Final Cut : A Novel (2020)

by Watson, S J

  The patio door is locked but shifts a little when I try it. I find a rock at the back of the yard, where it’s weighing down a tarpaulin, then use it to hammer upwards on the bottom of the handle. I’ve no idea why; it’s some instinctive knowledge I don’t remember learning, but must have. After a few seconds the door lifts and I find I can slide it open. I’m inside.

  The kitchen is untidy: pots and pans moulder in the sink, a days’ worth of unwashed plates are stacked next to the kettle, plus three or four mugs, one of which is filled with dirty cutlery. A stale smell pervades, cigarette smoke and fried food, a bin that needs emptying. I’m not sure why I’m here, what exactly I’m looking for. It’s as if I thought getting inside would tell me instantly what I need to know, but I’m going to have to search. In the living room there’s a crumpled blanket on the sofa, the ashtray that still hasn’t been emptied since the other day, or else it has and has since been refilled with dead cigarettes. Two wineglasses, both empty other than the dregs of red. I suddenly see Monica as unutterably sad; I picture her lying under the blanket, staring at the television, smoking, drinking wine, pickling herself in her misery. Why are you living like this? I think. What is it that’s eating you up? A failed love affair, and now you channel your love into the girls and fester in your disappointment? Is it this place? Then get out. And if it’s guilt, then tell someone. Get it off your chest.

  Like you did?

  The question is abrupt and in a voice that’s not my own, almost as if I’m hearing it for real. I look up. She’s there, sitting in the chair opposite. She’s watching me; it was she who was speaking.

  ‘Daisy?’ I say, my mouth dry. The room begins to wobble, as if it’s about to spin, as if I’m about to fall. Just in time, my hand finds the back of a chair and I right myself.

  ‘Daisy!’ I say again, but still she sits there, silent and impassive. ‘How—?’

  She interrupts me.

  You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?

  ‘But—’

  You haven’t got long, you know? I’ll get you. I’ll make you pay.

  I step towards her and then, as instantly as she appeared, she’s gone. The chair she was sitting on is empty; there’s no one there. Just a cardigan thrown over the back and a cushion, a mark on it, a stain that could be anything, could be coffee, could be wine, could be blood.

  Had I imagined her? My legs are unsteady as I run up the stairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me so hard that it bounces open. I half expect to see her sitting on the bed, but no, she’s not there, I was imagining it, imagining it all. It’s my mind playing tricks. That’s all.

  I breathe in deep. Monica’s room is the same shape as mine, the bed equally unmade and identical, except her duvet cover is floral and bleached by the sun. There’s a dresser piled with paperwork, letters, bills, newspapers and magazines, as well as cans of hairspray and deodorant, bottles of cheap perfume.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for. I open one of the dresser drawers, but it’s full: blister packs of pills, a can of insect repellent and a yellowed paperback. I try the next, and when I find that full of junk, too, go over to the chest of drawers.

  I breathe deep. It’s an invasion of privacy, worse than just breaking in, and I almost give up and go back to my cottage. But then I remember why I’m here, what I saw in the film Kat sent to me. I have to know.

  In the top drawer is her underwear. A selection, mostly cream or white and chosen to be comfortable rather than flattering. I dig deeper and find a pale pink vibrator tucked underneath some balled socks. Deeper still, my fingers brush against something soft and flat, a book, and I pull it out carefully, disturbing as little as I can.

  It’s a pale blue exercise book, bulging slightly. When I open it I find Polaroid photographs tucked inside. I scan them; they were clearly taken at the stables and each of them is of a girl looking straight at the camera, smiling with varying degrees of gaucheness. There are at least fifteen different girls, all of a similar age. Between thirteen and sixteen, I’d say, though in some cases it’s hard to tell.

  Most I don’t recognise, but third from the top is Kat. Ellie’s here, too, and the girl from the film. Grace. I cycle through the rest, already suspecting what I’m going to find.

  I’m right. Zoe’s picture is here, and further down I find Daisy’s, too, wearing the same clothes she’d had on in the video I’d been sent. Finally, at the very bottom, there’s a picture of me.

