Final Cut : A Novel (2020)

by Watson, S J

  I feel something bite into my wrist. A punch in the stomach. I double over.

  ‘Alex?’ says Monica. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

  No, I think. No.

  Not here, it didn’t happen here.

  But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it did.

  Then

  31

  She closes her eyes. His hands are on her, but she tries not to feel them.

  There’s music from downstairs. She feels it pulsing through the floor.

  He says she asked for this, which means she must’ve.

  He says her boyfriend said it’s fine, which means it must be fine.

  He says her boyfriend has said he doesn’t mind, which means he doesn’t mind.

  First it was ‘Fancy a threesome?’

  No.

  Then it was ‘If you loved me, you’d do it.’

  I do.

  ‘So do it.’

  Then the threesome became just two. And not with her boyfriend. For the first time, and now it’s too late, she realises that was the plan all along.

  She remembers the other girls’ advice. Don’t cry. Don’t fight back. It makes them worse. It’s not so bad, if you don’t think about it.

  *

  So she doesn’t. She thinks of her boyfriend. He said he loved her. She knows he’s been with lots of girls, but he’s told her they meant nothing, she’s the one he loves. So that means he must, or else why say it? And if she loves him back, like she says she does, then surely she’ll do this, this one thing, this one tiny thing, for him? For them both?

  After all, she owes him. She owes her boyfriend, she owes the man on top of her. She owes them both.

  She hears the sound of something rip. She feels him breathing in her ear, grunting like a pig. His breath stinks. She lies as still as she can. Maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can imagine it’s not happening. It’s not her.

  He said he loved her, and this is what you do for love. Something is running down her face. Tears, she thinks. Just tears. But at least this is the end, the last time. He’s promised. Once and no more.

  But this is just the beginning. She knows that already.

  Now

  32

  Monica leads the way, back downstairs. The place seems busier – several people have arrived and are sitting at the bar, and a group huddles around the entrance to the lounge – but somehow more subdued. The landlady’s face is pinched with worry; everyone’s is, in fact, and their voices are low. There’s no frivolity in the air.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ says Monica as we push our way through the throng towards the bar. ‘I’ll ask Beverly.’ Something stirs in my gut, something that’s been dormant but is stretching to wake. Monica gets there first and speaks to the landlady in whispers. I don’t want to ask the question; it’s as if by doing so I’ll make it real, but I have no choice.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Ellie. She’s disappeared.’

  A strange sense of something like relief washes over me. The thing I’ve been dreading has finally happened. ‘When?’

  ‘She was supposed to meet Kat,’ she says. ‘She never turned up. And she’s not at home.’

  ‘They called her?’

  ‘Kat did. Her phone’s off.’

  ‘And the police … ?’

  ‘They said it’s too soon.’

  ‘Too soon? They told them about Daisy? And Zoe?’

  ‘Aye. They said she’ll probably turn up, but they’re sending someone over anyway. Her father is on his way. A few folk’re already talking about going out to look for her.’

  I feel weak; my shoulders sag. I was too late to save her. Beverly slides over the glass of whisky I ordered earlier.

  ‘Drink this, love.’

  I take a deep gulp, savouring the burn in my chest. This can’t be happening. Not again. Suddenly, I want nothing more than a cigarette. I almost ask Monica for one but manage to resist. There’s a commotion in the far corner, raised voices, not quite in anger but on the edge of it. One penetrates the rest.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck! I know what I saw. What we waiting for?’

  ‘No!’ comes the response, a voice I recognise. Bryan. He sounds imploring, frustrated, trying to keep control. ‘Guys! C’mon …’

  Beverly shouts across the crowd. Her voice flies, silencing the rest of the pub.

  ‘Fellas!’ she says. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Well, go on, then,’ says someone from the depths of Bryan’s huddle. A guy steps forward; it’s Pete, from the arcade. The rest of the room is more or less silent.

