The First Cut

4 Kirsten

Kirsten 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 passing students. But the skins would all be tucked up safely in bed at this time of night.

Most of the houses in the area were old and far too large for one family these days, so they had been bought by landlords and divided into flats and bedsits for the students. It was a comfortable neighborhood, Kirsten thought. No matter what time of day or night, if you had a problem or just wanted a cup of tea and a chat, there was always likely to be someone you knew burning the midnight oil not much more than five or ten minutes’ walk away. Like a village within the city, really. Even now, soft, inviting lights burned behind many of the windows. She would miss it all very much. This was the place where she had grown up, lost her virginity, changed from a shy, awkward teenager into a wiser, more confident woman.

The park was a large square bordered on all sides by well-lit roads. Tree-lined avenues crisscrossed the cropped grass. In the daytime, students would lie out in the sun reading or playing makeshift games of cricket or football. Up near the main road were the public toilets-said to be a favorite haunt of local homosexuals-and colorful flower beds. At the center of the park, thick shrubbery grew around the bowling green and the children’s playground.

At night the place felt a little spookier, perhaps because there was no lighting in the park itself. But you could always see the tall, amber streetlights on the roads, and the sound of nearby traffic was comforting.

Kirsten’s trainers made no sound on the tarmac as she followed the path under the dark trees. There was very little traffic about. The only thing she could hear was the odd car revving up in the distance and the sound of her shoulder bag brushing against her hips. Somewhere, a dog barked. The sky was clear and the stars, magnified by the haze, looked fatter and softer than usual. How different from winter stars, Kirsten thought, all cold and sharp and merciless. These ones looked like they were melting. She looked up and turned her head in all directions but couldn’t find a moon. It had to be there somewhere-perhaps behind the trees.

Yes, she would miss it all. But Canada would be exciting, especially if Galen came, too, as he intended. Neither of them had ever crossed the Atlantic before. If they could save enough money, they would take a few months after completing their courses and travel the continent together: Montreal, New York, Boston, Washington, Miami, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vancouver. Even the names sent shivers of excitement up Kirsten’s spine. Three years ago she could never have imagined doing such a thing. University hadn’t only given her a first-class education, it had given her freedom and independence, too.

Soon she got to the center of the park, near the bowling green. The whole tract of land was slightly convex, and this was the highest part. She could see lights in all directions, defining the valleys and hillsides upon which the city was built. Because of the warm, moist air, the far-off streetlights all had haloes.

Just off the path stood a statue of a lion with a serpent coiled around it. Kirsten had noticed the other day that some idiot-perhaps the skinheads-had spray-painted its head blue and scrawled filthy graffiti in red all over its body. That didn’t matter in the dark, though, and she decided to give in to an impulse she had often felt.

Swishing over the grass, she went up to the statue and ran her hand over the still warm stone. Then, with sudden resolve, she jumped astride it.

The lion was small enough that her feet easily touched the ground. Down the path, she could see through the trees to the lights on the main road and the turning into her own street, only a few hundred yards away. To think she had been here all this time and had always wanted to sit on the lion but hadn’t done so until now, her last night. She must have passed it at least a thousand times. She felt silly, but at the same time she was enjoying herself tremendously. At least nobody was watching.

She gripped the smooth mane and pretended she was riding through the jungle. In her mind, she could hear screeching cockatoos, chattering monkeys, humming and clicking insects, and snakes slithering through the undergrowth. She raised her head to look for the moon again, but before she could find it, she noticed a strange smell and, a split second later, felt a rough hand cover her mouth and nose.