by S. J. Watson
“I think I know why. I want you to know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to help you.”
I lean forward, closer to the camera. I imagine her there, staring at me. Defying me. Her eyes would be wide, rebellious. Go on, she’d say. If you’re so sure you can help me, if you’re so certain you’ve figured it out, prove it.
I remember the symbol I saw in her trailer, right by her bed. “I know about Andromeda,” I say. “And I remember when you got your tattoo.”
My hand goes to my arm, as if I could feel the bite of the imaginary needle myself. We’d gone together. They were going to match, but only she went through with it. I chickened out, almost as if I’d known about the accident that would have rendered the whole thing pointless anyway.
I remember the woman who tattooed her; she had hair dyed the color of blood but with the glossy sheen of ripe tomatoes. I remember a burning heart on her chest, wreathed in barbed wire.
“I wimped out,” I say. I know she’ll remember, she’ll know I’m talking to her, and only to her. “But I won’t this time. I promise.”
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath. I stare straight into the camera.
“I can help you. If you let me.”
I press Stop, then upload the clip and make it public. I wonder how long it’ll be before she sees it. I know she’s watching. After all, she’s been watching all along.
All I can do now is wait. I don’t want to sleep, despite my exhaustion. I’m too scared of what might be down there, lurking in the deep. Of what might rise to the surface if I look too hard.
Instead, I keep moving. I make strong, bitter coffee, thick as sludge, and pour myself cup after cup. In the living room, I turn off the main light and sit in the pooled luminosity from the screen of my laptop. I can see my reflection in the window, but nothing else. Outside is darkness. A black void; even the moon is invisible, hidden behind clouds. I know she’s out there. You got away, she’s saying, while I might as well be buried in the black soil. You wanted me to rot, after all.
I sip my drink. I’m jittery. It’s the caffeine, I suppose. The room goes dark as the screen sleeps. My eyes close. My head sinks. A moment of blackness, then her face appears and with a wordless grunt I jolt myself awake.
More coffee. Slug it down. Back to the circle of light.
I watch the clock, floating in and out of consciousness. Even when I’m awake I feel numb, half dreaming. It’s like my body is a puppet, a mannequin. My strings are cut. The clock ticks, endlessly. Rain to Stormy.
It must be nearly midnight when the knife-tap ping of a new submission jerks me into life. A calm folds itself over me, I know exactly what it is and who it’s from. I breathe in deep, filling my lungs, then wake my machine. This is it. My chance to save Daisy. My chance to say sorry, for whatever it is I’ve done. My chance to win her back.
The screen is black. Play. A flash of low cloud, the distant moon, flipping in and out of focus, then the image settles. Bluff House snaps into focus.
The image shakes then, and a second later, low and rough, disguised but chillingly familiar, there’s a female voice.
“I’m here now,” it says. “Come alone.”
49
When I turn my back on Hope Cottage, it’s with the feeling I won’t see it again. There’s a light on next door, a shadow moving in the upstairs window, and from inside floats the sound of voices. Without pausing to think, I knock and wait.
Monica opens the door.
“Alex!”
She seems surprised. I look terrible, I know that. No makeup, my hair’s a mess, I haven’t slept. Now I’m here, I don’t know what to say. I thought I’d hate her as soon as I saw her, but I find I can’t. She seems too pathetic. Too weak.
“Can I come in?”
She regards me levelly.
“It’s not a good time.”
I keep my voice calm. I can deal with what she’s done later, once I’ve met with Daisy, once I know what I did. After all, Monica doesn’t know how much I know. She has no idea what I’ve seen.
I remember her words on the phone.
“She’s back,” I say. “You know it, and I know it.”
She tilts her head with incredulity. It’s almost comical, a parody of confusion.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s stop fucking about and be honest with each other, shall we?”
For a second I think she’s going to slam the door in my face, but then she seems to relent.
“You’d best come in.”
I scan the room. The sofa is empty; there’s a single wineglass on the coffee table. The voices were coming from a television upstairs. A soap opera.
“You know she’s at David’s, right?”
“Who?”
“Daisy.”
I see her pupils flare but then she turns away to reach for her cigarettes. She sits on the edge of the chair opposite and folds her legs precisely beneath her, composing herself, before sliding them toward me. I ignore them.
“You’re wrong. She’s dead.” Her tone is flat; it lacks conviction. “She jumped. I saw—”
“Tell the truth. Daisy didn’t jump.”
“I saw her.”
“She’s alive. She contacted me.”
She fumbles for her lighter. “How? Through your little film? We’ve all watched it, you know.” The flame stutters as she lights up. “You’re just an outsider, come up here to stir stuff up—”
“No—” I say, but she ignores me.
“—stuff you know nothing about.”
I take a step forward, try to stay calm. Her anger is a defense. She’s scared, I think. I wonder how much she knows.
“That’s not true.”
She exhales a cloud of blue smoke, cool now. “Just so you can make one of your films. About us.”
I shake my head, defiant. “She’s not dead.”
