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1 Martha M artha Browne arrived in Whitby one clear afternoon in early September, convinced of her destiny. All the way, she had gazed out of the bus window and watched the landscape become more and more unreal. On Fylingdales Moor, the sensors of the early-warning missile-attack system rested like giant golf balls balanced at the rims of holes, and all around them the heather was in full bloom. It wasn’t purple, like the songs all said, but more delicate, maroon laced with pink. When the moors gave way to rolling farmland, like the frozen green waves of the sea it led to, she understood what Dylan Thomas meant by “fire green as grass.” Sea and sky were a piercing blue, and the town nestled in its bay, a pattern of red pantile roofs flanked on either side by high cliffs. Everything was too vibrant and vivid to be real; the scene resembled a landscape painting, as distorted in its way as Van Gogh’s wheat fields and starry nights. The bus lumbered down toward the harbor and pulled up in
2 Kirsten C ome on now, let’s be ’aving yer! Ain’t yer got no ’omes to go to?” The landlord of the Ring O’Bells voiced his nightly complaint as he came over to Kirsten’s table to collect the glasses. “It’s half past eleven. They’ll have my license, they will.” “Pray cease and desist,” said Damon, holding up his hand like a stop sign. “Dost thou not ken ’tis the end of term? Know’st thou not ’tis the end of our final year in this fair city?” “I don’t bloody care,” the landlord growled. “It’s time you all pissed off home to bed.” He snatched a half-empty glass from the table. “Hey, that was my drink!” Sarah said. “I haven’t finished it.” “Yes you have, love.” He stood his ground, not a big man, but quick and strong enough to outmaneuver a bunch of drunken students. “Out, the lot of you. Now! Come on!” Hugo stood up. “Wait a minute. She paid for that drink and she’s got every bloody right to finish it.” With his curly blond hair and broad shoulders, he looked more like a rugby player than
3 Martha T he room was perfect. Usually, a single room in a bed and breakfast establishment is nothing more than a cupboard by the toilets, but this one, clearly a converted attic with a dormer window and white-painted rafters, had been done out nicely. Candy-striped wallpaper brightened the walls, and a salmon-pink candlewick bedspread covered the three-quarter bed. Just to the left of the window stood the washstand, with clean white towels laid neatly over a chrome rail. The only other furniture consisted of a small wardrobe with metal hangers that jangled together when Martha opened the flimsy door, and a bedside lamp on a small chest of drawers. The owner leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded while she made up her mind. He was a coarse man with hairy forearms and even more hair sticking out over the top of his white open-necked shirt. His face looked like it was made of pink vinyl, and six or seven long fair hairs curled on his chin. “We don’t get many girls staying by t
4 Kirsten K irsten lingered on the pavement outside Oastler Hall and took a deep breath. She could still hear the music—Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”—above the muffled talk and laughter behind her. Taking stock of herself, she found that she didn’t feel any more tipsy than she had earlier—less so, if anything. At the party she had drunk only about a can and a half of lager, and the dancing seemed to have driven much of the alcohol out of her system. She must have sweated it out, she supposed, considering the way her blouse was sticking to her. The night was warm and muggy. There was no breeze to speak of, just an occasional breath of warm air such as one feels on opening an oven. Everything was still and quiet. Kirsten headed for the park. She had crossed it plenty of times before, day and night, and never had any cause to worry about the journey. The worst that ever happened was that the gang of skinheads who hung out there early in the evening might hurl an insult or two at pas
5 Martha T he tide was in when Martha walked back under the whale’s jawbone to Pier Road, and the small fishing boats bobbed at their moorings in the harbor. The sun was going down behind West Cliff, and, at the top of the hill opposite, St. Mary’s Church shone warm gold in the last rays. There was still nothing happening in the auction sheds, but some of the locals seemed to be pottering around on their own small boats. Martha leaned against the railing on St. Ann’s Staith and watched two men in navy-blue jerseys washing the deck of a red sailboat. She had brought her quilted jacket with her, but the air was still so warm that she carried it slung over her shoulder. As night came in, the fishy smell of the place seemed to grow stronger. Something about the air made her crave a cigarette. She had never smoked before the past year, but now she didn’t care one way or another. Whatever she felt like, she would do, and damn the consequences. She went into a small gift shop near the Dracula
6 Kirsten A long, oily blackness punctuated by quick, vivid dreams. A figure hunched over her, dark and hooded, and a blade flashed. It seemed to slice at her skin. Long cuts flapped open and blood welled, but there was no pain. She saw, as if from a great distance, the sharp steel pierce the pale flesh of her thigh. It went in deep and when it slid out, blood oozed around the edges of the gash. But she felt nothing at all. Then the darkness came again. This time it was a figure all in white, a human shape with no face. The same things happened. The knife was different, but it cut just like the other, and again there was no sensation. They were all just dreams. She couldn’t possibly see these things, could she? Her eyes were closed. And if they had really happened, then she would have screamed out in agony from the pain, wouldn’t she?
