Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  I look away. “He’ll have taken her,” says the boy. “Like he took the others.”

  I stare at him. He’s a spotty kid. He knows nothing.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  He laughs. “Everyone knows. Just no one’ll say it, like.”

  I look back at The Rocks, but there’s no one there.

  “Come on,” says Gavin. “We should go.”

  We step onto the slipway. The clouds are thick; it’s getting dark. Ellie’s out there, somewhere. Perhaps alone, trying to escape. That is, if she’s lucky.

  “We need to find her,” I say to Gavin, but before he can answer his phone rings.

  “It’s Bryan,” he says when he’s finished the call. “They need the keys to the village hall. The police. They’ve arrived.”

  When we get there, there’s a group waiting outside the front door. Monica’s there, and Bryan, too. With him stands a woman I don’t recognize, plus two police officers in uniforms. The last thing I wanted, but here they are.

  “Sorry,” says Bryan as we approach. “I didn’t have my keys.” The woman with him holds out her hand. She’s wearing a long black jacket, trousers, boots. Her face is pinched and severe; I imagine she’s not someone who enjoys, or is used to, being kept waiting.

  “Detective Superintendent Butler,” she says as Gavin shakes her hand. “Heidi. Pleased to meet you.” She turns to me. “And you are?”

  “Alex Young,” I say. “I don’t live here. I’m here . . .” I hesitate, and she cocks her head. “Working.”

  “Working? As?”

  “I’m making a film.”

  She glances briefly from me to Gavin. “Right. Shall we?”

  Gavin unlocks the door and we troop in. I look at Butler from behind. She’s compact, efficient. She exudes confidence, and it’s obvious Bryan at least is already under her spell. He’s following her like a hungry puppy. She scans the room, then speaks to one of the officers.

  “Where’s the girl?”

  At first I think she means Ellie, then realize she’s referring to Kat.

  “On her way. The father, too.”

  “Right.” She shakes her head. “So does anyone know anything?”

  The officer fumbles with his notebook, and she sighs then looks round the room.

  “Anyone?”

  Monica steps forward. “Kat,” she begins hesitantly, “that’s Ellie’s friend, said they’d arranged to meet, but Ellie didn’t turn up, and when—”

  “When was this?”

  Monica glances at the clock at the end of the hall. “Almost three hours ago, now.”

  “Meet where?”

  “The bandstand, I think.”

  “What for?”

  No one answers. No one knows. Hanging around, I suppose. Smoking a joint. Doing nothing and everything at the same time, in that way that teenagers have.

  “No sightings?” says Butler.

  The officer to her right answers. “No.”

  “No witnesses to an abduction?” He shakes his head. “She just didn’t turn up to meet her friend, and switched her phone off?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But—”

  “She’s a teenage girl.”

  “I know—”

  “They do that all the time?”

  “—but this place,” he continues. “It’s not the first time it’s happened here. We might need a Child Rescue Alert.”

  She scans the room. “Tell me.”

  She must be new to the area. Monica steps forward, and Bryan. They’re both clearly nervous.

  “Ten years ago,” says Monica. “A girl disappeared. Sadie Davies.”

  I look down at the floor. I can’t help it. I’m like a toddler who’s been found out.

  “Ten years. She didn’t turn up?”

  The officer shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “She sort of did,” says Bryan. “Her mother was told she’d been found. In London. But she didn’t want to come back.”

  “Right,” says Butler. “So we have one girl who ran away to London. Ten years ago.”

  Gavin steps forward. “There’s someone else. Zoe Pearson. She ran, too. About three and a half years ago. And she was never found.”

  And Daisy, I think. And Daisy, but I say nothing. Officially, she’s dead. Officially, it was suicide.

  Butler’s head cocks.

  “OK. Anything else?”

  “Zoe . . .” He glances at me. “She was pregnant.”

  Both Monica and Bryan look over.

  “How old was she?”

  “Fourteen.”

