Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  I peer inside. The stale, sulfurous smell hits me first, an ammoniac undercurrent of stale pee, possibly worse. I shine the flash into the dank interior, still filming. Meaningless slogans cover the walls: names and dates, a weird, cartoonish figure, the odd tag in garish spray-paint. Beer cans and bottles litter the floor; there are pieces of wood, pizza boxes, magazines. Teenagers, I suppose, using it until it became too unsafe, or too disgusting. I wonder if David let them; perhaps he didn’t even try to stop it. I picture him, holed up in his house while the kids outside partied, played music, took drugs, screwed. Perhaps he hid himself away, retreated to the depths, or maybe he peered out of the window and watched them. I wonder what he thought. Whether he envied them.

  There’s a rusted cooker right in front of me, plus a filthy sink. A concertina doorway at the back leads, I presume, to the only bedroom, with another that I’m guessing is the bathroom. I try to imagine a different time. Daisy living here.

  Is that where she would have slept? There’d have been posters taped to the walls—Katy Perry, perhaps, Lady Gaga? The Twilight films?—a soft duvet cover in a bright purple, something like that. I doubt she’d have an iPod—a tinny stereo, maybe? I see her mother, waiting until her daughter went to bed, then releasing a catch to fold down the tiny dining-room table and arranging the cushions from the living area to double as a mattress. The two women on top of each other. Fine for a fortnight’s holiday, I suppose, but every night? Who would want to live like this, amid this dinginess? It must’ve been suffocating; it reminds me of the hostels in London. What teenager would want to have her life pressed so tightly against her mother’s, every day?

  I check myself. Any, perhaps, if the alternative is . . . well, whatever did happen that day she went over the edge. Could it really have been something to do with me, the thing that caused her to jump? I close my eyes and try to see us. In the café, perhaps, just like the girls the other day. Pushing and shoving, bitching about our friends, but it’s playful, we don’t mean anything by it. Or maybe we’re down on the beach, she’s telling me about a boy, she’s met him again, and this time he kissed her. She can’t believe her luck, her first kiss, and someone she really likes. He’s older, she says, nearly a man, and she could taste cigarettes on his breath, only she didn’t mind because they were his cigarettes that he’d smoked, and it was his breath she could taste them on.

  I’m jolted out of my reverie. It doesn’t make sense. Mooning over a boy? What was it Gavin had told me? People say she was a slut, or words to that effect.

  Anger bubbles up. People know nothing. People can take their judgmental bullshit and shove it. People can fuck off.

  And yet . . . we’re supposed to believe she took her own life? Flung herself to her death just a few feet from here? My eyes flick open as I remember where I am. Perhaps it wasn’t like that at all. Perhaps her first kiss was right here, in this stinking van. I see that, too. Hands on her, despite her wanting them gone. Her own mouth stoppered with that of another. Or maybe it was in the park, in the bandstand, at the amusement arcade. Or over there, inside the black house, with a man as old as her father.

  But where did I fit in, at the end? What did I do? I use both hands to lever myself up into the van. I carry on filming as I explore, still not sure what I expect to find. Anything she or her mother might’ve left would be long gone by now. I wait, but the smoke isn’t clearing. I steel myself against the weight of the stink. The van creaks as I go in deeper, treading carefully. There may be anything buried here, discarded needles hidden among the wrappers. At least I’m wearing my boots. I shiver in the cold and scan the defaced walls with my camera, then try to push my way into the bedroom area. The door that separates it from the rest resists as something bunches behind it. I push harder—it’s a thin mattress, it turns out—and eventually get in. The smell in here is worse, the air staler. I want to escape but, over by the remains of the bed, low down and half hidden by a bundle of rags, something catches my eye. A mark, scratched on the wall.

  It’s a message, I think, but even as I draw closer I’m telling myself not to be stupid. And I’m right to be skeptical. It’s just a series of dots, joined together in two lines that converge at one end to form a horizontal V. Meaningless, I think at first, it’s a surprise I even noticed it, but then I feel a peculiar jolt of recognition and realize it could be Andromeda. Seven major stars, part of the Perseus group. Named for the beautiful princess who was sacrificed, chained naked to a rock to be eaten by a sea monster. A constellation visible only in winter.