7 Martha A loud shrieking woke Martha at four o’clock in the morning. She turned over in bed and frowned as she looked at the luminous dial of her watch. The row went on. It sounded very close. Finally, she realized it was the seagulls. They must have found a shoal of fish, or perhaps a cat had spilled the dustbin at the back of one of the fish bars and they had zoomed in on that. It was a terrible noise: the sound of raw hunger and greed. She pictured the gulls ripping dead fish apart, blank white faces speckled with blood. She sighed and turned over again, pulling the sheets up around her ears. The gulls had woken her from a dream. Maybe she could get back to it. All her dreams were good these days—Technicolor jaunts of indescribable beauty, full of ecstasy and excitement, visits to alien worlds, flying easily through space and time. They hadn’t always been like that. For a long time she had suffered from terrifying nightmares, dreams of blood and shadows, and then for a while she ha
8 Kirsten T he first thing Kirsten saw when she opened her eyes was a long curving crack in the white ceiling. It looked like an island coastline or the crude outline of a whale. Her mouth was dry and tasted bad. With difficulty, she swallowed, but the vile taste wouldn’t go away. Around her she could hear only quiet sounds: a steady hissing; a high-pitched, rhythmic bleeping. She couldn’t smell anything at all. She moved her head and glimpsed shadowy figures sitting beside her bed. It was difficult to focus from so close, and she couldn’t make out who they were. Then she became aware of muffled voices. “Look, she’s coming round…she’s opened her eyes.” “Careful…don’t touch her…she’ll wake up in her own time.” And someone bent over her: a faceless figure all in white. Kirsten tried to scream, but no sound came out. Gentle hands touched her brow and pushed her shoulders firmly back onto the hard bed. She let her head fall on the pillow again and sighed. The voices were clearer now, like
9 Martha W hen Martha got downstairs for breakfast the next morning, the other guests were already seated. Only one small table, set for two, remained. Beyond the bay window, the sun was shining on Abbey Terrace, and the sky was blue again. By the door stood a help-yourself trolley: jugs of orange and grapefruit juice; milk and miniature packets of Corn Flakes, Special K, Rice Krispies, Alpen and Frosties. Martha took some Alpen, poured herself a glass of juice and sat down. She helped herself to a cup of tea from the stainless-steel pot on the table. Judging by its color, the tea had been stewing too long. She looked at the place opposite her and hoped that no one would join her for breakfast. Never very cheerful first thing in the morning, she had just about managed to nod and say hello to the others. Conversation would be out of the question. As she sipped the bitter tea, she cast her eyes around the room. In the bay window sat an old couple. The man’s dark brown hair was swept stra
10 Kirsten W hen Kirsten drifted out of the comforting darkness for the second time, she noticed the vases of red and yellow flowers and the cards standing on her bedside table. Then she turned her head and saw a stranger sitting at the other side of the bed. She gripped the sheets around her throat and looked around the rest of the room. The white-smocked nurse still hovered in the background—that, at least, was reassuring—and sitting against the wall by the door was a man in a light gray suit with a notebook on his lap and a pencil poised, ready to write. Kirsten couldn’t focus all that clearly on him, but he looked too young to be as bald as he seemed. The man beside her leaned forward and rested his chin on his fists. He was about her father’s age—early fifties—with short, spiky gray hair and a red complexion. His eyes were brown, and a tiny wen grew between his right eye and his nose. Wedged between his left nostril and his upper lip was a dark mole with a couple of hairs sproutin
11 Martha T here were no names on the gravestones. Martha stood in the cliff-top cemetery by St. Mary’s and stared in horror. Most of the stones were blackened around their edges, and where the chiseled details should have been, there was just pitted sandstone. On some of them, she could see faint traces of lettering, but many were completely blank. It must be the salt wind, she thought, come from the sea and stolen their names away. It made her feel suddenly and inexplicably sad. She looked down at the ruffled blue water and the thin line of foam as waves broke along the beach. It didn’t seem fair. The dead should be remembered, as she remembered them. Shivering despite the heat, she wandered over to the church itself. It was an impressive place inside. She skipped the taped lecture and, instead, picked up a printed guide and wandered around. At the front stood a huge, three-tier pulpit, and below it stretched a honeycomb of rectangular box pews said to resemble the “ ’tween-decks” of
