Final Cut(8)

He grinned, as if he’d won a jackpot. Part of me despised him.

‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’ he said. ‘Two girls disappearing?’

I heard myself speak.

‘Daisy was suicide. It was confirmed.’

He was skimming the article.

‘There was no body, though. I mean—’

‘It was suicide.’

‘Whatever,’ he said, looking once more at the screen. ‘She jumped from the cliff. Disappeared. And seven years later this Zoe whatever goes missing as well. There’s your story right there.’ He stared straight at me, and for a second he looked exactly like the smug, self-satisfied prick I’d once thought he was.

‘I have every confidence in you, Alex. But, well, not everyone else might.’

‘Meaning?’ I tried to keep my voice from breaking. I failed.

He shook his head, like I was a child, like he was disappointed in me. And then the sucker punch.

‘I told them you’d find a place with a story, something unresolved, some tension. They wouldn’t have given you the money if I hadn’t.’

I couldn’t afford to have the project pulled, and anyway, the image of Zoe must’ve had tiny hooks: it snagged me, got under my skin. When I closed my eyes I saw Daisy, too, the dead girl. She was reaching out, telling me I was the only one who could help. And yes, I admit it, when I thought about it there was a tiny rush of pride, like hot metal. Maybe I could be the one to help her find peace. I rang Dan the next morning.

‘I’ve decided,’ I said. ‘Blackwood Bay it is.’

He was delighted, and we spent the next couple of weeks making the arrangements and getting the website up and running. Jess found someone local – Gavin, who ran the film club there – to help and went up in early October. They organised a meeting in the village hall, just before a showing. She explained the project, said it was a portrait of life in a small town, all very light-hearted. No one was out to get anyone.

The clips began to arrive. Slowly at first, just a trickle, but then, when people saw that their friends and neighbours had been filming, more came in. Mostly they were of everyday life – kids playing, people cooking, a party in a back garden. There were lots of pets, views of the cliffs. A few dick pics, yes, but I deleted those. Scenes in the pub, a shortish guy pushing a boat out on to the water. All good background. Nothing of Daisy or Zoe, no mention at all, and while I wavered between relief and disappointment, Dan came down squarely on the latter, as did Anna, who, he reminded me, held the chequebook.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he told me. ‘You’ll have to go up there yourself. See what you can dig up, okay?’

So here I am, sitting in a car on the way to Blackwood Bay; a place I never wanted to go, to explore a story I never wanted to look at. Yet somehow I don’t mind. Maybe it will make for a better film, after all.

Gavin is still talking. I tune back in.

‘Where you staying?’

‘A cottage,’ I say. ‘Hope Lane?’

‘Oh, Monica’s place?’ he says. ‘Lovely. I can’t take you down there, though. Road’s too steep.’

‘I know,’ I say, too quickly, before I remember I’m not supposed to be familiar with the area. ‘Monica’s already warned me. If you drop me at the top, I can walk down.’

‘Okay,’ he says, and we drive on. The air gets heavier the closer we get, suffocating. I fight it, glancing at Gavin as I do, but he’s oblivious, he looks perfectly happy. He pulls into the car park and shuts off the engine.

I stare out into the night. A penumbra of light shines around the lamps and the streets are empty: no sign of life at all, not even a dog or a fox rooting at the litter bins. As I get out of the car and gather my things I feel as if I’m about to descend into the past. I can see the smugglers, oilskins damp and glistening, heaving barrels of rum or tobacco, heading for the lost tunnels that are rumoured to connect the cellars in a vast, arterial network. Legend has it that it was once possible to smuggle contraband from sea level all the way up to the clifftop without it ever seeing the light of day and, looking now, I find myself believing it.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine,’ I say, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. A few lights are on in the houses below, but not many.

‘I’ll give you a hand with your bags.’

For a moment, I think he’s going to invite me for a drink later, or to dinner, and it occurs to me that maybe I’d like him to. He seems a nice guy and it’d be good to have a friend here.

‘Okay.’

We get out. I look north, towards the grassy peninsula that extends out into the water, rising as it does to a shallow cliff. Not much is visible in the dark, but there’s a light on in the distant house at its very edge.

‘What’s that light?’ I say.

‘Oh, that’s The Rocks.’ He pauses. ‘Bluff House.’

The words echo. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten there was even a house there. It’s as if my mind has erased it from the narrative.

‘Bluff House?’

He looks at me, as if about to say something else, but then just smiles self-consciously. ‘We’d better get going.’

I collect my things and we begin our descent. We fall into silence as we go: the quiet is enveloping, inhibiting; even the sound of our footsteps is deadened by the snow, shrunk to a soft crunch. Nothing is quite as I remember it; it’s as if I’m seeing it through a filter, a distorting prism. The road seems to narrow further with each step, and as it becomes increasingly steep I notice a rusted handrail by the side of the road. I grip it as I go down. I know the sea is out there, ahead and below us, there’s that familiar smell, of oil and seaweed, salty and sulphurous. We pass darkened cottages and empty cafés, lonely shops shuttered for the night. Here and there, footpaths and alleyways begin to appear, springing off from the main lane at improbable angles, but they’re unlit and disappear into inky pockets of darkness. I wonder who might be lurking, and I’m glad I’m not alone.