Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

“No,” I say. “You have to watch.”

  I find the film Kat sent me and press Play. At first he refuses to look at the screen—a sense of loyalty to Monica, I suppose—but then he watches. Watches as Ellie takes the joint, as Grace and the other girls are told about the party, as they’re warned not to say too much in front of me.

  “Who filmed this?”

  “I can’t be sure. Kat, I think.”

  “You’ve spoken to her?”

  “I can’t find her.”

  “And this was before Ellie ran away?”

  “I’m guessing so. And I don’t think she ran. I think she was taken out there, as a punishment.”

  “By Monica? But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “No,” I say. I pause, unsure for a moment. “I can’t prove it, but I think there are more people involved.”

  I tell him about breaking into Monica’s cottage, about the book I found, the photographs, the men’s names.

  “And there’s something else,” I say. “She interrupted me, and . . .”

  “What?”

  I hesitate. I want him to help expose Monica, find out who else is involved. But do I trust him enough to risk him finding out the truth about who I am?

  I have no choice. I need help.

  “She was on the phone,” I say. “I heard her say ‘She’s back.’”

  He tilts his head toward me. “She’s back?”

  “Yes.”

  “She meant Ellie.”

  “No,” I say. “She didn’t sound relieved.”

  “Who, then?”

  My stomach clenches as it comes to me. Maybe Monica doesn’t know who I am. How could she? She’s back. They were talking about Daisy.

  I say it out loud. “Daisy.”

  “What?”

  I nod, but in voicing it, it’s all become clear. He shakes his head, incredulously, as it tumbles out.

  “She’s been seen,” I say. “On the Rocks. At Bluff House. And I saw her, too. I was down at the beach, the day Ellie went missing. I saw her—Daisy, I mean—just standing there outside Bluff House, watching me.”

  He pauses. “My god. You’re serious.”

  I remember last night, when I was up at the bandstand looking for Kat. The figure in the gloaming. Maybe she’s following me.

  “It was her. I’m sure of it.”

  “But she was seen jumping.”

  “By Monica.”

  He shakes his head.

  “And what about David’s confession—?”

  “You believe him?”

  “Do I believe what someone wrote in their suicide note?” he says. “Yes.”

  I take a deep breath. “It was faked. David’s note. I think someone tried to kill him.”

  “Slow down—”

  “I think Daisy tried to kill him.”

  “Alex, really—”

  “She sent me this film of herself,” I say, in a hurry to get it all out before I’m dismissed completely. “It was a warning. And I know David’s note is a lie, because I knew Sadie.”

  “What? How—?”

  “Back in London. It’s why I’m here. She asked me to come up and see what was going on. But the point is, she’s alive, so—”

  “So he couldn’t have killed her. But—”

  I grip his arm. The carols have started beyond the door. “Away in a Manger.”

  “Don’t you see?” I go on. “He didn’t kill Sadie. He can’t have, she’s alive. But he said he did. Someone’s trying to frame him, but more important—”

  “That means the rest of the note might be a lie, too? His confession to killing Daisy?”

  “Yes! Exactly! And it all ties in to Monica.”

  “Fuck.” He hesitates, and I know what’s coming next. “Have you been to the police?”

  “No. I can’t. Not yet. I need to be sure. About Monica. That she’s behind it all. Back then, too. Then I can tell them.”

  I can see he’s struggling to take it all in.

  “Will you help me?”

  His confusion seems to clear, just a little. “Of course. But Ellie went to Monica’s the night she came back; she’s not scared of her. There must be something more going on, someone else. So I think you’re right. Let’s not be too hasty in going to the police. Not ’til we know more. Who else have you told?”

  “Gavin. Some of it, anyway.”

  Again, a glimmer of something on his lips.

  “But can we keep it between us?” I continue. “Just while I figure out what to do.”

  “Yes.” He smiles and puts his hand clumsily on my arm. “Of course.”

