by S. J. Watson
And she’s helping him now, too. I wonder what happened to Zoe; I expect they snared her, Kat and Ellie, and the rest, the same way they had me.
“Alex?” she says. “Are you there?”
I keep quiet. I’m trapped; there’s no escape. I knew her, I think. Just like I knew Bryan. She was a few years older than me, she introduced me to one of her friends, an older man whose name I’ve erased, the boyfriend in the leather jacket, who gave me drink and bought me presents and told me I was beautiful. We had sex, and it was good, except after a while he told me I needed to earn my treats and started sharing me with other men, men who’d pay. He took me and waited outside, squats in Malby, empty homes in the middle of being renovated, the arcade in Blackwood Bay and upstairs at the pub. I tried to escape but, every time, Monica told me I must have led the guys on, that I was under age and in too deep, and if I spoke out I’d go to prison. I believed her. And then, right when I had no self-esteem left, she introduced me to her boyfriend. Bryan. It was a while before I realized he was controlling it all, but by the time I did it was too late. I was in love.
I hold my breath. I can’t let her see me. But then another voice joins hers.
“Sadie?”
Gavin?
The torch flashes off the walls of the cave. Eventually, it finds me.
“Shit. There she is! Sadie!” His voice is flooded with relief. “You’re here!” he says, then, turning to Monica. “She’s here!”
Can he be in on it, too? I have to get away. I wade back into the water, slipping as I do. I go under; freezing water rushes into me and I can’t move. I need to escape, but where to?
There’s only one place. Back into the dark, into the cave and out to sea.
The hesitation costs me, though. Gavin reaches me and grabs my upper arm.
“Stop!” he says. “What’re you doing?”
I try to pull free, but his grip is firm. Just a little way behind, Monica is clambering over the rocks, wielding her torch.
“Let me go!”
I lash out and, though I manage to free myself, my foot goes over on the slime and I go down, face first into the water. The black depths rush in; I can’t breathe. Gavin grabs hold once more and tries to lift me out.
“Daisy!” says Monica. “Wait!”
The name clamps round me like a vise. The urge to escape vanishes; I stop fighting. I’m limp, with shock, perhaps. Gavin holds me and I hear his voice, incredulous.
“Daisy?”
Time stops. I don’t know how long for, but it’s Monica who breaks the silence.
“It’s true,” she says. “Now come on.” Gavin hesitates, his mouth clearly full of questions, but she grabs my other arm. “Help her.”
They heave me up onto the narrow ledge and out of the freezing water, then crouch over me. I cough, and warm seawater floods from my nose, mixed with mucus. Gavin is holding my head; Monica, too. She has me by the throat and it feels like she wants to squeeze and squeeze and never let go.
“Daisy,” she says, leaning close. “You need to come with us, now.”
I shake my head. I feel my body shutting down. I can’t go back there, back to Blackwood Bay. Not now. Not after what I did to Sadie.
“Daisy. Come on! It’s not safe here. Trust me.”
She’s talking about Bryan, I suppose. He’ll be landing his boat back at the slipway and heading this way. But why is she helping me?
I can’t summon the will to ask. Nothing matters anymore, not now I know what I did. I don’t care what happens to me.
After a second she turns to Gavin. “Help me get her upstairs,” she says. “Then go and get someone from the village.”
He stands just beyond her, watching us both. He seems undecided, he can’t work out what’s going on, whether he should leave me here with Monica.
“I’m trying to help her!” says Monica, and finally, he moves. Together they lift me, and the three of us climb the passageway back to David’s cellar. The exit is hidden in the darkest corner, a rotting door behind boxes of papers. A single lightbulb hangs overhead, garlanded with cobwebs.
She turns to Gavin. “For God’s sake, go and get help.”
I stammer through chattering teeth, but Monica silences me. “You have to trust me. I’m trying to put this right.” She looks back at Gavin. “Go! Now!”
