Page 23 of The Cut
‘So, what am I supposed to do? Hide myself away and have no friends?’ Dave reddens as the anger reaches his face.
‘Now, you listen to me.’ Sandeep pulls the door and lowers his voice. ‘Just be careful who you allow into your life. Do you know how many patients left this practice when they found out the new doctor had an Indian surname?’ Sandeep’s mouth clenches. ‘It’s not always what they say … it’s what they don’t say.’
‘I really like her!’ As soon as the words tumble out of Dave’s mouth, he wishes they hadn’t.
Sandeep’s face falls.
‘She’ll turn you down.’ His voice softens. ‘Oh, my dear boy. I’m only trying to protect you.’
‘I don’t need your protection, I have friends … good friends.’ Dave begins to pull the camera cables from his bag, ready to set up to the TV.
‘But they’re not true friends.’ Sandeep stares back at his son. ‘They never will be.’
They regard each other for a second, a deep wedge of resentment fracturing the bond between them.92
‘Why did you bring us here? Why did we have to leave Edinburgh?’ Dave shakes his head as he turns and slams his bedroom door behind him.
He closes his eyes, leaning his back against the door, and gathers himself. Then a rush of heat rises into his chest as he remembers the film he has just shot. He kneels on the floor and begins his familiar ritual of marking the tape case with a black felt-tip pen: time and the date. He pulls out a brown leather box from under his bed. With a small key, he opens the padlock and lifts the lid. Inside, he runs his fingers along a line of other tapes, about thirty in total. His finger hovers over one (31/10/92 Spirit in the Woods. A. Maddock) and then another (10/11/93 The Crow’s Nest. A. Maddock). Each tape that Dave has collected since his father bought him the camera has been dedicated to her. Dave plugs the camera into his portable black-and-white TV and presses play. He slots a CD into his Walkman, and slides headphones over his ears.
The sound of Radiohead blasts into his ears as he bathes in the image of the ballet dancer fading up on the screen. His breath stolen by the gravity-defying Annabel Maddock balancing in front of him. Floating like a feather, in that beautiful world.
The image is slightly blurred, but she takes her hand from the barre and extends a lifted leg slowly into a perfect arabesque. She really is just like an angel.
‘You are so friggin’ special,’ Dave whispers to himself. There is something about her that he can’t describe. Capturing her on film like this feels like the most natural thing in the world. He wanted her to notice. He wanted control. In his juvenile brain, he somehow understands that these years are transient, none of us can remain like this forever.93
In time, every millisecond of this footage will be pored over. The grainy image slowed down, made clearer, analysed and dissected. Not for its beauty but for its meaning.
The reflection of the boy holding the camera in the glass window of the dance studio would be the final exhibit that would seal his fate.94
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NOVEMBER 2023
Karine Mickelsen emerged from the footpath that led through a dense thicket of trees at the base of Mallet Hill. Half of the ancient burial mound to the north had been eaten away by an open cast granite quarry, but the south side of the hill, the sacred side, was still intact. The frosty gorse bushes shivered in the breeze and the crispy remains of fallen leaves crunched underfoot as she approached the kissing gate that led to the river’s edge. She stared out towards the stone walls of the austere structure nestled in woodland, inhaled sharply and let the icy vapour escape from her mouth as she crossed the bridge over the river. Hands thrust deep into her jeans pockets, Mickelsen pulled out her phone and took a photograph of Blackstone Mill.
At the beginning of every venture, at the moment when the theoretical research was over and principal photography began, there was a feeling of anticipation for what was about to happen. The entire narrative needed to be clear in her head because when the starting gun fired, there was no turning back.
Karine already knewThe Cutwould be a different kind of film from her previous work. This one would test her in a way that would be hard to predict. ‘Genre’ was a euphemistic term the film industry preferred to use instead of ‘horror’, to elevate itself above the tropes of the eighties’ slasher flick. For Karine Mickelsen, it was a step down, but the pay cheque would sweeten the blow, especially if the film was a smash at the box office.96
Sometime later, she was standing in the driveway of the Knot house, taking shots on her phone. The pale buff sandstone facade was warm and welcoming, but the house stood aloof on the border of the village and at odds with the faded grey council estate of Barton Mallet, which seemed trapped in the pessimism of the 1970s. A shiver of depressing recognition coursed through her. In a way, it was perfect, like the drained palette ofMiseryorThe Silence of the Lambs. Karine’s moment of reflection was broken by the honk of a horn and she turned to see a rust bucket Ford Transit scraping its hubcaps along the kerb. She gathered her ice-white hair into a ponytail and indicated for the van to pull up on to the drive. She watched it park and went back inside the house.
‘Excuse me … what are you doing? This is private property!’ Behind the Transit, a flatbed pickup loaded with the wreckage of a pearl-grey Polestar had crawled around the corner of the grove. Ben Knot was leaning out of the window, shouting at the van parked up on his drive. He swung the cab door open, jumped down on to the pavement and stormed towards a bemused-looking stoner in work boots, jeans and a T-shirt, chugging on a vape and pulling a trolley loaded with monitors and cables across the grass.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Ben tapped at his ear. ‘Move the van off my drive.’
A cloud of vape smoke that smelled of pear drops billowed into Ben’s face as a tattooed hand pulled out an ear bud. ‘You what? Sorry?’
‘Your wheels are chewing up my lawn, mate.’ Ben wafted his hand through the cloud of vape as Dani appeared at the front door.
‘Ben? … Ben, he got it … he got the part!’ Dani appeared to be in full stage make-up and had shimmied into a festive sequined tank top at 4 p.m. on a Friday afternoon.
Ben frowned at her, confused. ‘Wait … What are you on about?’97
‘Didn’t you get my text?’ She was sipping a glass of blush Prosecco. ‘The film Nate auditioned for! He’s doing it.’ Some kind of celebration was afoot. ‘The director’s here, come in and meet her.’
He flinched. ‘Her?’ Then checked himself. ‘Hold on a second, this is all a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Ben stared at the equipment strewn all over the driveway and front lawn.