12 Kirsten T he 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 need
13 Martha T he Lucky Fisherman, a bit off the beaten track, turned out to be an unpretentious little local frequented mostly by towns-people. Martha didn’t notice any real difference between the public bar and the lounge; both had the same small round tables and creaky wooden chairs. The woodwork was old and scratched, and one of the embossed glass panels in the door between the bars was broken. At one end of the room was a dartboard, which no one was using when she walked in at five past seven. There were only a few other customers in the place, most of whom leaned easily against the bar chatting to the landlord. Keith was sitting at a table in the far corner under a framed photograph, an old sepia panorama of Whitby in its whaling days, with tall-masted ships in the harbor and chunky men in sou’westers—like the man on the packets of Fisherman’s Friend cough lozenges—leaning against the railing on St. Ann’s Staith and smoking stubby pipes. The fence had been made of wood in those days
14 Kirsten I t’s my body. I have a right to know.” Kirsten leaned back on the pillows. Her eyes were puffed up, and the tear tracks had dried on her cheeks. The doctor stood by the bottom of the bed, and her parents sat beside her. “You were in no state to be alarmed,” the doctor said. “You’ve been suffering from severe trauma. We had to avoid upsetting you.” For the first time, Kirsten actually looked at him. He was a short, dark-skinned man with a deeply etched frown that converged in a V between his thick black eyebrows. Somehow, the lines made him look like a short-tempered person, though Kirsten had seen no evidence of this. If he had tried to keep the full extent of her injuries from her, he had at least been gentle. “I’m already alarmed,” she said. Her nightgown was buttoned up again now, but the memory of what she had seen still frightened her. “Look, I’m not a little girl. Something’s wrong. Tell me.” “We didn’t want to upset you, dear.” Her mother echoed the doctor. “There’s
15 Martha T he next morning the honeymooners were gone, leaving one empty table, but Keith sat with Martha anyway. He made polite conversation over breakfast but demonstrated none of the ebullience and energy he’d shown the previous day, when he had first found himself at the table with her. Enforced celibacy, she guessed, had seriously dampened his spirits. It would be best to say nothing about last night, she decided. After all, it was Keith’s last day; perhaps tomorrow she would be able to eat alone. A particularly near and noisy flock of seagulls had awoken most of the guests at about three thirty in the morning, and that provided a safe and neutral topic of conversation over the black pudding and grilled mushrooms that again augmented the usual bacon and egg. Martha ate quickly, wished Keith a good journey and hurried upstairs. She hadn’t slept well. It wasn’t only the scavenging gulls that had disturbed her, but thoughts and fears about what she had to do next. For weeks she had
16 Kirsten L ike most people who hear bad news, Kirsten went through all the textbook stages, including the belief that a second opinion would prove the doctor wrong, and that what he had told her was gone forever would somehow be miraculously restored. The first night, she convinced herself that it was all a bad dream; it would pass. But it didn’t. Even in the mild light of the next morning everything was the same: her stitches, her aches, her wounds, her loss. The nightmares of painless, almost bloodless, slashing and slicing continued. She never woke up screaming, but sometimes she would open her eyes suddenly at some ungodly hour of the morning to escape the relentless images and to puzzle over them. Other times, she lay awake all night. Especially when it was raining. She liked to try and empty her mind and pretend that her hard hospital bed was really a pallet of pine needles deep in the woods behind her parents’ house in Brierley Coombe. The rain pattered gently on the leaves ou
17 Martha M artha found a pizza place to eat in that evening. Oddly enough, instead of giving her butterflies in her stomach, nervousness was making her hungry. Upstairs was a takeaway, where busy white-jacketed cooks prepared orders, but downstairs was a tiny cellar restaurant with only four tables, each bearing a red-checked tablecloth and a candle burning inside a dark orange glass. Very Italian. Martha was the only person in the place. The whitewashed stone walls arched over to form the curved ceiling, and the way the candles cast shadows over the ribbing and contours made the place look like a white cave or the inside of that whale Martha had imagined herself entering the first time she passed under the jawbone on West Cliff. The menu offered little choice: pizza with tomato sauce, with mushrooms or with prawns. When the young waitress came, Martha settled for mushrooms. “What’s the wine?” she asked. “We’ve got white or red.” “Yes, but what kind is it?” The waitress shrugged. “Med