  She turns to her officer. “It’s a bit early for a full CRA,” she says. “At least until we’ve talked to the friend and the parents. But start the ball rolling, just in case. Let’s try and get hold of the girl’s computer, and track her phone, if we can. Are people out looking for her?”

  Monica answers. “A few.”

  “Good. Someone should be coordinating that.”

  It looks as though Gavin is about to volunteer, but then Bryan steps up, barely disguising his eagerness. “I can. We can do it from the pub.”

  “Or here?” says Gavin.

  “The pub is better,” says Monica. “More people down there than up here this time of year.”

  Butler looks at the three of us, waiting for us to decide. After a moment, Gavin backs down.

  “Right,” she says. “That’s settled.” She turns to her officers. “Let’s set up base here. Now. Where the hell is the father? Are they crawling here?”

  34

  I get up quietly, before dawn, leaving Gavin snoring gently. We were out until late last night, searching the cliffs, looking for clues. When we returned, empty-handed, to The Ship, we found we weren’t alone. Maps had been spread on the table, sectioned off with marker; areas allocated to different groups. No one had found anything; she’s vanished without sight. Her parents told Butler that it was out of character, Kat said Ellie had never failed to turn up without letting her know, and finally, late last night, an alert was issued.

  In the kitchen I pour myself a glass of water before texting Monica to ask for news. I sit at the table to wait for her reply, watching the sky. I think of Ellie, as if by doing so I can somehow bring her back, but when it comes Monica’s reply is brief. Nothing yet. People are going back out soon. I’ll let you know.

  No body, at least. No clothes washed up on a distant beach. Or none that have been found yet. I put down my glass. I need to move.

  I take my tripod and walk on to The Rocks, past Bluff House. I angle my camera back toward the cliff and look through the viewfinder. Crag Head is just visible out to the right, at the very edge of the frame. If I pan left, Malby shimmers in the distance. I focus instead on Bluff House itself and the edge of the cliff, just a few yards from the front door. Five steps down to the path, a few more past it and to the edge. Then there’s nothing but the sea, black as tar, thrashing with secrets, with bodies, with death.

  Is this the view that Monica saw that night? Is Ellie down there, too? I press Record, then hesitate for a moment before stepping away from the camera and walking into shot. One step, two, three. I keep my head down, my arms wrapped tight around my body. I walk up to Bluff House. I try to imagine I’m Daisy. I begin to walk toward the cliff—four steps, five—farther and farther, toward the vertiginous drop, toward endless death. But why? Why am I here? What happened to me? Who is making me do this? A boy in a leather jacket who won’t tell me he loves me? A friend who let me down? A man who took advantage?

  Six, seven. But Monica saw her. And there was a note. Eight. Nine. The note that Daisy’s own mother told me means nothing. Ten, eleven, twelve, and I’m over the shingle path, on the other side, the springing grass.

  But how can it mean nothing? Is she telling me Daisy never wrote it? But it was she who identified it, she who told the police it was her daughter’s handwriting. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

  Wh
y would she do that, if it wasn’t true?

  Sixteen. I’m there now. I can look straight down, over the edge. Another step and I’d be on unstable ground. Tufts of wet grass, loose rocks, hard mud. If it weren’t for the thaw, it’d be icy here, another hazard, another thing to send me tumbling. I want to turn and run, but I don’t. I peer over, into the waves below. It’s like looking backward, through the white crests of the present, and down into the blackness of the past. The truth hangs just out of reach. It hovers in the air; I can almost touch it. If only I could go forward, one more step, or two. Then I’d know, I’d know how she felt, I’d know what happened. I’m almost tempted to, for a moment. Almost.

  “Alex!”

  The voice is distant, harsh, the name it’s calling alien. It takes me a second to understand it’s mine and another before I look up to see who’s come after me. Farther along the path toward the village a figure has emerged, still too far away to be recognizable but running toward me.

  “Alex!” he shouts again. “Stop!”

  Stop, I think. Stop. I look into the water. I imagine Monica calling out to Daisy. Why didn’t she listen?