  44

  There’s nothing we can figure out together, so when we leave St. Julian’s Bryan takes his car and I mine. He follows me most of the way back from the church, peeling off to head home only as we come into Blackwood Bay. I park and walk down to Hope Cottage. The village is still deserted; everyone is at the concert, and I just about manage to resist the urge to run. Before I turn into Hope Lane I see The Ship, its orange lights haloed in the thickening mist. I picture me and Gavin, the two of us sitting with drinks, chatting as if nothing was wrong, nothing was happening. I see us gazing out over the water, staring at the moon, watching the ships shimmer in the distance. A different time. It wouldn’t be so bad.

  I double-lock the door. I’m safe, I think. Hope Cottage is quiet. Just the steady, relentless ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the faint click of the fridge, a steady drip from a tap upstairs. I rest for a moment by the door, check it again before I go through into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of wine. Maybe it will help. I need to figure out how Daisy can be back. And what to do about Monica.

  I examine my reflection in the glass. I look thin; I can almost see through myself to the yard beyond, the dead plants in their terracotta pots, the chair I left out when I scaled the fence to get into Monica’s.

  I go over to the window. The moon is bright tonight, but not full. It’s waning. Waning gibbous.

  How do I know that? Who told me?

  A voice comes, then. David, of course.

  I look back at my reflection in the glass. I’m forgetting. There are two of me now. The me that’s here, looking out; the me that’s outside, looking in. The me who grew up in Blackwood Bay; the me who did her best to leave it all behind.

  But I can’t live like that. I say my name, under my breath. Alex. My name is Alex. Anything else is an illusion, that’s all. Anything else is just light bouncing off the glass. Sadie is dead and, if I have to, I’ll bury her once more, bury her so deep this time that she’ll never escape.

  I force a smile, and my ghost smiles, too. That’s more like it. But still I hear David’s voice, distant now, like I’m listening through a radio that’s stuck between stations, picking up static.

  You know, he says, they used to think the moon hunted people. They thought it traveled through the skies looking for people to kill and eat. And then, later, people thought it was where dead souls go. Some people think the moon makes people do crazy things, that even just by looking at it for too long you can go mad. The word “lunacy” comes from the word “luna.” That’s Latin for moon.

  I don’t answer.

  Finished your drink?

  Not yet, I say. Are they out?

  I look back up, at the stars. I look for Orion. For Betelgeuse. I look for Andromeda.

  Yes. The seeing should be good tonight.

  Shall we, then?

  David. He said he’d always looked after me, and I’m beginning to believe it must be true. Both Kat and Ellie have vouched for him, Geraldine, too.

  I turn away from the window, take a sip of red wine and, without thinking, light a cigarette from the packet on the worktop—the packet I guess I must’ve bought earlier today—then go upstairs.

  Shit. I need an ashtray. I’m about to retrace my steps when I see a saucer by the side of the bed, a single cigarette butt stubbed out and standing upright in the center. I stare at it for a moment, trying to rememb
er when I brought it up, when I started buying cigarettes, when I started leaving filthy ashtrays on my bedside table. The memory flickers into life: it was this afternoon, or yesterday, I think. Except, when I probe it in more detail, it stalls. Was it even me?

  I think about Daisy. Where is she? That saucer, used as an ashtray. Has she been here? Does she hate me for what I’ve done? What did I do?

  I try to put myself back in the past, to relive it. Daisy and Sadie, best friends; they did everything together, except Daisy was being abused and Sadie wasn’t.

  How did she feel about that? Did she try to tell me? Did I listen? Why have I forgotten?

  We must’ve argued; an argument I can’t even remember but other people are certain upset her deeply. What happened to her then? Did I do something? I have to remember. It’s clear she blames me, she wants to punish me. And how can I put things right if I don’t even know what’s wrong?

  I lean back against the wall. Other than a single trainer, plus her jacket, washed up on the beach way down the coast, there’s only Monica’s word that she jumped at all, and I now know that’s worth nothing. Can she really be back?

  I reach for my phone. It’s late, but I don’t want to feel so alone, and the memories aren’t coming. I can’t seem to force them. I wake it from sleep and see there’s an alert. A new film has been uploaded.

