Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  We step forward. She’s uncovered a body in the soil, a face buried a few inches deep. It snaps into focus, bright in the circle of light. It’s me.

  A second after that is when I wake.

  Bryan is already waiting when I reach the car park at the top of Slate Road, lounging on the wall by the entrance. He greets me cheerily, but worry is etched on his face. “We’ll be early,” he says as he gets into the car.

  “Good. You’ll need to direct me,” I say as I buckle up. I’m lying. I know the way, but I don’t want him realizing that. I pull out of the car park.

  “Left at the top,” he says.

  “Still no sign of Ellie?”

  He shakes his head. We were both out all afternoon, though not together. That’s why I fell asleep, I suppose. I filmed some of it, too. Discreetly. The guys in the pub, allocating areas to be scoured. Crowds of villagers combing the cliffs, calling her name. I spotted Liz among the searchers, and Monica and Sophie, too.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the lighthouse and I pull off onto an uneven gravel track. It’s desolate, no sign of David’s car, and when I switch off the engine the place falls into total blackness, save for the regular flash from the lamp above.

  “Have you got a torch?”

  “I’ll use my phone,” I say. Silence wraps itself around us. “You trust him? He won’t try to hurt me?” I go on, though it’s not the thought of physical distress that swells in the pit of my stomach.

  Bryan smiles reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”

  I find the gravel path that climbs up toward the lighthouse. To the right, there’s a low, squat building, and when I draw near I see it was once the visitors’ center. It has a wooden terrace on three sides, rotten now, and the windows are all either broken or boarded up. Above the door the remains of a painted sign spell out the word Head. I look back. Bryan is sitting in the car, still in darkness.

  I climb farther. The lighthouse is painted white, a few abandoned buildings dotted at its base. The tower isn’t tall but still inspires awe, standing on the edge of the cliff, solemn and brightly majestic.

  I lift my camera and film before letting it fall around my neck, still recording. I reach the top of the path, but there’s no one here. I choose a low wall from where I’ll get a good view of anyone arriving and sit down.

  I switch off my torch and wait for my eyes to adjust. Everything is still, then I hear the machinery behind me, the slow, rhythmic hum of the lenses as they turn. A gull soars overhead, catching the light, its loud shriek mocking.

  This is your fault, it seems to say. All of it.

  My fault. My mind turns instantly to what happened back then, to what I did to Gee, the night of the party. But I wrench my thoughts away and gaze out to sea. The wind bites, my hands turn red and I shove them deep in my pockets. Eight thirty creeps toward eight forty-five and still there’s no sign of David. I realize I’d half expected him to turn up with Ellie, to say sorry as he handed her back before skulking back to Bluff House. My feet are numb, and when it’s almost nine o’clock I’m about to give up when a figure appears through the dark.

  “I was worried.”

  I shine my torch on Bryan’s concerned face and stand, both relieved and disappointed.

  “He didn’t show.”

  His face falls. “Let’s go back.”

  “No,” I say. “Let’s take a look around.”

  We circle the outhouses, intending to check each one, but when we reach the second and I see its door is ajar I know something is wrong.

  Bryan’s right behind me. “What is it?” he says, and I tell him I don’t know. Inside, I see the room contains nothing but a few shelves and steps that lead down into the darkness.

  “Must be some sort of storeroom,” says Bryan. He sounds as scared as I feel. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “No,” I say. I’m going in.”

  He follows. The walls are damp, the brick stairs treacherous. I step cautiously down, filming as I go, my breathing loud in my ears. At the bottom I see nothing but a pool of blackness. “Ellie?” I say quietly, but the only response is the echo of my voice, then Bryan from the steps behind: “Anything?”

  I raise the beam of my torch. The dust motes dance like stars. It’s a small cellar; there are barrels in the corner, empty paint cans, a pile of wood stacked inelegantly against the wall. I sweep the room, and then something lying on the floor catches my eye. One of David’s ugly shoes.

