Final Cut(12)

‘Maybe I will. It’s good, you know? It’ll be nice to see the place on the map at last.’ He glances towards the woman at the counter, though she seems determinedly engrossed in wiping the surface while she waits for her customer’s food to cook. He lowers his voice. ‘It’s tough, you know? Bein’ this quiet. Your programme might be a nice little boost for folk.’ He sits back. ‘That’s what we’re all hoping for, anyway.’

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ I say. I hesitate. Dan’s words echo. See what you can dig up, okay? ‘I suppose you want to see the place in the news for the right reasons?’

His eyes narrow, just slightly. ‘What’s that?’

I pick up a sugar cube from the bowl. ‘I’m just saying. That girl who died. Daisy, was it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It must’ve been a bad time. Small village like this … You were around back then?’

‘Aye. But I don’t live in the village. My place is over near Malby.’

‘You didn’t know her, then?’

‘Not well. But a little.’

‘It’s a small place.’

He sips his drink. I wonder how far I can go.

‘They said it was suicide …’

‘Well, if that’s what they said, I guess it was.’

‘But why?’

‘Who knows? She were a teenager. Boyfriend trouble?’

‘That hardly explains why someone would kill themselves.’

He smiles ruefully and I find myself wondering if he has children. There’s something about him that makes me think not, though I can’t pinpoint what. There’s a sadness about him, an emptiness, despite the charm. He looks like, if he’s freighted with anything, it’s the weight of lost opportunities and wrong choices.

‘That’s what a few people were saying back then,’ he says carefully. ‘But, truth is, I don’t think her family life helped. Her mother was on her own. Drink. Drugs. You know they lived in a caravan?’

I nod. The woman behind the counter is fiddling with the radio, pretending not to be listening. I lean forward and lower my voice.

‘There was another girl, too? Zoe? Zoe Pearson?’

He hesitates. I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. After all, why should he trust me?

‘Yeah,’ he says slowly, ‘but that were different. She ran away. That’s all I know.’ He puts his cup down. ‘Is this what your film’s really about?’

He sounds disappointed, wary, and I shake my head. ‘No. It’s just … I’m interested, I suppose. Two girls from the same village—’

‘Not the same, though,’ he insists. ‘One ran away. The other jumped off the cliffs.’

I can see him deciding whether or not to talk to me, but I’m doing something right, because he goes on: ‘And there was her friend, of course. Went missing around the same time, about ten years ago now.’ The room goes cold. ‘Some folk reckon there was something going on there. Some falling-out or something. But who knows?’

A silence falls. The sugar cube I’ve been fiddling with bursts, and I sweep the table with my hand then look out at the darkening sky.

‘Is Daisy’s mother still around?’

He shakes his head. ‘It were the last straw for her, from what I heard. She were half dead with the drink anyway, and the shock of it all pretty much finished her off.’

‘So is there anyone who knew them?’ I say. ‘Daisy and this friend of hers? Anyone who might know what happened between them?’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Monica, maybe?’

‘Monica? My landlady?’

‘You’re in Hope Cottage, then?’

I nod. His lunch arrives, wrapped in greaseproof paper, along with a coffee. He thanks the waitress.

‘Try her, if you want to go delving into all that, but like I say, I reckon it were just one of those things. You can’t live your life like she did and not pay the price.’

‘Like she did?’

He smiles ruefully. ‘She could be wild. Anyway, I’d better go.’ He gathers his things with a cheerful wink. ‘See you around, I hope.’





7


I sit at my computer. I’ve persuaded Monica to meet me later this morning, but there’s still time to work. A film of an older guy petting his dog has come in; another of a woman baking while, next to her, a baby gurgles happily in a highchair. I crank up the ancient machine and there’s a short-lived grinding noise from deep within. I used this computer to make my first film and, though I know it’s sentimental and ridiculous, abandoning it now would feel like Samson cutting off his own hair.

I wait for it to recover, then press Play. The next film opens with a black screen and noise, shouting that sounds wordless, and then the camera steadies, showing first a yellowed wall and then a woman appearing in front of it. She’s overweight, dressed in a cardigan, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail. She yells at whoever is holding the camera.

‘No!’ she’s saying. ‘You can forget it!’

The reply comes from close by. Just behind the camera.

‘That’s not fair!’

‘Fair?! I’ll give you fair, you little … And what the fuck’re you doing with that?’