Final Cut(3)

But I’ve no idea with whom I’m bargaining. Not God. Even if he exists, he gave up on me years ago. And in any case, there’s no reply, just the empty, spectral howl of the wind over the moor. The snow falls silently, no longer even melting on the windscreen. My teeth begin to chatter. A car appears in the rear-view mirror, but it doesn’t stop; I probably imagined it. I wonder how I’ll look when they find me. My lips frozen, ice in my hair, my face covered with frozen snot, but still hugging my camera like it’s the only thing that matters. She died for her art, they’ll say. Ha ha ha. My head tips forward as I begin the slide into the dark, into the soft, black nothing.

I catch myself in time. No, I tell myself. I didn’t make it through what I made it through, didn’t achieve what I’ve achieved, to die here. And in any case, this isn’t a war zone, or even the wilds of Alaska, where it’s forty below. This is the north of England. Not far from here, there’ll be teenagers queuing outside nightclubs, the girls wearing not much more than their makeup, a short skirt, heels and a crop-top. The boys will be luckier, in Tshirts and jeans, but not much. I can see them, might have even been with them once, shivering not with the cold but with the anticipation of the night ahead. Eager for a drink and to dance, for the laughter and the lights, for the sickly-sweet smell of dry ice and warm flesh pressed in tight. Cigarettes, vodka. Pills and powder.

No. I’m not going to freeze to death. I just have to stay awake, that’s all. I dig my nails into my palms, so hard I think I might draw blood, and then, in the rear-view mirror, I see the light.

At first I think it’s my imagination again, but when I twist round to look over my shoulder I see I was right. There are headlights shining over the hill. Salvation. For a second I wonder if my bargaining worked, but as the vehicle itself appears I tell myself to drop the crap. It’s coincidence, nothing more.

The car approaches cautiously on the treacherous road and doesn’t slow. Almost too late I realise my own vehicle is in darkness, half off the road and easily missed. I have to move. I have to get out. It would be ironic if whoever’s driving were to have an accident, too, end up skidding along the same path, winding up in the same ditch. I need to flag it down.

I pick up my phone from the dash and get the door open. The cold brings with it a surge of energy and I manage not to stumble. I wave the phone’s lit screen as I shout, and this time I’m in luck. The car slows to a halt, then a tall figure steps out. I think instantly of the women I’d filmed on the streets, the strange vehicles pulling up in the gloom, mysterious figures inside who may or may not want to hurt you.

Well, I think as he approaches, let him try. ‘You okay there?’

His voice is muffled by the wind, but friendly. Though I can’t yet make out his face, my shoulders sag with relief.

‘I just … not exactly.’ My teeth chatter and I nod towards my stricken car. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

He steps forward and into the beam from his own headlights. ‘Broken down?’

He’s about thirty, I guess, and tall – very tall, definitely six foot plus – and rangy. He wears square, thick-framed glasses and his face is long, his features angular. Though warm, his smile seems somehow wary. He has the same build as Aidan – my friend from back then, from before – but also the same awkwardness. I remember how Aidan made me laugh, and begin to relax. He seems innocent enough, though I know as much as anyone how deceptive looks can be. Those first few months in London taught me that, if nothing else.

‘I came off the road,’ I say. ‘There’s a sheep …’

He glances past me to where the creature lies in the middle of the road, a black shape on the ice just visible in the gloom.

‘You hit it?’

I look back. The head lies angled towards us. Staring. Accusing. You did this, it says.

‘No. It was already dead. I didn’t see it.’

Does he believe me? I can’t tell, but either way he holds out his hand.

‘You want me to help?’ he says. ‘I’m Gavin.’





3


It takes me a moment to place the name. Gavin. My assistant, Jess, had been looking for someone local to put up flyers for a meeting at the village hall to get the project up and running, and he ran the film club there and offered to help. We have a shared interest, at least.

‘Alex.’

No sign of recognition; perhaps Jess didn’t mention my name.

‘I suppose I’d better take a look. At the …’

He motions towards the dead sheep, seemingly reluctant to name it.

‘Thanks.’

We approach together and, torch in hand, he crouches at the pitiful creature.

‘Something hit it hard,’ he says, his face twitching with discomfort. ‘It’d have been quick.’

I look down at the beast. A pool of blood spreads blackly from its hindquarters, staining the snow.

‘We can’t leave it here.’

His head falls. ‘Suppose not.’ He sighs. We kneel side by side and each grab two legs, then, together, we begin to pull. The thing is heavy but slides relatively easily over the ice. The viscera smudge the snow and a cloud of stink erupts. I hold my breath and glance at a grim-faced Gavin, who’s doing the same, but after a moment it’s done. We heave the body into the ditch.