  I force myself to concentrate, to stay in the moment. I put the photos down and go back to the book. On the first page is a list of names, and next to each a sequence of numbers and letters. Over the page there are more lists, dates of birth, phone numbers and addresses, plus more, apparently random, numbers. Nothing seems to correlate with anything else, and though I guess there’s a code here it’s one I don’t have time to figure out. I use my phone to photograph the first page, then I arrange the pictures on the bed and film them, a slow pan from left to right, before returning to the book. After several more pages of information there’s a blank, then a few sheets are filled in, this time with men’s names – Dale, Shaun, Bill, Mark, Karl, Kevin – plus more phone numbers and more dates. No Bryan, to my relief, and no Gavin, either. I examine the dates; they’re too recent to be dates of birth and when I flip to the back of the book I see one from only a week or so ago.

  I flip to the pages with the information about the girls, forward to the pages dealing with the men. There’s nothing concrete here, no hard evidence, but it’s not difficult to see what links them. I think of the video I was sent: There’s a party tonight; and a single word escapes from my lips.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Suddenly, I hear a sound. Footsteps outside, then a key in the lock. It’s as if I’ve summoned her. ‘Shit,’ I mutter, and I scoop the photos off the bed before stuffing them back inside the book, aware as I do that I have no idea if they’re in the right order. I bury the book inside the drawer, in more or less the same place I found it, then scan the room. The place is tiny, there’s nowhere to hide, and my mind races – what can I tell her? Why am I here? – but comes up with nothing. Already I can hear her downstairs, taking off her jacket. Then I hear her voice. She sounds flustered, unnerved.

  ‘No,’ she’s saying. ‘No. It can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  She’s on the phone. I try to work out what she’ll do, where she’ll go. I slip through the door and into the bathroom. I hide behind the door, taking in as I do the uncleaned toilet bowl, the sink that’s encrusted with toothpaste and remnants of soap. My body is numb, as if it’s someone else’s, a costume I’m wearing, nothing more. I think of the word Dr Olsen used. Dissociation.

  I force myself to concentrate. I grab a pair of nail scissors from the sink and dig the point into my palm until I feel the stab. I focus on what’s happening downstairs. I hear Monica close the front door behind her and listen as she hovers at the bottom of the stairs, just a few yards away.

  ‘Slow down,’ she’s saying. Her tone is urgent, confused. What’s happened? If only I could hear the other half of the conversation.

  She goes into the kitchen and I hear the kettle being filled, though she sounds in need of something stronger.

  ‘But what makes you so sure?’

  Silence, then the husk of a laugh. I strain to hear what comes next.

  ‘You really think she would? She wouldn’t dare!’ A pause. ‘Would she?’

  I try to convince myself it’s gossip, but it doesn’t sound like it. It sounds serious, the discussion of a problem that will need dealing with, one way or another. I will her to say the name of whoever she’s talking to, but she doesn’t.

  A sigh she tries to conceal. ‘You know me,’ she says. ‘I’ve never let you down.’

  Her voice is louder now. She’s on the stairs. My heart thumps so hard I think she might hear it, then misses the next beat. Did I close the drawer? I can’t remember, but still it’s better she goes in there than comes i
n here, where there’s no escape. I slide down the wall and into a crouch, the scissors in my hand. There’s a tiny hole in my palm, a trickle of blood. It could be someone else’s.

  She’s right outside the door. I can almost make out who’s on the other end of the call, though that might be my imagination. She speaks again. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to think of something.’ I listen to her breathe. I smell her, the same cheap perfume I saw on her dresser; it smells like flowers, like toilet cleaner. Stand, I tell myself, stand. At least face her on your feet, if that’s what’s going to happen.

  She goes into the bedroom. This is it. My chance. I get to my feet as silently as I can and peer at the bedroom door. She’s left it open but is nowhere to be seen. I have to move. Now.

