Final Cut

by S. J. Watson

  I move a little to the left to get a better shot, but my foot lands on a soft clod and my ankle goes over. A sharp shock, over in a moment, but still I gasp. Monica cocks her head slightly.

  “Kat?” she says. “Come here a minute, would you?”

  Kat does as she’s been asked. Monica murmurs something to the girl but, luckily, both are looking the other way, into the field, rather than toward where I’m hiding. I creep, as carefully as I can, backward and to the right, keeping the horses between me and Monica as the girls lead them into the stable. Now, I’m right behind the building, out of sight. I crouch while Monica puts the day bars across the stable door and leads the girls into the tack room, then take my opportunity to escape, retracing my steps to the car, then driving back to Blackwood Bay.

  I pull into the car park and sit for a moment. It’s afternoon; soon, it’ll be getting dark. I pick up my camera and watch the footage I’ve just recorded. It’s sweet. It’ll work really well in the edit, showing the girls in a positive light and a community spirit. But how to get Monica to agree to me using it? I could be honest, I suppose, tell her I followed her. Or perhaps I should deny all knowledge, tell her it was submitted by someone anonymously. Either way, there’s no reason she shouldn’t let me use it, not once she’s seen it.

  A shadow falls across the windshield. Almost before I’ve reacted, the door right next to me is open and a figure is standing there, wearing a waterproof jacket, hood up, and though I want to react, to lash out, something stops me.

  “Move!” comes a familiar voice. It’s a woman. “Get in the passenger seat.”

  I find my voice.

  “No. What the—”

  She takes down her hood, just for a second, and I see who it is.

  “Move over,” she says, more softly, though no more kindly. “We haven’t got long.”

  24

  Liz drives erratically, as if she’s being pursued. Her hand shakes when she takes it off the steering wheel to change gear; the car whines as she releases the clutch. Is she as scared as I am?

  “What is it?” I say, my voice weak and tremulous. “Where are we going?”

  She remains silent. She’s agitated, at her limit. I wonder whether she’s acting against her will, she’s been forced to pick me up, she’s delivering me somewhere.

  Or to someone. My flesh sings, sweat runs down my back despite the cold, and I panic. I reach for the door handle, but my hands are numb, they won’t close around it, and what am I going to do, anyway? Hurl myself onto the roadside? Hope for a soft landing in the heather?

  I think of the dead sheep. Burst and bleeding.

  “Liz?” I can’t keep the fear from my voice.

  The car swerves. Not much, but the road is narrow, barely more than a car’s width, and with a ditch on each side. What does she mean to do? Will someone be waiting for me? Again, the dead sheep appears in front of me.

  “Just . . . shut up. Okay?”

  She glances in the rearview mirror. There are headlights behind us, a car in the distance, and she speeds up. She barely slows for the crossroads and goes straight over. There’s nothing this way for miles, nothing but the empty, desolate moor.

  We cross a low stone bridge and, once more, my hand goes to the door handle. My knuckles are white.

  “Don’t—” The threat, if that’s what it is, hangs in the air.

  She pulls off the main road and onto an even narrower track, then into what serves as a lay-by. She cuts the engine.

  “Come on.”

  The undulating moor is ghostly in the afternoon light, but there’s no one else in sight. She strides out and, instinctively, I take my phone from my jeans pocket. It’s already filming, though I don’t remember starting it. I’m safe, for the moment.

  She reaches a stone wall on the moor and follows it, then scrambles over a stile and heads off, climbing toward a distant tree. I can see it only dimly, in silhouette. It’s a yew, I think. When Liz reaches it, she turns and beckons.

  I’m torn, but my instinct to find out, to document, wins out and I jog toward her. There’s a bunch of flowers under the gnarled tree, in plastic wrapping, secured with an elastic band. They’re white, bedraggled. Dead. The edge of each petal is turning to brown, as if stained with nicotine.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “A grave.” Her face shifts; it softens in the half-light, the shadow of the tree. “The girl’s,” she whispers. “The one who disappeared.”

  “Daisy?”

  She seems to recoil at the name, and I flinch, too. My spine tenses and contracts, as if I’m trying to shrink myself to nothing.

  “No,” she says. “Sadie.”

  “But she ran away. They found her.”

  “No,” she says, and I shiver. Wind blasts up the hill, driving out thought.

  “What happened to her, then?”

  She hesitates, and when her answer comes it’s a lament.

  “She’s here.”

  The ground tilts, even though it can’t be true. This must be what they mean, someone walking over your grave. She shakes her head sadly, her eyes cast down.

  She can’t be, I want to say, but I can’t risk giving myself away.

  She’s brought me here to tell me something, and now she seems unable to do so.

  “What are you saying, Liz?”

  She begins to speak, but the words escape as a sigh, a breeze of defeat, and her whole body seems to deflate with them, as if she’s crumpling, collapsing in on herself.

  “I didn’t know. I swear.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  She ignores my question. She’s whispering now.

  “He said he never meant to hurt her.”

  “Who? Who said? Hurt who?”

  She gazes back toward the car. Anywhere but at me. “My father,” she whispers.