“We’re good people. Understand? She jumped. It’s sad, but that’s what happened. She jumped off The Rocks and she’s dead. We don’t need you up here, throwing about all kinds of accusations.”
“No,” I say. “She was abused. I have a film. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“Of?”
“It’s Daisy. Pleading for her life. She sent it to me.”
Her cigarette halts midway between her mouth and the ashtray.
“What’s going on here?” I say.
“Nothing.” She stares down at it. “Nothing, I swear.”
“You’re lying. I know you’re involved.”
Her head jerks up, her eyes narrowed and venomous. “What?”
I say it again, but she’s in control of her reactions now. She’s unmoving, impervious. Rigid. How can I break through to her?
“Monica? She’s begging in that film. Pleading for her fucking life. Tell me what’s going on. What are you doing to the girls?”
She lifts her cigarette once more. Her hand shakes, but she says nothing.
“You might as well tell me the truth.” I hold her gaze. “I know anyway. I have evidence.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know what happens. Out at the stables.”
She stiffens.
“I know about the drugs. The booze.” I hesitate. “The parties.”
“You know nothing. I’m not hurting the girls. I’m helping them.”
My skin flushes. I laugh. I can’t help it.
“Helping them? How, exactly? You know what goes on at these parties, right?”
“No, it’s not like that. The boys . . . they drive them there. They bring them back. They look after them.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
She meets my gaze but her eyes flitter and she looks like an animal caught in headlights, like the sheep on the road in the instant before it was hit.
“It’s true. They enjoy the parties. They want to go.”
“That’s what they tell you? Are you sure they even have a choice?”
She’s silent.
“They’re ra
ped there, Monica. You know that, don’t you?”
“They get paid.”
“Paid? What for?”
“They lead the men on. Get a photo. They don’t go through with it. Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Some of them might choose to have sex. That’s up to them! Nothing to do with me . . .”
My body tenses, a tsunami of rage.
“What the fuck? They’re, what? Thirteen years old? Fourteen?”
“But—”
“They’re kids! It’s rape, Monica. However you cut it. Zoe was pregnant!”
Her head falls and I see my chance.
“Why did Sadie run? Tell me. What did she do?”
“No.” Her voice cracks, just a little.
“Tell me, or I swear I’ll go to the police, show them every film I’ve been sent, and let—”
“Stop!”
Her interruption is fierce. Her eyes flare; she’s twitchy, desperate.
“She died!”
“What?”
“Sadie died! She died. Okay?”
“No. She didn’t.”
She pays no heed. The energy has flooded out of her and she sighs, a juddering, monumental sigh that seems to leave her whole body diminished.
“It’s true. All of it. She’s dead and buried. She died, and then Daisy killed herself.”
Her voice is tiny. I can barely hear her, but still I say, “No.”
I shake my head, but I’m sinking, too, slipping beneath the waves. I need to keep my secret, I think. I can’t be exposed. But now another voice comes in, loud and urgent. What’s the point? it says. Gavin knows anyway.
“You don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
I can’t hold it in anymore.
“Sadie isn’t dead.”
“What?”
I can’t stop. I know I should, but I can’t. It’s out before I can calm down.
“She can’t be. She’s me.”
I’ve got her. She’s shaken. The incredulity on her face is genuine this time.
“It’s true,” I whisper. “I’m Sadie. I changed my name.”
“No,” she says. She stands up abruptly. The ashtray slides off her lap and hits the floor in a shower of sparks. She leans forward, looks at me strangely.
“It’s true,” I repeat. “It’s why I’m back.”
“No.”
“Daisy was my friend,” I say. “I just want to understand what happened.”
“Sadie?”
“Yes.”
“Sadie Davies?”
“Yes. I ran away. I lost weight, had surgery. I wanted a new start.”
Her hand goes to my cheek. Her touch is tender but still it burns.
“But . . .”
“What happened to me here?”
“You don’t know?”
My hearts thuds. No, I think. No! Everything hangs on this, and I can’t remember. The airless room begins to spin and I feel myself pale.
“Are you okay?” she says, lifting her other hand to my cheek so that she’s cradling me. The kindness in her eyes is more than I can bear and I begin to cry.
“I keep . . . I keep remembering things . . . I’m not sure . . . it’s like something happened to me here, something bad, but I don’t know what. I’ve blocked it.”
She says nothing. I have to ask her.
“Why did Daisy disappear? Really?”
Again, nothing.
“Was it over me? Because of something I did? I mean, if it was something big, I’d remember, wouldn’t I? Please help me find her.”
She exhales, lifts burning eyes to meet mine. I feel like she’s looking inside me, reaching into my guts.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain. I just . . . I can’t.”
“Then at least don’t tell anyone else, will you?” I say. “About who I am? No one else can know.”
She regards me for a moment, then her face seems to melt.
“I won’t tell. I promise.”
I thank her and get to my feet. I’d thought she could help me, but now I know she can’t. No one can. I wipe away my tears. I’m on my own.
