Final Cut(89)

‘No! I’ll keep quiet, I promise I will.’

‘I wish I could believe you.’

He’s standing over me. He has the boathook in his hand. I know what he means to do. Kill me, like he killed Daisy.

‘Bryan, please.’

‘She fell,’ he says, his voice suddenly low, grief-stricken, mocking. He’s talking about me, imagining the questions he’ll be asked when he reports my death and how he’ll answer them. ‘I tried to save her. But she must’ve hit her head.’

‘Bryan, no. Please—’

‘I think it was suicide—’

‘No.’

‘She wanted to go. Guilt, perhaps? No, I had no idea who she really was. None of us did. She’d changed so very much.’

‘Bryan, please,’ I whisper, as if it’ll do any good. The hand in which he holds the boat hook twitches.

‘It’s for the best,’ he says, lifting the weapon above his head as if it’s a baseball bat. I look into his eyes, and I realise, with utter certainty now, that he means to kill me.

I have no choice. Better to drown, to die by my own hand, than let him win. I take a deep breath.

I jump into the cold, black water.





52


I go under. My ears fill with a cacophonous roar; it’s so cold my heart stops and I think it’ll never start again. Salt stings my throat and I force myself not to breathe. I must fight, but I don’t know how, I don’t know which way is up, in which direction I might find life. I kick against nothing, thinking of Daisy as I do, wondering if this is what happened to her, how she went from begging for her life in that cellar to stepping off the edge of the cliff. The questions keep circling in my head. Is she alive, or not? How can she be, if it’s true that I killed her?

I can’t focus for long. I’m too heavy. My jeans and jacket weigh me down, but I’m not sure whether taking them off will help or instead be a waste of energy; crucial time spent sinking rather than trying to rise. I can’t think, I don’t know. I feel both weightless and as heavy as a rock.

Then something – I don’t know what, survival instinct, perhaps – takes hold and my legs whip kick. I reach out with my hands and scoop the icy water before pulling them back, as if lifting myself on to a ledge. I feel a tiny thrust upwards and begin to move through the darkness. I break the surface of the water and come up, gasping, into the light.

It takes me a moment to orient myself. The boat is behind me; ahead of me, the cliffs. I need to swim, but I don’t know how, and a second later something thuds in the water next to me. Bryan is leaning over the edge of the vessel, wild-eyed, the boathook in his hands. He raises it, and I try to move as it crashes down once more, this time glancing off the side of my head. I go under.

I begin to pull myself through the water, heading vaguely towards the cliffs. Slowly, I make progress. Behind me, the engine starts, sputters then fails. Some luck at last, but for how long? I pull harder, again and again, and it starts to feel more natural, I get into the rhythm of the swim, feeling the kick and glide. It feels almost like I’ve always known how to do it, I’d just forgotten.

After six or seven strokes I come up for air. The boat is behind me now, a fair distance, but I don’t know how much longer he’ll struggle to get the engine going. And when he does I’m done for, he’ll come for me, finish what he started. The same thought occurs that I had in the car that first night – this is not how it ends, this is not how I die – except this time the conviction feels void and another voice comes in. Daisy’s voice. What if you’re wrong, it says, and this is it? What if this is what you deserve, after what you did to me?

I pull harder. I stand no chance of making it back to the beach so I aim for the cliff. I feel anaesthetised by the cold, spent. The current is helping a little now but, even if I make it, there’s nothing there. It’s not like I can climb up and reach David’s house.

I see it then. The cave, a tiny half-submerged scar gouged out of the rock. It feels like my only chance. I kick towards it as behind me the boat’s engine roars into life. One more gulp of air, and I go under. Kick, pull. Kick, pull. The thrum of the boat grows, ferocious, and I think I’m not going to make it, but then it seems to fade, as if he’s given up, decided to set out for the bay instead. Perhaps he thinks I’ve gone under, one last time. Either way, it makes no difference now.

Kick. Pull. Over and over, and then I’m there. The entrance to the crevice is only a little bigger than I am; I have to dive under the water to make it through. I squeeze into the dark. The blackness is complete, but when I put my feet down they find rock. The cave has a floor. The silence closes over me like the earth in a grave.

I breathe. In. Out. I’m alive. Cold, but alive. Exhaustion gathers in the distance; sleep prepares to roll over me like a wave. I can’t let that happen.

My body is under water from the chest down. My limbs begin to sing with pain. I reach out, upwards first, and map the contours of the chamber. The roof of the cave is just a few inches above my head, hard and covered with slime. The walls to the left and right are a bit further, but not much. It feels like a coffin, stood on end. I have visions of the air running out, the cave filling with water as the tide comes in. I see myself drowning. My body trapped here, for who knows how long. And I know what Bryan will say, if they even ask him.