by Watson, S J
‘Yes?’ His voice is thin and reedy.
‘Is that David?’
‘What d’you want?’
I can’t see him well. The hall light is behind him; the porch is in darkness. He’s tall, though, and thin, his body angular and his movements awkward. I try to keep my voice even.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you.’
I hold out my hand, but he makes no move to take it and I’m relieved. I don’t want him to touch me. His attention seems focused on a spot a little way beyond me.
‘I’m Alex. I’m just—’
‘I know who you are.’
He leans forward. His thin face catches the moonlight. His complexion is waxy; he looks bleached, overexposed. He gives me the creeps and I fight the urge to run, as hard and as fast as I can, until I’m miles away.
‘Why’ve you come here?’
To find out about Daisy, I think. About Zoe.
I drop my hand and he flinches; his eyes dart with a feverish intensity, though he avoids looking at me directly. He scans my neck, my cheek, the side of my head; anywhere but my eyes. He doesn’t blink. Even in the dim light I notice a patch of stubble on his neck where the razor missed, a tiny scar above his lip. He seems desperate to escape, even though he’s standing in his own home and I’m the one trespassing. ‘I just wanted to ask you about—’
‘Why have you come to Blackwood Bay?’
I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. Nothing will come.
‘You need to get out.’
His voice quivers. He sounds odd. Scared. Drunk, perhaps.
‘What?’
‘It’s not safe for you here. You shouldn’t have come.’
His tone is menacingly low. I lean in, just a little, though my body is pulling against me. ‘I just … I want to talk to you.’
‘Leave. You should never—’
‘Wait!’ I say. He’s closing the door. I’m desperate; my chance to speak to him is disappearing. ‘You knew Zoe Pearson.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘No. I’d never … not after what happened.’
‘What happened?’
He says nothing.
‘Talk to me.’ I glance towards the edge of the cliff. ‘Daisy jumped from here, didn’t she?’
He shakes his head. He looks haunted.
‘David!’ I say. ‘Please! Will you help me?’
‘I can’t!’ he says. ‘I can’t! Leave me alone.’
He lets the door go and it snaps shut. The house shivers. I peer in through the glass, but all I can see is his silhouette, the back of his head.
I lean in close. I know my words won’t be picked up by the camera, but I’m not sure that matters now. My focus has shifted. I need to know what happened, to Daisy, my friend, and to Zoe.
‘Tell me what happened to the girls, David.’
He speaks then. ‘You should know,’ he says. ‘You should know more than anyone.’
I don’t react. I can’t. What does he mean? In any case, the light goes off and the house falls silent once more.
I walk away, back to my camera. It’s not possible. He can’t have recognised me, surely? Not in the half-light, not if I didn’t recognise him. He can’t be the one person in Blackwood Bay who knows I’m Sadie Davies.
But then it comes to me. What if he’s not? What if I’m kidding myself that no one knows who I am? I look back towards the house and see something there, a figure half hidden in the dark. It’s David, I think, and again I want to run. But then I realise I’m wrong. It’s not David at all, but a girl. She’s just standing, watching me. I take a step towards her, but my feet are suddenly heavy, mired in the sludge. I don’t know what makes me, but I almost say it. Daisy? But the word catches in my throat, and when I look again there’s no one, nothing at all. The place is deserted, but there at the back of the house, glinting in the moonlight like cold steel, I see it.
A caravan.
Then
12
FROM: ALEXANDRA YOUNG
SENT: 22 JUNE 2011 17.06
RE: NO SUBJECT
TO: DR LAURE OLSEN
Hi Dr Olsen
I know you asked me to write to you when I got settled, but I haven’t been able to until now. There’s only one computer in this place and we all have to share it, and anyway, the internet is down half the time.
I’m still in the hostel. St Leonard’s. It’s okay. Noisy, though. There’s a girl three doors away who has a baby that won’t stop crying, but it’s not too bad. He’s cute, so that makes it okay. We’re not really friends, but she lets me hold him sometimes and one time asked me to look after him.