He makes his decision. He leaves, taking the steps two at a time, and Monica and I slump against the dusty wall, too exhausted to speak. I shiver; my soaking clothes cling to my skin, my limbs are raw. I could die here, go to sleep and never wake up. It’s what I deserve. But somewhere else, underneath all that, I know I mustn’t. I have work to do; I can’t let Bryan get away with it.
“Monica?”
At first she shows no sign of having heard me, but then she breaks her silence.
“You were right about it all. I’m an idiot, I couldn’t let myself see what was happening. He told me nothing was going on. The girls went to the parties because they enjoyed it. They seduced the men, took photos. Then he blackmailed them. They were in on it. That’s what he said.” Her face falls and her hands come up to cover her shame, but she can’t hold back her tears. “I loved him,” she says, between sobs. “Always have. I believed what he said. But he was just using me.”
She goes on, in a whisper now. “He worked out you were back. Said there was a weird way you held your cigarette, just like Daisy. Said we’d have to deal with the situation. He forced me to make that film of Bluff House and tell you to come alone. But then . . . then he said the only way we could keep you quiet was to kill you. That’s when I knew. That’s when I knew Sadie’s death hadn’t been an accident. That he’d killed her, too.”
I look at her and the shame I share with her skewers me. “No. I did that.” It comes out as a sob. I want to sink farther to the floor, let it swallow me completely.
“Daisy, love. He made you. You had no choice.”
I try to believe her. I fail, but there’s something about hearing my real name again. It shocks me out of my torpor. I’m beginning to feel again. Sorrow, for Sadie, for all the girls. For Monica.
“You’re still in love with him.”
She shakes her head, but I can see it in her eyes. “How stupid am I? I thought he was the one who’d rescued me.”
“Rescued you?”
“My father.”
It’s little more than a croak, but I know what she means. Abuse goes in cycles, Dr. Olsen taught me that. But maybe this is her chance to break the chain.
And isn’t that what I have to do, too? Slowly, I feel myself cranking up, stuttering into start-up like my ancient laptop.
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask.
“We worked it out, me and Gavin. If you jumped but were alive, there must’ve been a way back in. He’s been reading about the smugglers and he worked it out.”
And then she asks, “When you came to see me yesterday . . . you really believed you were Sadie?”
“Yes,” I say. It was my truth, at least, if no one else’s. “But you knew she was dead.”
I think about my episode, the fugue state. I must have made up most of the memories that came back afterward, my own fictions, my own beliefs about Sadie’s life. And the most important fact—that she was dead and I was the one who killed her—I erased completely.
“My mind . . . it just . . . broke. I’ve believed I was her . . . for years.”
Broke in two, I think. Half Sadie, half me.
It hits me then. I have no idea who I am.
Except that’s not true. I’m Alex. I make films. I’m a success, or have been.
“Will you go to the police?” I ask.
She stares at the floor. She doesn’t want to, of course.
“I suppose,” she says. “I’ll tell them what happened here. I have to.”
“And what I did.”
She shakes her head. “It wasn’t your fault. You were young.”
“Old enough, though.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Daisy. There was no way you could’ve saved her.”
“But I’m still the one who killed her.”
She’s about to say something when another voice interrupts.
“Yes, Daisy. You are.”
The voice has come from overhead, the entrance to the cellar. Together, we try to stand, but I’m slow, and before either of us can fully get to our feet he’s down the stairs. He’s holding something in his hand, something metallic, and he lashes out, catching Monica on the side of the head. She goes down, gasping, clawing at me and almost pulling me over, too. She lands with a sickening crunch. I launch myself at him, but he’s too strong and has the advantage of surprise; he pushes me backward and I go over. My head connects painfully with the wall, but it seems to open something in me, a pathway to defiance. How dare he? How dare he think he can destroy me? He’s pathetic. I was a child then, but now I’m not; I’ll die before I let him hurt me again. My eyes burn as I look up and see what he has in his hand. A gun, but it’s short and squat, like a toy. A flare gun.
