Final Cut(50)

I open my eyes. Although small, the gravestone looms in front of me, and now there’s no escaping the truth. She lived only nineteen more months. It wasn’t just my life I destroyed when I went. I took with me any hope she might’ve once had.

‘Mum,’ I whisper. ‘It’s me. Sadie. I’m sorry.’

Nothing. Just the wind and my thudding heart. Guilt slams into me, its finger reaching into my mouth, my gut. But there’s no way I could’ve stayed. I have to remember that. I have to cling to that, no matter what else tries to throw me into the raging water.

And what was I expecting? A reply, ghostly and ethereal? Forgiveness?

It’s too late for all that. I had my chance, and I blew it.

‘I’ll figure out what’s going on,’ I say. ‘I’ll put it right.’





28


We reach the car. Gavin hands me the camera, wordlessly. Its solidity is reassuring and I hold it in my lap for a moment before pressing Play. The grainy scene resolves; I hear the crunch of a boot. A figure ahead, a woman staring at the gravestones. She steps forward, then bends down.

I know it’s me, but it doesn’t feel real. There’s a disconnection. My body shudders as I touch the stone, then there’s a jerky, vertiginous plummet before the image stabilises. When it does, we’re seeing the same scene but from a lower angle; the camera’s resting on the bench. Then Gavin appears, walking towards me. He crouches beside me, but I make no movement; there’s no sign I’ve even noticed. He holds out his hand to help me up, then together we walk back towards the camera, me in front, him following mutely behind.

I press Stop and put the device on the dashboard in front of me.

‘It’s what you wanted,’ says Gavin. ‘Isn’t it?’

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what he saw, how much he heard. I’ve stopped crying but, even so, my eyes must be ringed with red.

‘Are you okay?’

I’m leaving her again. Out here in the cold, in the dark, loamy earth. Just like I left Geraldine. And Alice. And Aidan, though that was more a gradual drift.

And Daisy. I left her, too. I turn to Gavin.

‘I’m fine.’ I start the engine. ‘Let’s go.’

I park at the top of the village. The silence fans out like thick, black smoke.

‘I’m here for you,’ he says after a while. ‘If you want to talk about it.’

He means it. He wants to help me. It’s not about me being in his debt. It’s not about him wanting to rescue me again, like that first night. It’s not like it was on the streets, people who wanted to help but only to make themselves feel good. Dare to deny them the opportunity, dare to tell them you’re fine, you don’t need anything right now, and they’re not pleased for you. Suddenly, you can go to hell. They’ve done their bit and you’re an ungrateful bitch throwing it back in their face.

‘Where had you been?’ I say. ‘That time you found me on the road. The night we met?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You told me you’d been with Bryan.’

He hesitates, just for a second. ‘I had.’

‘He says not. Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

I realise I want to believe him. ‘I know you want to help,’ I say softly. ‘But tell me the truth.’

‘I hadn’t been with him,’ he says cautiously. ‘Not exactly. I’d seen him. In the pub. I was on my own.’ He glances up. ‘But it amounts to the same thing. I knew he couldn’t have been driving the car that didn’t stop.’

I say nothing.

‘You believe me?’

‘Yes.’

‘What can I do? To help?’

‘Did she tell you how Sadie’s mum died?’

He seems confused for a moment then realises I mean the woman with the baby.

‘No.’

He’s quiet for a minute, but I can tell he wants to say something else.

‘Is Sadie the real reason you came here?’

I consider telling the truth. But how can I?

‘Partly, perhaps. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wish we’d stayed in touch.’

‘So how old would she be now?’

‘Dunno. Twenties?’

‘Why did you pretend your film wasn’t about what happened to the girls? You could’ve told me, you know. I only want—’

‘To help,’ I say. ‘I know. Thing is, it wasn’t, originally. But my producer suggested it. He’d read about Daisy. And Zoe.’

‘And it was too juicy a story not to come up and take a look?’

Juicy. The word stings. I’ve heard it before, back when I made Black Winter. It took a long time to win some of the girls over, to convince them I wasn’t just a voyeur trying to use their misery to make something of my own. ‘We just make a juicy story for you,’ one of them said. Several, in fact.

I look at Gavin. ‘You make me sound like I don’t care.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

He’s quiet for a long time. I remember after the awards, going back to find the women I’d filmed. They weren’t pleased to see me, though neither were they particularly upset. To them, I’d moved on, that’s all, like everyone does, if they don’t die first. As I handed over the envelope of cash – three thousand pounds – I told them it was theirs. It always had been, really.