  “Bryan?” I say, my voice breaking. “Look.”

  We find him behind the stack of barrels, slumped in a corner, his head lying awkwardly to one side. At first I think he’s dead, but his chest rises and falls gently and when I force myself to touch his hand it’s warm.

  Bryan kneels next to me. “Any sign of Ellie?”

  I shake my head. There’s something next to David, though, half covered by his leg. An empty brown bottle.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” I say. “He’s taken an overdose.”

  37

  Bryan returns to the car park to wait while I stay with David. I touch his hand but feel nothing. No crackle of electricity, no charge of recognition. Just weary flesh.

  “Where is she?” I whisper, but of course there’s no reply. I unzip his jacket and feel for his heart. Don’t die, I think. Don’t die. Tell me what you know.

  It’s beating steadily, but the gap between each pulse is a fraction too long. It feels like it’s slowing. In the distance, over the roar of the sea, I hear sirens. I withdraw my hand and close his jacket. What was he going to give me? In the pocket I feel the weight of his wallet.

  What harm can it do? I take it out and examine it in the dim light from my phone. It’s purple nylon, fastened with tattered Velcro. It weighs almost nothing. I tear it open and the rip echoes in the dark chamber. Inside, there are a few notes, tens and fives plus a solitary twenty, and a credit card. There’s a supermarket loyalty card, and one from the chemist. In the other compartment, behind clear plastic, there’s a key, and also a photograph of a girl.

  My heart thuds as I take it out. It’s Zoe; I recognize her instantly. She’s sitting at a table in a fast-food restaurant, smiling happily. It seems to be a birthday party; there are meals on the table in front of her, eager hands reaching for the food. I bring the picture close to the light. Where are you? I think. Why did you run? Tell me.

  Footsteps on the stairs. I don’t think. I pocket the photograph and the key, then replace the wallet. A moment later Bryan arrives, the paramedics behind him with powerful torches. “We’ll take over, miss,” they say.

  “So what do we do now?” I ask Bryan once we’re back in the car. He’s spoken to the police, he says, and they’ll want a statement, but for the moment we can go. “You think David tried to kill himself because he’s done something to Ellie?”

  He sighs and the air crackles. “I don’t want to think that,” he says. “But . . . who knows? Maybe he did do something and the guilt was more than he could cope with.”

  It doesn’t sound right to me.

  “But why did he send the postcard? What was he going to give me? Was it just so that I’d find him?”

  I can’t say what’s really on my mind. Did he never intend to tell me about Daisy, about me?

  I pull myself back. “Where will they take him?”

  “St. Mary’s, I expect.”

  I start the car. Zoe’s picture burns a hole in my pocket. “Maybe he’ll be okay. Maybe he’ll wake up and tell us what he knows.”

  Bryan nods. “So what now?”

  There’s something about the way he says it, as if it’s an invitation. But when I look over, he’s just sitting, his expression drawn. I must’ve been imagining it.

  I press the accelerator. “Let’s carry on looking for Ellie. Back to The Ship?”

  They’re playing music now, but at a lower volume than usual. The atmosphere is heavy with hushed conversation and things left unspoken. Several people look up as we enter, nodding at Bryan in gree
ting or giving a muted wave. I feel self-conscious, arriving with this man. I wonder how it appears, what people will be all too quick to assume. I wonder what Gavin might hear and whether I’m right to even care.

  We go through to the bar. A couple of guys are standing over the maps that are fanned across the table. Others must still be out searching.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” I say, and Bryan heads over to talk to a couple of the men. When I return, I hand him his pint and he takes a hefty swig.

  I lower my voice. “Have you told them about David?”

  He nods. “But something’s happened. According to the Butler woman, someone phoned in, said they saw a girl being driven away, said it looked like a taxi.” He pauses. “I need a cigarette,” he says. “Coming?”

