Final Cut(52)

‘David?’

My voice unfreezes me. I find the light switch and flick it on. I’m right, he’s coming for me, treading lightly, his hand in his pocket. In a moment he’ll withdraw it; the glint of a blade, a length of rope. A gun. I have to act.

‘Stay where you are!’

It shocks him. He takes his hand out of his pocket. It’s empty.

‘Keep away from me!’

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he says again. ‘Just let me go.’

I realise he doesn’t know what he wants to say; he hadn’t been waiting for me, he’s been caught. I begin to laugh, even though it’s not funny. My fear seems to have turned into something else. I know, since I’m between him and the front door, that if I were to run, there’s a pretty good chance I’d make it outside.

‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Nothing, I just—’

I scan the room. It’s as I left it. The drawers haven’t been upended, my stuff doesn’t look disturbed. He wasn’t expecting me back so soon. I look him in the eye.

‘How did you get in?’

‘The door,’ he says. ‘It was open.’ He steps closer. ‘Look, I just want to—’

‘Just back the fuck off. Okay?’

He stands stock-still. He’s pale in the bright light, even thinner than I remember him. He seems unwell, like he’s going through hell and hasn’t slept. This close, I can see his smooth, blue-tinged skin, the nicks on his chin where he’s cut himself shaving. He almost looks made of wax, but when I look down at my own arm I realise that I do, too.

‘I’m on your side,’ he says quietly. ‘But you have to leave. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘No.’

‘It’s for your own good.’

‘Is that a threat?’

His head falls, as if he’s disappointed that I’d even think such a thing.

‘You shouldn’t have come back.’

There’s a vicious splintering of my perception, as if a train has jumped the switch, or there’s been a jump cut in a movie. It’s true, then. He knows. He’s known all along. Is that why he’s here, he wants to find proof? As if I’d be stupid enough to carry anything with me that bore my old name. He knows me, so I must’ve known him before. Why can’t I remember?

‘David, I …’

The words won’t come. He grabs my arm. Static shoots into my shoulder, the feeling intense, like biting on tinfoil.

‘Why? Why are you pretending?’

I gasp for air, but it’s leaked away. I manage to shake him off, but pain grips my arm.

‘Leave me alone!’

He reaches out once more but, this time, his hand hovers.

‘You know I’m on your side. I always was.’ He reaches for my hair. ‘You’ve changed.’

I shove his hand away.

‘You know I’ve always looked after you.’

‘Get the fuck off me!’

‘Please—’

I battle to keep my voice level. ‘I don’t know you. I’ve never met you before.’

‘Don’t lie,’ he says. ‘There’s no need, not with me. What happened to you?’

‘What?’

‘After you left. What happened?’ I shake my head and he reaches out once more. ‘It’s really you.’

I react without thinking. It’s as if something takes over, an automatic reaction. I slap him. The palm of my hand sings.

He staggers back. ‘Please. I’ve heard nothing. Barely a word. I—’

You brought me here, I think. You sent Dan the postcard. It’s the only explanation.

‘You have to leave. Now.’

‘What are you doing to the girls? Tell me, you fucker. Tell me!’

He’s trembling, shrinking as I watch, retreating within himself. He reminds me of Geraldine, a mind turned rotten. He seems almost elsewhere, as if he’s talking to someone only he can see.

‘We said we’d never tell. It was our secret.’

‘Daisy …’ I say. Certainty hits me, I don’t know where from. ‘You killed her. She was in your house, she was seen.’

‘No!’

I reach into my pocket for my phone. If only there were a way to record this, I think. Without him knowing.

Fuck it. I point it at him and press Record. His hands fly to his face, as if I’m about to spray him with mace.

‘Stop! No!’

‘Admit it. You killed her.’

He freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s about to confess. But then he seems to change his mind.

‘You know that’s not true!’ he says instead. ‘You know it wasn’t me who killed her! Daisy—’

‘What are you hiding?’

He backs away.

‘Daisy … what happened to her? Who pushed her?’

‘No one. You know that. Talk to Monica. She was there. She saw it. She saw it all. You know she did.’

I want to slap him, force him to tell me why he remembers me when I don’t remember him, why I find myself torn between wanting him on my side and wanting to kill him. And I want to beg him not to tell anyone who I am. I open my fist, then close it again.