  I start up my laptop and press Play.

  The screen is black. Flashes of light, a dull, grayish gloom, but nothing’s clear, nothing’s discernible. Then, a bright flash, something emerges from the shadows, but it’s blurry and indistinct. It resolves as the camera’s autofocus kicks in but is instantly lost before snapping sharp.

  A wall. A stone wall, dark gray, the color of night but with a strange, sickly sheen. The light is bright and full on; it comes from the camera itself, or near it, at least. There’s a dripping sound, magnified, echoing. It’s a cellar. A damp, fetid cellar. The camera lurches to the right, and there she is. Daisy.

  I press Stop and the image freezes. I can’t watch, I’ve been here before; I’ve seen this before, in a dream. I want to wake up.

  But I can’t. I’m awake already and on the screen Daisy’s face is twisted, a grotesque picture of pure terror. Her features have collapsed in on themselves; all hope has gone, there’s only pain. And when I look up, away from that terrible vision, I see my room. The TV on the wall, the circular mirror I still can’t quite bring myself to look at. Everything is as I know it. This is real. I’m not asleep, and I can’t run away. Not this time.

  I press Play once more.

  Help me, she says. Please.

  Over and over. Help me. Please. Don’t do this. She appears to be sick, beyond desperate. She’s given up. There’s no one in the world who can help her.

  She stares right into the camera, through the years and down into my gut. She sobs. You said they wouldn’t hurt me.

  No, I want to say. No. I want to reach into the machine, go back in time. I’m here for you, I want to say. I was always here for you. Why didn’t you trust me? Why didn’t you tell me who was hurting you? I could’ve made it stop. I know I could. I’d have never left you.

  But I didn’t, I know that. I’ve dreamed this film; it can’t be new to me. I must’ve seen it before. Or been there when it was filmed.

  But no, I’d remember that, surely? I’d have done something, back then. I’d have told someone, or gone to the police.

  Wouldn’t I? I remember what Bryan told me. Sadie and Daisy argued. One threatened the other. Some people think Sadie was involved in what happened to Daisy, and that’s why she ran away.

  And who’d have this film, anyway? The person who filmed it, I suppose, but could that really be me? Or Daisy—would she have a copy?

  If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I didn’t send it to myself. Which means she is back. That is who they meant, Monica and whoever she was speaking to on the phone. I’m even more sure of it now. Not Sadie. Not me. Daisy.

  I slam my machine closed and stand, crashing into the bedside table as I go, sending my half-full glass skittering off. Wine flies, pooling on the floor. It sprays the wall and, for a second, it’s like it’s raining blood.

  45

  I have to go to Bluff House, find her. I slam the door behind me. Monica’s windows are in darkness, the cottage still and empty. She must be “dealing” with Daisy, like she’d promised. I have to get there first.

  I don’t look back. I begin to run, to sprint as hard as I can. My mind turns in circles. Maybe I left the drawer open in the bedroom and Monica came back after the carols and noticed the rearranged photographs in her little book of shame. Perhaps she even caught sight of me, watching her in the mirror or running down the stairs. Which means I’m in danger, too. But we’re linked. I need to reach Daisy, to keep both of us safe, whether she’s angry with me or not.

  Or maybe I’m being naive, and I should be running away from Daisy, not toward her.

  I reach The Rocks, and the shingle path. I fly, wraith-like. I see no one else, and no one sees me. Blackwood Bay is deserted, but it’s more than that. I feel invisible.

  I close my eyes against the sting of the icy wind. The closer I get, the more powerful I feel; something is driving me, some mysterious energy that is almost supernatural. My legs windmill beneath me and, for an instant, I feel like screaming, but I don’t. I see myself in that room with my best friend as she begs for her life. Is it true? Was I there?

  I have to remember what I did.

  My eyes blink open and I skid to a halt. I look out at the freezing water. I want to shout, Where are you? Why have you come back?

  I hear a voice and turn around to face Bluff House. There’s no one there. I’m alone. It’s just the wind, the bark of the black gulls that roost under the eaves, laughing. The groans of the old house, sagging under the load, buckling.

