Final Cut(33)

‘Boy? Not man?’

‘That’s what she said. On’y I’m not sure I believe her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t know what to believe, any more.’

She’s almost whispering now. I want to reach out, to take her hand, though I stop myself. Sean does instead, and she lets him, though without any obvious signs of reciprocation. All the defiance I saw earlier has vanished, leaving behind a shell, a vessel holding nothing but pain.

I did this to my mother, I think. This exact same thing. But then I remember her boyfriend. I see his relief that I’m no longer around, and for a moment I’m sure that, secretly, my mother was glad when I went, too.

Still, guilt knots my stomach, a hard lump. Jody lowers her gaze. ‘She were fourteen. Fourteen.’

I hesitate. ‘Was she having sex?’

Jody laughs, but again Sean tries to silence her.

‘Enough—’ he says.

‘I’d say so. She were pregnant.’

The room falls silent.

‘Pregnant?’

My voice sounds hollow. At first, I’m not even sure I’ve spoken out loud, but then Jody speaks.

‘She didn’t want to tell us. But it were obvious.’

‘Did she tell you who the father was?’

‘That were obvious, too.’

‘Him.’

‘Who else?’

I hesitate. ‘Was she … promiscuous, d’you think?’

‘Promiscuous? You sound like the police.’ She leans forward. ‘She were fourteen, love. It were rape, whichever way you cut it.’

I grip the edge of my chair.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘We told ’er we’d look after ’er. There were no need to run,’ says Sean.

‘And she were just a girl,’ says Jody. ‘A child. It were his fault. Whoever he is. And now we’ll never know.’

‘Did she ever mention a guy called David?’

She considers for a moment, then says, ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But … well, he’s an older man. Lives in Blackwood Bay. There’re rumours …’

‘Rumours?’

‘You haven’t heard of him?’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ she says, ‘but …’

‘We don’t go there,’ says Sean. ‘Not now.’

‘No,’ says Jody. ‘We’re stuck here.’

Her husband lowers his voice. ‘We’re not stuck. We could move.’

She laughs but doesn’t answer, and I know what she’s thinking. What if she comes back? What if she comes home and we’ve gone?

‘Can I look in her room? Maybe there’s something there that might be a clue as to who got her pregnant, or why she ran away.’

‘I’m sorry—’

But Jody stands up. ‘Come on.’ She faces her husband. ‘I like this one. It can’t do any harm.’

This one. I should be flattered, I suppose. We climb the stairs together, her in front. Sadness follows her in a cloud; I can almost smell it, the long sillage of grief.

‘We kept everything the same,’ she says. She opens the door at the top of the stairs. There’s a stale smell, like old perfume. The room is small, the walls painted mauve, a pinboard over the desk. Just a single bed with a bedside table, a chest of drawers next to it, a wardrobe in the far corner, all mismatched. Clothes spill out of the drawers and are strewn on the bed, an explosion of pink and white and purple and black. An acoustic guitar rests against the foot of the bed. It’s as if Zoe left this morning, as if she’s at school right now, will be home any second demanding a snack and to be left alone in her room.

‘I haven’t tidied,’ says Jody, as if apologising. ‘Well, not much. There were bottles. Fag packets … I cleared those out.’

‘It’s okay. You mind if I film?’

She says that she doesn’t, and I go in. I look at the bedside table first. There’s a phone charger plugged in behind it, a lamp with a broken base, a glass, a box of tissues, makeup remover. The drawer is open but empty. I take my camera and film it all.

‘Was there anything in here?’

Jody shakes her head, but I can tell she’s lying. I wonder what she found. Love letters? Condoms? I wonder what else, what might be too shameful for her to tell me. Wraps of coke? Lubricant?

Part of me wants to tell her there’s nothing left that would shock me. I’ve seen it all, things that she can’t even imagine. I go over to the desk. It’s littered with detritus. Scissors and Sellotape, some old headphones, pens and books and scraps of paper.

‘She had a computer?’

‘She used the ones at school. And her phone, I think.’

I examine the pinboard. Her school timetable, and postcards, mostly. Among the photos there are pages cut from magazines and a few pictures of Zoe with her friends. Carefully posed selfies, the odd candid picture of her laughing with a mate. She seems happy, carefree, just like Daisy was at that age, I suppose, just like I was. If only she’d been aware of what was in store. If only she’d known how to avoid it.

‘There’s nothing there,’ says Jody sadly. ‘I went through it. The police, too.’