Like Clockwork

1

It was old Harry Rabinowitz, out for an early morning walk, who found the first body. Her throat had been precisely, meticulously sliced through. But that was not the first thing he noticed. She lay spreadeagled on the promenade in full view of anyone who cared to look. Her face was child-like in death, dark hair rippling in the breeze. Blood, pooled and dried in the corners of her eyes, streaked her right cheek like tears. Her exposed breasts gestured towards womanhood. One slender arm was lifted straight above her head; the fingers of the left hand were extended, like a supplicant’s. The right hand – its fingers clenched – had been bound with blue rope, and rested on her hip.

A bouquet, just like a bride’s, had been placed next to her. Later on, in the ensuing jostle of people approaching, then recoiling, the flowers were trampled, becoming part of the gutter debris.

He had stopped in shock next to the dead girl. The pounding of his heart deafened him. Darkness gathered in the periphery of his vision. He turned away from her and leant on the solid mass of the sea wall, gulping in the cold morning fog. He watched as a group of old women approached. He lifted his arm in a feeble effort to summon help. The women waved back. It was only when they were close to him that he could get them to stop waving and look at the dead girl. They flocked around the body.

Ruby Cohen had recognised Harry and scurried over to take his arm. ‘You look terrible, Harry. Come and sit down.’ She led him to an orange bench. He sat down, waiting for his heart to quieten, grateful to her. Ruby made sure that he was settled before returning to her friends.

‘You call the ambulance,’ Ruby ordered. ‘I’m going to ask Dr Hart for help. There’s her flat, next to the lighthouse.’ Harry watched her stride off officiously.

More people arrived. Some, he noticed, gagged at the sight of the dead girl. Harry pulled his coat closed. When I’m not so cold, when I regain my strength, he thought to himself, I’ll cover her.