18 Kirsten T he 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.
19 Martha R emember you?” The man looked puzzled. Then he smiled and jerked his thumb back toward the pub. “You were in the Fisherman last night with your boyfriend. I remember that.” “He’s not my boyfriend,” Martha said. “Besides, he’s moved on now.” Martha didn’t know whether to feel angry or glad that he didn’t remember her. It was an insult, yes, but one that she could use to her advantage. She had stopped shaking now, and her blood was warming a little. All she had to do was keep reminding herself what he was, what he had done, and she would find the courage she needed from her anger and disgust. This was her destiny, after all, her mission; it was the reason she had survived what many had not. She still found it difficult to look at him, but when she did she noticed, in the dim glow of a streetlight, that he was not as old as she had first thought: late twenties, perhaps, or early thirties at the most. For some reason, she had expected him to be older. He stood just an inch or so
20 Kirsten Y ou’ll have to expect a bit of pain now and then,” said Dr. Craven, writing on her prescription pad with a black felt-tip pen. “Traumatic injuries often cause extreme pain. But don’t worry, it won’t last forever. I’ll prescribe some analgesic. It should help.” She sat back and handed the slip of paper to Kirsten. Behind the doctor, a brusque woman in her early forties, with severely cropped gray hair, steady blue eyes and a beak of a nose, Kirsten could see the small Norman church and the village green, with its two superb copper beeches, rose beds, little white fence and benches where the old people sat and gossiped. She could even hear the finches and tits twittering beyond the open window. Brierley Coombe. Home. The previous evening she had managed to keep the pain from her parents. She had simply claimed tiredness after the journey, then taken four aspirin and a long, hot bath before going to bed. The pain receded, and she had actually slept well for the first time sinc
21 Martha T he seagulls were grotesquely distorted, no longer sleek, white, bullet-faced birds. Their feathers were mottled with ash gray, and their bodies were bloated almost beyond recognition. They could hardly stand. Their wiry legs, above webbed feet as yellow as egg yolk, couldn’t support their distended bellies, which were stretched so tight that a pattern of blue veins bossed through the gray and white markings. Their wings creaked and flapped like old, moth-eaten awnings in a storm as they tried to fly. But mostly it was their faces that were different. They still had seagull eyes—cold, dark holes that knew nothing of mercy or pity—but their beaks were encased in long, gelatinous snouts smeared with blood. They still sounded like seagulls. Even though they could no longer fly, they waddled on the dark sands and keened like the ghosts of a million tortured souls. Martha woke sweating in the early dawn. Outside, the gulls were screeching, circling. They must have been at it for
22 Kirsten T hey came back again that night, the dreams of slashing and slicing, to invade Kirsten’s childhood room. The white knight and the black knight, as she had come to call them, both without faces. This time, they seemed to be trying to teach her something. The black knight handed her a long ivory-handled knife, and she plunged it herself into the soft flesh of her thigh. It sank as if into wax. A little blood bubbled up around the edges of the cut, but nothing much. Slowly, she eased out the blade and watched the edges of torn skin draw together again like lips closing. A pinkish bubble swelled and burst. And all the time she didn’t feel a thing. Not a thing. Somehow, she knew the faceless white knight was smiling down at her.
23 Martha T he dead fish stared up at Martha with glazed, oily eyes. Pinkish red blood stained their gills and mouths, and sunlight glinted on their silvery scales and pale bellies. The fishy smell was strong in the air, overpowering even the sea’s fresh ozone. Holidaymakers paused as they walked along St. Ann’s Staith and took photographs of the fish sales. The people involved, no doubt used to being camera fodder for tourists, didn’t even spare them a glance. The auction sheds that Friday morning were hives of activity. Earlier, while Martha had still been sleeping, the boats had come in, and the fishermen had unpacked their catches into iced boxes ready for the sales. Crab pots were stacked and nets lay spread by the sheds. As Martha watched, a man hosed fish scales from the stone quay. Gulls gathered in a raucous cloud, and occasionally one swooped down after a dropped fish. Of course, Martha realized, they only sold the fish here; they didn’t clean them and gut them. That must be
24 Kirsten K irsten lay in bed late the next morning. Outside her window the birds sang and twittered in the trees and the village went about its business. Not that there was much of that. Occasionally, she could hear the whirr of bicycle wheels passing by, and once in a while the thrum of a delivery van’s engine. She put the empty coffee cup back on the tray—breakfast in bed, her mother’s idea—and went to open the curtains. Sunlight burst through, catching the cloud of dust motes that swirled in the air. It’s all dead skin, Kirsten thought, wondering where on earth she’d heard that. Probably one of those educational television programs, science for the masses. She opened the window and warm air rushed to greet her, carrying the heavy scent of honeysuckle. A fat bee droned around the opening, then seemed to decide there was nothing for him in there and meandered down to the garden instead. Kirsten’s room reflected just about every stage of her transition from child to worldly student o
