Final Cut(78)

We must’ve argued; an argument I can’t even remember but one which other people are certain upset her deeply. What happened to her then? Did I do something? I have to remember. It’s clear she blames me, she wants to punish me. And how can I put things right if I don’t even know what’s wrong?

I lean back against the wall. Other than a single trainer, plus her jacket, washed up on the beach way down the coast, there’s only Monica’s word that she jumped at all, and I now know that’s worth nothing. Can she really be back?

I reach for my phone. It’s late, but I don’t want to feel so alone, and the memories aren’t coming. I can’t seem to force them. I wake it from sleep and see there’s an alert. A new film has been uploaded.

I start up my laptop and press Play.

The screen is black. Flashes of light, a dull, greyish gloom, but nothing’s clear, nothing’s discernible. Then, a bright flash, something emerges from the shadows, but it’s blurry and indistinct. It resolves as the camera’s autofocus kicks in but is instantly lost before snapping sharp.

A wall. A stone wall, dark grey, the colour of night but with a strange, sickly sheen. The light is bright and full on; it comes from the camera itself, or near it, at least. There’s a dripping sound, magnified, echoing. It’s a cellar. A damp, fetid cellar. The camera lurches to the right, and there she is. Daisy.

I press Stop and the image freezes. I can’t watch, I’ve been here before; I’ve seen this before, in a dream. I want to wake up.

But I can’t. I’m awake already and on the screen Daisy’s face is twisted, a grotesque picture of pure terror. Her features have collapsed in on themselves; all hope has gone, there’s only pain. And when I look up, away from that terrible vision, I see my room. The TV on the wall, the circular mirror I still can’t quite bring myself to look at. Everything is as I know it. This is real. I’m not asleep, and I can’t run away. Not this time.

I press Play once more.

Help me, she says. Please.

Over and over. Help me. Please. Don’t do this. She appears to be sick, beyond desperate. She’s given up. There’s no one in the world who can help her.

She stares right into the camera, through the years and down into my gut. She sobs. You said they wouldn’t hurt me.

No, I want to say. No. I want to reach into the machine, go back in time. I’m here for you, I want to say. I was always here for you. Why didn’t you trust me? Why didn’t you tell me who was hurting you? I could’ve made it stop. I know I could. I’d have never left you.

But I didn’t, I know that. I’ve dreamed this film; it can’t be new to me. I must’ve seen it before. Or been there when it was filmed.

But no, I’d remember that, surely? I’d have done something, back then. I’d have told someone, or gone to the police.

Wouldn’t I? I remember what Bryan told me. Sadie and Daisy argued. One threatened the other. Some people think Sadie was involved in what happened to Daisy, and that’s why she ran away.

And who’d have this film, anyway? The person who filmed it, I suppose, but could that really be me? Or Daisy – would she have a copy?

If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I didn’t send it to myself. Which means she is back. That is who they meant, Monica and whoever she was speaking to on the phone. I’m even more sure of it now. Not Sadie. Not me. Daisy.

I slam my machine closed and stand, crashing into the bedside table as I go, sending my half-full glass skittering off. Wine flies, pooling on the floor. It sprays the wall and, for a second, it’s like it’s raining blood.





45


I have to go to Bluff House, find her. I slam the door behind me. Monica’s windows are in darkness, the cottage still and empty. She must be ‘dealing’ with Daisy, like she’d promised. I have to get there first.

I don’t look back. I begin to run, to sprint as hard as I can. My mind turns in circles. Maybe I left the drawer open in the bedroom and Monica came back after the carols and noticed the rearranged photographs in her little book of shame. Perhaps she even caught sight of me, watching her in the mirror or running down the stairs. Which means I’m in danger, too. But we’re linked. I need to reach Daisy, to keep both of us safe, whether she’s angry with me or not.

Or maybe I’m being naive, and I should be running away from Daisy, not towards her.

I reach The Rocks, and the shingle path. I fly, wraith-like. I see no one else, and no one sees me. Blackwood Bay is deserted, but it’s more than that. I feel invisible.

I close my eyes against the sting of the icy wind. The closer I get, the more powerful I feel; something is driving me, some mysterious energy that is almost supernatural. My legs windmill beneath me and, for an instant, I feel like screaming, but I don’t. I see myself in that room with my best friend as she begs for her life. Is it true? Was I there?

I have to remember what I did.

My eyes blink open and I skid to a halt. I look out at the freezing water. I want to shout, Where are you? Why have you come back?

I hear a voice and turn round to face Bluff House. There’s no one there. I’m alone. It’s just the wind, the bark of the black gulls that roost under the eaves, laughing. The groans of the old house, sagging under the load, buckling.

I close my eyes and breathe deep, drawing strength now from the icy air, then step up. As I do, a light flickers in one of the upstairs rooms in Bluff House. It’s like a camera flash going off, or moonlight glinting on glass.