Final Cut(63)

I lift my camera and film before letting it fall around my neck, still recording. I reach the top of the path, but there’s no one here. I choose a low wall from where I’ll get a good view of anyone arriving, and sit down.

I switch off my torch and wait for my eyes to adjust. Everything is still, then I hear the machinery behind me, the slow, rhythmic hum of the lenses as they turn. A gull soars overhead, catching the light, its loud shriek mocking.

This is your fault, it seems to say. All of it.

My fault. My mind turns instantly to what happened back then, to what I did to Gee, the night of the party. But I wrench my thoughts away and gaze out to sea. The wind bites, my hands turn red and I shove them deep in my pockets. Eight thirty creeps towards eight forty-five and still there’s no sign of David. I realise I’d half expected him to turn up with Ellie, to say sorry as he handed her back before skulking back to Bluff House. My feet are numb, and when it’s almost nine o’clock I’m about to give up when a figure appears through the dark.

‘I was worried.’

I shine my torch on Bryan’s concerned face and stand, both relieved and disappointed.

‘He didn’t show.’

His face falls. ‘Let’s go back.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Let’s take a look around.’

We circle the outhouses, intending to check each one, but when we reach the second and I see its door is ajar, I know something is wrong.

Bryan’s right behind me. ‘What is it?’ he says, and I tell him I don’t know. Inside, I see the room contains nothing but a few shelves and steps that lead down into the darkness.

‘Must be some sort of storeroom,’ says Bryan. He sounds as scared as I feel. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going in.’

He follows. The walls are damp, the brick stairs treacherous. I step cautiously down, filming as I go, my breathing loud in my ears. At the bottom I see nothing but a pool of blackness. ‘Ellie?’ I say quietly, but the only response is the echo of my voice, then Bryan from the steps behind: ‘Anything?’

I raise the beam of my torch. The dust motes dance like stars. It’s a small cellar; there are barrels in the corner, empty paint cans, a pile of wood stacked inelegantly against the wall. I sweep the room, and then something lying on the floor catches my eye. One of David’s ugly shoes.

‘Bryan?’ I say, my voice breaking. ‘Look.’

We find him behind the stack of barrels, slumped in a corner, his head lying awkwardly to one side. At first I think he’s dead, but his chest rises and falls gently and when I force myself to touch his hand it’s warm.

Bryan kneels next to me. ‘Any sign of Ellie?’

I shake my head. There’s something next to David, though, half covered by his leg. An empty brown bottle.

‘We need to call an ambulance,’ I say. ‘He’s taken an overdose.’





37


Bryan returns to the car park to wait while I stay with David. I touch his hand but feel nothing. No crackle of electricity, no charge of recognition. Just weary flesh.

‘Where is she?’ I whisper, but of course there’s no reply. I unzip his jacket and feel for his heart. Don’t die, I think. Don’t die. Tell me what you know.

It’s beating steadily, but the gap between each pulse is a fraction too long. It feels like it’s slowing. In the distance, over the roar of the sea, I hear sirens. I withdraw my hand and close his jacket. What was he going to give me? In the pocket I feel the weight of his wallet.

What harm can it do? I take it out and examine it in the dim light from my phone. It’s purple nylon, fastened with tattered Velcro. It weighs almost nothing. I tear it open and the rip echoes in the dark chamber. Inside, there are a few notes, tens and fives plus a solitary twenty, and a credit card. There’s a supermarket loyalty card, and one from Boots. In the other compartment, behind clear plastic, there’s a key, and also a photograph of a girl.

My heart thuds as I take it out. It’s Zoe; I recognise her instantly. She’s sitting at a table in a fast-food restaurant, smiling happily. It seems to be a birthday party; there are meals on the table in front of her, eager hands reaching for the food. I bring the picture close to the light. Where are you? I think. Why did you run? Tell me.

Footsteps on the stairs. I don’t think. I pocket the photograph and the key, then replace the wallet. A moment later Bryan arrives, the paramedics behind him with powerful torches. ‘We’ll take over, miss,’ they say.

‘So what do we do now?’ I ask Bryan once we’re back in the car. He’s spoken to the police, he says, and they’ll want a statement, but for the moment we can go. ‘You think David tried to kill himself because he’s done something to Ellie?’

He sighs and the air crackles. ‘I don’t want to think that,’ he says. ‘But … who knows? Maybe he did do something and the guilt was more than he could cope with.’

It doesn’t sound right to me.

‘But why did he send the postcard? What was he going to give me? Was it just so that I’d find him?’

I can’t say what’s really on my mind. Did he never intend to tell me about Daisy, about me?

I pull myself back. ‘Where will they take him?’