25 Martha S aturday brought Martha two important pieces of news: one that she had been expecting, and another that changed everything. The day started as usual with a wink from the old man and a glare from his wife at breakfast. Martha wasn’t very hungry, so she skipped the cereal and just picked at her bacon and eggs. She was wondering whether to move out that day and find somewhere else in another part of the town. It seemed a good idea. People were getting far too used to her here, and there might come a time when awkward questions would be asked. After breakfast, she went back up to her room and packed her gear in the holdall. She had one last smoke there, leaning on the windowsill and looking left and right, from the close and overbearing St. Hilda’s to the distant St. Mary’s. It was the first overcast day in the entire week. A chill wind had blown in off the North Sea, bringing the scent of rain with it. Already a light drizzle was falling, like a thin mist enveloping the town. V
26 Kirsten K irsten remembered how she used to love the gossamer light in the woods, green and silver filaments dancing in the leaves, and the way it shot through gaps in the foliage here and there and lit up clumps of bluebells or tiny forget-me-nots by the brook, making them seem like still-life paintings rather than living, growing plants. Today, though, she felt no elation as she trudged along the winding path under the high trees. After two days of hiding in her room, she had made the effort to go out—more for her parents’ sake than for her own. Her father was beginning to look even more haggard than ever, and her mother was getting more impatient by the minute. They were almost at their wits’ end with her, she could tell. They wanted to tell her to put the unpleasantness behind her, stop moping and get on with her life. Only pity prevented them. They still felt sorry for her, and it was a sorrow they couldn’t give voice to. So she had come to the woods to get them off her back. I
27 Martha A fter Martha got off the bus at the station near Valley Bridge Road in Scarborough at about one o’clock in the afternoon, the first thing she did was grab a ham and cheese sandwich and a half-pint of lager and lime in the nearest pub, a quiet, run-down place with sticky tables. She felt much calmer than she had earlier in the day. The news had hit her so hard she had almost given up, but in the end it had only strengthened her resolve. She couldn’t go back without finishing her business on the coast. But now she knew that her precious instinct wasn’t infallible, she would have to be much more certain the next time. How she could find proof beyond what she remembered of his appearance and voice, she didn’t know. Perhaps she would have to lure him on and confront him. When Grimley had said he didn’t remember her, he had been telling the truth. The real killer most likely would remember her, and if she could get him to admit to that, then she would be sure. She didn’t want to l
28 Kirsten Y es, I am sure that Kirsten doesn’t need her stomach pumped,” Dr. Craven repeated patiently. “You saw for yourself, she brought up the tablets before they had time to work their way into her bloodstream. At worst she’ll feel a little sick and dizzy for a while—which is no more than she deserves—and she’ll probably have a heck of a headache.” They stood in Kirsten’s room, where she lay tucked up in bed. Her mother was flapping about and wringing her hands like a character in a Victorian melodrama. “You’re upset, understandably,” the doctor went on. “Perhaps it would be best if you were to take a tranquillizer and lie down for a while yourself.” “Yes.” Kirsten’s mother nodded, then she frowned. “Oh, but I can’t.” She looked at her daughter. “She took them all.” It wasn’t meant as an accusation, Kirsten knew, but she was made to feel once again that she had done nothing but make a nuisance of herself since she got back home: first she had refused to go out, then she had been s
29 Susan D uring 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 runny, two thin rashers of bacon and a slice of fried bread; there were no grilled tomatoes, mushrooms or slices of black pudding. There was, of course, plenty of cold toast and marmalade. 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
30 Kirsten C ome in, Kirsten. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” Dr. Henderson’s office was on the second floor of an old house, and the window, which was open about six inches, looked out over the River Avon toward the massive abbey. The last of the great medieval churches to be built in England, it was still very much in use. Instead of a couch, Kirsten found a padded swivel chair opposite the doctor, who sat at the other side of her untidy desk with her back to the window. Filing cabinets stood to Kirsten’s right, and glass-enclosed bookcases to her left, many of them filled with journals. From one shelf, a yellowed skull stared out. It seemed to be grinning at her. Behind her was the door, and beside that, an old hat stand. Dr. Henderson leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands on her lap. Of course it had to be a woman, Kirsten realized; they wouldn’t have sent her to a male psychiatrist after what happened. But she hadn’t expected such a young woman. Dr. Henderson looked