I have made a friend, though. His name is Aidan. He’s about five rooms down on the same corridor as me, but on the other side. He came here about three weeks ago, when I’d already been here a couple. He makes me laugh, I like him a lot. He says the only thing he wants in life is to meet a nice man and settle down! It’s a shame that he’s gay. His dad threw him out because he found him writing about it in a diary (I know you said I ought to think about starting a diary, but I haven’t yet, sorry! I have started filming things on my phone, though, just so I don’t forget them) and he had to come to London. He slept in a sauna for a few days until he met someone who took him home. He won’t tell me what happened then, but he ended up here. He’s nice to me. We share cigarettes and stuff. We’ve promised each other we’re going to be friends for ever, no matter what. He said he thought I was gay, too, at first, because according to him I go really quiet around men, like I wish I was invisible.
He’s trying to help me remember what happened before I ended up in the hospital, but not much has come back. I think I slept on the night bus sometimes, and on benches. Aidan said he once stole someone’s handbag just so he’d be arrested and be able to sleep in a cell, but I don’t think I’ve ever done that, and anyway, it didn’t work. I think I had a friend down here, before I ran to Deal, but it’s just a feeling, I can’t remember anything about her. I wish I could. Maybe I told her about who I was, before I lost my memory in Deal. If I could remember who she was and talk to her, that might help, don’t you think?
And I’m trying to remember back before then, too, but it’s like I just get vague feelings, nothing that’s specific, and sometimes I can’t work out whether it’s a dream or not. Sometimes it’s scary, like I’m not in control of my body, like it’s not even mine or something. I remember that I liked school, and I think I did okay. I remembered my mum, and that we used to get on pretty well, until she met someone. I don’t really know what changed. I just remember not being as happy once he arrived. I suppose that must be not long before I ran away, but I have this weird feeling that something really bad happened right before I left home. I can’t remember what.
Anyway, I should go now. There’s a massive queue to use the machine! I hope you’re well, too.
Alex
Now
13
A girl, she’s lying face down on a couch, her shoulder exposed. A gloved hand appears and begins to smooth the skin. It takes me a moment to realise where we are, what I’m watching. It’s Kat. She must’ve propped her phone on the counter, or maybe Sophie filmed it for her. The needle appears.
‘It’ll feel like a scratch,’ Sophie says. ‘Try to be as still as you can.’
Kat says she will. Her face is pinched, her brow knotted. The machine buzzes.
‘You’re sure this is what you want?’
She doesn’t answer. She’s biting her lip. Sophie works slowly, wiping with a cloth every few seconds. The ink flows, pulsing under the skin. Blood rises to the surface and Sophie wipes it away. Still more comes.
When it’s done, Sophie moves back. There, on Kat’s upper arm, in black ink, is a perfect circle. It resembles an ‘O’, or a wedding ring.
‘Done,’ says Sophie, and Kat sits up. She’s mostly out of shot, which is unfortunate. Her body twists.
‘Stop filming now,’ s
he says. A moment later, the screen goes black.
I feel light-headed. I’ve not eaten much, and my sleep was fitful. In the kitchen I cut and eat a slice of cheese, following it with another. I think of the caravan in David’s garden and wonder whether it might be there by chance, unrelated to Daisy; I wonder whether he was lying when he said he didn’t know Zoe. I’m angry. A weird, diffuse fury courses through me, as if searching for a focus. I can’t work out what’s upset me. Is it the documentary? I’m running out of time and it’s shifting away from what I wanted it to be. Maybe it’s Dan, taking it over and insisting on a story. I didn’t want to make a film about Daisy’s suicide, I didn’t want to get involved in Zoe’s disappearance. And I didn’t want to end up worrying about Kat and Ellie.
At least when I was making Black Winter I was on home turf; I could go home if it got too tricky, sleep in my own bed. But here? I’m trapped; there’s no crew, no camera operator or sound guy. I don’t even have my car. But I can’t give up. I’d be kissing my career goodbye; I’d have nothing left.
