Final Cut(53)

‘Get out,’ I say. The words reverberate, but I feel curiously, eerily calm, as if something inside me has taken over. Like an automaton, I stand back, watch as he nods slowly then goes past me. He stops at the top of the stairs and turns back to face me.

‘Don’t stay here,’ he says. ‘Please? If you stay, it’ll have all been for nothing.’





30


I sit in the armchair, my hands balled into fists, knuckles white. The door is locked, but still I watch it.

A shadow, then a face through the window. I recognise Gavin’s glasses.

‘Alex? It’s me.’

I stand stiffly and unbolt the door. He’s barely through but already he’s hugging me, or maybe it’s me holding him.

‘What did he want?’

To tell me he knew I was Sadie, I think, but I can’t say that.

‘I think he killed Daisy,’ I say instead. ‘And I’m worried about Ellie. She denies it, but he’s seeing her, I’m sure of it.’

‘But—’

‘There’s something else. He told me Daisy was seen. Jumping. By Monica.’

‘Monica? But how can that be? If he killed her?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s lying.’

His buries his head in my hair.

‘Are you okay?’ I look up. I can feel the warmth of his skin. I think of his lips touching mine. ‘You’re shivering. Come on.’

We sit on the sofa. His arm is around me, his warmth spread over me, holding me like a blanket. He’s lit a fire in the grate. The silence between us buzzes with things unspoken and desire fills the air, thick as syrup. I look up at him, but his face is unreadable in the shadows. I realise I want him and at the exact moment I lift my chin to kiss him he lowers his. His lips brush mine, inexpertly at first, but then we each find the rhythm of the other. His hand moves to the back of my neck, then down to my breast.

‘Is this okay?’ he murmurs, and the words won’t come so I answer only by removing my jumper, tugging at his belt. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he says, but I shake my head. I can think only of David sitting in that room, watching us.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s stay here.’ I glance towards the fire. ‘We might as well enjoy the cliché.’

He laughs and lowers me gently to the floor before removing what clothes remain. He’s hesitant at first, as if he thinks that at any moment I might ask him to stop, but when I reach for him with every bit as much fervour as he had me he grows more emboldened, less gentle. I guide him into me, closing my eyes as I do, willing myself to stay where I am, focused on what’s happening here and now, on my body. ‘Alex?’ he says, and I open my eyes, then kiss him. I realise he’s still wearing his glasses and take them off.

‘That’s better,’ I say.

It doesn’t take long and when we’re done he stands up awkwardly. He hands me the blanket from the back of the sofa and I see his body for the first time from a distance. He’s skinny but lithe; his sweat-sheened muscles glisten. He seems suddenly embarrassed; he finds his boxers and turns round to put them on. Already I’m replaying what we did, wondering whether we might do it again, more slowly next time and with less silence.

But does he feel the same? Or is that it for him, now he’s got what he wanted? I doubt it somehow, but I’ve been wrong before. More often than not, in fact.

‘Was that okay?’ he says.

I nod. He deserves more, but the words won’t come. ‘Can you get me some water?’ I say instead, more to fill the silence than anything else. When he returns, he seems forlorn. He gathers the rest of his things and begins to dress.

‘Stay?’ I say.

‘No,’ he begins. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—’

‘Stay,’ I say, more forcefully this time. ‘Please? It was great.’

He pauses, about to button up his jeans. ‘You’re sure?’

I nod, and he kisses me again.

We stay in bed. He doesn’t leave until late morning, and even then he says he’d rather not. I lie still for a while, then shower. I take my time; my arm still feels raw from where David touched it last night. It’s as if he’s poisonous, something I’m allergic to. Even Gavin’s tenderness hasn’t overridden it. When I’m done, I dress in my jeans and thickest jumper, then leave, too, locking the door carefully behind me and checking it twice.

Monica’s cottage is still. There’s no movement, no answer when I ring the bell. The streets are empty, too, the snow all but disappeared. The Rocks brood in the distance and on their edge, silent and empty, sits Bluff House.

I can’t bring myself to look at it, so I look forward instead, towards the pub. The walls outside are bare; there are hooks drilled into them at intervals. I tell myself baskets of plants must hang from them in summer – fuchsias, perhaps, violent pinks and vibrant reds – but that seems unreal. Instead, I see meat swinging from them, butchered pigs, slaughtered lambs. Bodies, strung up and bleeding. A girl, crying out in pain. Suddenly, I want to turn and run.

But no. I’m not thinking straight. I force myself to climb the steps that lead up from the street and enter the warmth, ignoring the momentary hush as the lunchtime drinkers regard me to slide purposefully over to the bar.