfast at Mrs. Cummings’s establishment was an altogether less elaborate affair. For a start, there was no cereal, just a small glass of rather watery orange juice for each person. Nor was there a choice between tea or coffee, only tea. The main course consisted of one fried egg with the white still ru

And the whole meal seemed to be taking place at fast-forward. Sue was a little late coming down, as she had her face to fix and her wig to secure. No sooner had she sat down than the plate appeared in front of her. The tea had already been mashing for some time, and it tasted so bitter by then that she had to resort to sugar. She never had time to get around to the orange juice.

The only other guests in evidence were a bedraggled-looking bachelor in a gray sleeveless V-neck pullover, who hadn’t either shaved or combed his hair, and two bored teenage girls with multicolored spikes of hair and war-paint makeup. Sue finished quickly, went up to her room to smoke a cigarette and pick up her bag, then wandered out.

It was another gray day outside, but the thin light was piercingly bright. Weather like this always puzzled Sue. There was no sun in sight, no blue sky, no dazzle on the water, but she found that she had to screw up her eyes to stop them from watering. She considered buying sunglasses and perhaps a wide-brimmed hat, but decided against it. Enough was enough; there was no point in going overboard and ending up looking like someone in disguise.

First she bought cigarettes and newspapers at the closest newsagent’s, then she found a different café on Church Street in which to enjoy her morning coffee. She had read in crime novels about people changing their appearance but still getting caught because they were stupid enough to stick to the same inflexible routines.

When she looked at the local newspaper, she noticed that it was a Saturday late edition she hadn’t seen. Of course! Today was Sunday; there would be no local papers, only the nationals. In the stop-press section at the bottom of the left-hand column on page one, she saw an update on the Grimley story:

Police are not satisfied that the body washed up on Sandsend beach last night, now identified as that of Mr. Jack Grimley, died of natural causes. Detective Inspector Cromer has informed our reporter that a postmortem has been ordered. Mr. Grimley was last seen alive when he left a Whitby pub, the Lucky Fisherman, at about 9:45 p.m. Thursday evening. Anyone with further information is asked to get in touch with the local police as soon as possible. Mr. Grimley, 30, was a self-employed joiner and part-time property assistant at Whitby Theater. He lived alone.

Sue chewed on her lip as she read. Slowly but surely, they were stumbling toward the truth, and the police always knew more than they told the newspapers. She felt a vacuum in the pit of her stomach, as if she were suspended over a bottomless chasm. But she told herself she mustn’t panic. There might not be as much time left as she had hoped for, especially if she was racing against the police investigation, but she must stay calm.