  ‘I were just saying,’ says Pete, surveying the room. ‘We know ’e were filming ’em. So it stands to reason. We should go up there.’

  I freeze. A few people glance in my direction. I know who he’s talking about. I know which film.

  ‘How d’you know it was him?’

  Now Pete stares straight at me. For a second I’m not sure why, it’s as if I’m missing a few frames of footage, but then he asks me what I mean and I realise it was me who’d spoken. I cough and repeat my question.

  ‘How do you know it was David? Filming the girls?’

  Another guy steps forward, from over by the door.

  ‘I saw him.’

  Everyone turns to look.

  ‘He were down the way,’ he says, pointing out towards the slipway. ‘Had some kind of camera. He were acting weird – y’know how he does. Then a bit later I saw the girls. Kat and Ellie, and he started filmin’ ’em. Out o’ sight, like. Up Smugglers.’

  He means the alleyway just beyond the pub.

  ‘An’ what were you doing there?’ comes a voice from the back.

  His reply is instant, and sharp. ‘Minding me own fuckin’ business. Like you need to, eh? The point is, it were him filming ’em. Why would he do that, eh? And what with what happened with Daisy an’ all, it stands to reason.’

  ‘What does?’ Again people look at me. ‘You think he’s taken her?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘C’mon now,’ says Monica. ‘She’s on’y trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah, well no one asked ’er ’ere.’

  Eyes burn into me. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘He knew Zoe, too.’

  As soon as I’ve said it I know it’s the wrong thing. There’ll be questions; I’ll have to tell them that I know she was raped by an older man, one she still called a boyfriend. A murmur ripples through the crowd.

  ‘Shouldn’t have done that,’ says Monica in a whisper. Not unkindly, but still it’s an admonishment. The place falls silent for a moment, but a decision has been made. There’s a shift towards the door.

  ‘Come on, then,’ says someone near the front, a short guy with cropped ginger hair. ‘Let’s go and sort this out.’

  ‘Wait!’ says Bryan, but he’s near the back and most ignore him. ‘Let’s just think about this—’

  The crowd splits. About a dozen people troop out, led by the ginger guy. They seem energised by purpose; they think they know where Ellie is, they’re going to get her back, and perhaps avenge Daisy and Zoe, too.

  I imagine them with pitchforks. The blanket of guilt falls over me, heavy and oppressive and weirdly familiar. I did this, I think. It’s my fault. I glance over to Bryan, as if he can stop them, bring them back, calm them down, but he doesn’t notice. He comes over, speaks to Monica. ‘We’d better go,’ he says. ‘It’s gonna get nasty.’ He turns to me. ‘Come on.’

  We reach The Rocks and begin the climb towards Bluff House. The air is charged, it’s raw in my throat, but when I look over at the others they show no sign of it. Bryan forges on up the path until Bluff House is in front of us, somehow still darkly malevolent even in daylight. I take out my camera with another wave of guilt, but I remind myself it’s what I do, tell myself I’m not here to make friends, I never was. The crowd has arrived ahead of us, swollen now by a few others they must’ve picked up on the way. Most are standing back, gossiping
in urgent murmurs, but the ginger-haired guy is at David’s door. He bangs on it, once, twice, then stands back, calling out as he does. ‘Get out here, you fucker!’ he shouts, his voice raw with anger and burning with hate. I zoom in as he does. There’s part of me that can’t help being pleased that I’m here to film this, though I’d give even that up to bring Ellie back safe.

  Bryan strides forward. ‘Come on now,’ he says, and the other guy seems to change his mind. He says something I don’t quite hear, to which Bryan responds equally quietly, then steps off the porch to let Bryan knock on David’s door. ‘David?’ he says. ‘It’s me. Bryan. Come out, mate.’

  Mate? I think. It sounds wrong. Still, we wait. Will he answer? A ghostly calm descends; the crowd is silent, holding its collective breath, as if waiting for a show to start. There’s a movement from inside, just visible through the stained-glass window, a glimmer of light and shadow. Bryan leans in closer to the door but says nothing. I was mistaken. It was just a reflection. He’s not there. A few minutes later Bryan addresses the onlookers.

