Final Cut(73)

Like you did?

The question is abrupt and in a voice that’s not my own, almost as if I’m hearing it for real. I look up. She’s there, sitting in the chair opposite. She’s watching me; it was she who was speaking.

‘Daisy?’ I say, my mouth dry. The room begins to wobble, as if it’s about to spin, as if I’m about to fall. Just in time, my hand finds the back of a chair and I right myself.

‘Daisy!’ I say again, but still she sits there, silent and impassive. ‘How—?’

She interrupts me.

You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?

‘But—’

You haven’t got long, you know? I’ll get you. I’ll make you pay.

I step towards her and then, as instantly as she appeared, she’s gone. The chair she was sitting on is empty; there’s no one there. Just a cardigan thrown over the back and a cushion, a mark on it, a stain that could be anything, could be coffee, could be wine, could be blood.

Had I imagined her? My legs are unsteady as I run up the stairs and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me so hard that it bounces open. I half expect to see her sitting on the bed, but no, she’s not there, I was imagining it, imagining it all. It’s my mind playing tricks. That’s all.

I breathe in deep. Monica’s room is the same shape as mine, the bed equally unmade and identical, except her duvet cover is floral and bleached by the sun. There’s a dresser piled with paperwork, letters, bills, newspapers and magazines, as well as cans of hairspray and deodorant, bottles of cheap perfume.

I don’t know what I’m looking for. I open one of the dresser drawers, but it’s full: blister packs of pills, a can of insect repellent and a yellowed paperback. I try the next, and when I find that full of junk, too, go over to the chest of drawers.

I breathe deep. It’s an invasion of privacy, worse than just breaking in, and I almost give up and go back to my cottage. But then I remember why I’m here, what I saw in the film Kat sent to me. I have to know.

In the top drawer is her underwear. A selection, mostly cream or white and chosen to be comfortable rather than flattering. I dig deeper and find a pale pink vibrator tucked underneath some balled socks. Deeper still, my fingers brush against something soft and flat, a book, and I pull it out carefully, disturbing as little as I can.

It’s a pale blue exercise book, bulging slightly. When I open it I find Polaroid photographs tucked inside. I scan them; they were clearly taken at the stables and each of them is of a girl looking straight at the camera, smiling with varying degrees of gaucheness. There are at least fifteen different girls, all of a similar age. Between thirteen and sixteen, I’d say, though in some cases it’s hard to tell.

Most I don’t recognise, but third from the top is Kat. Ellie’s here, too, and the girl from the film. Grace. I cycle through the rest, already suspecting what I’m going to find.

I’m right. Zoe’s picture is here, and further down I find Daisy’s, too, wearing the same clothes she’d had on in the video I’d been sent. Finally, at the very bottom, there’s a picture of me.

I force myself to concentrate, to stay in the moment. I put the photos down and go back to the book. On the first page is a list of names, and next to each a sequence of numbers and letters. Over the page there are more lists, dates of birth, phone numbers and addresses, plus more, apparently random, numbers. Nothing seems to correlate with anything else, and though I guess there’s a code here it’s one I don’t have time to figure out. I use my phone to photograph the first page, then I arrange the pictures on the bed and film them, a slow pan from left to right, before returning to the book. After several more pages of information there’s a blank, then a few sheets are filled in, this time with men’s names – Dale, Shaun, Bill, Mark, Karl, Kevin – plus more phone numbers and more dates. No Bryan, to my relief, and no Gavin, either. I examine the dates; they’re too recent to be dates of birth and when I flip to the back of the book I see one from only a week or so ago.

I flip to the pages with the information about the girls, forward to the pages dealing with the men. There’s nothing concrete here, no hard evidence, but it’s not difficult to see what links them. I think of the video I was sent: There’s a party tonight; and a single word escapes from my lips.

‘Fuck.’

Suddenly, I hear a sound. Footsteps outside, then a key in the lock. It’s as if I’ve summoned her. ‘Shit,’ I mutter, and I scoop the photos off the bed before stuffing them back inside the book, aware as I do that I have no idea if they’re in the right order. I bury the book inside the drawer, in more or less the same place I found it, then scan the room. The place is tiny, there’s nowhere to hide, and my mind races – what can I tell her? Why am I here? – but comes up with nothing. Already I can hear her downstairs, taking off her jacket. Then I hear her voice. She sounds flustered, unnerved.

‘No,’ she’s saying. ‘No. It can’t be. It doesn’t make any sense.’

She’s on the phone. I try to work out what she’ll do, where she’ll go. I slip through the door and into the bathroom. I hide behind the door, taking in as I do the uncleaned toilet bowl, the sink that’s encrusted with toothpaste and remnants of soap. My body is numb, as if it’s someone else’s, a costume I’m wearing, nothing more. I think of the word Dr Olsen used. Dissociation.