Final Cut(62)

‘You think you’re better than me, is that it?’ he said. ‘When you’re just a fat slut, giving it away to everyone.’

He put his hand on my crotch then, and tried to kiss me. I don’t know what happened next. I remember I saw our reflection in the mirror above the sink and recognised neither of us. It felt like I was watching through a camera, a film unspooling on the screen with actors playing out roles. There was an empty wine bottle on the windowsill behind the toilet and, before I knew it, it was in my hand, then a moment later Gee was on the floor, blood running down his face and neck, pooling beneath him. I knelt down, but he wasn’t moving.

I ran out. I found Dev and told him. ‘I’ve killed Gee.’

When we went back to look, Alice was already kneeling next to Gee’s prostate body, a towel pressed to the wound on his head. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ she said, and Gee’s eyes opened, his ugly mouth moved.

‘I’ll kill that bitch.’

Alice turned to Dev. ‘Get her out of here.’

I was stuck, watching the whole thing as if it were on a screen and had nothing to do with me. Dev grabbed me and steered me out through the handful of people crowded in the corridor. At the front door he told me to wait in the park opposite. ‘I’ll come and find you.’

I did as he’d asked. An hour or so later, he appeared and handed me a mobile phone.

‘Take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘One of my spares,’ he said. ‘You have to go.’

‘But my stuff.’

‘What stuff?’ he sighed. ‘Look, Gee isn’t someone to mess with. You’re gonna have to lie low. I’ve put my number in the phone. Call me. But leave it a few weeks, okay? He’ll ask me where you are and it’s better I don’t know.’

I switched the phone on.

‘What’s the code?’

‘Thirteen seventeen,’ he said, then he kissed me. ‘I need to go.’

I watched him leave, then turned back to face the night.





Now





36


I press Play.

The film fades in. A cellar; the damp walls ooze and shine. There’s a bright light attached to the camera, harsh and unforgiving, and the shadows have hard, precise edges. Without warning, we move back and the angle widens, then there’s a violent sweep to the right and a face appears.

It’s Daisy. She’s snot-nosed and crying, her hair tangled, her eyes bloodshot. Help me, she says. Help me, please. Over and over she says it, but then the film changes. It cuts suddenly, smashes through black before another image appears. We’re outside, the camera is unsteady, the same bright light flashes on the ground, dead leaves and frost, the starry sky, booted feet, trudging at first, but then we pick up the pace until we’re running, sprinting towards a distant yew. Underneath it there’s a pile of stones. The camera flashes on dead flowers and a woman kneeling over the grave; she’s tipping forward, her hands are in the soil, her forehead almost touching the ground. Her body shudders, as if she’s crying. We approach and, finally, she hears us. She lifts her head. Help me, she says. She sounds relieved. You’re here! She begins to dig frantically at the earth. We have to get her out, she says. Help me. Help me, please.

We step forward. She’s uncovered a body in the soil, a face buried a few inches deep. It snaps into focus, bright in the circle of light. It’s me.

A second after that is when I wake.

Bryan is already waiting when I reach the car park at the top of Slate Road, lounging on the wall by the entrance. He greets me cheerily, but worry is etched on his face. ‘We’ll be early,’ he says as he gets into the car.

‘Good. You’ll need to direct me,’ I say as I buckle up. I’m lying. I know the way, but I don’t want him realising that. I pull out of the car park.

‘Left at the top,’ he says.

‘Still no sign of Ellie?’

He shakes his head. We were both out all afternoon, though not together. That’s why I fell asleep, I suppose. I filmed some of it, too. Discreetly. The guys in the pub, allocating areas to be scoured. Crowds of villagers combing the cliffs, calling her name. I spotted Liz among the searchers, and Monica and Sophie, too.

It doesn’t take long to reach the lighthouse and I pull off on to an uneven gravel track. It’s desolate, no sign of David’s car, and when I switch off the engine the place falls into total blackness, save for the regular flash from the lamp above.

‘Have you got a torch?’

‘I’ll use my phone,’ I say. Silence wraps itself around us. ‘You trust him? He won’t try to hurt me?’ I go on, though it’s not the thought of physical distress that swells in the pit of my stomach.

Bryan smiles reassuringly. ‘You’ll be fine.’

I find the gravel path that climbs up towards the lighthouse. To the right, there’s a low, squat building, and when I draw near I see it was once the visitors’ centre. It has a wooden terrace on three sides, rotten now, and the windows are all either broken or boarded up. Above the door the remains of a painted sign spell out the word Head. I look back. Bryan is sitting in the car, still in darkness.

I climb further. The lighthouse is painted white, a few abandoned buildings dotted at its base. The tower isn’t tall but still inspires awe, standing on the edge of the cliff, solemn and brightly majestic.