  Her father? I force myself back, into the past. I don’t remember him any more than I remember her. How old would he have been back then? Forties? Fifties? I can imagine him, though, understand what she’s saying. God knows I’ve seen plenty of people like that in my life, with their pudgy jelly-mold skin, their rotten popcorn breath, their slobbering eagerness as they unthreaded their belts and unzipped their trousers.

  But all that was later, after I’d run. There was none of that here, I’m certain of it. Or at least not for me.

  “You’re saying your father killed Daisy?”

  I haven’t said the wrong name deliberately, but I notice that she doesn’t correct me. She shakes her head.

  “He said he didn’t kill her, but . . .”

  “But he was involved?”

  She nods once.

  “What did the police say?”

  “He never told them what he knew.”

  She says it bluntly. Her voice is cold.

  “He told me a couple of years ago. Just before he died. He had cancer. He knew he didn’t have long.” She hesitates. “And there was that other girl. Zoe. He said it just felt so . . . similar, I guess. Like history was repeating itself. Everyone said she weren’t the type to run away.”

  I think back to my friend, Alice, to meeting her in London. Is that what they said about us? We weren’t the type? Maybe no one is the type to run away, to get out of a bad situation, until one day they find they are, and they do.

  “It was then he told me that Sadie didn’t run. She was dead.”

  Daisy, I think. He meant Daisy. Maybe he was confused; he must have been on medication for his illness.

  “He said they killed her.”

  “Who?”

  “He died before he could tell me.”

  The words catch in her throat. I can almost see the grief inside her, battling it out with the resentment, the disappointment, the shame.

  “He drowned.” The word echoes. Liz blurs, shifts out of focus. I have to concentrate to bring her back. “They found him halfway to Malby.”

  “Suicide?”

  She answers quickly and with contempt.


  “That’s what they said. All I know is, he was scared.”

  “Of those involved in Daisy’s death?”

  “Sadie’s,” she says, this time correcting my slip. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  “Look,” I say. “Are you sure he didn’t mean Daisy?”

  “I don’t know. He were on drugs, for the pain . . .”

  Exactly, I think, but I say nothing.

  “I suppose it’d make more sense,” she goes on, “what with them saying they found her.”

  “What?”

  “Sadie. They found her, they said. My father said they must’ve faked it . . .”

  They couldn’t have found her. It’s impossible. The only people who knew my name were Alice and Dev. And Aidan, I suppose, though I think he only heard it once. I was never found. Unless . . .

  “When did they find her?”

  “I can’t remember. I just know the police got in touch with her mother. She’d been frantic.”

  Frantic? I almost laugh. How did she pull that one off? The truth would have been closer to the opposite. I see her calm shrugging of the shoulders: She’ll be back, or not, I don’t much care. I see the new boyfriend telling her not to worry, all the time secretly—or not so secretly—hoping I’ll never return and that I’m off his back forever; good riddance. Frantic? My arse.

  “Where?”

  “Sheffield, I think it was.”

  No. It’s not true. It never happened.

  “Not London?”

  “No. Why?”

  I ignore her question. “But they’d have brought her back, surely?”

  “They told her mother she didn’t want to come back, said she’d told them she wasn’t safe at home, that her mother’s boyfriend had raped her.”

  I freeze. No, I think. No. I remember the boyfriend. Eddie. He worked on the rigs. For a month I’d have my mother to myself, then he’d return and I was forgotten. She was out every night, drinking too much, not bothering to tell me where she was going to be or when she’d be back. It was like living with two different people, and when, after a few months, she moved him in, it got even worse. His sole purpose seemed to be to get rid of me. But he never touched me. That much I was sure of. He used to tell me he’d rather chop it off than stick it anywhere near me.

  “Raped her?”

  “They said they’d rehome her, just until she was old enough. They wouldn’t tell her mum where she was. Said she didn’t want to be found. Her mum never believed it, said the police were lying. Said Sadie never got on with her boyfriend, but there was no way he’d . . . do that. And Sadie wouldn’t make something up. She was a good girl, underneath it all. She’d never run away.”

  I fight the urge to laugh. A good girl? My mother always was fond of rewriting the past. So skillful she’d end up believing it herself. Suddenly, I want to see her, to find out the truth. But I can’t. A bit of plastic surgery isn’t going to fool my own mother.

  Some instinct kicks in. I can’t get lost in my own memories, my own story, not now. I count—one, two, three—but it doesn’t work. I name what I see. Car. Wall. Road. Yew tree. Liz.

  It’s enough to snap me back. Daisy. What happened to her? I steel myself to ask.

  “And Daisy? Do you think she took her own life?”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Plenty don’t. Or didn’t. There was a story about some boyfriend who dumped one for the other, but that doesn’t sound right to me. Her mother never believed it. And my father never believed it, neither. He said she wasn’t the type. Too much of a fighter. He said they must’ve got her, too, in the end. Anyway, none of it made any sense to me,” she says. “Jumping off a cliff? And one that’s not even that high. Seems to me there are better ways. If you really want to die.” She stares at me. “Unless she wanted to make a statement.”

