by S. J. Watson
He tilted his head. I’d snapped. His gaze drilled into me.
“You know a girl went missing there?”
I hesitated, but there was no point in pretending. I thought of Daisy.
“Years ago. And it was suicide. What’s—?”
“No. This is more recent. And there’s no mention of suicide.” He pulled up another browser. “Look.”
The story was from the website of the Malby Messenger. “CCTV clue in desperate search for missing teen Zoe Pearson,” it read, above a blurred photograph taken from video footage. It showed a girl in a black jacket, her dark hair tied back, her pixelated features indistinct. The caption said she’d been spotted at a bus station in Meadowhall. I looked away, trying to focus on something else, but my vision felt distorted.
He scrolled down to a better picture, the same girl, now facing the camera, hair loose, almost smiling, but not quite.
“She disappeared from near Blackwood Bay. About three and a half years ago.”
I shook my head. No, I wanted to say. That’s not possible. I’d have known.
But is that true? I’ve been avoiding the place for so long now anything might’ve happened.
Dan looked up. “What’s that you mentioned? A suicide?”
Fuck. I couldn’t back out now.
“A girl called Daisy,” I said. “She killed herself.”
He flicked to a different screen, entered a search term. “Daisy Willis. Ten years ago.” He sat back. “First her, and then Zoe Pearson.”
He grinned, as if he’d won a jackpot. Part of me despised him.
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” he said. “Two girls disappearing?”
I heard myself speak.
“Daisy was suicide. It was confirmed.”
He was skimming the article.
“There was no body, though. I mean—”
“It was suicide.”
“Whatever,” he said, looking once more at the screen. “She jumped from the cliff. Disappeared. And seven years later this Zoe whatever goes missing as well. There’s your story right there.” He stared straight at me, and for a second he looked exactly like the smug, self-satisfied prick I’d once thought he was.
“I have every confidence in you, Alex. But, well, not everyone else might.”
“Meaning?” I tried to keep my voice from breaking. I failed.
He shook his head, like I was a child, like he was disappointed in me. And then the sucker punch.
“I told them you’d find a place with a story, something unresolved, some tension. They wouldn’t have given you the money if I hadn’t.”
I couldn’t afford to have the project pulled and, anyway, the image of Zoe must’ve had tiny hooks: it snagged me, got under my skin. When I closed my eyes I saw Daisy, too, the dead girl. She was reaching out, telling me I was the only one who could help. And yes, I admit it, when I thought about it there was a tiny rush of pride, like hot metal. Maybe I could be the one to help her find peace. I rang Dan the next morning.
“I’ve decided,” I said. “Blackwood Bay it is.”
He was delighted, and we spent the next couple of weeks making the arrangements and getting the website up and running. Jess found someone local—Gavin, who ran the film club there—to help and went up in early October. They organized a meeting in the village hall, just before a showing. She explained the project, said it was a portrait of life in a small town, all very lighthearted. No one was out to get anyone.
The clips began to arrive. Slowly at first, just a trickle, but then, when people saw that their friends and neighbors had been filming, more came in. Mostly they were of everyday life—kids playing, people cooking, a party in a back garden. There were lots of pets, views of the cliffs. A few dick pics, yes, but I deleted those. Scenes in the pub, a shortish guy pushing a boat out onto the water. All good background. Nothing of Daisy or Zoe, no mention at all, and while I wavered between relief and disappointment, Dan came down squarely on the latter, as did Anna, who, he reminded me, held the checkbook.
“There’s only one thing for it,” he told me. “You’ll have to go up there yourself. See what you can dig up, okay?”
So here I am, sitting in a car on the way to Blackwood Bay; a place I never wanted to go, to explore a story I never wanted to look at. Yet somehow I don’t mind. Maybe it will make for a better film, after all.
Gavin is still talking. I tune back in.
“Where you staying?”
“A cottage,” I say. “Hope Lane?”
“Oh, Monica’s place?” he says. “Lovely. I can’t take you down there, though. Road’s too steep.”
