Final Cut(18)

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 apologise 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 to 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-wool 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 realise 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 Zoe 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.’