Peter Robinson - The First Cut

When she got to Saltwick Nab, a long knobbly finger of rock jutting out into the sea, Martha noticed ramshackle wooden stairs and a path leading down. Slowly, she made her way to the pinkish red rock. It started near the base of the cliff as a big hump, then dropped so that it was hardly visible above the water for a short distance, and finally rose to another knob-rather like a submerged camel with a long way between humps, she thought-further out to sea. There was nobody else around, so Martha sat down on the sparse grass for a rest. In the distance, between the humps, a white tanker was slowly making its way across the horizon. Waves caught the low section of the Nab sideways on and spray cascaded over it in a shower of white.

Martha lit her second cigarette of the day. It tasted different out in the fresh, salt air. She crossed her legs and contemplated the rhythms of the sea as it swelled and slapped against the rock. Soon, she could see the waves coming and predict how hard they would break.

She had got the feel of the place now; so much so that she felt quite at home. There were no problems as far as she could see-except perhaps for the Australian. But even he seemed naïve and harmless enough. She could string him along over a couple of drinks, and tomorrow he’d be gone. All she had to do now was find the one she was looking for. It might take a day or two, but she would succeed. He was close; of that there could be no doubt. Again, she felt a shiver of fear, and her confidence wavered. When the time came, she would have to summon up the nerve and do what had to be done. She slipped her hand into the holdall and felt for her talisman. That would help her, of course-that and her guiding spirits.

After a while, she flicked her cigarette into the sea and stood up. Fear is for the passive, she told herself. When you act, you don’t have time to feel afraid. She brushed the grass and sand from her jeans and headed back toward the footpath.

The nurse popped her head around the door. “A visitor for you, dearie.” Beyond her, Kirsten could make out the shoulder of the uniformed policeman sitting outside her room. Then the door opened all the way and Sarah walked in.

“Sarah! What are you doing here?”

“Some welcome! Actually, it wasn’t easy. First I had to get permission from that bloody detective superintendent. And as if that wasn’t enough, I had to get past Dixon of Dock Green out there.” She jerked her thumb toward the door, then pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. For a long moment, she just looked at Kirsten, then she started to cry. She leaned forward and the two of them hugged as best they could without dislodging the intravenous drip.

“Come on,” Kirsten said finally, patting her back. “You’re hurting my stitches.”

Sarah moved away and managed a smile. “Sorry, love. I don’t know what came over me. When I think of everything you must have been through…”

“Don’t,” Kirsten said. The way she felt, she needed Sarah to be her usual self: outrageous, down-to-earth, solid, funny, angry. She was sick of sympathy; even less did she want empathy. “It’s no wonder you had a hard time getting in, dressed like that,” she hurried on. Sarah wore her usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. This one bore a logo scrawled boldly across the front: A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE. “They probably think you’re a terrorist.”

Sarah laughed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “So how are you, then, kid?”

“I’m all right, I suppose.” And it was partly true. That day, Kirsten did feel a bit better-at least physically. Her skin felt more like its old self, and the frightening internal aches had diminished during the night. She felt numb inside, though, and she still hadn’t found the courage to look at herself.

“Do I look a mess?”

Sarah frowned and examined her features. “Not so bad. Most of the bruises seem to have gone, and there’s no permanent damage to your face, no disfigurement. In fact, I wouldn’t say you look much worse than usual.”

“Thanks a lot.” But Kirsten smiled as she spoke. Sarah was clearly back to normal after her brief bout of tears.

“You must have taken a hell of a beating, though.”

“I must?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Nobody’s told me what happened.”

“That’s typical of bloody doctors, that is. I suppose he’s a man?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there you are, then. What about the nurse?”

“She seems too timid to talk much.”

“Frightened of him, I should think. He’s probably a real tyrant. Most of them are.”

“The police have been, too.”

“They’re even worse.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“All I know, love, is what it said in the paper. You were attacked by some maniac in the park and stabbed and beaten.”

“Stabbed?”

“That’s what it said.”

Perhaps that explained the stitches and the way her skin had felt puckered and snagged. She took a deep breath and asked, “Did it say if I was raped as well?”

“If you were, the newspaper didn’t report it. And knowing the press, they’d have made a field day out of something like that.”

“It’s just that I feel so strange down there.”

“Really!” said Sarah. “Bloody doctors act like they own your body. They ought to tell you what’s wrong.”

“Maybe I haven’t pushed hard enough. Or maybe they don’t think I’m strong enough yet. I’ve been feeling very weak and tired.”

“Don’t worry, love. You’ll soon get your strength back. You know, I’m sure if you refuse to take your pills or start screaming in the night, they’ll tell you what’s wrong. Would you like me to tackle the doctor for you?”

Kirsten managed a weak smile. “No, thanks. I need him in one piece. I’ll try later.”

“All right.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question’s that?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going home for the summer.”

Sarah reached out and took Kirsten’s hand. Her own was small and soft with long fingers and short, bitten nails. “Someone’s got to look out for you, love,” she said.

“But seriously.”

“Seriously. That’s the main reason, I tell no lie. Oh, it’d only be rows at home anyway. You know how much my parents approve of me. I lower the tone of the neighborhood. Besides, who wants to spend a bloody summer in Hereford, of all places.”

“Lots of people would,” Kirsten said. “It’s in the country.”

Sarah shrugged. “Maybe I’ll pay a brief visit, but that’s all. I’m here to stay. We’re getting a feminist bookshop together where that old secondhand record shop used to be. Know what we’re going to call it?”

Kirsten shook her head.

“Harridan.”

“Harridan? But doesn’t that mean-”

“Yes, a bad-tempered old bag. Remember all that fuss when Anthony Burgess said Virago was a poor choice of name for a woman’s press because it meant a fierce or abusive woman? Well, we’re going a step further. We’ll show them that feminists can have just as much sense of irony as anyone else.” She laughed.

“Or bad taste,” Kirsten said.

“Often the same thing, love. Now what are we going to do about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you get out of here.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be going home. I don’t really feel right, Sarah. My mind…I’m very mixed up.”

Sarah squeezed her hand. “Bound to be. It’ll pass, though. Probably the drugs they’re giving you.”

“I have terrible nightmares.”

“You don’t remember what happened, do you?”

“No.”

“That’ll be it, then. Temporary amnesia. The brain blanks out painful experiences it doesn’t like.”