Final Cut(65)

‘Nothing,’ I say. I don’t want to tell him about Kat, what she’s accused me of.

‘You’re sure?’

I nod, then sip my wine. It’s corked, it tastes of damp cardboard, but I say nothing and put it back on the table. I feel trapped. I’m about to tell him I’d like to join in the search when there’s a sudden increase in volume from the rest of the pub, a gasp from over by the door, then a general commotion. I look across to see what’s going on, but Bryan is already on his feet.

‘Jesus!’

I stand up. There’s a figure by the door; she’s being embraced, welcomed. I can’t see her face, but there’s a shock of red hair and instinctively I know who it is.

‘Is that her?’

Bryan looks over. ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘I think it is!’

I follow him over. Ellie is soaked, shivering. She’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, trainers with a pink flash, but her clothes are encrusted with mud, her shoes wrecked. I switch on my camera. It feels wrong; I hope nobody has noticed, but so what if they have? Things are spiralling for me, I feel I’m losing control, but the documentary is one thing I can hold on to.

‘Ellie!’ says the woman holding her. ‘Ellie, love! Where’ve you been?’

The girl raises her head. It’s as if she doesn’t understand the question, but then she mumbles something.

‘What?’ says the woman. ‘Speak up, love.’ Then, over her shoulder, ‘Phone her parents, for God’s sake!’

The officer talks urgently into his radio. ‘No,’ says Ellie, but her voice is weak even on that single word. Her legs buckle beneath her, as if saying it has taken all her remaining energy. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who? Where’s who, love?’

Her eyes dart around the room; mine, too. Kat is nowhere to be seen.

‘David,’ says Ellie.

The volume in the crowd rises a notch.

‘Where is he?’ she says, frantically. Bryan steps forward, suddenly assertive. ‘Stop crowding the poor girl,’ he says; then, ‘Ellie? You’re freezing. We need to get you warm. Then you can tell us what’s happened. Okay?’

She looks up at him but just says, ‘I want to see him.’

Bryan glances around, catches Monica’s eye. ‘Has anyone got any clothes she can change into?’

Monica steps up. She slips an arm around the girl.

‘I do. I can take her to mine. That okay, Ellie?’

The girl nods, though despite the warm embrace she still seems petrified. The officer looks uncertain but nods his assent.

‘C’mon,’ says Monica softly.

I follow them out and jog a few steps to catch up. ‘Monica!’

She waits for me.

‘Let me help.’

She doesn’t protest. Together, we take her weight, such as it is. I can feel Ellie’s bones through her clothes; her skin is cold and clammy; it’s like touching someone already dead.

‘There you go,’ I say, and though it’s clear it’s effortful she responds with a mumbled ‘Thanks’. I want to ask her where she’s been, how far she’s had to walk, but realise it would be better to get her into the warmth of the cottage first.

We reach Hope Lane and Monica opens her door. Her living room is a mirror image of the one next door. In the far corner a pile of boxes sits, stacked three or four high, and the coffee table sags under the weight of books and leaflets and old receipts, held in place by a variety of paperweights, a stapler and what appears to be a rock from the garden. On the floor next to the sofa sits a plate, encrusted with the remains of what I’m guessing was breakfast, next to a mug and an overflowing ashtray.

‘Sit yourself down, love,’ says Monica, and Ellie does as she’s told. Monica lights the fire. ‘You want a drink? Hot chocolate?’ Ellie says nothing. ‘I’ll go and find you something warm to wear first.’ She looks over to me. ‘Stay with her?’

I nod and sit on the sofa next to the girl as Monica goes upstairs. She’s shivering, and I put my arms round her. She tenses beneath my touch.

‘It’s okay,’ I say gently. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

She seems to relax at that, though still she stares at the carpet. I wait for a moment, then say, ‘Where were you?’

She shrugs.

‘You can talk to me,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell. I promise.’

‘I went to David’s.’

‘Was he the one who took you in the car?’

She shakes her head. Of course not. Why would she go to his house, ask to see him, if he’s the one who hurt her?

‘Someone else?’ I say.

Nothing, though somehow I know her silence means yes.

‘Who?’

‘No one.’

‘Where did they take you?’

Again, nothing. But I feel her tense, even through her wet clothes.

‘How did you get back?’

‘Walked.’

‘Was it far?’

Her chin dips slightly.

‘What direction?’

‘The moor,’ she says, and I think of the yew tree.

‘Where on the moor?’

‘I don’t know.’