Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  “I won’t hurt you,” he says again. “Just let me go.”

  I realize he doesn’t know what he wants to say; he hadn’t been waiting for me, he’s been caught. I begin to laugh, even though it’s not funny. My fear seems to have turned into something else. I know, since I’m between him and the door that, if I were to run, there’s a pretty good chance I’d make it outside.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Nothing, I just—”

  I scan the room. It’s as I left it. The drawers haven’t been upended, my stuff doesn’t look disturbed. He wasn’t expecting me back so soon. I look him in the eye.

  “How did you get in?”

  “The door,” he says. “It was open.” He steps closer. “Look, I just want to—”

  “Just back the fuck off. Okay?”

  He stands stock-still. He’s pale in the bright light, even thinner than I remember him. He seems unwell, like he’s going through hell and hasn’t slept. This close, I can see his smooth, blue-tinged skin, the nicks on his chin where he’s cut himself shaving. He almost looks made of wax, but when I look down at my own arm I realize that I do, too.

  “I’m on your side,” he says quietly. “But you have to leave. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “No.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  His head falls, as if he’s disappointed that I’d even think such a thing.

  “You shouldn’t have come back.”

  There’s a vicious splintering of my perception, as if a train has jumped the switch, there’s been a jump-cut in a movie. It’s true, then. He knows. He’s known all along. Is that why he’s here, he wants to find proof? As if I’d be stupid enough to carry anything with me that bore my old name. He knows me, so I must’ve known him before. Why can’t I remember?

  “David, I . . .”

  The words won’t come. He grabs my arm. Static shoots into my shoulder, the feeling intense, like biting on tinfoil.

  “Why? Why are you pretending?”

  I gasp for air, but it’s leaked away. I manage to shake him off, but pain grips my arm.

  “Leave me alone!”

  He reaches out once more but, this time, his hand hovers.

  “You know I’m on your side. I always was.” He reaches for my hair. “You’ve changed.”

  I shove his hand away.

  “You know I’ve always looked after you.”

  “Get the fuck off me!”

  “Please—”

  I battle to keep my voice level. “I don’t know you. I’ve never met you before.”

  “Don’t lie,” he says. “There’s no need, not with me. What happened to you?”

  “What?”

  “After you left. What happened?” I shake my head and he reaches out once more. “It’s really you.”

  I react without thinking. It’s as if something takes over, an automatic reaction. I slap him. The palm of my hand sings.

  He staggers back. “Please. I’ve heard nothing. Barely a word. I—”

  You brought me here, I think. You sent Dan the postcard. It’s the only explanation.

  “You have to leave. Now.”

  “What are you doing to the girls? Tell me, you fucker. Tell me!”

  He’s trembling, shrinking as I watch, retreating within himself. He reminds me of Geraldine, a mind turned rotten. He seems almost elsewhere, as if he’s talking to someone only he can see.

  “We said we’d never tell. It was our secret.”

  “Daisy . . .” I say. Certainty hits me, I don’t know where from. “You killed her. She was in your house, she was seen.”

  “No!”

  I reach into my pocket for my phone. If only there were a way to record this, I think. Without him knowing.

  Fuck it. I point it at him and press Record. His hands fly to his face, as if I’m about to spray him with mace.

  “Stop! No!”

  “Admit it. You killed her.”

  He freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s about to confess. But then he seems to change his mind.

  “You know that’s not true!” he says instead. “You know it wasn’t me who killed her! Daisy—”

  “What are you hiding?”

  He backs away.

  “Daisy . . . what happened to her? Who pushed her?”

  “No one. You know that. Talk to Monica. She was there. She saw it. She saw it all. You know she did.”

  I want to slap him, force him to tell me why he remembers me when I don’t remember him, why I find myself torn between wanting him on my side and wanting to kill him. And I want to beg him not to tell anyone who I am. I open my fist, then close it again.

  “Get out,” I say. The words reverberate, but I feel curiously, eerily calm, as if something inside me has taken over. Like an automaton, I stand back, watch as he nods slowly then goes past me. He stops at the top of the stairs and turns back to face me.

  “Don’t stay here,” he says. “Please? If you stay, it’ll have all been for nothing.”

  30

  I sit in the armchair, my hands balled into fists, knuckles white. The door is locked, but still I watch it.

  A shadow, then a face through the window. I recognize Gavin’s glasses.

  “Alex? It’s me.”

  I stand stiffly and unbolt the door. He’s barely through but already he’s hugging me, or maybe it’s me holding him.

  “What did he want?”

  To tell me he knew I was Sadie, I think, but I can’t say that.

  “I think he killed Daisy,” I say instead. “And I’m worried about Ellie. She denies it, but he’s seeing her, I’m sure of it.”

  “But—”

  “There’s something else. He told me Daisy was seen. Jumping. By Monica.”

  “Monica? But how can that be? If he killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’s lying.”

  He buries his head in my hair.

  “Are you okay?” I look up. I can feel the warmth of his skin. I think of his lips touching mine. “You’re shivering. Come on.”

