Final Cut(22)

He’s trying to help me remember what happened before I ended up in the hospital, but not much has come back. I think I slept on the night bus sometimes, and on benches. Aidan said he once stole someone’s handbag just so he’d be arrested and be able to sleep in a cell, but I don’t think I’ve ever done that, and anyway, it didn’t work. I think I had a friend down here, before I ran to Deal, but it’s just a feeling, I can’t remember anything about her. I wish I could. Maybe I told her about who I was, before I lost my memory in Deal. If I could remember who she was and talk to her, that might help, don’t you think?

And I’m trying to remember back before then, too, but it’s like I just get vague feelings, nothing that’s specific, and sometimes I can’t work out whether it’s a dream or not. Sometimes it’s scary, like I’m not in control of my body, like it’s not even mine or something. I remember that I liked school, and I think I did okay. I remembered my mum, and that we used to get on pretty well, until she met someone. I don’t really know what changed. I just remember not being as happy once he arrived. I suppose that must be not long before I ran away, but I have this weird feeling that something really bad happened right before I left home. I can’t remember what.

Anyway, I should go now. There’s a massive queue to use the machine! I hope you’re well, too.

Alex





Now





13


A girl, she’s lying face down on a couch, her shoulder exposed. A gloved hand appears and begins to smooth the skin. It takes me a moment to realise where we are, what I’m watching. It’s Kat. She must’ve propped her phone on the counter, or maybe Sophie filmed it for her. The needle appears.

‘It’ll feel like a scratch,’ Sophie says. ‘Try to be as still as you can.’

Kat says she will. Her face is pinched, her brow knotted. The machine buzzes.

‘You’re sure this is what you want?’

She doesn’t answer. She’s biting her lip. Sophie works slowly, wiping with a cloth every few seconds. The ink flows, pulsing under the skin. Blood rises to the surface and Sophie wipes it away. Still more comes.

When it’s done, Sophie moves back. There, on Kat’s upper arm, in black ink, is a perfect circle. It resembles an ‘O’, or a wedding ring.

‘Done,’ says Sophie, and Kat sits up. She’s mostly out of shot, which is unfortunate. Her body twists.

‘Stop filming now,’ she says. A moment later, the screen goes black.

I feel light-headed. I’ve not eaten much, and my sleep was fitful. In the kitchen I cut and eat a slice of cheese, following it with another. I think of the caravan in David’s garden and wonder whether it might be there by chance, unrelated to Daisy; I wonder whether he was lying when he said he didn’t know Zoe. I’m angry. A weird, diffuse fury courses through me, as if searching for a focus. I can’t work out what’s upset me. Is it the documentary? I’m running out of time and it’s shifting away from what I wanted it to be. Maybe it’s Dan, taking it over and insisting on a story. I didn’t want to make a film about Daisy’s suicide, I didn’t want to get involved in Zoe’s disappearance. And I didn’t want to end up worrying about Kat and Ellie.

At least when I was making Black Winter I was on home turf; I could go home if it got too tricky, sleep in my own bed. But here? I’m trapped; there’s no crew, no camera operator or sound guy. I don’t even have my car. But I can’t give up. I’d be kissing my career goodbye; I’d have nothing left.

I return to my computer and select the film I shot last night. The footage is blurred but, slowly, it resolves. The caravan at the back of the house on The Rocks, barely visible in the gloom, but definite, defiantly solid.

It’s coincidence, I tell myself again. Daisy lived in a caravan; David has one in his garden. It doesn’t mean they’re linked.

But who am I trying to kid? I open Google once more and pull up the news stories. I don’t know what I’m expecting – an address, perhaps, confirmation that Daisy’s caravan was still parked on the site up the coast when she jumped – but I search them again. This time my eyes snag on a photograph of Daisy’s mother, taken several months after Daisy’s death. She’s sitting at a kitchen table, holding a framed photograph of her daughter. She looks devastated, and ill.

I’ve seen her before, I know I have. But where? I go through the films, one by one, until I find it. A carpeted floor, a coarse dark brown, the colour of chocolate. Flower pictures on the walls, a cage with two budgerigars, a wipe-board with the words Resident of the Day! John R, Happy Birthday!

The camera pans, a jagged left. An empty corner lounge behind glass windows. In the distance there are trees.

We follow the corridor and reach a brightly lit room. Two armchairs have been pushed close together. In one sits a woman; she’s tiny, her hair is white, swept back, her scalp visible through it. She’s looking at the person in the other chair. A man, he’s in his forties, perhaps late thirties. Her son? Grandson?

The woman is smiling; her expression is one of almost childlike excitement. The man is speaking to her, though we can’t hear what he’s saying. His lips barely move. It’s sad, but weirdly beautiful. Behind her, another resident sits in a grey tracksuit, staring at the camera, her eyes blank and empty, and I know I’m right without even having to check.