Final Cut(13)

‘What?’

‘Your phone, Ellie!’

‘Nothing.’

‘Put it away!’

There’s no answer. The woman looks to her right, where a man in a shirt and jeans leans against a doorframe, watching the argument but apparently reluctant to join in.

‘Are you gonna tell her?’ she says. ‘Or just stand there?’

He shrugs pathetically.

‘Chris! For fuck’s sake!’

Now he turns to whoever has the camera. ‘Ellie,’ he says. ‘Listen to your mother.’

‘But it’s not fair!’

‘You were told,’ he says. ‘No more dance class unless you start improving at school.’

‘But—!’

He holds up his hands. ‘Enough. Go to your room. And turn that bloody thing off.’

The frame lurches as the girl holding it – Ellie – swings to the left. There’s a mirror on the wall next to her father and, in it, and only for a frame or two, I glimpse her reflection. I press Rewind and freeze it. She looks young. Thirteen or fourteen, with pale skin and beautiful ginger hair framing an innocent, freckled face.

I hesitate. Should I make this public? It’s been filmed in anger, and no doubt uploaded in a fit of rage, a kicking out against the impotence of being a teenager. But she might regret it later. She might realise she never wanted it to be seen by anyone else, let alone the rest of the village. She might wake up tomorrow and worry about being in even more trouble with her parents when they find out what she’s done.

I move the clip to the section marked Private then go upstairs. I need to get ready, and think about how I can get Monica onside.

We’ve arranged to meet at the end of the lane, and she greets me with a cheery ‘Morning!’ when she sees me emerge from beneath the archway. She holds out her hand; plastic bangles crackle on her wrist. ‘Nice to finally meet you!’

‘You, too!’ I say. She looks younger than in her picture, early thirties, perhaps. Only a few years older than me. She’s heavier, though. Her hair is longer now and today it’s tied back with a pale yellow bandana. She’s wearing faded blue jeans and a purple waterproof jacket. At her neck I glimpse a knitted sweater in a garish yellow and she’s wearing a plastic necklace of blue beads the size of marbles. Her eyes spark and she has a strange, twitchy nervousness; she looks like some kind of earth-mother, like someone who’d make her own muesli and buy everything organic and Fair Trade. Or perhaps a schoolteacher, friendly but slightly lost.

‘Settled in? Everything okay?’

I tell her I’m fine.

‘I left all the details. They’re in the folder.’

She means the one on the coffee table in the living room. I skimmed through it the first night. It’s stuffed with information leaflets, things to do, places to go. Most are out of date.

‘And I’m just next door.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know that.’ She glances at me, her eyes curious. Has she sensed the discomfort in my voice? ‘Must be handy.’

‘It is,’ she says. ‘But don’t worry. I won’t disturb you.’ She pats my arm. ‘Shall we go for a brew? I’ll take you to Liz’s.’

I tell her that’d be good and we begin to climb the hill. Once we reach the café – the same one in which I met Bryan yesterday – we sit in the window and Monica picks up a laminated menu.

‘Tea, then?’

The woman from yesterday comes over – Monica introduces her as Liz – and today she smiles thinly as she takes our order, without quite meeting my eye. While it’s not exactly hostile, it occurs to me she’s found out who I am and doesn’t like it. Well, I think, let her disapprove. Not everyone has to be onboard for the project to work; the odd sour-faced old cynic won’t matter.

‘Anything else?’

I say no and she retreats. Monica leans forward.

‘So, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?’

I hesitate, but think of the documentary. I have to get the channel to bite. I got the girls in Black Winter to open up, so I must have it in me.

‘Daisy,’ I say.

She recoils, just slightly, but then seems to recover her composure. ‘Daisy Willis? Is that why you’re here?’

‘It’s just background for the film. I’m interested in the effect it had on the community. You knew her?’

She’s about to answer when the door opens and a group of girls comes in. They’re teenagers, fifteen or sixteen I’d guess, still in uniform. They’re gossiping, giggling; they transform the place with their frenetic energy. One is taller than the others, clearly in charge; she’s leading the conversation, her eye-rolls exaggerated as they talk about someone who evidently isn’t there.

‘What makes you think that?’

I glance over at the girls. I think of Daisy. I wonder if she’d have been like that.

‘Oh, just something Bryan said.’

She seems to relax a little.

‘Oh, you’ve been talking to Bryan. Well, I guess I did a little. Everyone knows everyone here, see?’

‘Is it okay if I ask you a few questions?’

There’s a curve to her lips, not entirely encouraging.

‘I thought the film was supposed to be light-hearted. Wasn’t that what your friend said? No one’s out to get anyone?’