“Bryan,” I begin, but there’s blood in my mouth. “Don’t.”
He laughs, steps toward me. I look over at Monica, but she’s down. Moving, but her eyes are closed.
“Monica,” I plead. “Get up.”
“She’s not going to help you,” he says. “Not now.” He glances upstairs. “Neither’s Gavin. It’s just you and me.”
Blood runs down my chin.
“Daisy—” he begins, but I interrupt.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s your name. It’s who you are.”
“No. I changed.”
“Changed your name. Doesn’t change who you are, or what you did.”
His eyes are as cold as the ocean.
“You made me do it.”
“Oh, right. I made you. And how did I do that?”
I say nothing.
“How’s it going to look, Daisy? I’ve still got all those notes you wrote. About how much you loved me. I’ve still got all those photos of the two of us.” He pauses. “Doing . . . well . . . you know what we were doing.” He shakes his head, sadly. “You with all those other fellas, too. Won’t be hard to convince people you were a slut, jealous when I started to prefer Sadie. That’s why you killed her, isn’t it? You couldn’t stand to see me with someone else.”
He’s wrong. We were supposed to escape together. She was supposed to save me.
I launch myself at him. He’s unprepared, but big; he doesn’t go over. Instead we grapple, equally balanced, he the stronger, me the more enraged. He tries to throw me into the wall, but I’m clutching his jacket and instead we both swing until his face is an inch from mine.
“You’re nothing,” he spits. “You never were.”
It’s like a shot of adrenaline pumped into my veins. I’m not the Daisy he remembers, I’ve been in too many fights, too many risky situations. My right leg is between his and I lift my knee as sharply as I can, at the same time yanking down on his jacket. He cries in pain and I push him backward, screaming wordlessly as I do. He crashes to the floor in a shower of dust and, once he’s down, I kick him again before grabbing the flare gun. My hands shake as I point it at his chest.
“You destroyed me.”
He laughs, a hollow, sick sound, and spits blood onto the floor. “You destroyed yourself. I’ve still got the film, you know? The one of you killing Sadie. And that kinda proves everything, doesn’t it, Daisy?”
I can’t breathe. The air is flooded with dust. I see the film, me standing over my friend, the belt around her neck.
It hits me again. He’s right. I killed her. I killed Sadie. I should’ve said no, I should’ve fought, even if it did mean it’d be me who ended up dead.
I can’t forgive myself. Never. The gun shakes in my hand. I can see him, eyeing it, waiting for his chance. For a second I think I can hear sirens, but even if so, they’re way in the distance, and getting quieter. It’s just my imagination, a last, horrible trick of the mind.
“I was fifteen.”
“So?”
I hear Sadie’s voice. Come back, she’s saying. We can escape. We can beat him, and we can go home and make our film and none of this will have happened.
No.
Leave her here. Leave Daisy here, lying at the bottom of the sea like you thought she was. Come with me, back home.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what, Daisy?”
I’ve said it out loud. Bryan doesn’t know there are two people inside me, two frightened teenagers battling it out.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
It’s Daisy’s voice that answers. No, she says. You didn’t come here to say sorry. You came to accept your punishment at last. So accept it.
I look down at the gun in my hand. She’s right. I killed Sadie and never paid the price. I’m not here to win. I’m not even here to apologize. I’m here to accept responsibility.
I’m almost tempted to toss him the gun, to let him finish it. But I don’t. After what he did? My eyes fall closed. He reduced me to nothing, then made me kill my friend. It’s not my fault. Letting him win will solve nothing. And there’s Ellie to think about, and Kat, and who knows how many others.
I raise the gun, but it’s too late. He’s on his feet, he’s grabbed the barrel. I grip as hard as I can, but he’s too strong; one hard shove and I stagger back. The weapon is his.
He grins. The same twisted grin I remember from all that time ago. I sink to my knees and bow my head, glad that, if this is the end, then at least I know who I am.
