Final Cut(20)

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 realise 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 any more, 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 jewelled 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 cosy glow is curiously subdued. Ahead of me, the ground rises towards 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 round, 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 storeys 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-coloured 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?’