  I nod and we go outside. We step down to the alley round the side of the pub. He offers me his pack and, without thought, I take one. He’s lit both mine and his own before I fully realize what I’m doing. I take a tentative drag, my first in who knows how long, and notice I’m holding the cigarette between my ring and my middle finger; someone told me the nicotine stains are less visible that way. We smoke in silence for a minute or two, then I see he’s looking at my hand. He coughs self-consciously.

  “You’re not married,” he says. It sounds more like a statement than a question.

  “No.”

  “Are you seeing Gavin?”

  My head spins from the nicotine but still I take another drag. Why’s he asking? Does he think I’ve led him on?

  No, I tell myself. Don’t be ridiculous. I face him.

  “Why?”

  He stares down. “I just . . . wondered, I suppose.”

  We fall silent. From above us comes the buzz of the pub, still subdued. The streetlights cast their faint glow on Slate Road. The moon hangs low over the water. For a moment I feel certain he’s about to say something, to make a declaration, and hope desperately that he won’t. He grinds out his cigarette beneath his boot, as if in preparation, then sighs. But all he says is, “I’m going back in. Same again?”

  I look round, trying not to show the relief I’m feeling. “Yes,” I say. “Thanks.”

  He climbs the steps back into the pub. Nausea stirs in my gut as I put out my cigarette and lean back against the wall. I breathe in deep. Suddenly, I want to see Gavin; I wish he was here. I’m about to go back inside to tell Bryan not to worry about the drink when I hear a voice.

  “I want to speak to you.”

  My heart bangs like a door slamming in the wind. I spin round. Kat is standing right in front of me.

  “You went to see him.”

  She sounds wretched. Angry.

  “Who?” I say uselessly.

  “David.”

  “David?” She must’ve seen me, or overheard Bryan telling the others in the pub. “No, I just—”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing, I just—”

  “You must’ve said something. You must’ve.”

  She’s crying. I move toward her, but slowly, as if she might bolt at any moment. Even in the dim light I can see what her makeup is not quite covering. A bruise pulses on her face, purple and blue and black.

  “Did he do that?”

  “What?”

  “Who hurt you? David? Was it him?”

  Her laughter bites. “Don’t be stupid. David? He wouldn’t. You don’t know anything.”

  “Did he take Ellie?”

  “Of course he didn’t. He’d never.”

  “Who did, then?”

  She falls silent, and I realize she’s terrified. I put my hand out and touch her arm.

  “Daisy,” I say softly. She yanks her arm free, and a second later I understand what I’ve done.

  “I mean Kat. Sorry, I—”

  “What did you call me?” she says, but she doesn’t give me a chance to explain. “It’s true,” she goes on. “It is all about her. You’re crazy. It’s your fault David did what he did.”

  She shakes her head, as if she’s disappointed in me, then turns to leave.

  “Kat!” I say, but she ignores me.

  “Talk to me!”

  Now, finally, she looks round. “If he dies,” she hisses, “it’s your fault. You know that? And whatever happens to Ellie. That, too. It’ll all be your fault.”

  38

  I’m shaking as I go back inside. Monica has arrived, and she nods in my direction, but I barely respond. My mind is fizzing. When I reach the bar, Bryan and the others are handing out torches, checking they work. Their tone is hushed; there’s an atmosphere of subdued camaraderie. A uniformed officer in a hi-vis jacket stands in the corner, chatting to one of the locals. When I go over to Bryan, he hands me my drink and asks what’s wrong.

  “Nothing,” I say. I don’t want to tell him about Kat, what she’s accused me of.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod, then sip my wine. It’s corked, it tastes of damp cardboard, but I say nothing and put it back on the table. I feel trapped. I’m about to tell him I’d like to join in the search when there’s a sudden increase in volume from the rest of the pub, a gasp from over by the door, then a general commotion. I look across to see what’s going on, but Bryan is already on his feet.

  “Jesus!”

  I stand up. There’s a figure by the door; she’s being embraced, welcomed. I can’t see her face, but there’s a shock of red hair and instinctively I know who it is.