  But why would Daisy have that scratched on her wall? Just as I’m about to stand, to get a better angle with my camera, I notice something else next to it, two words. They’re both unclear, but one is almost certainly Daisy.

  As I crouch down to the other the déjà vu returns, stronger this time. It’s like I know what the word is. I make out an S, a d. Sad, it looks like. My heart thrums as I rub away at the debris and dust, and there it is. Sadie.

  I stand up. It’s true, then. We were close. Best friends, just like I thought when I first saw the photo in the cottage. I must’ve been here. So why don’t I remember?

  I lift my camera to frame the shot, but then I hear a sound, some movement outside. An animal, something big, unless I’m imagining it. It comes again, heavier this time, more distinct, and with it there’s something else, a shuddering bang that shakes the whole van, and I realize it’s the trailer door, slamming shut.

  I drop my camera and tear open the door to the living area. The door to the van is closed but there’s a movement outside, I’m sure. The door handle rattles uselessly and I slap the fiberglass with the heel of my hand. “Let me out!” I shout. I try the handle again, then I’m turning around, sliding to the floor, and after a moment of blackness everything bursts into life.

  I’m not here, it’s like the channel has changed; a burst of static on the screen, then I’m in an empty room, yellow walls, a stained mattress on the floor. There’s the stink of cigarettes on him, stale sweat, clothes that have gone a touch too long without a wash. His hand is between my legs. I feel nothing. This isn’t happening. Or not to me, at least.

  Leave me alone! I say, but his hand is over my mouth. I kick out but I can’t connect, and then he’s trying to kiss me. His breath is the worst, and even in the middle of it all I find myself thinking that at least the fucker could’ve sucked on a mint or brushed his teeth. He takes off his belt and my mouth fills with a metallic taste.

  I’ve bitten his tongue. He spits. Right in my face. And I want to spit back but I can’t feel anything and, anyway, I don’t have any choice. I never did. I need what he’s got and he’ll only give it to me if I do this, so I do, I lie there, and I deserve it, I deserve it, I deserve it, and it doesn’t matter because I’m not here anyway.

  My eyes open. The trailer’s interior shimmers in front of me, like I’m looking at it through fire. My heart hammers in my chest; my mouth dries. No, I think. No. That wasn’t here. That was in London, in the flat by Victoria. That came later.

  Didn’t it?

  17

  I keep my head down as I walk off the rocks. I’m shaking. I don’t look back. My camera hangs off my neck like a noose.

  When I tried the door a second time it flew open, so easily the lock might as well have been greased. I stumbled out, almost falling to the ground, anxious to get out of the van’s toxic interior, and gulped the air thirstily, desperately, as if I’d been drowning. Bluff House still loomed over me, silent and cold. Is someone trying to warn me off? Am I in danger here?

  All I wanted was to get away, but not to Hope Cottage. Not yet. I need something to calm me down and there’s nothing in the house. I wait outside The Ship for a moment, breathing deep, but still I’m skittish as I go in. A trickle of sweat runs down my lower back, despite the cold. But maybe coming here will help me remember. Maybe I came here with Daisy.

  The place is as I recall, pretty much. Shinier, if anything; in color, as opposed to the blac
k and white of my recollection. I look around as I shake off my coat at the door. A log fire burns in the grate; the dense air is muggy but comforting. Brass plates hang on the walls, along with framed maps and prints, the usual pub decoration, though unlike back home in London, at least here the scraps have accumulated over years, rather than been picked up as a job lot from some warehouse.

  I imagine the teenagers in here. Sophie and her friends. Lock-ins after hours, lights out, candles lit, no need to even draw the blinds way out here at the edge of the world. Too many rum and blacks, drunken fumbling as barriers are dissolved, hands where they shouldn’t be. Hot, wet lips. The acidic sting of regret the next day, swallowed down with warm water and a couple of aspirin. I can picture it—me and Daisy here, in the middle of it all—but is it a memory or just a forced imagining?