  We sit on the sofa. His arm is around me, his warmth spread over me, holding me like a blanket. He’s lit a fire in the grate. The silence between us buzzes with things unspoken and desire fills the air, thick as syrup. I look up at him, but his face is unreadable in the shadows. I realize I want him and at the exact moment I lift my chin to kiss him he lowers his. His lips brush mine, inexpertly at first, but then we each find the rhythm of the other. His hand moves to the back of my neck, then down to my breast.

  “Is this okay?” he murmurs, and the words won’t come so I answer only by removing my sweater, tugging at his belt. “Let’s go upstairs,” he says, but I shake my head. I can think only of David sitting in that room, watching us.

  “No,” I say. “Let’s stay here.” I glance toward the fire. “We might as well enjoy the cliché.”

  He laughs and lowers me gently to the floor before removing what clothes remain. He’s hesitant at first, as if he thinks that at any moment I might ask him to stop, but when I reach for him with every bit as much fervor as he had me he grows more emboldened, less gentle. I guide him into me, closing my eyes as I do, willing myself to stay where I am, focused on what’s happening here and now, on my body. “Alex?” he says, and I open my eyes, then kiss him. I realize he’s still wearing his glasses and take them off.

  “That’s better,” I say.

  It doesn’t take long and when we’re done he stands up awkwardly. He hands me the blanket from the back of the sofa and I see his body for the first time from a distance. He’s skinny but lithe; his sweat-sheened muscles glisten. He seems suddenly embarrassed; he finds his boxers and turns around to put them on. Already I’m replaying what we did, wondering whether we might do it again, more slowly next time and with less silence.

  But does he feel the same? Or is that it for him, now he’s got what he wanted? I doubt it somehow, but I’ve been
wrong before. More often than not, in fact.

  “Was that okay?” he says.

  I nod. He deserves more, but the words won’t come. “Can you get me some water?” I say instead, more to fill the silence than anything else. When he returns, he seems forlorn. He gathers the rest of his things and begins to dress.

  “Stay?” I say.

  “No,” he begins. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “Stay,” I say, more forcefully this time. “Please? It was great.”

  He pauses, about to button up his jeans. “You’re sure?”

  I nod, and he kisses me again.

  We stay in bed. He doesn’t leave until late morning, and even then he says he’d rather not. I lie still for a while, then shower. I take my time; my arm still feels raw from where David touched it last night. It’s as if he’s poisonous, something I’m allergic to. Even Gavin’s tenderness hasn’t overridden it. When I’m done, I dress in my jeans and thickest sweater, then leave, too, locking the door carefully behind me and checking it twice.

  Monica’s cottage is still. There’s no movement, no answer when I ring the bell. The streets are empty, too, the snow all but disappeared. The Rocks brood in the distance and on their edge, silent and empty, sits Bluff House.

  I can’t bring myself to look at it, so I look forward instead, toward the pub. The walls outside are bare; there are hooks drilled into them at intervals. I tell myself baskets of plants must hang from them in summer—fuchsias, perhaps, violent pinks and vibrant reds—but that seems unreal. Instead, I see meat swinging from them, butchered pigs, slaughtered lambs. Bodies, strung up and bleeding. A girl, crying out in pain. Suddenly, I want to turn and run.

  But no. I’m not thinking straight. I force myself to climb the steps that lead up from the street and enter the warmth, ignoring the momentary hush as the lunchtime drinkers regard me to slide purposefully over to the bar.

  “How’s it going, pet?” says the landlady as I approach. She seems subdued.

  “Not too bad. Can I get some water?”

  “That all?”

  I consider for a moment. It’s early, but so what? “Actually, I’ll have a whiskey.”

  She pours it for me. It clings to the glass like blood, oily and viscous.

  “Has Monica been in?” I say as I hand over my cash.

  “Over there, love.”

  She points to one of the tables tucked into the corner. Monica sits alone and, when she notices me, beckons me over. As I sit down she closes the book in her lap.

  “Everything okay?”

  Her head tilts, and I wonder if she heard us last night. The walls are thin, after all, thin enough for me to hear her moving around.

  “Is it true?” I say.

  “What?”

  “You saw Daisy jump?”

  Her face falls.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “David told me.”

  She seems surprised. “He did, did he? And why were you talking to him? And about that?”

  I don’t want to answer. “So?”

  She sighs, then glances around the room. “Not here. We’ll go upstairs.”

  She stands and we approach the bar. Monica asks Beverly if she minds and when the landlady says no leads me toward a door in the corner. As I approach, a deep fear begins to burn like smoke in my gut, unnamable but alive.

  “Come on,” says Monica. The doorway yawns, black and cavernous, and there’s a strange smell from above, salty with a sulfurous edge. I’m gripped with the desire to run, but I know I’m being ridiculous. I force myself to follow Monica up the steps.

  At the top, she flicks a switch and the feeble bulb overhead glows dully. We’re on a narrow landing, the yellowing wallpaper peeling, doors off to the left and right. We go through one and into a messy living room. Old coffee cups litter the furniture, there’s a huge TV playing in the corner, the sound muted. The whole place smells of stale cigarettes and I begin to feel sick; my heart hammers in my chest like a wild thing desperate for release.

