Final Cut(55)

‘What?’

‘False, I guess. It’s probably nothing.’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘He knew Daisy, and Zoe, too.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘I just know. I think Ellie’s seeing him, too.’

She shakes her head. ‘She’d tell me. I’m sure of it.’

‘So what did you do then? Once David had opened the door.’

‘We called the police.’

I watch her for a moment. Her eyes have misted, as if she’s reliving it.

‘Is that why people think David had something to do with it? Because he lied about being asleep?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone that. No point. It were just a hunch. A feeling.’

‘So? Why, then?’

‘A few folk say they saw Daisy there.’

‘But she lived there. They’d had to move the caravan to his garden—’

‘No. In the house. On his roof. There’s a terrace, I think. And when she was asked about it she denied it. Like she’d been told to keep it quiet. So people thought he must’ve had something to do with her deciding to … y’know.’

‘Kill herself.’

‘Yes.’ She pauses. ‘Look. I wish you’d leave it. Honestly. It’s not good to get too involved.’

But I am. And if you only knew by how much.

‘It were ten years ago,’ she says. ‘It won’t bring Daisy back.’

I stand my ground.

‘But what if whatever it was is the reason Zoe ran, too? That was only a few years ago. Two girls have gone missing from here already.’

‘Three,’ she says, her eyes narrow.

‘Three, then. And it’s still happening. How many more are going to disappear?’

‘It’s not. Still happening, I mean.’

‘But—’

‘Look,’ she says. ‘I need to get on.’

We go back, on to the landing. That door …

‘What’s in there?’ My voice is weak and stretched. Sweat beads on my brow.

‘What? Oh, that’s just the bedrooms. Kitchen and stuff. Storeroom, I think.’

I see it, then. An open door; there are crates of bottles in there, coiled plastic tubes, packets of cable ties. A deckchair. A thin mattress on the floor.

I feel something bite into my wrist. A punch in the stomach. I double over.

‘Alex?’ says Monica. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

No, I think. No.

Not here, it didn’t happen here.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it did.





Then





31


She closes her eyes. His hands are on her, but she tries not to feel them.

There’s music from downstairs. She feels it pulsing through the floor.

He says she asked for this, which means she must’ve.

He says her boyfriend said it’s fine, which means it must be fine.

He says her boyfriend has said he doesn’t mind, which means he doesn’t mind.

First it was ‘Fancy a threesome?’

No.

Then it was ‘If you loved me, you’d do it.’

I do.

‘So do it.’

Then the threesome became just two. And not with her boyfriend. For the first time, and now it’s too late, she realises that was the plan all along.

She remembers the other girls’ advice. Don’t cry. Don’t fight back. It makes them worse. It’s not so bad, if you don’t think about it.

*

So she doesn’t. She thinks of her boyfriend. He said he loved her. She knows he’s been with lots of girls, but he’s told her they meant nothing, she’s the one he loves. So that means he must, or else why say it? And if she loves him back, like she says she does, then surely she’ll do this, this one thing, this one tiny thing, for him? For them both?

After all, she owes him. She owes her boyfriend, she owes the man on top of her. She owes them both.

She hears the sound of something rip. She feels him breathing in her ear, grunting like a pig. His breath stinks. She lies as still as she can. Maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can imagine it’s not happening. It’s not her.

He said he loved her, and this is what you do for love. Something is running down her face. Tears, she thinks. Just tears. But at least this is the end, the last time. He’s promised. Once and no more.

But this is just the beginning. She knows that already.





Now





32


Monica leads the way, back downstairs. The place seems busier – several people have arrived and are sitting at the bar, and a group huddles around the entrance to the lounge – but somehow more subdued. The landlady’s face is pinched with worry; everyone’s is, in fact, and their voices are low. There’s no frivolity in the air.

‘Something’s happened,’ says Monica as we push our way through the throng towards the bar. ‘I’ll ask Beverly.’ Something stirs in my gut, something that’s been dormant but is stretching to wake. Monica gets there first and speaks to the landlady in whispers. I don’t want to ask the question; it’s as if by doing so I’ll make it real, but I have no choice.