  “Is that her?”

  Bryan looks over. “Fuck,” he says. “I think it is!”

  I follow him over. Ellie is soaked, shivering. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, trainers with a pink flash, but her clothes are encrusted with mud, her shoes wrecked. I switch on my camera. It feels wrong; I hope nobody has noticed, but so what if they have? Things are spiraling for me, I feel I’m losing control, but the documentary is one thing I can hold onto.

  “Ellie!” says the woman holding her. “Ellie, love! Where’ve you been?”

  The girl raises her head. It’s as if she doesn’t understand the question, but then she mumbles something.

  “What?” says the woman. “Speak up, love.” Then, over her shoulder, “Phone her parents, for God’s sake!”

  The officer talks urgently into his radio. “No,” says Ellie, but her voice is weak even on that single word. Her legs buckle beneath her, as if saying it has taken all her remaining energy. “Where is he?”

  “Who? Where’s who, love?”

  Her eyes dart around the room; mine, too. Kat is nowhere to be seen.

  “David,” says Ellie.

  The volume in the crowd rises a notch.

  “Where is he?” she says, frantically. Bryan steps forward, suddenly assertive. “Stop crowding the poor girl,” he says, then, “Ellie? You’re freezing. We need to get you warm. Then you can tell us what’s happened. Okay?”

  She looks up at him but just says, “I want to see him.”

  Bryan glances around, catches Monica’s eye. “Has anyone got any clothes she can change into?”

  Monica steps up. She slips an arm around the girl.

  “I do. I can take her to mine. That okay, Ellie?”

  The girl nods, though despite the warm embrace she still seems petrified. The officer looks uncertain but nods his assent.

  “C’mon,” says Monica softly.

  I follow them out and jog a few steps to catch up. “Monica!”

  She waits for me.

  “Let me help.”

  She doesn’t protest. Together, we take her weight, such as it is. I can feel Ellie’s bones through her clothes; her skin is cold and clammy; it’s like touching someone already dead.

  “There you go,” I say, and though it’s clear it’s effortful she responds with a mumbled “Thanks.” I want to ask her where she’s been, how far she’s had to walk, but realize it would be better to get her into the warmth of the cottage first.

  We reach Hope Lane and Monica opens her door. Her living room is a
mirror image of the one next door. In the far corner a pile of boxes sits, stacked three or four high, and the coffee table sags under the weight of books and leaflets and old receipts, held in place by a variety of paperweights, a stapler, and what appears to be a rock from the garden. On the floor next to the sofa sits a plate, encrusted with the remains of what I’m guessing was breakfast, next to a mug and an overflowing ashtray.

  “Sit yourself down, love,” says Monica, and Ellie does as she’s told. Monica lights the fire. “You want a drink? Hot chocolate?” Ellie says nothing. “I’ll go and find you something warm to wear first.” She looks over to me. “Stay with her?”

  I nod and sit on the sofa next to the girl as Monica goes upstairs. She’s shivering, and I put my arms round her. She tenses beneath my touch.

  “It’s okay,” I say gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She seems to relax at that, though still she stares at the carpet. I wait for a moment, then say, “Where were you?”

  She shrugs.

  “You can talk to me,” I say. “I won’t tell. I promise.”

  “I went to David’s.”

  “Was he the one who took you in the car?”

  She shakes her head. Of course not. Why would she go to his house, ask to see him, if he’s the one who hurt her?

  “Someone else?” I say.

  Nothing, though somehow I know her silence means yes.

  “Who?”

  “No one.”

  “Where did they take you?”

  Again, nothing. But I feel her tense, even through her wet clothes.

  “How did you get back?”

  “Walked.”

  “Was it far?”

  Her chin dips slightly.

  “What direction?”

  “The moor,” she says, and I think of the yew tree.

  “Where on the moor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She’s walked all this way. It seems impossible, yet the state of her clothes suggests it’s true.