  I close my eyes and breathe deep, drawing strength now from the icy air, then step up. As I do, a light flickers in one of the upstairs rooms in Bluff House. It’s like a camera flash going off, or moonlight glinting on glass.

  I’m falling; it feels like vertigo. My legs collapse beneath me as if I’ve tripped, or slipped on the soft grass, though the next second I realize I must’ve been shoved from behind. My hands fly out and partially break my fall, but still I hit the rocky ground with a painful thwack, barely cushioned by the thin topsoil. My teeth crack, my ears ring. I can’t breathe; my mouth is stoppered. I see only blackness, and for a second it looks like a tunnel, but not of light. A tunnel that leads down, down into the cold black heart of the earth.

  I spit out the soil from my mouth and breathe. If I was pushed, then whoever did it will be standing over me right now. I force open my eyes. I try to twist my head, but it’s painful. Something warm is trickling down my cheek.

  Déjà fucking vu.

  Breathe, I tell myself. I must remember to breathe. I lift my head. The ringing tinnitus intensifies, swells to a crescendo, then disappears.

  “Daisy?” I say, or I think I do at least. It comes out as a croak. I try to lift myself up, to work out what’s going on, but I hear nothing but the sound of my own breath, heavy now. I’m not even certain she’s there, or that she ever was.

  But perhaps this is how she wants me. Helpless and begging. She wants to make me pay, for whatever it is I did.

  There’s a scraping sound, but it doesn’t seem real. It’s in my head, pure imagination. My mouth is full of blood; I must’ve bitten my cheek. I spit a bubbly pearl of pink saliva onto the grass and try to force myself onto my side. I want to see you, I plead. If this is what it’s come to, then at least let me see your face, one last time before the end.

  I don’t get the chance. Something flashes in the moonlight—too fast for me even to guess at what it might be—and connects painfully with the side of my head.

  I register what’s happened for less than a second, then everything goes black.

  46

  I wake to darkness. My head p
ounds like a drum stretched too tight, my eyes blur in and out of focus and, when they finally resolve to sharpness, I see only the edge of a discarded mattress upon which I must be lying. It’s dark otherwise; the air is sharply sulfuric with the smell of public toilets and the piercing sting of ammonia.

  It’s the stink I recognize. I’m in Daisy’s trailer. The bedroom. I have to get out.

  My heart cannons in my chest. When I try to get to my feet the room spins and I fall painfully, cracking my elbow on the bedframe. I put my hand to my head and feel something encrusted there. Blood, I suppose, though at least it’s dry. I try once more and this time manage to remain upright. My eyes adjust to the dim moonlight, but still I can only just see what I’m doing. I try the flimsy concertina door. It’s locked somehow; either that or something’s tying it closed. I pull as hard as I can but, though it buckles, it gives only an inch.

  I spin round. There’s a window next to me, plastic with a metal frame. I try it, but it’s rusted shut. I’m going to die. I see it clearly. She’ll come in, with a gun or a knife or a crowbar, and finish it.

  I have to get out. I hammer on the window, but nothing gives. I wonder dimly whether it’s shatterproof, but my overdriven mind has gone into panic mode. I look around for anything that might help, but there’s nothing. My mind slips a little but I fight to stay in control, to stay present. I hammer on the door, eyes darting wildly. The curtains are moldy and torn, but they hang off a metal curtain pole. It might be enough.

  I jump up and grab hold of it with both hands, my weight pulling it off the wall. I swing it at the window as hard as I can, but it’s no good. It judders, sending shockwaves up my arm and into my shoulder, but the plastic window remains resolutely unbroken. Not even a crack. I try again—three, four, five times—but with the same result. The door is my only chance. I shoehorn the curtain pole through the gap between the door and its frame and pull on it, using all my weight. It levers the door open a little more, and I edge the pole farther in and try again. Eventually, the gap is big enough for me to see through; Daisy has tied something to the handle—a tie, it looks like, dark brown, from David’s house, perhaps—and secured it somehow. It won’t budge.