Final Cut(4)

‘Right,’ he says, standing up. ‘How’s your car?

I step back over the creature’s smeared remains. I wonder what he thinks of me. That I’m helpless, just waiting to be rescued, clueless about the car to which I’ve entrusted my safety? I watch his face but can read none of that there. Only a willingness to help.

‘Screwed, I think. I just need to ring the breakdown service. As soon as I get a signal. I’ll be fine.’

He shakes his head. ‘Look, I know a guy who’ll help.’

‘He can fix it?’

‘Or tow it. He’s got a Range Rover.’

A Range Rover? I think of the vehicle I thought I saw earlier. I could see nothing in the glare of the headlights: the driver was invisible and I couldn’t even tell what make of car it was. Something big, some kind of four-wheeler.

‘He wasn’t here?’ I say. ‘Your friend? About half an hour ago?’

Gavin laughs. ‘No. I just left him. Why?’

‘There was another car,’ I say. ‘It looked as though it was going to pull up, but then it drove off.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. But it doesn’t matter.’

For a second I think he’ll ask more, but he seems to change his mind.

‘Where you headed?’

‘Blackwood Bay.’

He smiles. ‘Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.’

He drives in almost complete silence, cautious in the snow. I wonder what he’s like and look for clues. The car is spotless and completely devoid of the kind of junk that litters my own; the only evidence it’s not brand new is the packet of liquorice sticks in the cup-holder between our seats. My stomach growls.

‘It’s lucky you came along,’ I say, more to puncture the quiet than anything else.

He smiles. I look out, towards Blackwood Bay, the constellations clear above. There’s a flash in the distance, the lighthouse on Crag Head strobing the low cloud. I was nearer than I thought. Again it occurs to me that I was a fool to come in winter. Not that I had any choice. After a minute or two he accelerates a little. The headlights pick out something, a brightness pricking the blackness, the glimpse of an eye, but it disappears as we pass. Another sheep? A rabbit? A deer? It’s impossible to tell its size; the perspective is unknowable. Gavin cranks up the heating.

‘You still cold?’

I tell him I’m fine and ask where he’s from. ‘Not Blackwood Bay?’

He looks puzzled. ‘What makes you so sure?’

‘The accent. Or lack of.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he says sheepishly. ‘My folks are from Merseyside. But we moved down south. London.’

‘And now you’re here.’

‘Yes. I felt like a change. I was working in the City and I’d just had enough. The commuting … pressure … you know how it is.’

I, I think. Not we. I say nothing. I’ve already clocked that there’s no ring on his finger, though I’m not sure why I looked. Habit, perhaps.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Oh, wow. About a year now.’

He whistles under his breath as he says it, as if he’s surprised it’s been so long, as if he came intending to stay a fortnight and then got stuck.

‘You like it?’

He tells me it’s okay. He keeps busy.

‘How about you? Where’re you from?’ he asks.

I keep my answer vague. ‘London. You’re not married?’

He laughs. ‘No!’

He slows to take a blind bend. ‘You’re not from London originally, though?’

So he’s picked up on my accent, too. No surprise. It’s mostly gone, but some things will never change. A temptation to use ‘were’ instead of ‘was’. The way I pronounce ‘glass’ to rhyme with ‘ass’ not ‘arse’; ditto ‘castle’, ‘bath’, ‘class’. Not that I’ve used any of those words, as far as I can recall, so I guess he must’ve spotted other, more subtle, clues.

‘Near Leeds,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, right. Come for a visit?’

Now I’m faced with the question, I’m not sure how to respond. I’d wanted to stay under the radar. After all, it was never my plan to come here. But this isn’t an ideal world, and I can’t stay hidden for ever.

‘Sort of,’ I say. ‘I’m here to work on a film.’

He laughs. ‘Thought you might have something to do with that! So how do you fit in?’

‘Oh, I just help out. You know?’

He drives on. A minute later he coughs.

‘So what’s it about, anyway?’ He pauses. ‘Zoe?’

My breath catches in my throat at the mention of the vanished girl, but he doesn’t notice.

‘Not exactly,’ I say.

‘You know about her, though? And Daisy? Yes?’

I tell him I do. I think of the research I’ve been doing, the conversations I’ve been having with Dan. I know too much, if anything.

‘But really the film’s about village life,’ I say breezily.

‘So why here, if it’s not about the girls?’

‘No particular reason,’ I say. ‘You’d have to ask the producer, I suppose. He makes all the decisions; I just do the work.’