“I know,” I say, too quickly, before I remember I’m not supposed to be familiar with the area. “Monica’s already warned me. If you drop me at the top, I can walk down.”
“Okay,” he says, and we drive on. The air gets heavier the closer we get, suffocating. I fight it, glancing at Gavin as I do, but he’s oblivious; he looks perfectly happy. He pulls into the car park and shuts off the engine.
I stare out into the night. A penumbra of light shines around the lamps and the streets are empty: no sign of life at all, not even a dog or a fox rooting at the litter bins. As I get out of the car and gather my things I feel as if I’m about to descend into the past. I can see the smugglers, oilskins damp and glistening, heaving barrels of rum or tobacco, heading for the lost tunnels that are rumored to connect the cellars in a vast, arterial network. Legend has it that it was once possible to smuggle contraband from sea level all the way up to the clifftop without it ever seeing the light of day and, looking now, I find myself believing it.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I say, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. A few lights are on in the houses below, but not many.
“I’ll give you a hand with your bags.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to invite me for a drink later, or to dinner, and it occurs to me that maybe I’d like him to. He seems a nice guy and it’d be good to have a friend here.
“Okay.”
We get out. I look north, toward the grassy peninsula that extends out into the water, rising as it does to a shallow cliff. Not much is visible in the dark, but there’s a light on in the distant house at its very edge.
“What’s that light?” I say.
“Oh, that’s The Rocks.” He pauses. “Bluff House.”
The words echo. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten there was even a house there. It’s as if my mind has erased it from the narrative.
“Bluff House?”
He looks at me, as if about to say something else, but then just smiles self-consciously. “We’d better get going.”
I collect my things and we begin our descent. We fall into silence as we go: the quiet is enveloping, inhibiting; even the sound of our footsteps is deadened by the snow, shrunk to a soft crunch. Nothing is quite as I remember it; it’s as if I’m seeing it through a filter, a distorting prism. The road seems to narrow farther with each step, and as it becomes increasingly steep I notice a rusted handrail by the side of the road. I grip it as I go down. I know the sea is out there, ahead and below us; there’s that familiar smell, of oil and seaweed, salty and sulfurous. We pass darkened cottages and empty cafés, lonely shops shuttered for the night. Here and there, footpaths and alleyways begin to appear, springing off from the main lane at improbable angles, but they’re unlit and disappear into inky pockets of darkness. I wonder who might be lurking, and I’m glad I’m not alone.
I’m spooked, that’s all. Being here, miles from home. Stuck without a car, without friends. Thinking about Daisy and Zoe; one dead, the other missing. I watch Gavin and wonder who sent Dan the postcard. Could it have been him? But how could he have known we were looking for a location? How could anyone?
Suddenly, Gavin stops.
“Well, this is me.” He points toward an alleyway a little farther down Slate Road. “You know where you’re going?”
“Yes, thanks. I looked on the map.�
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He passes me the bag he’s been carrying.
“I’ll let you know. About your car, I mean.”
“Thanks.”
He pauses, just for a moment.
“Well, nice to meet you,” he says. “See you around.”
I tell him I hope so, but he doesn’t move. He stands there, ill at ease. He has something else to say.
“Bye, then.”
I’m turning to walk away when he calls me back.
“Daisy . . .” he says, and I freeze.
“What?”
“It’s just . . .” He lowers his voice. “You ought to know. There are people here who think it wasn’t suicide. Zoe’s disappearance, too. Some people think they’re linked.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say. Just . . . people.”
“But—”
“That’s all I know.” He glances over his shoulder. “I have to go.”
He turns away then, quickly and decisively, and disappears into the dark. I draw breath. I wish even more that I’d never come here, but there’s no going back now. I have a film to make, a deadline to hit; progress is necessary. I look up toward The Rocks, toward Bluff House and the tall cliffs, then lower my gaze and walk, head down. I go on toward the upturned rowing boats and rusted lobster pots. I go on, toward the pub—The Ship Aground—and down, toward the slipway, thinking of the missing girls as I descend, going deeper and deeper into Blackwood Bay.
