Final Cut(17)

I click another couple of links, hoping for more articles, but though there are a handful, the story seems to have died quickly. When I skim what there is it becomes apparent that they all report the same thing, with few new details. I was seen trying to hitch a lift, carrying a bag. Details are sketchy, and of course, how can they know I ended up first in Sheffield, then London, and then, after who knows what happened to me down there, how I wound up unconscious on a beach in Deal? But still, I was expecting more than this.

I select the next link. In this article there’s a brief interview with my mother; it’s completely out of character, she says, her little girl would never run away. She appeals for me to get in touch. Whatever’s wrong, we’ll sort it out together. Yes, I think. Like you sorted everything else out: by siding with your new boyfriend and telling me to like it or lump it, to shape up or ship out.

There’s only one picture of me, though it’s used in most of the articles. It’s in black and white, taken at school and cropped at the neck. I’m glad. I glance at it only briefly – it almost doesn’t look like me. The girl I used to be had one of those generic, unremarkable faces that can map on to almost anyone. Only the gap between my front teeth is remarkable. My hair is a light brown, the colour of milky coffee, tucked neatly behind my ears, and though my eyes are bright, my skin is blotchy and pocked with acne, my face puffy, my chin indistinct. Plump, they called me, when they were being kind. Which wasn’t often.

I close the window, suddenly ashamed. What did I do? Why do some people think I’m linked to Daisy’s death? The truth is, I can’t remember; I know something terrible must’ve happened, something that made me run all the way to London and vow never to go back, never to use my real name, but, however hard I try, I can’t remember what it was.

I open Google once more, and this time search Daisy Willis. There are more news reports, though by now the story is old, details even more scarce, the whole affair shrouded in uncertainty. A suicide note is mentioned, which I hadn’t picked up on before, but nothing else. Nothing about me, so nothing to suggest she and I had been close, or that me running had had anything to do with her death.

And yet there’s something here, I’m sure of it. A memory bobs like jetsam, beneath the surface but unreachable, catching the light before sinking once more. I dig deeper, try an image search, but then it comes to me. Daisy and I standing on the slipway with a group of kids. Someone taking a photo.

I find the picture halfway up the stairs. I’d noticed it the first night I got here but hadn’t recognised its significance. Monica with the kids, two girls standing off to one side, pretty much ignoring the camera. They look conspiratorial; they’re up to something. I reach out and touch the cool glass, leaving a greasy mark. I lean in close, though I hardly need to. Now I look again it’s obvious who they are, and I whisper their names under my breath.

Daisy. Sadie. Daisy. Me.

It’s true, then. We were closer than I thought. I turn away from the photo and go back downstairs. I remember Gavin telling me that some people think Zoe’s disappearance is linked to Daisy’s. She’s part of the puzzle, too, even if she did disappear years later. I’m sure of it.

I pick up my phone. He answers after the third ring.

‘Gavin?’

It takes me a moment to realise he hasn’t recognised my voice. My head drops, but so what? What did I expect?

‘It’s Alex,’ I say. ‘We met the other—’

‘Oh, hi!’ he says. ‘How’re you? Everything okay?’

I ignore his question. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Daisy’s suicide, and Zoe Pearson?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I just wondered if there was anything else you could tell me.’

‘You’re going to look into it!’

‘Just as background to the film. I just wondered … Is there anyone I can talk to? Do you know whether Zoe had any friends that might still be here?’

‘Well,’ he says eventually, ‘I heard she had a boyfriend, but that ended. And I think someone said she used to hang out with Sophie Steadman. I suppose you could try her.’

I jot the name in my notebook.

‘And where will I find her?’

‘She works at the tattoo shop,’ he says. ‘Ink and Steel.’ He hesitates. ‘Want me to come?’

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.