31 Susan M onday morning found Sue riding up the coast toward Staithes on the 10:53 bus. Her plan was to have lunch there, look around, then walk the three miles or so along the Cleveland Way to Runswick Bay for tea. From there she could get a bus back to Whitby at 6:25 in the evening. Robin Hood’s Bay, though quaint enough with its hotchpotch of pastel cottages almost sitting on top of one another, had proved disappointing. Not only had Sue seen no evidence of fishing there, she had felt very strongly that this was not the place she should be wasting her time in. That evening, she had ventured into the lounge alone to watch TV and make a cup of instant coffee, and Mr. Cummings had joined her for a while. He was a pleasant, ruddy-faced young man, more than willing to talk about fishing in the Whitby area. It turned out that there were more jobs connected with the industry than Sue had imagined—canning, freezing, processing, shipping—and some of them might be worth looking into. But Sta
32 Kirsten A ugust gave way to September and the nights turned cooler. As the weeks passed, Kirsten began to look forward to her sessions with Laura Henderson. They smoked and sipped terrible coffee together in that cozy room overlooking the River Avon. The immediate sights beyond the window became as familiar to Kirsten as if she had looked out on them all her life: Robert Adam’s Pulteney Bridge, with its row of shops along each side, all built of Cotswold stone; the huge square late-Gothic tower of the Abbey; the Guildhall and municipal buildings. Often she stared over Laura’s shoulders during the long silences or stood at the window as Laura sought out an article in a journal. Some evenings, when their sessions ran late, Laura would take a bottle of Scotch from her filing cabinet and pour them each a drink. They talked more about Kirsten’s childhood, her parents, her feelings about sex. Laura said that Kirsten was making progress. And so she was. She still didn’t like going out or m
33 Susan I t was partly the way you smoke your cigarette,” Keith said. “Everybody’s different. You hold it straight out between your first two fingers like a real lady, or like you’re just pretending to smoke.” He grinned. “But why the change in appearance? You look so feminine. I mean, not that you didn’t before, it’s just…” He slowed to a halt. Sue smiled and flicked her cigarette end onto the sand. “You know what they say: a change is as good as a rest.” Why the hell did he have to turn up? she asked herself. And what am I supposed to do about him? “Did you need a rest?” “No, I needed a change.” They both laughed. “But seriously, Martha,” he persisted, “it’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid someone. You aren’t, are you?” “It’s nothing but a skirt and a blouse. You’re acting as if I’m dressed like Richard III or something.” “There is the wig.” Sue touched the false hair. “I was sick of having it short. I couldn’t wait.” “And the makeup.” “Can’t a girl put a bit of lipstick on anym
34 Kirsten Y ou realize it might take several sessions,” said Laura Henderson, brushing some ash off her white coat, “and even then there’s no guarantee?” Kirsten nodded. “But you can do it?” “Yes, I can do it. About ten percent of people aren’t susceptible to hypnosis, but I don’t think we’ll have much trouble with you. You’re bright, and you’ve got plenty of imagination. What did Superintendent Elswick say?” Kirsten shrugged. “Nothing much. Just asked me if I’d give it a try.” Laura leaned forward. “Look, Kirsten,” she said. “I don’t know what’s on your mind, but I sense some hostility. I want to remind you that what goes on between us in this office is confidential. I don’t want you thinking that I’m somehow just an extension of the police. Naturally, they’re keeping tabs on you, and when they found out you were seeing me they made inquiries. I want you to know, though, that I haven’t told them anything at all about our sessions, and nor would I, without your permission.” “I believe
35 Susan T he newspapers had nothing much to report the next morning. Sue sat in her new café on Church Street, drinking coffee to get rid of the taste of Mrs. Cummings’s tea. She knew she would be better off not drinking the vile brew in the first place, but she needed something hot and bitter to wake her up. It was drizzling outside, and the café was full of miserable tourists keeping an eye on the weather, spinning out a pot of tea and a slice of gateau until the rain stopped and they could venture out again. Sue hadn’t slept well. She had already been awake when the seagulls started at a quarter to four. Even under the blankets and the bedspread, she had been trembling with delayed shock at what she had done to Keith McLaren. She could still see his stunned, innocent face, the blood pouring over his tanned cheek. She told herself he was just like the rest, like all men, but she still couldn’t help hating herself for what she had been forced to do. When she came to analyze her actio
36 Kirsten W hat else did you remember?” Sarah asked, leaning forward over the table and cupping her chin in her hands. “That’s just it,” Kirsten said. “Nothing. It’s so frustrating. I’ve had two more sessions since then and got nowhere. Every time I pull back at the same point.” It was seven o’clock in the evening. Kirsten had parked the car off Dorchester Street and met Sarah at the station about an hour earlier. They had walked up to the city center in the lightly falling snow and now sat in a pub on Cheap Street near the Abbey. The place was busy with the after-work crowd and Christmas shoppers taking a break. Kirsten and Sarah had just managed to squeeze in at a small table. “Are you going to carry on?” Sarah asked. Kirsten nodded. “I’ve got another session in the morning.” “So you do want to know?” “Yes.” “You know there’s been another one, don’t you, just before the end of term? That makes two now—three including you.” “Kathleen Shannon,” Kirsten said. “Aged twenty-two. She was
