Final Cut(49)

Still, the irritation in my voice is unmissable. He glances down at my plate, the food untouched, then up. For a second I see him, furious, standing over me, his belt in his hand, eyes incandescent, spittle flying. Do as you’re told, he’s saying, you little bitch, and all I can do is cower, and hope, and tell myself this doesn’t mean I’m weak, doesn’t mean he’ll own me for ever, this is temporary, just until I can get away, but still he hits me, over and over and over.

But none of that happens and I remember he’s one of the good guys. He’s never hurt me.

‘Come on, then,’ he says gently. ‘I wasn’t that hungry anyway.’

We drive in silence. I sit forward, gripping the wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I feel no better than I did in the café. The car’s stifling; my defences are crumbling away. I wish I had my camera to hide behind. I spot the turning that leads down to the church and know I have to stop. Somehow, I know that’s where I’ll find my mother.

‘I’m turning off,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘The cemetery. The light’s perfect.’

It sounds unconvincing and I know it.

‘The cemetery? But—’

‘I want to film it.’

‘Now?’

Shut up, I think. Shut up.

‘I want to film Sadie’s mother’s grave.’

‘I thought you wanted to get back.’

‘I do … I just … I can’t explain. Gavin? Please?’

Again, he complies. We turn off the main road and into the tree-lined lane. The road is little more than a track, overhung with black, leafless branches, stark against the sky. It dips and curves, the road narrows and I have to slow almost to a crawl to navigate the bends, but then, finally, it opens out. We’re right down at sea level and, ahead of us, silhouetted against the greying sky, is a tiny, dark church. Everything seems off slightly, like the world’s tipped, the angles all wrong. A weight presses in on me, as if I’m being buried alive.

She can’t be here. She can’t. She’s alive. I switch off the engine.

‘Can you wait here?’

‘I’d rather come with you. You seem—’

I get my camera from the back seat and hand it to him.

‘Film me, then?’

He agrees, and together we walk down towards the church. The door is closed, the place shuttered. The distant wind is quiet and desperate and Gavin’s footsteps echo behind as we circle the perimeter. There’s a bench on the far side and the sea is just over a low stone wall. Before it, the headstones lie, shattered like broken teeth.

‘Wait here.’

‘Why—?’

‘Please,’ I hiss. ‘Just give me a minute?’

He does as I’ve asked. He wipes the damp bench clear but then declines to sit. He watches me instead – still filming, as far as I can tell – as I enter the overgrown, mossy graveyard. I lean in close to read the inscriptions on the stones and eventually find the one I’m looking for.

Rebecca Davies, it says. 23 November 1968–4 August 2012.

That’s it. I don’t know what I expected, but that’s it. It’s small; it seems insignificant. There’s no quote, nothing from the Bible – not that she’d have wanted that anyway – not even a Sadly Missed, or Never Forgotten. Just the facts, unvarnished, unadorned. Her name, the year in which she was born, the year she died. Two thousand and twelve. Just over a year and a half after her daughter disappeared. Nineteen months after Daisy died. Dimly, I wonder what happened to the boyfriend, then realise I couldn’t care less.

I step closer. There’s a sound from underfoot, a soft, sickening crunch like stepping on a snail, and I imagine the sharp shell piercing its pulpy body, the crush of death from something that until that moment had meant protection and refuge. My legs shake as I crouch down. I reach forward; the stone is freezing, a layer of frost clinging to it. I trace the lettering with numbed fingers. Rebecca Davies.

I sit on the hard ground and draw my legs up tight beneath me. Through my jeans I can feel every bump, every rough stone, but I ignore the pain. I deserve it, and plenty more besides. For what I did to her.

I close my eyes. I’m aware that Gavin’s over there, not twenty feet away in the shadow of the church, my camera in his hand. But I don’t care. I let my head fall; I rock forward.

‘What happened?’ I whisper, but the only reply is the stone’s resonant silence. I begin to cry.

I could’ve helped. I should’ve. I could’ve asked what was wrong, why she’d changed, why she was behaving the way she did, why she let the bastard she’d met drive us apart. But I didn’t. I gave up. I turned my back on her. I went out, to clubs and parties. I started drinking, getting wasted, getting laid. Fuck you, I thought. Two can play at that game, two can screw up their lives.

The tears come harder now. It’s all coming back. I think back to the day I ran. I walked until my feet bled, then hitched. First one lift, then another, and another. They blend into one. I made it to Sheffield, then London. There’s a blank after that, a long, vast emptiness, with only snatched images and jump cuts from one scene to another. Alice, Dev. Gee. Needles, burning smoke. Nodding off in the back of strangers’ cars. Giving everything away because I wasn’t worth anything. Opening myself, first for money, then for drugs, then because it was just what I did. I was barely there; I didn’t know who I was most of the time. I thought I was running away from hell but in fact I was running into it, towards holes in my memory and not even being sure I still wanted to live. And then something happened that took me to Deal, and I woke up on the beach, soaked and alone, and my mind gave up, reset itself.