Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  “You want something to eat?”

  “Please.”

  I stand, but then Monica comes down the stairs with a pile of clothes. “Can you get these on her?”

  I help Ellie peel off her damp T-shirt. She winces as I do. There’s a bruise across her back, another on the inside of her upper arm, and when I help her take down her jeans I see her legs are in the same state.

  I know the wrong question now will make her clam up completely so I keep quiet. When she’s dressed, and though she hasn’t asked, I tell her her parents are on their way. There’s no response.

  Monica returns from the kitchen with hot chocolate and a plate of jam sandwiches. “There we are,” she says. “Tuck in.”

  Ellie eats slowly and in silence, nibbling at the bread, forcing it down as though swallowing it dry. She blows on her drink and sips at that, too. It’s as if she’s embarrassed to be seen eating, as if consumption is shameful. When she’s done, she says she’s tired. Monica takes her upstairs to sleep while we wait for her parents to get here.

  “She’s in trouble,” I say, once she’s returned. “She’s bruised. She’s scared. She’s protecting someone.”

  “David.”

  “She says it’s not him.”

  I take the glass of wine she’s poured without asking. “There is something, though.”

  “What?”

  I take out the photograph. “I found this. In David’s wallet.”

  She examines it for a moment. “It’s Zoe.”

  I nod.

  “But why would he have that? Unless he was involved?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . . Kat says he isn’t. And Ellie didn’t seem scared of him.”

  “So? Who took her, then?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  She seems momentarily offended. “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . you’ve lived here all your life. You know more of what’s going on. Who everyone is.” Monica looks skeptical. “More than me, anyway.” I hesitate. “Someone drove her out to the moor and left her to find her own way back.”

  “But why?”

  I remember the stories Alice used to tell me. “Punishment? To teach her a lesson. And it worked. She’s terrified.”

  Monica closes her eyes. By the time she opens them a decision has been made.

  “I need to show you something.”

  “What?”

  She goes over to the table next to the sofa and grabs a sheet of paper. She hands it to me and I unfold it. It’s a handwritten note; the words are tiny, meandering, as if it’d been written in a hurry.

  “Read it.”

  I’m sorry, it begins. For what I did. I killed her. I killed them both. It’s my fault. I never meant to, but I didn’t have a choice. I loved them. I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. I persuaded Daisy to jump when she threatened to tell on me after what I did to Sadie. I killed her. I buried her on the moor. And then Zoe ran away. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.

  There’s a signature, scrawled at the bottom. David.

  I hold the note steady in my hand. I read it again, then look up. It’s wrong, I want to say. Fake. He can’t have written this. Sadie isn’t dead.

  But how can I? She’d ask me how I know.

  “Why did he give this to you?” I say instead.

  She looks me straight in the eye. She can hear the doubt in my voice. It occurs to me that she’ll confess, admit he never wrote it, that she did. It’s as if she’ll tell me why, why she wants him to take the blame for Sadie’s death, for something that never happened, and for Daisy’s, too, something that did.

  I will her to be honest. To tell me who she’s covering for, who really wrote the note. To reveal who hurt me, who really killed Daisy.

  But she doesn’t.

  “I don’t know. It was put through my letterbox, this afternoon.”

  I say nothing. Another thought comes. If David’s note is fake, then maybe his attempted suicide is, too. Maybe it was attempted murder.

  “Will you take it to the police?”

  She hesitates. “Should I?”

  I’m about to say yes, she should. I’m about to tell her why, that I don’t think David wrote it, which means his overdose might not have been self-inflicted. But then I realize they’ll question everyone. Including me. I’ll have to be honest about who I really am and my secret will be out.

  I can’t have that, not yet, not until I’m sure I understand what’s happening here. I shake my head.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod. She sinks down into the armchair, seemingly relieved. I wonder what reasons she might have for keeping the note between us.

  “We need to help the girls,” she says.

  “You said they were alright. That you were looking after them.”

  “I am,” she says. She looks exhausted now. “I was. Or I thought I was, anyway.” She reaches for her cigarettes. “But after what happened with Ellie? I thought she’d come to me, rather than run away. Maybe she doesn’t trust me anymore.”

  I think of some of the things I’ve done. Things that made no sense at all, even at the time.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I say.

  “You think?”

  I pick up the photo of Zoe from the arm of the chair and look at it again. I notice something. There’s someone in the background, smiling and in profile, as if they’re talking to someone out of shot. His hair’s different, longer, but it’s him. He’s even wearing the same glasses.

  Gavin.

  I put it in my pocket, where it sings its accusations.

  “Where was Gavin tonight?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I have no idea.”

  39

  It’s getting late, but the lights are on in the village hall and the door is unlocked. Inside, there’s a uniformed officer tidying things away and I say hello.

  Everything feels muddy; I can’t put my thoughts in order. But one feeling comes to the fore. I feel ashamed, though why, I don’t know. It’s almost like Kat was right, I caused it all, and by sleeping with Gavin I somehow made it worse.

  “We’ll be done in a few minutes,” he says, oblivious. “Thanks for coming to lock up for us.”

