After lunch, they took a stroll around the town, walked along by the river, and then set off for the last leg of the journey.
Kirsten dozed uneasily as an interminable Mahler symphony played, disturbed even during the clear daylight hours by her dreams of the dark man and the light man cutting at her body, and then, on the long hill that wound down into Bath, she felt the first twinge of fire deep in her loins. She ignored it and looked on the familiar city, its light stone glinting in the sun below. But before they even reached Pulteney Road, the fiery, shooting pains between her legs had her almost doubled up, gritting her teeth in the back of the car.
19 Martha
Remember 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 taller than she, with a shaggy thatch of dark hair and the kind of facial growth that looks like a perpetual five o’clock shadow. Just as on the previous evening, he was wearing a navy-blue Guernsey jersey and baggy dark pants made of some heavy material. He had a strong local accent. The voice was right, she was certain. And the face. She had to trust in faith and instinct now; logic alone could never be enough to lead visionaries to their Grails.
“On holiday?” he asked, leaning easily against the railing beside her.
“You could say that.” Martha looked straight ahead as she spoke. Over the water, St. Mary’s stood squat, as bright as polished sand, in its floodlight. The red and blue and amber lights twisted like oil slicks in the dark harbor below. Footsteps clicked behind her-a woman in high-heeled shoes-and further away, down in the town itself, a group of noisy kids came out of a pub shouting and whooping. Out to sea, something splashed in the water.
“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.”