Then
5
Case Report
Name: Unknown
Hospital number: 87498565K
Date of birth: Unknown
Address: Unknown
Date of Report: 28 March 2011
The case is of a young female of unknown age but thought to be around fifteen to eighteen years old who was referred to the memory disorders clinic in March 2011. She first presented at the emergency department of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother Hospital (QEH) in Margate, Kent, with hypothermia and a suspected head injury, having been found unconscious in Deal. At the time of presentation she had no identification, and in fact no possessions other than a mobile phone. It is reported that on regaining consciousness she exhibited confusion, claiming to have no recollection of any autobiographical details, including her name, date of birth, address, etc. Following subsequent treatment at the QEH, the patient demonstrated extreme confusion when questioned about her life prior to being found. She was subsequently referred for inpatient assessment and further treatment.
On arrival the patient was extremely fearful, confused, and reticent, though alert and not entirely uncooperative. Reports from the local hospital suggested that her head injury was minor, and certainly not consistent with brain damage severe enough to account for her symptoms. She maintained that though she could recall some fragmentary details of events in the year or so leading up to her hospitalization, she had not regained knowledge of her name or any other significant autobiographical details, other than an impression that she had lived in the north of England, which was consistent with her accent, and that she thought in the days or weeks prior to hospitalization she had been living rough in London. No other details of her previous life were forthcoming. She could not recall how she had made the journey to Deal, what forms of transport she had used, or how she had funded it. She denied hitching a lift, claiming that she “wouldn’t do that sort of thing.” She admitted to having low mood and a poor appetite. She slept badly, with early morning wakefulness. She reported no suicidal ideation.
On examination
Examination revealed a young woman who was clean, somewhat overweight, though with evidence of recent poor nutrition, with poor eye contact. Judgment and insight were unimpaired. The patient was distressed during examination, and oriented in time and place but not in person. Her mood was depressed. There were symptoms suggestive of both derealization and depersonalization disorders, though no thought disorders were evident. Immediate recall and short-term memory were intact. Her memory was largely intact for the period since hospitalization and very significantly impaired for the period prior to hospitalization.
Though necessarily incomplete at present, due to the patient’s incomplete recall, examination revealed no symptoms suggestive of seizure, bipolar disorder, a manic episode, schizophrenia, anxiety, or other organic disorder. Though she denied abusing psychoactive substances, physical evidence suggested the possibility of recent intravenous drug use.
Medical, psychiatric, family, and personal histories were all incomplete, due to the nature of the patient’s presentation.
Physical examination was unremarkable. Laboratory testing revealed no abnormalities. Neurological assessment was unremarkable. An EEG suggested no seizure activity and there was no evidence for epilepsy.
The Dissociative Experiences Scale was administered, though, due to the lack of long-term memory and the patient’s distress, the results should be interpreted with caution. They certainly do not rule out a dissociative disorder, however.
Conclusions and treatment plan
The working diagnosis is currently dissociative fugue with dissociative amnesia. The patient will be engaged in psychotherapy as an inpatient and has been reassured that in this condition symptoms will often resolve spontaneously. Though discharge is not imminent, a current concern is her housing situation, and the patient has consented to appropriate referrals to social services and other agencies. She cannot remember the four-digit pass code on her mobile phone (and, rather frustratingly, has not yet agreed to allow us to ask the police to investigate), but she seems certain (and I am optimistic) that she will do so eventually.
Report prepared but not signed by,
Dr. Laure Olsen BSc PhD MRCPCH
Now
6
Hope Cottage, along with three or four almost identical stone-faced buildings, is off a quaint, cobbled square at the bottom of Slate Road, accessible only through a narrow L-shaped alley and so close to the sea I can taste it. It’s perfect, sparse but comfortable, with everything I need. A cloistered bolt-hole to which I can retreat.