  “Oh,” I say, forcing a smile. “That’s fine. The investigation’s over then?”

  “Yeah. The girl reckons she ran away, then changed her mind and came back. Nothing to investigate.”

  “You believe her?”

  “It’s not up to me. Anyway, I need to get on.”

  I go through into the kitchen. Gavin will be here soon, I think, and then I’ll have to explain why I lied to the officer about him having asked me to come over to close the place up. But I might as well use this time, see whether I can find anything out. The serving hatch is open and through it I can see the officer, but at the far end of the room a door leads into what I’m guessing is a cupboard or storeroom.

  It’s not locked. Inside, I find shelves stacked with catering boxes of teabags and huge tins of coffee and hot chocolate. In the corner sits a box of toys, and the projector screen Gavin must use for the film club is propped against the wall. Everything is neat, nothing tossed randomly. There’s a filing cabinet in the corner behind the door.

  I try the top drawer, but it won’t open. On the wall there’s a lock-box, but inside there are no keys that might fit. I lean my elbows on the cabinet. Shit. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, anything that might be a clue to his connection with Zoe, I suppose. I realize once again I’ve fucked someone who turns out to be a stranger.

  “Alex?”

  My head jerks up. Gavin is standing in the doorway, watching me. I don’t know how long he’s been there. He seems disappointed, I think. Or angry. From the main hall I hear another voice.

  “I’ll be off, then.”

  Gavin looks briefly over his shoulder and calls out with false cheer, “Right, then! Bye!” He looks back to me and lowers his voice. “
What’re you doing?”

  I raise my head defiantly. “I could ask you the same.”

  He glances at the filing cabinet, as if reassuring himself it’s still locked.

  “Alex?”

  “You knew Zoe.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I just—”

  “Gavin! Just fucking stop, okay?”

  His eyes narrow. “You went to see her parents again.”

  “No,” I say. “I found this.” I show him the photo. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  He looks at it closely, then, eyes closed, draws a deep breath.

  “Where did you get that?”

  I ignore him. I scan the room: he’s between me and the door, I might need a weapon, something I can use to defend myself. But there’s nothing, just the camera round my neck. Pretty weighty, but not enough.

  “What did you do with her?” I say. “Where is she?”

  His eyes dart open. “What? You think I . . . ? I’d never—”

  I shove the picture toward him.

  “Explain this, then!”

  He shakes his head. “Did she give it to you?”

  She? I think. He can’t mean Zoe.

  “Who?”

  “Jody. Or Sean?”

  “What? No. Why? How would—?”

  “Come on.” He takes my arm. “I need to tell you something.”

  His grip is firm, but he’s not rough. He tries to steer me out, through the kitchen, but I shake him free and walk there myself. In the main hall I turn to face him.

  “Tell me. You knew Zoe. How? Where was the photo taken?”

  “Her birthday. Her thirteenth. McDonald’s.”

  “And why were you there?”

  He stares at the floor. “I’m her uncle.”

  “What?”

  “Jody’s my sister.”

  It’s the last thing I expected.

  “But—”

  “We don’t talk. Not anymore.”

  “She knows you’re here?” He shakes his head. “Why are you here?”

  “To find her. Or find out what happened to her.”

  “So all this finding a new life . . .”

  “Half true, I suppose. I had nothing else to do.”

  “But why sneak up here? Why not tell her? She’s your sister! What happened?”

  He sighs. “We argued, after Zoe went. The two of them were frantic. I took some time off work, came and stayed with them. I was trying to be supportive. I thought it was what they wanted.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “I dunno. We got on fine at first. But then . . . Zoe still didn’t come home, and everyone started painting this picture of the perfect life she had, of what fantastic parents they’d been.”

  “They weren’t?”

  “Well, they were no worse than most. But I’d seen them fighting one Christmas a couple of years before she disappeared. It kicked off at Mum’s. Yelling and screaming, they were—”

  “In front of Zoe?”

  “In front of all of us. They said it was a one-off, that everything was fine. But Zoe came to see me afterward. She said she was sick of it. She didn’t know what to do. They were arguing all the time—her mum was convinced her dad was having an affair. The usual stuff.”

  “Did your sister tell you any of this?”

  “No. Not even after Zoe went. It was all everything was perfect and we were all getting on fine and she had no idea why Zoe had started to run wild and . . . well, it seemed like she was more worried about not getting the blame for Zoe being unhappy than actually finding her and bringing her home.”

  “And you told her that?”

  He smiles wryly. “Let’s just say it came up in conversation. They weren’t too happy. Sean asked me what it’d got to do with me anyway. Pretty much implied I’d been . . . well . . . y’know?”

  “What?”

  “Too close to Zoe, shall we say. Only they’re not the words he used. Pretty much said it was my fault she’d run away.”

  I hesitate. “I don’t think they believe that now.”

  He grimaces, then gazes up toward the ceiling.