  “But what if that’s exactly what she wanted?” I say. “If what you’re saying is true. Maybe it was revenge. A big fuck you to whoever hurt her.”

  “Only she’s the one who’s dead, isn’t she? Some revenge. And Sadie . . .”

  “What did her mum say? When you told her the truth?”

  “Sadie’s? I couldn’t get hold of her.”

  “How hard did you try?”

  I see her mood turn. “You think this is easy for me?” she hisses. I can smell garlic on her breath. See the pale, bleached hairs around her mouth, even in the semi-dark. “He was my father. You think I like what he did? You think I’m on his side? You think I don’t fucking hate him, even though he’s dead?”

  “Why are you telling me, then?”

  “Who else?” she says sarcastically. “Gavin?”

  “Why not?”

  Her laugh is like acid. “I don’t trust him. All that running-the-film-club stuff? Sounds desperate, if you ask me. Like he wants something. And when he arrived he was asking even more questions than you.”

  “About Daisy?”

  “Zoe, mainly.”

  “But he’s been here a fair while. Hasn’t he?”

  “Two months. Maybe three.”

  I go cold. He’d told me a year, at least. “You’re sure?”

  “Just watch him.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.”

  I realize then.

  “Was it you who sent the postcard?”

  “What postcard? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I believe her. I feel sorry for her. She lost her father, and the good memories of him, too. In some ways, she’s just another victim.

  “I thought you could help.”

  “Help?”

  “You see it, too. Something’s still going on.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I see the girls every day in the café. There’s a lot of drink. Drugs, too. And they act weird, sometimes. Scared. They get calls, then just leave. Like they’re terrified of someone.” She sighs. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it.”

  I look over toward the yew. “You’re not,” I say. “I’ve seen it, too.”

  25

  I drive Liz back. On the way I resist the temptation to ask more about Gavin, but once I’ve said goodbye I decide I have to find out what’s going on with him myself.

  It doesn’t take me long. A phone call to Jess and I have his surname—Clayton—then two minutes online and I have his LinkedIn profile. From that it takes no time to find his most recent employer, a financial services technology company based in London for which he worked as coder.

  The next step is a little trickier. A rather breathless call to their HR department at first fails to elicit details of his next of kin, even once I’ve told them it’s an urgent but confidential matter and hinted that something awful has happened. The best they can do, they say, is to take my number and ask Tanya to call me back. Tanya? I think, as I tell them that’d be great. His mother, perhaps? His sister? Or is he married, after all?

  “Hello?”

  “Who is this?”

  The voice is American. She sounds either anxious or annoyed; it’s impossible to tell which.

  “It’s about Gavin Clayton.”

  “I know, they said. What’s he done?”

  What’s he done? I think. Not What’s wrong? Or Has anything happened?

  “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just . . . who is this?”

  “His wife. Now, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  It’s not a surprise, not really. I keep my voice level.

  “I’m in Blackwood Bay,” I say.

  “He’s still there?”

  “Yes. He’s here.”

  “And you are?”

  “A friend,” I say. “I suppose.”

  She laughs.

  “I suppose? Are you fucking him?”

  “No,” I say. Her voice is clipped, precise. I imagine her in a black jacket, a pencil skirt. A solicitor, maybe.

  “I’m making a film. Gavin helped to set things up locally.”

  “I bet he did. So what is it you want from me?”


  “He didn’t tell me he was married.”

  She laughs. “He’s not.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “Nearly.”

  “What happened?”

  She snorts. “It’s none of your business, but if you want to know, ask him yourself. Ask him what he did.”

  I hesitate. “Does it have anything to do with Zoe?”

  “The missing girls,” she says. “Oh yes. With him, everything’s about them. Haven’t you worked that out yet?”

  Gavin waves cheerfully as he pulls into the car park, and I force myself to smile. I’ve been passing the time, calming myself, filming the view over the village. The long shadows from the low sun look almost abstract in the warm light. He strides confidently over.

  “Morning! Everything okay?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What’s happened?”

  I glance around the car park. There’s no one here, but still I don’t want to do this in public.

  “Not here. Can we go in?”

  “Sure.” He takes out his key, glancing back as he unlocks the door to the village hall. He’s grim-faced; he looks worried now, he knows something’s wrong. For a moment I wonder what Tanya didn’t tell me, whether I’m as safe as I think I am.

  “What is it?”

  I close the door behind me, wipe my feet on the mat in the lobby. There are toilets off to the left; on the right a door leads to a small kitchen. The whole place vaguely smells of disinfectant and stale coffee.

  “How long have you been here? In Blackwood Bay?”

  “I told you,” he says quickly as we enter the hall itself. Fluorescents hang from the ceiling and there’s a serving hatch through the kitchen. At one end sits a small stage. He turns to face me. “Almost a year. Why?”

  “I’ve been told you’ve only been here a couple of months.”

  He closes his eyes, then nods, slowly. It reminds me of Aidan; it’s what he used to do when I’d caught him out after he’d told me he wasn’t high, he hadn’t had a drink, he was fine. I can’t decide whether it endears me to him or not. “By whom?”