50
Bluff House is in darkness, just as I left it a few hours ago. The fire is out; the fire engine I summoned anonymously must’ve departed. Beneath me the streets are empty and The Ship quiet and still. The streetlamps sputter in the gloom.
I have to do this. I can’t walk up Slate Road, head down, and get in my car, turn left instead of right, foot down all the way home. I’d be back in my little flat by morning, my housemate still asleep, washing-up not done, bowls sitting in the sink, crusted with breakfast cereal and pasta. I can’t go back with no film, though even that doesn’t matter now. I have to find out the truth. Break the cycle.
It’s begun to snow once more. The flakes meander as they fall and melt as they land in my hair and on my face. When I look up at the clouds it’s like they’re rushing toward me, or I’m zooming through them, firing into space. I can feel her watching me. She knows I’m here.
I knock gently on the door. My apology is ripe on my tongue. I’ll plead with her to tell me the truth about what happened, to let me make it right. I’m ready, I think, for whatever she wants to do.
When there’s no answer I try again, and again, until I’m certain she’s not going to come to the door. I retreat and tread carefully toward the edge, lost and uncertain. There’s a boulder here and I sit on it, gazing out to sea, as if the waves may tell me what to do.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Gavin.
“Where are you?”
“The Rocks.”
“Why?”
I hesitate, then tell him. “I know you don’t believe me, but Daisy got in touch. I was supposed to meet her at Bluff House.”
“And?”
“She’s not here.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he says. “I got that camcorder working. There was a clip on the tape. I’m sending it through.”
“What is it?”
“Watch it. Watch it now.”
I end the call, and a moment later my phone vibrates with a message. As I press Play my stomach contracts, balling itself into a fist. The screen resolves into a view of The Rocks, the very spot I’m sitting. It’s night, but bright, the moon is full; it gleams on the shimmering water, glittering the depths. The viewpoint is high, almost like a crane shot. But it’s not, of course. It was shot from inside David’s house, an upper room. His bedroom, most likely. A song begins, hummed quietly by the person with the camera. David, I suppose. It has to be.
Dai-sy, Dai-sy, give me your answer, do.
We pan down; at the very bottom of the frame a girl appears, walking away from the house. She’s wearing a short black jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of white trainers. Her hair is wild, whipped by the wind as if it’s trying to escape, or strangle her. She has her head down. She crosses the path onto the grass, then steps down nearer the edge. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look round.
Dai-sy, Dai-sy, give me your answer, do.
I’m half crazy, all for the love of you.
She pauses. I lean in, so close to the screen that my breath mists its surface. No, I think. You don’t jump. You take off your trainer and toss it into the waves. Your jacket, too. You turn around, go back to the house, to the note you’ve written. You’ve already persuaded Monica to tell people she saw you jump—how, I don’t know. It’s all set. I’ve seen through your game. If you jump, how can you still be here?
As I watch, she crouches, almost as if she’s praying, or looking out over the edge, seeing how far down it is, how far she has to fall. Or maybe she’s taking off her trainer.
She stands. The light of the moon catches her. She glows in the dark; she looks like a ghost. Her head falls. She doesn’t glance back. She takes one step forward, then another, until she’s right at the edge.
And then she jumps.
&n
bsp; I watch it again. Over and over, and each time I press Play I think maybe she’ll turn back this time and it will be different. But she doesn’t. She walks. She pauses, crouches, stands. Then she disappears.
Was I wrong? I thought her suicide wasn’t real, she was still here. But this? This is the proof of what Monica saw. Her, alone, jumping off the edge of the world.
I think of David. Why did you film this? Why didn’t you help her? There’s no panic after she jumps, either. No dropping of the camera, no exclamation of shock or horror. The shot doesn’t even wobble. He was expecting it, watching it. The image is static for a few seconds, then it ends, the screen sliding effortlessly to black just as her body must have hit the water.
No, I think. No. It can’t be right. And yet, what other explanation can there be? She jumped. It’s as simple as that. She wasn’t pushed; it was no accident. She didn’t invent the whole thing. She walked to the edge of the world and let herself fall into nothingness.
So what’s going on? Who attacked me? Who’s been sending me the messages, if not her? How can she have sent me footage of her own abuse, her own fear? How did she send me the postcard that lured me up here in the first place?
Could she have survived the jump? I imagine her body, hidden in the darkness along with the fish, clinging to the rocks with the limpets and crabs, swimming under the surface.
But to where? Even if she survived the fall, the currents are strong; it’s a long way to swim alone and at night. Unless . . .
I stand and walk to the edge of the cliff. I take a step nearer and look down. Is it possible?
The water is black, flecked with white foam shining in the moonlight. It roils. And yet, it’s not that far away, not really. Liz is right: it’s not that high. A little way out of the village the coast curves sharply, and beyond that the edge begins to rise, gently at first, but with an increasing slope. She wouldn’t have had to go far to find a cliff much higher, a drop much more precipitous, and onto rocks. Why choose here, right outside David’s place?