  I regard him for a moment. “Maybe you should speak to them. Jody was pretty difficult, but I think she wants to talk. Maybe—”

  He turns his gaze back to me. “Not to me, she doesn’t. And I don’t really want to talk to her, either. I just want to find out what happened to Zoe, and Daisy, and Sadie. And Ellie, now. And make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

  His eyes glisten. I want to believe him, but can I? I imagine myself walking away, him a few steps behind. A blow to the head and I’m down. No one knows I’m here. No one cares. It’d be that easy.

  “Where were you?” I say.

  “When?”

  “Today. When Ellie came back.”

  He stares at me. “You think I had something to do with it?”

  I don’t, I think. Not really. But I’ve been mistaken before and I need to be sure.

  “So?”

  “Alex, I was out looking for Ellie. Like everyone else.”

  I retreat.

  “But—”

  “Ask Bryan,” he says. “Liz. Any of them. When they came back, I stayed out, on the moors. Trying to find her.”

  He steps toward me, his arms out. “Believe me.” His face is pleading, imploring. “Look,” he says. He holds up his phone. “I filmed it. In case it was, you know. Useful. For your film.”

  He presses Play. A shot of the moor, blanketed in darkness.

  “Could’ve been taken by anyone. Any time.”

  He shows me the time stamp. An hour ago. “Look.” He scrolls through the clip. Right at the end his face flashes into view.

  I lift my head, about to speak, though to say what, I’m not sure. Sorry, perhaps, though I don’t feel it.

  “Don’t lie to me again,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “I won’t.” He looks up at me, and something hovers in his expression, just beyond reach. It’s as if he’s considering something, weighing his options, deciding how to reply. But in the end all he says is, “If you promise me the same.”

  40

  Gavin brings me coffee, then leaves. It’s early, before light. Loss wraps itself around me, as if I’ve left something behind but can’t remember what. Something important and irreplaceable. I lie in bed, thinking of Daisy’s mother withering in her tiny room, her confused brain turning to fantasy, and of my own, lying in the cold ground, rotting to nothing. I think of Zoe, gone, perhaps for good, her room still waiting for her, her parents trying to keep it together, to remain optimistic in the face of the evidence. How do they go on? I think. How do any of us?

  Then there’s Ellie, returned from who knows where. Am I right about it being a punishment, or was it an attempt at getting away and, if so, from what? On the way downstairs I glance at the barometer. The needle hasn’t budged; it sits stubbornly between Rain and Stormy, as if it’s a warning. I know that all it’s doing is measuring air pressure, or humidity, or temperature, or perhaps a combination of all three. It’s just science, that’s all; there’s no mystery, nothing supernatural. Perhaps it’s broken. I think of David, coming into my bedroom. Perhaps it’s me that’s broken.

  I pick up my computer. As I do, it pings with a new submission.

  Play.

  A shot of the sky. There are trees, way over in the distance. It’s blue, a clear day. Sunny, but the shadows are long and the trees have shed their leaves. Winter, and something about the film makes me think it’s years old. A bright, clear winter’s day. As the camera turns a trailer flashes into view. Pegasus.

  I shrink away. A girl appears, her head and shoulders filling the frame. She’s smiling, grinning. Daisy. The image is clear and sharp, it might almost be recent, but no, it can’t be, she’s dead.

  Still it’s as if I’m looking at a ghost, as if I could reach into the screen and grab her, save her. Ask her what happened, who hurt her, why she jumped and why I ran away.

  And who
sent this? Who is it who was holding the camera?

  I need to get away. The night sky is cloudless, the air frozen and still. By the time I’m halfway up Slate Road, I’m out of breath. It’s as if the air itself has thickened, closed around me. It’s as if I’m back on twenty a day.

  My car is where I left it, but now I’m here I don’t know where to go, why I’d thought escape was even an option. I know what Dan would say, and I know he’s right. Finish your film.

  I continue farther, to the park, and push open the stiff sprung gate. My feet crunch on the frozen gravel path. Up ahead, the bandstand looms, but the wind has picked up and I head for its shelter. As I draw close, I see it’s not empty; there’s a figure hunched in its recess, head down.

  I don’t turn back. It’s as if my subconscious worked out she’d be here and brought me to her. I climb the steps and stand in front of her. She’s smoking; she has a jacket wrapped tight around her but still she shivers in the cold. I clear my throat.

  “Kat?”

  It’s only then she notices me and raises her head.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  Her question lacks conviction. She’s glad, I can tell. Secretly, perhaps without even knowing it. I’m company, if nothing else.

  “Can I join you?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  I sit next to her, leaving a gap between us. I look out at Blackwood Bay for a minute or two, at the sea beyond it. I used to come here too, I think. When I was upset. Finally, Kat speaks.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t. I had no idea you’d be here.”

  She stubs out her cigarette and folds her arms.

  “You’re not filming or nothing?”

  I shake my head. “D’you want me to?”

  Her laughter is a short, low bark of derision. We fall back into an uneasy silence.

  “Have you seen Ellie?” she asks me, after a while.

  “Briefly,” I say. “Last night.”

  She grunts. It’s unreadable, defensive.

  “Have you?”

  She shakes her head. “They won’t let me.”

  “Who? Her parents?”

  “She’s told them she ran away. They say I’m a bad influence.” She’s staring out to sea; her mouth is a thin, hard line.