I return to my computer and select the film I shot last night. The footage is blurred but, slowly, it resolves. The caravan at the back of the house on The Rocks, barely visible in the gloom, but definite, defiantly solid.
It’s coincidence, I tell myself again. Daisy lived in a caravan; David has one in his garden. It doesn’t mean they’re linked.
But who am I trying to kid? I open Google once more and pull up the news stories. I don’t know what I’m expecting – an address, perhaps, confirmation that Daisy’s caravan was still parked on the site up the coast when she jumped – but I search them again. This time my eyes snag on a photograph of Daisy’s mother, taken several months after Daisy’s death. She’s sitting at a kitchen table, holding a framed photograph of her daughter. She looks devastated, and ill.
I’ve seen her before, I know I have. But where? I go through the films, one by one, until I find it. A carpeted floor, a coarse dark brown, the colour of chocolate. Flower pictures on the walls, a cage with two budgerigars, a wipe-board with the words Resident of the Day! John R, Happy Birthday!
The camera pans, a jagged left. An empty corner lounge behind glass windows. In the distance there are trees.
We follow the corridor and reach a brightly lit room. Two armchairs have been pushed close together. In one sits a woman; she’s tiny, her hair is white, swept back, her scalp visible through it. She’s looking at the person in the other chair. A man, he’s in his forties, perhaps late thirties. Her son? Grandson?
The woman is smiling; her expression is one of almost childlike excitement. The man is speaking to her, though we can’t hear what he’s saying. His lips barely move. It’s sad, but weirdly beautiful. Behind her, another resident sits in a grey tracksuit, staring at the camera, her eyes blank and empty, and I know I’m right without even having to check.
It’s Daisy’s mother.
14
According to Google, there’s only one care home in the area, Holbrooke House. I take a taxi. The open road is like coming up for air and I realise I’ve been feeling like I’m in a sealed room, holding my breath, anxious for my next gulp of oxygen. I shiver as we drive past the spot where my car ended up in the ditch, remembering the vacant, unseeing stare of the dead sheep. I half expect to see it still there, but there’s no sign anything happened. The view is desolate, just miles and miles of emptiness in the dank afternoon light.
We drive through a village even tinier than Blackwood Bay – just three or four houses and a pub that looks closed – and a little way after it pass a narrow track leading down towards a church. The road winds until we turn off and into a lit drive that curves towards a large red-brick building. It’s more modern than I was expecting and seems to consist of two wings. Above the main door a sign reads Holbrooke House, Residential Care Home. We pull into the car park and I unbuckle, suddenly nervous, and get out of the car.
The doors slide open with a sigh. I introduce myself to the woman at reception. She looks me up and down – I’m glad I’ve put my camera in my bag – and asks if she can help.
‘Yes,’ I say, smiling. She has a pink streak in her hair, a ring through her nose. ‘I’m here to visit Geraldine Willis.’
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘And how do you know Geraldine?’
I look her in the eye. ‘She’s my aunt.’
Her head tilts with evident suspicion, but I hold her gaze. ‘I’ve been away.’
She dithers for a moment then pushes a book towards me and asks me to sign.
‘How is she today?’
‘The usual.’
It tells me nothing, but I smile sadly. ‘You must know her well. She’s been here … how many years now?’
She shrugs without interest. ‘At least six. That’s when I started, and she were here then.’
I thank her and she points me up the stairs.
I pause on the landing. The air is thick, invasive like smoke and far too hot, and I begin to sweat. A little way along the long corridor there’s a brightly lit nursing station at which sits a woman in a pale green tunic, and at the end I can see a glass-walled room, a few armchairs, the flicker of a television.
‘I’m looking for Geraldine?’ I say to the nurse.
‘Halfway along. If not, try the day room.’