  No one acknowledges me as I approach the bar. Not even a dipped chin.

  “What’ll it be?”

  The interruption startles me. I look round and see it’s Bryan.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he says.

  His words slur, just slightly, and the glass in his hand is almost empty. He’s been here a while, I can tell, but some company might be nice. I ask for a gin and tonic.

  “A double,” he says to the woman serving. She’s tall and solidly built, her hair blond but cropped close, an inch or so all over. I notice she’s missing the ring finger of her right hand. It’s absent from the second knuckle, severed neatly, leaving only a stump.

  “How’re you?” she says to Bryan as she pours the drinks and hands them over. Her voice has the gruffness of a heavy smoker. I find myself wondering how she lost the finger. An accident? Somehow, a fight seems just as likely.

  “You ’eard about David?”

  “No,” he says. “What?”

  “Apparently he’s had a visitor. The other night.”

  Shit. She means me. My stomach balls itself into a fist and Bryan glances at me for a moment. Almost like he knows. “Really? Who?”

  “No idea. This were according to our Matt. Says him and a group of lads were down on the beach and they saw someone up there.”

  No, I want to say. There was no one there, no one on the beach. No one saw me. I’m sure of it.

  But am I?

  “Looked like a girl.”

  Bryan shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “Aye,” she says. “I guess you’re right. Seems whoever it was filmed it an’ all.” She glances at me, then winks. “Not that it’s much to look at.” She means the shots I took, the black sea, the ships in the distance. “Anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”

  We take our drinks to the table nearest the fire. I sit as close as I dare, edging nearer until the heat scours my legs. I look over at the landlady as she serves the next customer. Her wink had been friendly. She’s watching the films, then. Maybe they all are. I scan the room. A couple of people look away as I do. It’s obvious they know who I am.

  “How long has she run this place?” I say, once we’re settled.

  “Beverly?” He looks back to the bar. “About nine years now. Maybe ten.”

  “Right,” I say. I find myself doing the math; I can’t help it, it’s automatic. She must’ve taken over not long after I left.

  “She’s from here then?”

  “Born ‘n’ bred,” he says. “Just like me.”

  I go cold, despite the fire. But there are no signs either of them has recognized me. I look at Bryan and try to imagine him ten years ago. I can’t.

  “You okay?” he says.

  I look away and tell him I’m fine.

  “Shit!” he says. “I nearly forgot! Your car. It’s done.” He fishes clumsily in a pocket and hands me the keys. “I parked it up top.”

  I grin with relief. I can escape now. I don’t have to rely on taxi drivers who take off on a whim and leave me stranded.

  “Great! Thanks. How much—”

  He waves me away. “Let’s sort it out next time, eh?”

  He thinks there’ll be another time, then. It won’t be so bad; he seems nice enough. I’m about to tell him how grateful I am when he fixes me with a stare.

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  Suddenly, I feel pierced, right through to my core.

  “Those films . . . The one with Button and Kat—”

  “Button?”

  “Sorry. Ellie. It’s a nickname.” He hesitates. “They’re eating chips.”

  I sip my drink.

  “What about it?”

  “Well . . . You must know what I mean?”

  I smile. “The joint? Not that unusual, I guess—”

  He laughs. “No! Not that! We’re more bothered about someone sneaking around filming teenage girls.”

  “We?”

  “Me and a couple of the fellas. Y’know? Any idea who it is?”

  I shake my head. “We said that the films should be sent anonymously.” I hesitate. I wonder if this is why he was keen to buy me a drink. “You think something’s going on?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I lower my voice. “I saw Kat getting a tattoo. She looked . . . I dunno. Scared. And she had two phones.”

  “So?”

  “Like a burner.”

  “A what?”

  “A burner phone,” I tell him. “You know. Cheap. Pay-as-you-go. Easily replaced.”

