Final Cut(81)

‘Daisy!’ I say again. ‘Wait! Come back!’

There’s no sign of her out there, but I can see where she’s been; the whole house shudders with the disturbance. It’s as if she’s a ghost, running through the ether, detectable only by the vapour trail she leaves behind. I almost stumble as I race down the stairs, my torch flashes wildly, my leaden heart leaps.

But where is she?

I edge forward. I keep the light low. I’m aware she could be anywhere. She can see me; I’m lit like a beacon.

I say her name once more. At the bottom of the stairs, next to the kitchen, a door hangs ajar. I hadn’t noticed it before, a cupboard under the stairs filled with the sharp tang of vinegar.

‘Daisy?’

I push in. Coats, shoes, a couple of folding chairs. Boxes stacked in the depths. She can’t be in here, and yet …

I take a step. The floor gives a little, groaning as it does, and when I look down I see the floorboard is loose. She’s clever; she’s led me here, too. I kneel and lift it from one end, knowing somehow what I’ll find even as I do.

I’m right. There’s a metal strongbox, shoved deep under the floorboards. I lift it out in a cloud of dust and musty air. It’s locked, but I have the key I found in David’s wallet and, when I try it, I find it fits. Inside, there’s a satchel, damp and covered with mould, and I open it cautiously. It’s old; the clasps are rusted. Inside there’s a plastic bag, wrapped round something rectangular, boxy but irregular. Even as I unwrap it I know exactly what it is. Its weight is familiar, its solidity. I’ve held it before. I’ve used it, shot with it; it’s the thing that started me on the path that led here. My first camcorder.

I open the case. There’s a tape in there, but when I try to switch on the machine it’s dead. The battery is empty, I suppose, or perhaps age and the damp conditions have wrecked it completely.

There’s something else in the satchel, too. Two postcards. I pull them out, my head swimming. The first is a montage of images – a bright red London bus, Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral – all arranged around the single word LONDON, as if it were necessary. I flip it over, breath held, but there’s nothing on the other side except David’s address – Bluff House, Blackwood Bay – and a single stamp.

The second postcard is a picture of the Millennium Wheel. On the other side of this, in the same handwriting as the first, there’s a message.

I’m coming back, it says.

I stare at it for a while. The handwriting matches the card sent to Dan. My heart slows. I’m curiously calm. Now that the uncertainty has fallen away, I’m almost relieved. I know what I have to do. I put the camcorder in my bag and stand.

Something is wrong, though. A light on the kitchen ceiling gutters, an orange glow, as if a candle has been lit.

‘Daisy?’ I say, but the only response is my own echoing, tremulous voice. ‘Daisy?’ I say once more, and go into the kitchen. The caravan is framed in the window, and the source of the light is obvious. It’s ablaze, the flames smacking off the melting windows, smoke rolling from the skylight.

Doubt falls away. She thought I was in there. She’s trying to kill me.





47


The following day, Gavin says he’ll meet me at Liz’s café. When I arrive he’s outside, shivering in the cold. The place is empty, the lights off, the door shuttered. A sign in the window says she’s closed for the holidays.

‘Is that usual?’ I say as I arrive.

‘No idea.’

He makes no move to embrace me and none to kiss me, even in greeting.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he says. It’s clear he’s lying.

‘Gavin?’

He gazes down at his feet and shuffles awkwardly. There’s less than a yard between us but it feels as wide as a canyon. I don’t know what to say, but when he returns my gaze he looks hurt. He pauses, chewing his lip.

‘I’ve been thinking. And …’

‘What?’

‘You promised.’

‘What?’

‘No more lies.’

I have to concentrate: I can’t afford to give anything away. Not until I know what he means.

‘I thought I meant something to you.’

‘You do,’ I say, and in this moment, just when it might be too late, I realise I mean it.

‘Sadie,’ he says. ‘Stop lying to me. I know who you are.’

The ground shifts and the world tilts by an inch or two. An abyss opens in front of me, a black hole. No, I think. I can’t get sucked in, I won’t. I draw breath. I can’t let him see what’s happening, but there’s no way I can stop myself.

‘Sadie?’

The word echoes. I wish he’d stop saying it. Anyone might hear.

‘Are you okay?’

I don’t answer at first, but then I hear myself say I’m sorry. The breath catches in my throat but, even as the words emerge, I’m not sure I mean them. It’s none of his business, so why am I apologising? He has no right to be angry.

Nevertheless, I say it again. ‘I’m sorry.’

He holds my face tenderly in his hands. I fight the urge to recoil, to tell him to get the fuck away.