  “Don’t!”

  I step backward. Arms go around me, I’m gripped, lifted, and for a moment I think whoever it is might be about to push me forward, to throw me in. It’s Gavin, I think, come after me. He was lying. He’s the one who took Ellie, after all.

  Or David, back from the station, knowing I’m the one who pointed the finger and wanting revenge. I prepare myself to fall, but I’m spun round until I’m facing the house. Only then does whoever it is holding me let me go.

  It’s Bryan. His face is red; his spittle lands on my face and lips. “What on earth are you doing?”

  He holds me at arm’s length. His nostrils are flared, his voice quivers: he looks terrified.

  Or angry. For a second I think he’s about to shake me, to draw back his fist and slap me. I resist the urge to fight, to lash out, dig in, go for the eyes; a knee in the balls, if nothing else. It’s a primal response, instinctive. I don’t know where it comes from.

  “Nothing,” I gasp, and his hands fall limply to his sides. For a brief, shocking, moment I want them round me again.

  “You scared me! I thought . . .”

  I look at him. It’s just Bryan, anxious and worried. I know what he thought. I know what it looked like. “I was just looking.” I point out the camera. “Filming . . . why?”

  “I need to speak to you.”

  “What about? Oh, God. Is it Ellie? Has she—”

  “No,” he says. “No. She’s still missing.” He glances up at the windows of Bluff House. “Look. It’s . . . can we go somewhere else?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I went to Monica’s place. I spoke to Gavin. He said you’d be here.” He coughs awkwardly and puts his hand out once more. It rests on my arm. Solicitous this time, but still I find myself resisting. I wonder if it’s because he wants to get me away from the edge of the cliff, if he wonders what I might do.

  “Are you coming? We can talk about it on the way back down.”

  “No!” I say again. “Tell me what’s happened!”

  He lowers his voice, even though we’re alone. He sounds nervous, and I try to imagine what he’s scared of.

  “I’ve had a postcard,” he says.

  A nervous excitement judders through me.

  “A postcard? From who?”

  “David.”

  A weird stillness descends. Even the wind seems to have died away. I was right, then. It was David who sent the card to Dan, luring me up here. But why?

  “David? What did it say?”

  “Look.”

  He fumbles in the pocket of his jacket and fishes it out.

  “Here. It was put through my front door.”

  My hands shake as I take it. On one side is a photo of the lighthouse on Crag Head.

  “But he’s still at the station. Isn’t he?”

  “They let him go. I don’t know where he is. Read the card.”

  I turn it over. I’ve got something that will prove everything, it says. She can have it. Tell her to meet me tonight. 8.00. Alone. Don’t tell anyone else. Please. I’m sorry.

  “Have you shown the police? That Butler woman?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I still . . . I don’t believe David’s involved—”

  “But this card! It sounds like he wants to confess.”

  He glances up toward the clouds. “If he has got Ellie, then she’s probably fine. Let’s just see what he’s got to say.”

  “But—”

  “If he knows we’ve involved Butler, he’ll run. Or worse.”

  I remember what he told me about David’s breakdown. Maybe he’s right.

  “You’re sure it’s even from him?”

  “It’s his writing.”

  I look again. The letters are small and neatly formed. It doesn’t match the card sent to Dan.

  “Meet him where?” I look up at Bluff House. “Here?”

  “No,” says Bryan. “I reckon he’s too scared to come back here, after what happened.”

  “Where, then?” I flip the card over. “The lighthouse?”

  “I suppose.”

  Apprehension envelops me. What does David have for me, and what will it prove?

  “Will you come with me?”

  “He says to come alone.”

  No.

  I try again—“He sent you the card. He knows you know”—and he nods reluctantly.

  I have to go, for Ellie, but David knows the truth about me, something I don’t know myself, and I’m not sure I can hear it.

  But I’ve been through this before, I remind myself. I woke up in Deal, not knowing why I ran. I was in the hospital, then they transferred me to the memory clinic, to Dr. Olsen. I became Alex there, found Alice in the squat behind Victoria and, gradually, I pieced it all together. Or some of it, at least.