I head towards the light. An old woman shuffles towards me using a frame, her skin parched and liver-spotted, her hair glowing like orange floss. A little further on I find Geraldine’s room. Her name is on the door, alongside a laminated photograph. I hesitate outside; I want to prepare myself.
I think back to what Bryan told me about the drink and drugs. I know what they can do; I saw it on the streets. People whose addictions had left them with memory difficulties, motor problems, as good as killing them in some cases. People who barely even knew who they were, people who’d never be independent again.
I steel myself to enter. Geraldine is sitting hunched in an armchair, dressed in a tracksuit several sizes too big, staring at the TV that’s bolted to the wall. She seems almost unreal, but recognition shudders through me. Only now do I wonder why I’d assumed Bryan meant she was dead.
‘Geraldine?’
She doesn’t look away from the screen and I call her name once more. This time, she moves her head, her movements slow and uncoordinated. There’s a slight tremor, a doll-like wobble, as if some joint is working loose, as if she’s in danger of falling apart completely.
‘Is that you?’ she says.
I take another step towards her. It’s doubtful she, of all people, would recognise me, but I can’t be sure.
‘Geraldine?’
The remote sits on the arm of her chair and her hands shake as she reaches for it. Up close, she looks much older than her years; her features are sunken, her hair loose and untidy. She seems hollowed out, eaten away from the inside. Her eyes are dull, a grey-green colour, but when she turns her gaze on me they flash for a moment, as if something has sparked, some internal connection made.
‘What is it, love?’ she says. Her eyes have dulled once more and she’s looking past me now, over my shoulder. ‘Is it time?’
There’s a jug of water on the table. I pour myself a cup and, with trembling hands, pass one to Geraldine, too. I shouldn’t have come here, I shouldn’t be disturbing her. I need to retreat. I need to find my safe place.
I take out my camera. At first, I think she hasn’t noticed, but then her eyes swivel towards it. ‘What’s that? Are you taking my picture?’
‘D’you mind?’
She answers only with an ambiguous shrug, so I press Record and put the camera on the dresser.
‘My name’s Alex.’
Her cup wobbles as she brings it to her lips, but when I go to help she shoos me away. She spills only a little, then hands it back.
‘I saw you, y’know?’ She waves vaguely towards the window. ‘I were watching you. That yer fella?’
Does she mean the taxi driver? He’s down there,
in the car park. I wonder how much Geraldine sees, what connections she makes. How she fills the gaps that are left.
I think of my own gaps. I managed to piece most of my story together, but so many of my memories seem borrowed, and so many are absent completely. In some ways, that’s merciful. Maybe some gaps are protective.
‘You deserve someone nice.’
She’s waiting for a comment. ‘He’s all right,’ I say, feeling guilty as I do. It seems unfair to lie, to string her along, but I’m just trying to build a bridge. It’s what I do.
‘Good.’
‘Geraldine?’ I say gently. Again, that flash of lucidity, quickly extinguished.
‘Aye?’
‘Can I ask you something?’ I lower my voice. I need to find out whether the caravan parked in David’s garden has anything to do with her. ‘Something about Daisy?’
She blinks, but there’s no other reaction. I was worried it might upset her, that she might close down, but instead it’s as if she doesn’t even recall her daughter.
‘Do you remember the place you lived before you came here?’
She looks up.
‘Aye! Over in the bay. A caravan. Up near Malby. I cleaned there.’
I smile – I almost want to laugh – but then she says, ‘On’y they got rid of me. We had to move.’
The relief vanishes.
‘Move where? David’s?’
She says nothing. I take her hand. It’s cold, hollow-boned; there’s a crackle of static as we touch. I can almost feel the blood as it pulses through her veins. Down the corridor there are voices, laughter from the nursing station, but it seems a thousand miles away.
‘You’d moved the caravan to David’s by the time Daisy went?’
Geraldine hesitates. She seems confused, almost as if she’s forgotten her daughter is dead. But then another connection forms, another synapse fires. She smiles warmly.