  I round the bathroom door, not taking my eyes off the bedroom. I can see through, into the mirror on the dresser. Monica is reflected there; she’s getting changed, her phone still clamped to her ear, and has already taken off her jumper. She’s wearing only a bra, and on her upper arm I make out a faded tattoo. It looks cheap, home-made, and though at first I think it’s a heart, after a moment she turns and I see I’m wrong. I head off, across the landing, then to the stairs. They creak, I know that, but what can I do? I tread lightly, miss out every second step, jogging down quietly, holding my breath. The door is at the bottom and, as I reach it, I pray it’s unlocked. My hand goes out to the handle, I’m not even thinking any more, and suddenly there’s a noise, loud as a gunshot, and I freeze.

  The kettle switching off, that’s all. I grab the handle, but as I do I hear Monica upstairs. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, her voice brittle. ‘I’ll deal with it. You know I will. It’s not like I have a choice. Not if you’re sure she’s back.’ She waits. ‘Carol’s?’ She laughs, again without humour, and I wonder who Carol is. ‘ ’Fraid so. I’ll see you then?’ A pause. ‘No, not now. Afterwards.’

  I turn the handle and the door opens. I’m outside. I exhale, deeply, but then think of Monica’s tattoo. A perfect circle. An unbroken O. And of her warning to the girls on the film. I’ve been asking too many questions. And, somehow, they’ve figured it out.

  Then

  42

  Spencer Street Group Practice

  CLINIC NOTES: Zoe Pearson, DOB 7/3/2003

  DATE: 17 May 2017

  Zoe in today with mum. Complains of excessive tiredness, weight loss and loss of appetite, not wanting to go to school, nausea accompanied by vomiting. General lethargy. Mum said she stays out late at night. General examination no concerns. Advised bed rest and plenty of fluids. Will call for telephone consultation in three days.

  Suspect Zoe has started smoking, but she denied this on questioning. She says she is doing well at school and has no worries either there or at home. She has lots of friends. Bruise visible on her upper arm, which she told me she got during PE at school. Also a round mark on her forearm.

  Plan: Review as above. Monitor for general health and wellbeing and consider referral to social services if any other signs appear.

  Signed: Dr Wiseman

  DATE: 22 May 2017

  Called mum. Family friend answered – Monica Browne. Said Zoe is fully recovered, back at school today. No further action necessary.

  Signed: Dr Wiseman

  Now

  43

  She’s back. I’ll deal with it. I’ve never let you down.

  They’re talking about Sadie, about me. They’re going to deal with me. I’ve been foolish, coming here, asking all these questions. I’m in danger. Should I call Gavin, ask him to help? But what could he do? He’s only a newcomer, and where’s he got with all his question so far? Bryan? He knows Monica, but maybe that could work to our advantage – to my advantage – and I know he won’t turn his back when he knows what’s happening to the girls.

  I rush down towards the slipway, hoping to find him tending to his boat. He’s not there; the whole village seems deserted. I make my way to The Ship and go in. A young woman I don’t recognise sits behind the bar, alone.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says when I approach.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Carol’s,’ she says, as if I ought to know.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘There’s a service,’ she explains. ‘A carol service. Over at St Julian’s. Everyone’ll be there.’

  Of course. Carols. That must be where Monica’s going, and maybe Bryan will be there, too. I ask the woman behind the bar when it starts and she glances at her watch. ‘Soon. Four, I think. What’ll it be?’

  I shake my head and tell her I’ve changed my mind. I climb Slate Road as quickly as I can and get into my car. It would be there, I think. The church where my mother is buried, somewhere I’d be happy never to go again.

  It’s almost completely dark by the time I turn down the road that leads to St Julian’s. The car park is full so I have to stop the car a little way down the track. I jog the rest of the way, keep my eyes forward; I don’t even glance towards my mother’s grave. Inside the old church the nave is empty and my boots echo on the cold stone floor. Despite the lit candles that cast their soft orange glow all over the church and the cars parked outside, I wonder for a moment whether I’ve come to the right place after all, but then I hear a noise from further in. Raised voices, laughter. Through a door I find a smaller room, this one brightly lit, with a Christmas tree in one corner, and full of people. Children and adults; most, I don’t recognise, but Liz and Beverly are here, and Monica, too, just shrugging off her coat. I hesitate in the doorway then spot Gavin in the far corner and enter. Bryan sees me almost as soon as I come in. He waves, and though I return his greeting I push my way over to Gavin.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  I shake my head. Bryan is approaching. ‘I need to speak to you later.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not now,’ I say. ‘Later.’