37 Susan A fter two days without success, Sue almost gave up. There seemed to be too many obstacles in her way, and she was making too many mistakes. For a start, the conversation with the woman in Rose’s Café worried her, then she overheard two workers talking and learned that the factory operated on a shift system. Only the office workers came teeming out of the mesh gates at five o’clock. Most of the people on the shop floor worked one of the shifts: noon to eight, eight to four and four to noon. Finding him now seemed like an impossible task. She could hardly turn up there at four in the morning and stand gawking as the workers filed out. Even the weather continued to work against her. It rained on and off, and the temperature dropped low enough that she had to wear her cardigan under the raincoat. She was quite prepared to spend some of her fast-dwindling money on binoculars and go up to the woods, even though the ground would be wet, but luckily it didn’t come to that. A couple o
38 Kirsten T he green fronds began to sway and Kirsten felt the weight of the ocean on her eyelids. Laura’s voice murmured in the distance, urging her deeper, pressing her on, and then she heard the buzzing in her ears and she was walking out into the street one muggy June night eons ago… She could feel the tarmac path, softened by the day’s heat, yield like a pile carpet under her feet and hear the swishing of her jeans as she walked. A car droned in the distance. A dog barked. Kirsten looked up. The stars were fat and blurred, almost butter-colored in the haze, but she couldn’t find the moon. It must be behind those high trees, she thought as she hurried on. She stood at the center of the park, where she could see the glow of the haloed streetlights beyond the trees, and felt an urge to sit on the lion. She walked across the narrow patch of grass and mounted it. Images of cockatoos, monkeys, insects and snakes ran through her mind. She laughed and tossed her head back to look for the
39 Susan A s Susan approached the Brown Cow at lunchtime on the third day, she saw two white factory vans parked in front, and before she had even got near the entrance, two men came out of the pub and walked over to them. It was impossible to be sure from such a distance, but one of them matched the image in her memory: low, dark fringe, the thick eyebrows meeting in the middle. She had to get closer to see if he had deep lines on his face and, most of all, she needed to hear his voice. When they started their vans and pulled out, she followed on foot. At least she could see which way they turned as they drove down the lane. If they went left, they would be on their way to the factory, and if they carried on down to the main road, they would be off making a delivery somewhere. She was in luck. They turned left. Sue hurried after them. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but there was no point in hanging around the Brown Cow any longer. When she reached the turning, the vans had
40 Kirsten W hen Kirsten stood on the platform and watched the Intercity pull out at 12:25 on January 3, she felt frightened and desolate. Despite an awkward beginning, Christmas at Brierley Coombe that year had turned out to be the best time she had enjoyed since the assault. She had been glad to have Sarah around, especially as a counter to all the uncles, aunts and grandparents who had treated her as if she were a half-witted invalid. The village itself looked like a Christmas-card illustration. The snow that began on December 22 went on for almost two days and settled a treat, particularly out in the country, where there was little traffic and no industry to spoil it. It lay about two feet thick on the thatched roofs, smooth and contoured around the eaves and gables; and in the woods, where Kirsten often took Sarah for early-morning walks, the snow that rested on twigs and branches created an image of two worlds in stark contrast, the white superimposed on the dark. They went into
41 Susan B y the time the man had left the newsagent’s, Sue had managed to get her breathing under control. She bought her papers and a packet of cigarettes, then walked back out into the drizzle. He had reached the end of the street and turned left, down the lane toward the water. Without really considering what she was going to do, Sue started following him. She half expected him to turn into the council estate, assuming that was where he lived, but he didn’t. Instead of walking right down to Church Street, however, he turned right along a narrow road that ran parallel to it. There were no houses on the right-hand side of the street, just a stretch of waste ground that sloped up to the southern edge of the council estate, almost hidden beyond the convex swell of the land. On the left stood a row of small, detached cottages. They were nothing much really—just red brick with slate roofs—but each had its own front and back gardens. Their rear windows would also look out over the harbor
