Final Cut(83)

48


I press Record.

I’ve balanced the camera on the dresser and am sitting on the edge of the bed. The soft glow from the bedside lamp throws my face into partial shadow. My features are indistinct; I could be anyone.

‘This is a message for my friend,’ I begin. I stare down the lens, picturing Daisy there rather than the blank face of the camera. I take a deep breath. ‘My best friend.’

I pause. I haven’t planned what I’m going to say. I picture Monica watching it, Beverly in the pub. Kat. Gavin and the rest. I wonder what they’ll think.

‘I know you sent me the card.’

Liz, I think. She might watch it, too. Sophie, Kat, Ellie. Anyone. I have to be careful; I can’t let them know Daisy is back. I don’t want to expose her, to let her down again. I feel like I’m on a ledge, fifteen storeys up; one wrong move and I’ll go over. I mustn’t look down; if I do, I’ll stumble and fall, or be compelled to jump.

‘I think I know why. I want you to know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to help you.’

I lean forward, closer to the camera. I imagine her there, staring at me. Defying me. Her eyes would be wide, rebellious. Go on, she’d say. If you’re so sure you can help me, if you’re so certain you’ve figured it out, prove it.

I remember the symbol I saw in her caravan, right by her bed. ‘I know about Andromeda,’ I say. ‘And I remember when you got your tattoo.’

My hand goes to my arm, as if I could feel the bite of the imaginary needle myself. We’d gone together. They were going to match, but only she went through with it. I chickened out, almost as if I’d known about the accident that would have rendered the whole thing pointless anyway.

I remember the woman who tattooed her; she had hair dyed the colour of blood but with the glossy sheen of ripe tomatoes. I remember a burning heart on her chest, wreathed in barbed wire.

‘I wimped out,’ I say. I know she’ll remember, she’ll know I’m talking to her, and only to her. ‘But I won’t this time. I promise.’

I close my eyes and draw a deep breath. I stare straight into the camera.

‘I can help you. If you let me.’

I press Stop, then upload the clip and make it public. I wonder how long it’ll be before she sees it. I know she’s watching. After all, she’s been watching all along.

All I can do now is wait. I don’t want to sleep, despite my exhaustion. I’m too scared of what might be down there, lurking in the deep. Of what might rise to the surface if I look too hard.

Instead, I keep moving. I make strong, bitter coffee, thick as sludge, and pour myself cup after cup. In the living room, I turn off the main light and sit in the pooled luminosity from the screen of my laptop. I can see my reflection in the window, but nothing else. Outside is darkness. A black void; even the moon is invisible, hidden behind clouds. I know she’s out there. You got away, she’s saying, while I might as well be buried in the black soil. You wanted me to rot, after all.

I sip my drink. I’m jittery. It’s the caffeine, I suppose. The room goes dark as the screen sleeps. My eyes close. My head sinks. A moment of blackness, then her face appears and with a wordless grunt I jolt myself awake.

More coffee. Slug it down. Back to the circle of light.

I watch the clock, floating in and out of consciousness. Even when I’m awake I feel numb, half dreaming. It’s like my body is a puppet, a mannequin. My strings are cut. The clock ticks, endlessly. Rain to Stormy.

It must be nearly midnight when the knife-tap ping of a new submission jerks me into life. A calm folds itself over me, I know exactly what it is and who it’s from. I breathe in deep, filling my lungs, then wake my machine. This is it. My chance to save Daisy. My chance to say sorry, for whatever it is I’ve done. My chance to win her back.

The screen is black. Play. A flash of low cloud, the distant moon, flipping in and out of focus, then the image settles. Bluff House snaps into focus.

The image shakes then, and a second later, low and rough, disguised but chillingly familiar, there’s a female voice.

‘I’m here now,’ it says. ‘Come alone.’





49


When I turn my back on Hope Cottage, it’s with the feeling I won’t see it again. There’s a light on next door, a shadow moving in the upstairs window, and from inside floats the sound of voices. Without pausing to think, I knock and wait.

Monica opens the door.

‘Alex!’

She seems surprised. I look terrible, I know that. No makeup, my hair’s a mess, I haven’t slept. Now I’m here, I don’t know what to say. I thought I’d hate her as soon as I saw her, but I find I can’t. She seems too pathetic. Too weak.

‘Can I come in?’

She regards me levelly.

‘It’s not a good time.’

I keep my voice calm. I can deal with what she’s done later, once I’ve met with Daisy, once I know what I did. After all, Monica doesn’t know how much I know. She has no idea what I’ve seen.

I remember her words on the phone.

‘She’s back,’ I say. ‘You know it, and I know it.’

She tilts her head with incredulity. It’s almost comical, a parody of confusion.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s stop fucking about and be honest with each other, shall we?’