“Finish it,” I say, and for once—and when I least want to be—I’m totally in my body. I can feel the rough ground under my feet and knees. I can taste the dust in the air, smell the mold oozing from the walls. I can hear Monica’s ragged breathing, like something that’s dying.
I close my eyes, waiting for my judgment, waiting for death.
“No,” he says softly. “Get up. This time you’re going to jump. This time you’re going to do it for real.”
55
The sky has clouded, the waves pummel the cliff beneath me. I look back toward Blackwood Bay, to The Ship, the slipway, the gentle arc of the coast as it curves toward Crag Head, but there’s no one around. No one who can help me. Everything is as it was ten years ago. Everything is as I remember it.
I step toward the edge. It should be night, by rights, the dead sky scarred with stars. Fifteen steps, maybe twenty. I go forward, Bryan behind me. In one hand he’s carrying a metal poker he found in David’s living room after binding Monica’s hands and feet and securing her to the cellar steps, and in the other the flare gun. But they’re for protection only. I know what he means to do. A walk to the edge and then I jump, or, if I refuse, he pushes me. Either way, I go down. It will look like an accident, another suicide. He tells the world he saw me fall; he was powerless to stop me.
I understand, finally, now it’s too late. I jumped ten years ago because I was trying to escape from Blackwood Bay, and I called myself Sadie because I was trying to escape from myself. I wanted to pretend she wasn’t dead, because that meant I didn’t kill her and I’m not a murderer. I’m not a monster.
But then the fugue happened. The phone call to Dev, who called me by the only name he’d ever heard me use. And from that moment on I believed it was true. Except Daisy never really went away. Not when I got my qualifications, not when I was back on the streets making Black Winter. She was just hiding, feeding her guilt, waiting. And then, after ten years, I made a mistake. I came back, and brought her with me.
I should’ve stayed away forever. But how was I to know?
I look down. At least I saw my mother. At least I saw Geraldine one last time, and I realize now that she recognized me, too. Dimly, and despite how much I’ve changed, she knew who I was. Everything she said makes sense.
And David. My friend. He could see who I was, too. He was trying to warn me.
I’m at the
edge. I had my eyes open, last time I jumped. I remember now. I look up. I wish I could see Betelgeuse one last time. The dead star. But it’s enough to know it’s there.
“Stop,” says Bryan. He points down to my feet. “See those stones? Fill your pockets.”
There are rocks here. They’re heavy; they’ll weigh me down. This time, he wants to be sure I die. Be certain it looks like suicide.
I bend down and lift the first rock. It’s slick with rainwater and nearly slips through my fingers.
“In your pocket.”
I do as he says. The scar on my arm itches. Removing it didn’t help. How could it? I’m Daisy, whether I like it or not; I did what I did, and I’ll have to pay.
But now? Like this?
“How about Monica?” I say. “Gavin? Even if I die, you’ll never cover it up. Unless you kill them.”
He smiles, a cruel, warped smile. “Oh, don’t you worry about them. Monica will realize how much trouble she’d be in and come back to me. And as for Gavin . . .”
He leaves the sentence hanging. I wonder what he’ll do. Burn down Bluff House with him inside? It wouldn’t surprise me. After all, he had poor Ellie driven to the middle of the moors and left to find her own way back, just to scare her into silence. He forced David to take an overdose to keep him quiet. I know what he’s capable of.
“Who’s been helping you?” I say. “Is everyone involved?”
“Not everyone,” he says with a callous shrug. “But enough. It’s amazing what people will do once you’ve got a film of them with a pretty little thing like Zoe.”
“Zoe,” I say. “Is she . . . ?”
“What? Dead? No. She got away. No one’s seen hide nor hair of that one, for good, or bad. I don’t think she’ll be coming back, though. She was clever.”
I ignore his gibe. I think of the girls on the film from the stable. I think of the girls listed in Monica’s book, and Kat with the tattoo she clearly didn’t want and which is shared by me, and Monica, and who knows who else? He must’ve branded us all.