42 Kirsten W ith Sarah gone, Kirsten had only her fears and a growing sense of mission to keep her going. In late January, the killer claimed his fourth victim, a second-year biology student called Jane Pitcombe. Carefully, Kirsten cut out her picture and all the details she could find and put them in the scrapbook she had started to keep track of the victims. Also that month, she told Laura Henderson that she wanted to stop the hypnotherapy sessions as they were becoming too painful for her. In reality, she was worried that she would give away to Laura whatever she discovered and that the police would find the killer first. She had come to realize shortly after Sarah left that she wanted him for herself. It was the only way to heal her wounds and put the spirits of Margaret, Kathleen and Jane to rest. It wasn’t difficult to convince Laura to stop the hypnotism; after all, the police had gotten as good a description of the killer as they were likely to. It was important to try to keep
43 Susan S till clutching her holdall in the carrier bag, Sue returned to the shops again that afternoon and spent a few pounds of her fast-dwindling funds on some dark gray Marks & Spencer slacks and a blue windbreaker with a zip-up front. She spent a good while in front of the toilet mirror on her makeup, changing the emphasis a little here and there, and found that it was possible to fasten her wig back in a ponytail without revealing any of her own hair. Her glasses also went well with the new outfit. Now she looked just different enough not to spark any memories among those who might have noticed her ghostlike presence. She was no longer just the plain, primly dressed “nice girl” in the raincoat; nor was she the short-haired tomboy in jeans and a checked shirt. She looked more like a family holidaymaker taking a break from her parents’ company for a while. The new clothes would also be more suitable for hanging around in the woods watching over the factory, if it came to that. She
44 Kirsten T hat summer, Kirsten took long, brooding walks in the woods and reckless drives in the countryside. Close to the end of the university term, about the same time she had been attacked a year ago, the killer found his sixth victim—the fifth to die—in a quiet Halifax nursing student called Jill Sarsden. Kirsten pasted the photo and details in her scrapbook as usual. At home, she pretended all was well. The dark cloud still troubled her, bringing painful headaches and bouts of depression that were difficult to hide. But she managed to convince Dr. Craven that she was making excellent progress since discontinuing the analysis, and the doctor’s opinion helped to reassure her parents. If she was occasionally quiet and withdrawn, well, that was only to be expected. Her parents knew that she had always valued her solitude and privacy anyway. In her room each night, she kept at the self-hypnosis, but got no further. The directions she had read in the book were simple enough: roll you
45 Susan S ue got out of the house easily enough without anyone seeing her and went to celebrate her first housebreaking with veal scaloppine, garlic bread and a bottle of Chianti at the expensive restaurant on New Quay Road. After that, she stopped off at her room, then walked about a mile along the coast and threw her holdall, weighted down with heavy pebbles, into the sea. She stood and watched as the tide first threw it back, then sucked it out again and swallowed it. Even if it did turn up somewhere, she thought, it wouldn’t be of any interest to anyone. Now it was time to put the final stage of her plan into operation. First, let him sweat for a while. And sweat he did. The first time Sue saw him on the day after she had broken into his cottage, he looked harried and preoccupied as he walked in to work. It was raining, and he kept his hands deep in his pockets and his head down, but his glittering eyes swept the street and the windows of the houses all around him. He must have no
46 Kirsten K irsten stared out of the window at the landscape beyond her reflection. The rounded green hills of the Cotswolds soon gave way to the fertile Vale of Evesham, where barley and wheat looked ready for harvest in the fields, and apples, pears and plums hung heavy on their trees in the hillside orchards. Then came the built-up landscape of the Midlands: cooling towers, the sprawling monotony of council estates, allotments, greenhouses, a redbrick school, a football field with white goalposts. When the train crept into Birmingham and she could feel the huge city pressing in on all sides, she began to feel nervous. This was, after all, her longest journey in ages, and she was making it alone. For over a year she had been living in a soft, comfortable, familiar world, shuttling between the Georgian elegance of Bath and the bucolic indifference of Brierley Coombe. Now it was gray and raining and she was in Birmingham, a big, rough city with slums, skinheads, race riots and all the
47 Susan L ike some shadowy female figure out of Hardy standing on a blasted heath waiting for her lover, Sue stood on the waste land in the thickening darkness and watched Greg Eastcote shut his garden gate and take the path toward her. Before he had got far, while Sue was still about sixty yards ahead, she turned her back to him and started walking along the rough path. When she got to the main road, there were few people about, but the street was well lit. Sensing him behind her, rather than seeing him, Sue continued along until she had passed the intersection with Bridge Street, where the road narrowed. This was the tourist area again, the cobbled street of gift shops, the Monk’s Haven, the Black Horse. At this time of evening, though, all the shops were closed. Polished jet gleamed in its gold-and-silver settings in the windows, and the enamel trays that had been covered with coffee- or mint-flavored fudge all day lay empty. All the happy holiday families were back at the guesthou
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