Downstairs comprises the kitchen and a living room in which a deep sofa and matching armchair complement a carpet of seagrass. A television stands in one corner, a circular mirror on the wall to the left, and in the opposite one, by the door, hangs a barometer, the needle hovering seemingly permanently between Rain and Stormy. Upstairs there’s one bedroom, plus a bathroom. Everything is tasteful: all biscuits and grays with throw cushions in contrasting colors, extra blankets on the bed, framed photos on the wall featuring picture-postcard scenes in arty black and white. More photos decorate the stairs, though here a couple seem to be family pictures. A woman—Monica herself, I’m guessing—features in several. In one she sits in front of a photographic backdrop, half turned to the camera, smiling, and in another she stands near the slipway with a group of kids, two girls standing slightly off to one side. Best friends.
I pour some coffee and drink it black. It’s bitter, but as soon as I’ve finished it I have another. I’ve been here for two days now and I’m not sleeping well. The village is almost exactly as I remember it, yet somehow also different, as if it’s a familiar person wearing different clothes. But there are more people around than I’d thought there might be. I see them, popping in and out of the shops, climbing the hill, relaxing on the benches down near the water. It’s hardly bustling, a long way from busy, but it doesn’t seem as forlorn and empty as I’d feared. More are submitting clips than I’d dared hope, too, and I’ve even spotted a few people filming. Everything’s going to be all right. It has to be.
I think back to yesterday’s submissions: a guy waking up, his wife handing him a card and wishing him a happy birthday. A girl running along the beach, as fast as she can, until she trips and falls. An old woman in a nursing home. Girls eating fish and chips by the water. One was particularly interesting, if almost certainly unusable. A teenager standing at the slipway beside The Ship Aground in the weak afternoon light, staring out a
t the waves. She grips the railing then slowly begins to climb over. She clings to the metal, then, with a dramatic, campy flourish, lets herself fall. It’s as if she’s throwing herself into the water, and instantly I think of Daisy. I can almost believe it’s her, though Daisy can’t have jumped from the same place, as it’s only a few feet drop to the beach. But what is the girl doing? As I watched, she reappeared, running up the slipway, giggling. The camera zooms in and she grins, as if to say, Did you get it? Did I do well? and I realize she was taking the piss.
My mind goes to Daisy, and Zoe. Apart from Gavin, no one has mentioned them, but I’ve done online research of my own. I searched Daisy’s name, delving deeper this time. It was almost Christmas when it happened; she jumped in the early hours, nearly ten years ago. At home, in the trailer in which she lived, her clothes were untouched and her belongings as she’d left them. A few days later, one of her trainers washed up on the beach a few miles down the coast, followed shortly after by the remains of her jacket. The fact that her body was never found means she’s still classed as a missing person, but there can be no doubt she killed herself. No one suspects a third party was involved.
Zoe Pearson’s story is different. She went in late spring, over three and a half years ago. She was there one day, gone the next. Her bed empty, her parents thought she’d snuck out to meet a boyfriend, but she never returned. A runaway, that’s all; no one has talked about suicide, no one thinks she was abducted. So why, according to Gavin at least, do “some people” think they’re linked?
I finish my coffee and find my coat and camera. I won’t find out sitting here.
I squeeze through the narrow gap and out onto Slate Road. The village is more or less deserted. A lone man sits down by the slipway, and a little farther on a group of girls has taken over one of the benches near the pub. Smoking, I suppose, though I’m too far away to tell. There’s no one else. I record the scene for a moment, then head down. On the slipway I film the gulls wheeling and diving over the lobster pots, the weed-tangled ropes slapping in the wind. I film The Ship Aground—or The Ship, as I know it’s called locally—the gift shops, a bookshop I find up one of the alleys. I film the lighthouse and make a mental note to return at night. Beyond the pub the coastline curves sharply toward the promontory that juts out into the water—The Rocks, Gavin called it—and on it, the black house sits. Bluff House. I film that, too, then decide to climb the steep path up toward the car park.
