Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

I almost consider it for a moment, but things will be simpler if I go alone.

  “No,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

  10

  The words Ink and Steel snap to sharpness as the camera finds its focus, fancy gold lettering on black woodwork that’s beginning to peel. I pan down slowly; screens in the window shield the rest of the shop and in front of them someone has arranged candles, a gold skull, an open book of tattoo designs. A sign next to the entrance offers piercings, plus more. Enquire within, it says.

  I continue filming for a minute longer then go inside. The front of the shop has been set up as a waiting room, and there’s a woman in here already, sitting in one of the wicker chairs arranged around a low table. She looks up when I enter but we make eye contact only briefly before she goes back to her phone. There are hushed voices from behind the screen.

  The place is decorated with hundreds of tattoo designs. There are flowers, creeping vines, thorns dripping blood. One section of wall is taken up with butterflies and angels and on another there are snakes, birds, a revolver, skulls. Above the door is a photograph of a man’s back, and on it a dragon breathes fire. It’s stunning, rendered in blues and reds and yellows, its talons and teeth sharp, the scales on its skin intricate. I wonder how it looks in reality, glistening with sweat, shifting with the muscles under the skin.

  I went for a tattoo, once. Perhaps here. Though vague, it’s one of the memories that came back to me. I went with a friend but at the last minute I chickened out, scared of the pain perhaps, or my mother’s anger. This was when we were still getting on.

  My hand goes to my arm as I feel the bite of an imaginary needle. What would I have now, were I to try again? Something personal, perhaps. Something the relevance of which is known only to me. A line from a poem or a song? Or maybe it would be better to go for something beautiful, decorative but meaningless.

  Not that I could, not there. Not with the scars that have turned my forearm into a battlefield since I was burned badly, years ago. I was in the hostel, pouring out tomato soup, of all things, but the pan was heavier than I’d expected and I caught it on the lip of the stove, spilling its contents over me. The pain was indescribable; the flesh seared and bubbled, it was like being flayed. Sometimes the skin is still sensitive there, still raw like it happened only yesterday, but most of the time it’s the opposite. When I press it I feel nothing; the only pain is in my memory, but still I couldn’t drag a needle across it, injecting myself with ink. Not now.

  I look enviously at the woman opposite, at her unblemished skin. She’s young, eighteen I’d guess, if that. She wears a T-shirt under a jacket, blue jeans, a beanie hat. She looks familiar, from one of the films I suppose. I lean forward and clear my throat.

  “Sorry, can I ask? Are you getting a tattoo?”

  She looks up at me. She’s puzzled, as if I’m speaking gibberish.

  “What’re you having?”

  She returns to her phone with a shrug but says nothing.

  “It’s just . . . I’m here to help with the film.”

  “I’m not—” she says, flinching at the sound of her own voice. “I can’t—”

  I force myself to laugh. “Don’t worry! I’m not forcing you!”

  She relaxes, just a little, but the wariness remains. Her eyes glisten, fixed on the patterns pinned to the wall behind me.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Just leave me alone, will yer?”

  I’m about to apologize when the door behind me opens. There’s a dark-haired woman there. Sophie, I imagine. She’s younger than I’d expected; not much older than her customer. Behind her I glimpse a sink, a leather chair, shelves stacked with plastic bottles.

  “Kat?” she says. “Ready?”

  The girl stands up. For the briefest fraction of a second her eyes melt.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Sophie. “Can I have a quick word when you’re done?”

  She looks me up and down. “I guess,” she says, then she turns to Kat. “Come on.”

  The girl emerges after half an hour. She glances at me only once she’s left, as she crosses the street. I’m surprised at the emptiness in her face. Surely she must feel something, even if only relief? If anything, she looks as though she resents it, has had it done for someone else. She removes a phone from her pocket—a different one from the iPhone she’d been staring at earlier—and presses it to her ear. She listens intently, then nods in silent acquiescence before replacing it and disappearing down the street.

  Sophie appears a moment later.

  “You’re still here,” she says. “Come through. I have to tidy up.”

  I follow her into the back. I take in the machines, the sheathed needles, the jars stuffed with cotton balls, the trays of disposable razors. I’m anxious; my chest is tight.

  “Is this about Zoe?”

  I’m not prepared for her to be so direct. It feels like going into battle.

  “Partly,” I say. “What makes you say that?”

  “Why else would you be here? I’m guessing that’s what your film’s really about.”

  Her tone is sneering, condescending. I don’t react.

  “Is Kat okay?”

  She glances away. She turns to one of the machines and begins dismantling it. “Fine. So?”

  “Zoe was your friend?”

  She stares at me, unblinking. I hold her gaze. Neither of us speaks. There are voices outside, someone walking down the street. I know exactly what she’s thinking. Me, with my posh voice and nice clothes. What do I care about Blackwood Bay? About Daisy and Zoe? If only she knew.

  “The film’s about her, then? Or Daisy?”

  I shake my head. I wonder if she knew her, too, but then realize she’s probably too young.