  Monica sits on the sofa and indicates the chair opposite.

  “Bev lets me come up here,” she says, even though I haven’t asked. “When I want a cigarette.”

  “Right.”

  She smiles and pulls one out. “So. David told you I saw Daisy jump.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  My voice sounds weak, reedy and pathetic. I cough, but it makes no difference.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “What did you see?”

  “What d’you mean? She jumped. That’s what I saw.”

  Sometimes I see it, too, I want to say. I see her standing there in a long, flowing dress; it catches the moonlight, whipped by the wind. She resembles a ghost, ethereal in the bluish light. I see her walk forward, toward the edge of the cliff, almost floating. There’s no pause. She takes one step too far, then, soundlessly, disappears.

  But I know it wasn’t like that. She was wearing jeans. Boots. A jacket. Nothing ethereal about that. Nothing delicate and fragile. Nothing poetic.

  “Where were you?”

  “Just out for a walk.”

  She lights a cigarette and the sound is like gunfire. I recoil, and when I glance up there are two of her; my vision is split.

  “Alex?”

  I blink and the room resolves itself once more. I have to say something. I have to stay present. I dig my nails into my palm but feel nothing.

  “What exactly did you see?”

  She shakes her head; either she’s reluctant to tell me, or it’s the pain of remembering. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

  “She were just up there. Standing. I didn’t recognize her, not at first. She were too far away. Right on the edge. Just sort of looking out.”

  “She was definitely by herself?”

  “Yes. It were just her.”

  She’s lying. She has to be. David killed her. He was about to confess.

  “Did she see you?”

  “No. She looked round, just once, but she were in a world of her own. I shouted out to her, I think. Then she jumped.”

  She states it simply, matter-of-fact. She jumped. That’s all. As if it were no more nor less than stepping off a curb to cross the road.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  Did she scream? I think. Did she cry out? Didn’t you do anything to stop her?

  But what could she have done? Dived off the cliff herself? Sprouted wings and caught her on the way down?

  “What did you do then?”

  “Well, I ran, of course. There were nothing else I could do.”

  She blows smoke through her nose.

  “I looked over the edge. I shouted, I suppose. I can’t really remember.”

  “Did you bang on David’s door? The trailer?”

  “Yes,” she says. “David said he’d been in bed. Reckoned I woke him up.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  She hesitates.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. You can tell, can’t you? I dunno. He was yawning and all that, but it kind of looked . . .”

  “What?”

  “False, I guess. It’s probably nothing.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “He knew Daisy, and Zoe, too.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  “I just know. I think Ellie’s seeing him, too.”

  She shakes her head. “She’d tell me. I’m sure of it.”

  “So what did you do then? Once David had opened the door.”

  “We called the police.”

  I watch her for a moment. Her eyes have misted, as if she’s reliving it.

  “Is that why people think David had something to do with it? Because he lied about being asleep?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone that. No point. It were just a hunch. A feeling.”

  “So? Why, then?”

  “A few folk say they saw Daisy there.�
��

  “But she lived there. They’d had to move the trailer to his garden—”

  “No. In the house. On his roof. There’s a terrace, I think. And when she was asked about it she denied it. Like she’d been told to keep it quiet. So people thought he must’ve had something to do with her deciding to . . . y’know.”

  “Kill herself.”

  “Yes.” She pauses. “Look. I wish you’d leave it. Honestly. It’s not good to get too involved.”

  But I am. And if you only knew how much.

  “It were ten years ago,” she says. “It won’t bring Daisy back.”

  I stand my ground.

  “But what if whatever it was is the reason Zoe ran, too? That was only a few years ago. Two girls have gone missing from here already.”

  “Three,” she says, her eyes narrow.

  “Three, then. And it’s still happening. How many more are going to disappear?”

  “It’s not. Still happening, I mean.”

  “But—”

  “Look,” she says. “I need to get on.”

  We go back, onto the landing. That door . . .

  “What’s in there?” My voice is weak and stretched. Sweat beads on my brow.

  “What? Oh, that’s just the bedrooms. Kitchen and stuff. Storeroom, I think.”

  I see it, then. An open door; there are crates of bottles in there, coiled plastic tubes, packets of cable ties. A deck chair. A thin mattress on the floor.

  I feel something bite into my wrist. A punch in the stomach. I double over.

  “Alex?” says Monica. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

  No, I think. No.

  Not here, it didn’t happen here.

  But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it did.

  Then

  31

  She closes her eyes. His hands are on her, but she tries not to feel them.

  There’s music from downstairs. She feels it pulsing through the floor.

  He says she asked for this, which means she must’ve.

  He says her boyfriend said it’s fine, which means it must be fine.

  He says her boyfriend has said he doesn’t mind, which means he doesn’t mind.

  First it was “Fancy a threesome?”

  No.

  Then it was “If you loved me, you’d do it.”

  I do.