  ‘He’s not answering,’ he says. ‘Let me check the back.’

  ‘We’re wasting time!’

  Someone else shouts out. I don’t see who. ‘Let him check, eh?’

  It seems to placate the crowd, just a little. Bryan disappears around the back of the house and a minute passes. When he returns, he announces, ‘No sign.’

  ‘Like fuck,’ comes a voice. ‘He’s fucking in there! Look!’

  As one, we raise our heads. A definite movement this time, in the window above us. The curtains are moving, as if they’ve been pulled aside and left to fall back. The heat in the crowd rises and someone sends a largeish rock sailing towards the house.

  It’s a good shot. It hits the window in which we saw movement and flies through, shattering it. There’s a cheer from below, it’s as if the pack has smelled first blood. I look over at Monica. She’s on her phone and I’m relieved when I realise she’ll be calling the police. Things are on the brink, about to boil over. It’s my fault, I think again. It’s all my fault. I see them smash their way through the front door and rush in; they drag him out, his nose bloodied, face already beginning to bruise. I see the house on fire, smoke rising, black and caustic.

  Or maybe Ellie is in there. Maybe we’re wasting time and bursting in to get her back is exactly what we should be doing. Bryan faces the crowd, his hands palm up. ‘Guys,’ he says. ‘Let’s calm it, shall we?’

  A murmured chorus of disdain.

  ‘Just let me talk to him,’ says Bryan, turning back towards the house before anyone can answer. He calls out. ‘David! Come down. We just want to talk!’

  We fall silent, but the only answer is the biting wind whistling around the house. Another voice sails over the crowd, high and piercing, as a figure approaches fast over the uneven ground. ‘Stop it!’

  It’s Kat. ‘Stop it!’ she says again. ‘Leave him alone!’

  Monica runs to meet her, but Kat pushes past her, determined. ‘Stop it!’ She’s screaming now. ‘She’s not in there!’

  The ginger guy spits. ‘Where is she, then, eh?’

  Kat stands her ground. ‘I don’t know,’ she says through her tears. ‘But not there. He had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do,’ she says. ‘Leave him alone! Whatever’s happened to Ellie, it’s not his fault!’

  The guy shakes his head and gazes down at the ground, as if making a decision. When he looks up, it’s clear he wants blood now he’s tasted it. He mumbles something to Kat, then turns back towards David’s door. ‘Let’s get the fucker.’

  Kat launches herself at him. She’s taller than he is and, though nowhere near as heavy, she has the element of surprise. She knocks him off balance, almost bringing him down, but after a brief moment of confusion he recovers and sends her flying backwards, to fall gasping into the mud, the remains of the melting snow. Monica rushes to help her up. ‘Pig,’ she says, but the guy ignores her, returning instead to his work on David’s door. A siren pierces the silence. Beneath us, on the other side of the outcrop, in the tiny turning-circle where the road peters out into nothing, there’s the flash of blue and red. A police car pulls up. I glimpse two or three uniformed figures, the flicker of yellow, a fluorescent Day-Glo vest. The officers approach on foot, followed by a few more villagers. As they get closer, I see Gavin among them, and wonder whether he called them, how he’d heard, how deep exactly he is in this. When he arrives, he hesitates, as if not sure what to do.

  ‘You okay?’

  I tell him I’m fine and we look back at the house. The officers seem to have separated. One is knocking on the door, shouting through the letterbox, while the other is heading round towards the back of the house.

  ‘Can I see you later?’ he says, his hand brushing against mine.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Some of them are talking about going out, searching for Ellie.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, looking up at him. ‘We should help.’

  He says nothing. David emerges from Bluff House, flanked by officers. The volume of the crowd swells as he’s marched past us. He seems terrified; his eyes are fixed on the ground. Someone shouts at him – Paedo, it sounds like – and he flinches. The officer on his right stares them down.