  He lowers his voice. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  I glance at Monica. ‘I just … I can’t speak now.’

  Bryan arrives. ‘How’re you?’ he says jovially. He’s holding a mince pie in one hand, a plastic cup in the other. ‘Want some? It’s mulled wine. Well, it’s supposed to be, only no alcohol, see.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. I turn back to Gavin. ‘I’ll catch you later. Okay?’

  Bryan watches as Gavin moves off. Something flickers across his face. Jealousy?

  ‘How’re you?’

  ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Have one of these. They’re delicious.’

  He hands me a mince pie on a paper plate. It’s home-made; the pastry crumbles as soon as I pick it up. He lowers his voice. ‘Did Monica tell you about David’s note?’

  I nod. ‘There’s something else, though. Can we go outside?’

  He frowns, but steers me towards the door to the nave. He stops en route to talk to some guy who laughs and thumps his arm playfully before allowing him to continue. Gavin watches us leave and, though I acknowledge him with a slight nod, he doesn’t smile back. I dump my mince pie on the table by the door and together we go into the nave.

  ‘Let’s sit,’ he says, heading towards the front pew. ‘It’ll be starting soon anyway.’

  ‘Not there,’ I say. ‘It’s … Can we go further back?’

  We choose the fifth pew from the front. It creaks as we sit and there’s that stale, musty smell that’s in every church I’ve ever been in. The door to the side room has swung shut and we’re now in echoing silence.

  I keep my voice low, but still my whisper seems to bellow.

  ‘It’s Monica.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Giving the girls drink. Drugs, too. I’m sure of it. And there’s worse. I think she’s been …’

  I falter. He shifts in the pew to face me. The candlelight glints orange on his face.

  I search for the word. ‘Using the girls.’

  ‘No,’ he says emphatically, shaking his head. ‘None of that. Not Monica.’

  The door
to the side room opens. The vicar enters, a young man dressed in black vestments, his hair thinning. He’s laughing as he goes, and pauses to let the woman behind him pass. Behind her follows a man, two children and then, as if on cue, Monica herself.

  Bryan leans in close. ‘That’s … that’s just not possible.’

  ‘No?’

  Monica scans the room. She notices us, gives a tiny wave. We should’ve sat nearer the back. I will her not to come over, but she heads towards us.

  Bryan sighs as she draws close. Others are coming in now to take their seats. A couple sit on the pew directly in front of us. ‘Look. I know her as well as anybody. We went out. A long time ago. It’s not something she’d do.’

  I watch Monica approach. They went out? It doesn’t feel surprising, and again I wonder whether I’d known them both back then, whether I’ve somehow forgotten them since.

  ‘She’s the one who got me off drugs, you know?’

  ‘People change,’ I say.

  She’s level with us now. I force myself to smile in her direction, but at the last moment she seems to change her mind. She waves to us both and mouths, See you later?

  Bryan returns her greeting, then, once she’s continued towards a rear pew, turns back to me.

  ‘Not her. I just … I can’t believe it.’

  A young couple push past us, trailing their child.

  ‘I’d be dead without her,’ he goes on. ‘She’s the one who set me right.’

  ‘She loved you.’

  People are still coming in, though it’s slowed to a trickle. It looks like it’s about to start.

  ‘It weren’t just that. She’s a good person.’

  ‘So, why did it end? What happened?’

  ‘I stopped needing to be rescued, I suppose. It turned out there wasn’t much more to what we had, once you took that away.’

  At the front the vicar clears his throat. ‘Welcome!’ he says. I fade him out.

  ‘How old were you?’