  That’s why I went back there, I suppose, why I made Black Winter.

  And I suppose that’s why I’m here, too. To discover the truth. About then, and about now.

  Then

  35

  It was at a party in the squat, a few weeks after I moved in. I was exhausted; I felt constantly bloated, yet I couldn’t stop eating. That afternoon, one of the others—a girl who called herself Krystal-with-a-K—had asked me whether I was eating for two. I’d shaken my head but couldn’t be sure; my periods had become so irregular that being late was something I’d long since stopped worrying about. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon googling signs of pregnancy, and by the time Dev’s mates arrived with vodka, beer, and who-knows-what-else I felt anxious and belligerent.

  Gee—whose real name was Glenn—cornered me in the bathroom. “Sadie!” he said, almost as if he was surprised to see me. He was wasted, his words slurred, his movements sluggish. He began to sing—“Sadie, Sadie, Give me your answer do . . .”—then leaned in for a kiss. His mouth looked like a wound and I told him I’d rather die. He looked like I’d slapped him.

  “You think you’re better than me, is that it?” he said. “When you’re just a fat slut, giving it away to everyone.”

  He put his hand on my crotch then, and tried to kiss me. I don’t know what happened next. I remember I saw our reflection in the mirror above the sink and recognized neither of us. It felt like I was watching through a camera, a film unspooling on the screen with actors playing out roles. There was an empty wine bottle on the windowsill behind the toilet and, before I knew it, it was in my hand, then a moment later Gee was on the floor, blood running down his face and neck, pooling beneath him. I knelt down, but he wasn’t moving.

  I ran out. I found Dev and told him. “I’ve killed Gee.”

  When we went back to look, Alice was already kneeling next to Gee’s prostrate body, a towel pressed to the wound on his head. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said, and Gee’s eyes opened, his ugly mou
th moving.

  “I’ll kill that bitch.”

  Alice turned to Dev. “Get her out of here.”

  I was stuck, watching the whole thing as if it were on a screen and had nothing to do with me. Dev grabbed me and steered me out through the handful of people crowded in the corridor. At the front door he told me to wait in the park opposite. “I’ll come and find you.”

  I did as he’d asked. An hour or so later, he appeared and handed me a mobile phone.

  “Take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “One of my spares,” he said. “You have to go.”

  “But my stuff.”

  “What stuff?” He sighed. “Look, Gee isn’t someone to mess with. You’re gonna have to lie low. I’ve put my number in the phone. Call me. But leave it a few weeks, okay? He’ll ask me where you are and it’s better I don’t know.”

  I switched the phone on.

  “What’s the code?”

  “Thirteen seventeen,” he said, then he kissed me. “I need to go.”

  I watched him leave, then turned back to face the night.

  Now

  36

  I press Play.

  The film fades in. A cellar; the damp walls ooze and shine. There’s a bright light attached to the camera, harsh and unforgiving, and the shadows have hard, precise edges. Without warning, we move back and the angle widens, then there’s a violent sweep to the right and a face appears.

  It’s Daisy. She’s snot-nosed and crying, her hair tangled, her eyes bloodshot. Help me, she says. Help me, please. Over and over she says it, but then the film changes. It cuts suddenly, smashes through black before another image appears. We’re outside, the camera is unsteady, the same bright light flashes on the ground, dead leaves and frost, the starry sky, booted feet, trudging at first, but then we pick up the pace until we’re running, sprinting toward a distant yew. Underneath it there’s a pile of stones. The camera flashes on dead flowers and a woman kneeling over the grave; she’s tipping forward, her hands are in the soil, her forehead almost touching the ground. Her body shudders, as if she’s crying. We approach and, finally, she hears us. She lifts her head. Help me, she says. She sounds relieved. You’re here! She begins to dig frantically at the earth. We have to get her out, she says. Help me. Help me, please.