  ‘We’ll have less of that,’ he says, tightening his grip on David’s arm. ‘And you lot had better make yourself scarce.’

  ‘What’s ’e done, then?’ comes a voice. ‘Where’s the girl?’

  The officer responds once more, still without breaking stride. ‘He’s done nothing, far as we know.’

  ‘Why’ve you arrested ’im, then?’

  There’s no answer, and I realise he’s not under arrest but being protected. There are more calls, and finally the officer responds.

  ‘Look, we still don’t know where Ellie is. So you lot’d be better off trying to find her than standing here causing trouble. Okay?’

  There’s a mumbling in the crowd. A few look back towards Bluff House, but Bryan’s gone inside and the door is closed. I can’t see Monica anywhere.

  ‘Is that it?’ comes a voice. ‘That’s all you’re going to do?’

  The officer on David’s left responds. ‘Someone’s on their way,’ she says. ‘Now, get lost.’

  I turn to Gavin. ‘Let’s get away from here.’

  33

  We decide to walk. The tide is out. Before we even reach the slipway we hear laughter, shouting voices and the hard clink of bottles. Music floats over, surfing on the crash of the ocean, thump-thump-thump. A little way along the beach, near one of the groynes, five or six boys sit bunched around a fire, smoking and drinking. There’s a joint being passed round, from what I can see. A bottle of vodka.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Gavin.

  We skirt the teenagers, keeping away from the water, walking next to the scrub in the shadow of the cliff.

  ‘What d’you think has happened to Ellie?’

  He swallows. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s happening again, isn’t it?’

  He gazes at the distant clouds. ‘Who knows? Maybe she just lost track of the time. It hasn’t been that long.’

  We stop walking.

  ‘You really think that?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I suppose not.’

  I think of what I saw upstairs in the pub. Of what Zoe’s parents told me.

  ‘The girls. I think they’re being abused.’

  It’s the first time I’ve used the word since coming back. It sticks to my tongue. Gavin folds his arms and I can’t tell whether it’s because he doesn’t want to believe it or because he doesn’t want to admit he’s thought the same.

  ‘No—’ he begins, but I interrupt.

  ‘You know Zoe was pregnant?’

  His body seems to slump. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Her parents. Well, her mother.’

  He stares out over the water. ‘You went to
see them? When?’

  ‘A few days ago. But—’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  He’s staring at me. I regard him for a moment. Is this anger? Annoyance?

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A weight settles on my chest. I’m in trouble, I’m going to be punished. I’ve opened my big mouth when I should’ve kept it shut.

  Fuck that. I look straight at him.

  ‘Since when do I have to tell you everything I do?’

  He stares down at the ground now. I wonder if I’ve handled it all wrong, whether he’ll turn on his heel now and walk away. But when he raises his head he attempts a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. I just … I could’ve come with you.’ He hesitates, and we carry on walking. ‘What else did they say?’

  I don’t feel inclined to share everything, not now, so I just say, ‘Not much.’

  ‘Who was the father?’

  ‘They didn’t know. But her mother thought she had a boyfriend, an older man, out here in Blackwood Bay. There was an uncle she was close to, but they didn’t think he had anything to do with it.’

  ‘They’re sure?’

  ‘They said not.’ I pause. ‘They’re not convinced Daisy killed herself, either.’

  ‘So maybe it is all linked?’

  I nod. ‘We need to find Ellie.’

  Gavin glances back towards the group of boys at their campfire.

  ‘Is it worth asking them?’

  ‘Can’t hurt.’

  We go over. My camera is hanging round my neck and I start recording as we draw near.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. The boys look up. One tries to hide the joint in his cupped hand, but the smell is pungent and unmistakable.

  ‘What?’

  It’s the boy from the café, the one who’d been with Ellie and Kat. He somehow manages to look both aggressive and utterly uninterested in anything I have to say.

  ‘I was wondering. You know Ellie?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’