  “Why would she have that?”

  I shrug. “Usually it’s to do with drugs.”

  “Not Kat,” he says.

  “Or, you know . . . if there’s a boyfriend that needs to get hold of her, even if her parents confiscate her mobile.”

  He laughs. “Not Kat either. How come you know so much?”

  I think of the girls in Black Winter. I think of their burner phones, and of my own.

  “I’ve been around,” I say. “Tell me about David.”

  He puts down his drink. “Listen,” he says. “I’d love to help, but, well . . . we don’t want all that raked up again. Not after last time.”

  “What d’you mean? All what?”

  “All that stuff about Daisy and whatnot.”

  “What’s that got to do with David?”

  He lowers his head.

  “Nothing.”

  “No,” I say. “Come on. I mentioned David and you started talking about Daisy. What is it?”

  “David . . . well, he . . . he kind of had a breakdown. Just after Daisy killed herself. He’d been okay before then—I mean, odd, but friendly enough. Then he just kind of disappeared. When we did see him in town, he was acting weird. He’d come in ’ere and not speak. Just sit on his own, watching people. Muttering to himself. It was freaky. He even got into a fight. He just started on this guy. I don’t remember who, now. But it was over nothing. He lost of course, got smacked in the face then ran off. Then, when Zoe went, he got worse. Smashed his car up. Drove into a tree. There were rumors it was deliberate.”

  “He tried to kill himself?”

  “That’s what people said.”

  But he told me he didn’t know Zoe, I think. I almost say it out loud. Again, I wonder whether it’s time to approach Zoe’s parents, despite Gavin’s warning. It’s easier now I have my own car. I needn’t tell anyone.

  “Do you think he was involved?”

  “David?” He picks up his glass and takes a swig. “I mean, he’s always been odd. But I like him.”

  “But how well d’you know him?”

  “Well enough to have a key to his place,” he says. “I look after it when he’s away, stuff like that. It’s just . . . well, some folk were being pretty nasty to him. After first Daisy, then Zoe, I suppose they put two and two together. No smoke without fire, an’ all that. Painted stuff on his car, smashed his windows.” He sits back in the seat. “Anyway . . .”

  “Why’re you telling me? If you don’t think I should be putting any of this in my film?”

  “I dunno.” He puts his glass down clumsily. “You seem like a good sort. An
d it’s obvious you care. About the girls.” He sighs heavily. “Maybe I’m secretly hoping someone can find out what went on. Just . . . don’t make us look bad, y’know? In your film.” He gestures to the half-empty pub. “Things are hard enough for folk as it is.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say.

  “I’d like to help, if I can?”

  “Help?”

  “You know I’ve got a boat?”

  I nod, though I’m not sure why he’s telling me.

  “There was a clip of you with it, I think.”

  “Aye. I do some fishing. I were thinking, I could take you out on it, if you fancy it?” He nods toward the camera on the table between us. “To get some footage, I mean. Lovely views of the place from out there. Just if it’d help, like.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.”

  Never, I think. I can’t. I hate the water, can’t stand boats, never learned to swim. Even now, imagining it, all I can see is blackness, above and below, the icy cold invading me, plugging my breath, pressing in until I’m nothing, merged with the void.

  But I can’t tell him that. It sounds ridiculous.

  “Maybe. Sounds like it’d be good.”

  He grins, then takes out his wallet and a pen.

  “Here’s my number.”

  He jots it down on the back of a receipt and, even though there’s no chance in hell I’ll go on his boat, I take it.

  “By the way,” he says, lowering his voice. “About Gavin . . .”

  “Gavin?”

  “Watch him.”

  It’s a surprise. I thought they were friends. It was Gavin who suggested Bryan sort out my car.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying he was asking lots of questions. Digging around, especially when he first arrived. Bit like you.”

  “Really? He seems to me like he’s just someone trying to fit in.”

  “You think? Trying a bit too hard, if you ask me. Almost like he has something to prove. And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  He leans forward, even though the bar is noisy and no one is paying us any attention.