  “No. It’s not about anything.”

  “Right.”

  I try again.

  “Zoe was your friend?”

  She goes back to the equipment. Her movements are methodical and precise. “Yes. She was. Okay?”

  The air between us crackles.

  “What d’you think happened to her?”

  “Dunno. You’d have to ask her.”

  “I can’t, though.”

  She says nothing. I remember the story of her being seen, the grainy CCTV footage from Meadowhall.

  “You think she’s alive?”

  “How do I know?”

  She’s too defensive. Something’s wrong.

  “Was she happy here?”

  Her laugh is brittle. “Would you be?”

  “It doesn’t seem that bad.”

  “No?”

  I ignore the sarcasm.

  “Look. I’m just trying to find out what happened. Maybe I can help. Did she tell you anything, before she went?”

  She sighs, then turns to face me. “Zoe didn’t fit in. She was pretty. Clever, too. Work it out.”

  “So she was bullied?”

  Despite herself, she wants to talk. “It was nothing at first. Just having a go, you know? But then they started sending everyone photos on Snapchat.”

  “What kind of photos?”

  “Zoe in the showers, and . . . well . . .”

  I can imagine it. The word FAT, used as a weapon. The word BITCH. Worse.

  “Didn’t she tell anyone? Her parents?”

  “They weren’t really talking by then. She was staying out late. Drinking. They said it was affecting her schoolwork.”

  “Was it?”

  “Like I said, she was clever. Her parents wanted her to go to university.”

  “And what about her?”

  “Don’t think she knew what she wanted.” She puts her gum in the bin. Her T-shirt rides up as she does so, and I notice her arm. There, half hidden by a tattooed rose, there’s a purple, thumb-shaped bruise. I force myself not to ask what caused it.

  “Did she do drugs?”

  She laughs. “What d’you think? You’ve seen the film. Everyone does. There’s not much else to do.”

  �
�What film?”

  She sighs theatrically. “Kat and Ellie. Eating chips. Are you blind?”

  I resist the urge to rise to her bait, to tell her I’ve seen a thing or two and she needs to be careful before pissing me off. Instead, I smile thinly. I remember the clip she’s talking about. I’ll look at it later. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I heard she did. It ended.”

  “Maybe, but she was really weird about it. She wouldn’t even tell me there was anyone, for ages. Kept saying she was busy whenever I asked her to go anywhere.”

  She sounds hurt. I wonder if she feels guilty. Her friend ran and she has no idea why. Maybe she and I aren’t so dissimilar.

  “Any idea who it was?”

  She glances past me, toward The Rocks. “Someone told me they’d seen her up there.”

  “What? That big old house?”

  She nods.

  “Who lives there?”

  The room falls quiet. It feels like Sophie and I are at the bottom of a well. I can see the sky above us, but the walls are smooth and greased with sludge.

  “David.”

  David? The word is cold, it’s like plunging into freezing water, but when I try to remember why, nothing comes.

  “Alone?”

  She laughs, as if the question is ridiculous.

  “Yeah. He lives alone.”

  “Why’s that funny?”

  “Go and see him. You’ll see.”

  I just might, I think.

  “What’s he like?”

  She shifts awkwardly. “Old.”

  “How old?”

  “Older than Zoe, put it like that. And he’s weird.”

  “How?”

  “You never see him. And when you do he’s always got binoculars. Goes and stands on the beach at night. Always by himself.” She pauses. “And Daisy ‘jumped’ from right outside his house.”

  The air fizzes with her sarcasm. I can hear the quotes around the word.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Look,” she says. “I don’t know anything. But they say Daisy weren’t the type to kill herself. But she did. And I know Zoe weren’t the type to run away. But she did.”

  Before I even know what I’m doing I’m asking the question.

  “And the other girl? Sadie?”

  “Sadie?” she says. She stares right at me, and for a second it’s as if she’s seeing straight through me, past the reshaped teeth and the lasered eyes, past the plastic surgery and the lost weight and the dyed hair, and seeing me for who I am. Poor, awkward Sadie. “No one ever really talks about her. They say they found her but she wouldn’t come back. And I suppose with Daisy dying she kind of got overshadowed.”

  “But—” I begin, but a door at the back of the shop clatters open and someone enters with an urgent “Sophie?”

  “I need to go,” she says, her voice low. “But, like I say, some people think Daisy killed herself. But some people don’t. They think she was pushed. Stick that in your little film, if you like. Only don’t say it were me that told you.”

  11

  I find the clip. The bench at the bottom of Slate Road between the slipway and The Ship, overlooking the water. Two girls are sitting, each with a packet of chips. The cliffs are visible just over the taller one’s shoulder. The other looks younger; she has ginger hair and a dirty pink rucksack sits at her feet. The camera zooms in with that peculiar wobbliness of a handheld device. We’re close now. The younger girl devours her chips anxiously, barely tasting them, while the other is more measured, taking a mouthful between drags of her cigarette.

