Final Cut(7)

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Why? That bad?’

‘It’s just … I mean, it’s a long way. If one of us does end up having to go up there.’

‘The channel are keen for the location to be in the north. So—’

‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘Pretty sure I did. Too much southern bias, apparently.’

‘It’s small. Maybe too small. I don’t know how many people we’ll get submitting films in a place that size. It’s just … it’s not the right place. Okay?’

I thought I heard him sigh. For a second I thought he’d suggest we pulled the plug, try something else or give the money back to Channel Four, along with our apologies and the tattered remains of my career.

‘Have you still got the card?’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Keep it,’ I said, my laptop already open, Google up. I typed in Blackwood Bay. If Dan was going to argue, I’d need to have to have a pretty solid reason not to film there. I wanted to see the same pages Dan would look at. I wanted to be prepared.

My eyes danced over the articles as I clicked through. I was relieved at first: it was mostly banal, ordinary stuff. Restaurants that’d closed their doors for ever; prettiest village in Yorkshire for the third year in a row, although that article was years out of date; a campaign to prevent the closure of the local lifeboat service that looked about to fail. I began to feel hopeful, but then I saw it. A missing teenager – a girl called Daisy – her suicide now confirmed beyond any real doubt.

There’s no way Dan would miss that. No way he wouldn’t seize on it as my story.

‘We need to talk,’ I said. ‘I’m coming in.’

I arrived later that afternoon. The postcard was on his desk, a photograph of Blackwood Bay taken from the cliffs. It was faded, as if it’d been out in the sun. I held it but felt nothing.

I turned it over. Those three words in black ink. How about here? The postmark was smudged and illegible.

He handed me a coffee. ‘Weird, huh?’

‘You’re sure it’s not from someone in the office?’

He tipped his head. ‘Well, I’ve asked. No one’s owned up to it. But …’ I knew what he was going to say. ‘Why are you so bothered?

I couldn’t answer that. In any case, it was obvious he couldn’t care less.

‘You’re certain this wouldn’t be the right place?’ he said. ‘I looked it up. Population’s low, but it’s not tiny, and it’s going down. Seems to be what you were looking for. Small enough to have a community, but I don’t think it’s so small you have to worry that only a handful of people would do any filming.’ He turned his monitor towards me and began to scroll through a Google Image search. ‘Pretty, too. Look.’

I glanced at the screen. A photo of the main street. Slate Road. A bright day, the middle of summer. The shadows were keen, the steep street looked vertiginous, the houses, cafés and gift shops cute. Quaint. I leaned in and pretended interest. A view of the whole village from the cliffs above, the lighthouse in the distance, a photo taken from the shingle beach, the slipway looming in the foreground.

‘It’d look good on camera. But then you know that. If you’ve been there.’

‘We’re filming in winter, though. It might be difficult.’

‘It’s not like you’re doing the filming, though, is it? I thought that was the point. And any bad weather might add atmosphere.’

He pulled up another picture. A cobbled street, too narrow for traffic. Hanging baskets, leaded windows.

‘There aren’t many vehicles, apparently. Road’s too steep. And, most important thing, it’s got a story.’

I stood up. I didn’t want him to carry on. ‘I’ll consider it,’ I said.

He tilted his head. I’d snapped. His gaze drilled into me.

‘You know a girl went missing there?’

I hesitated, but there was no point in pretending. I thought of Daisy.

‘Years ago. And it was suicide. What’s—?’

‘No. This is more recent. And there’s no mention of suicide.’ He pulled up another browser. ‘Look.’

The story was from the website of the Malby Messenger. ‘CCTV clue in desperate search for missing teen Zoe Pearson,’ it read, above a blurred photograph taken from video footage. It showed a girl in a black jacket, her dark hair tied back, her pixellated features indistinct. The caption said she’d been spotted at a bus station in Meadowhall. I looked away, trying to focus on something else, but my vision felt distorted.

He scrolled down to a better picture, the same girl, now facing the camera, hair loose, almost smiling, but not quite.

‘She disappeared from near Blackwood Bay. About three and a half years ago.’

I shook my head. No, I wanted to say. That’s not possible. I’d have known.

But is that true? I’ve been avoiding the place for so long now anything might’ve happened.

Dan looked up. ‘What’s that you mentioned? A suicide?’

Fuck. I couldn’t back out now.

‘A girl called Daisy,’ I said. ‘She killed herself.’

He flicked to a different screen, entered a search term. ‘Daisy Willis. Ten years ago.’ He sat back. ‘First her, and then Zoe Pearson.’