  I lean forward, closer to the screen. As well as Kat, I recognize the shorter of the two girls; she’d recorded an earlier film, the one in which she’s arguing with her parents. Ellie. Now I watch the film again, I realize they’re unaware of the camera. The person filming must be standing somewhere out of sight—in the alley that runs between the visitors’ center and the pub, perhaps—watching them.

  And listening, too. We can hear them speaking, though the sound quality is poor, and there’s not enough context to snatch any meaning. We hear It’s okay . . . others . . . We see the older girl blow out her smoke before handing the cigarette to her friend. She shakes her head, we hear No, and I don’t want to, and Just because, okay? The older girl is unmoved. Try it, she says. You have to, and then, though it’s too far away to see clearly, I realize it’s not a cigarette but a joint. The younger girl resists, her eyes hollow, her thin face fearful, but her friend is relentless. You might as well, she says, and eventually the redhead takes the joint, puts it to her lips and inhales. Hold it in, says her friend, and though she tries, she coughs before handing the joint back.

  The film ends. I almost want to smile. Weed? Is that all? It was so much worse in my day. I think back to what Sophie told me about Zoe and her boyfriend. Perhaps it was worse in Zoe’s day, too. Perhaps she got mixed up in something she couldn’t cope with.

  My fingers hover over the mouse. Should I make it private? I remember what I learned at college—you can’t afford too many scruples if you want to make a decent film—and decide against it. It’s too late now, anyway. It’s already been seen, nothing to do with me anymore, and anyway, I have things to do. Sophie told me Daisy jumped from The Rocks, from outside Bluff House. It’s time I took a look, shot some footage I can post for the documentary. Maybe it will stir up someone’s memories of back then, prompt them to talk about what happened, bring her story into the foreground.

  The icy air blasts, sharp as glass. The only sound is that of the waves as they pummel the rocks below, the gulls’ banshee shriek. It’s dark; the bloody sky is jeweled with stars. It’s impossible to imagine anything here but emptiness.

  Head down, I force myself to carry on, but it’s like wading through oil. My ears burn. Behind me, Blackwood Bay appears murky; even The Ship’s cozy glow is curiously subdued. Ahead of me, the ground rises toward the glowering shadow of Bluff House, beyond which there’s nothing but the sea and the black, precipitous cliffs.

  Suddenly, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be doing this. But I take out my phone and film for a minute, recording the vast, unknowable water, studded as it is with pinpricks of light from dozens of minute ships. I think of the villagers watching the clip, imagine them wondering who’s taken it, and why. I press the button to upload it before I can change my mind. Let them wonder.

  Daisy must have stood right here, nearly ten years ago, gazing out at the same black water. But what compelled her to turn around, to face the edge and walk forward? What made her want to choose oblivion? Is it possible she didn’t jump at all, that instead she was pushed, flung into the water like an armful of rags?

  Or perhaps there’s another explanation: it was no one’s fault; she was running, being chased. She might’ve lost her footing on the wet grass, slipped and gone over the edge. It was an accident. Sort of.

  I try to imagine where she is now, what might be left of her after all this time. The currents here are unpredictable; they can sweep you out in an instant. Swimming from the beach is discouraged. Her jacket washed up on a beach halfway to Malby, but no sign of her. Almost as if she were weighed down, or dead already.

  I position my camera on its tripod and look up at Bluff House, silhouetted against the night. It’s sadder, up close. Two forlorn stories with a pitched shingle roof. There’s a light on in an upstairs room, but otherwise the place is in wretched, resolute darkness.

  Who would choose to live here, in this godforsaken place? Despite its size—it must have three or four bedrooms at least—it’s hard to imagine it containing any life at all.

  I frame the scene, the house at one edge, and set the camera to record. The wind whispers through the long grass. Sadie, it says, Sadie. It sounds like a warning. I take a deep breath and stride purposefully into shot. I walk up to the front of the house, the side that faces the cliff. There’s a gate here, a path that
leads across the lawn, terracotta pots, their contents long dead, just visible in the dank moonlight. The door is closed; there’s stained glass in its window, reflecting and distorting the light within, orange and green and red.

  Now, up close, there’s the tingle of familiarity, as if I’ve stood in this spot before, though I have no recollection of when. What memories I have are blurred; recalling them is like standing too close to the TV. The pixels are there, but not the image they form.

  I stare up at the windows. There’s a light on deep inside, and the whole place shudders. I knock on the door and the dull thud echoes through the house.

  There’s no answer. “David?” I say, peering through the stained glass. “Are you there?”

  Nothing. I wait, then try again. I knock at the door so loudly this time that it judders against the frame, rattling the letterbox.

  Now there’s a noise. It sounds odd, like it’s coming from deep in the house, or beyond it somehow. A light flicks on in the hall, then through the pus-colored pane of glass I see a figure approach, head down, blurry and wraith-like. Only when he’s right in front of me, when all that’s separating us is the door itself, does he look up. His features are indistinct, distorted by the window. He slides a bolt and the door opens a fraction, held back by a chain.

  “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?”