“Oh shit. Sorry, Rams,” the tripper said, chasing the loose wire back to the outlet. Now that the
light was out, Bel could see him properly for the first time. She couldn’t say she’d noticed him
before, when Ramsey had introduced the crew, too dazzled by the lights and the camera. He must
have been the youngest of the four documentary crew members, couldn’t be much older than her.
And he was, just maybe, the most ridiculous person Bel had ever seen. He had shoulder-length
brown hair that fell in thick curls, pushed off to one side of his pale face, full of angles and shadows.
He wore flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs
marching across his chest.
“Sorry,” he said again, the o giving him away; must be from London too. He grunted as he pushed
the plug in and the light sparked back to life, hiding him from Bel. Thank God, that ugly sweater was
distracting.
“I told you to gaffer all the wires down, Ash,” Ramsey said, shifting to glance behind the box
light.
“I did…,” came Ash’s voice from behind the light, somehow angular, just like his face. “Until the
tape ran out.”
“Mate, we have like fifty thousand rolls upstairs,” Ramsey replied.
“Fifty thousand and one,” said the woman standing behind the microphone: a long pole balanced
on a tripod, with a fluffy gray head hovering over Bel and Ramsey, just above the shot. Saba, that
was what Ramsey had called her, introducing her as the Sound Person. She was wearing a huge pair
of headphones that dwarfed her face, pushing the brown skin of her cheeks into unnatural folds.
“Sorry,” came Ash’s voice. “I’ll fix it later.”
“It’s OK,” Ramsey said, his face softening for a second. Then, to the man behind the huge camera:
“James, why are you panning to Ash?”
“Thought we were aiming for a cinéma vérité style for the doc, that you might want this in,” the
camera operator replied.
“No, I don’t want this in. Let’s reset the shot and go for another take. And everyone watch where
you’re stepping this time.”
Ramsey flashed an apologetic smile at Bel, sitting here on a plush couch across from them all, the
cushions artfully arranged and rearranged behind her.
“Ash is my brother-in-law,” he said, as though in explanation. “Known him since he was eleven.
It’s his first job, isn’t it, Ash? Camera assistant.”
Ash: camera assistant. Saba: sound person. James: camera operator. And Ramsey: filmmaker,
producer, director. Must have been nice, to have words like that follow your name, words you’d
chosen. Bel’s were different: This is Annabel. The daughter of Rachel Price. That last part said in a
knowing whisper. Because even though Rachel was gone, everything existed only in relation to her.
Gorham wasn’t its own place anymore; it was the town where Rachel Price had lived. Number 33
Milton Street wasn’t Bel’s home, it was the house Rachel Price had lived in. Bel’s dad, Charlie Price,
well, he was Rachel Price’s husband, even though the Price part had come from him.
“Ash, the clapper,” Ramsey reminded him.
“Oh.” Ash emerged from behind the light, a black-and-white clapper board clasped between his
hands. Printed on it were the words: The Disappearance of Rachel Price. The name of the
documentary. Below that, a handwritten: Interview with Bel. And she was surprised, really, that it
didn’t just say Rachel Price’s daughter.
Ash walked in front of the camera, the hems of his pants swishing loudly together.
“Take six,” he said, bringing the clapper stick down to the slate with a sharp bang, hurrying out of
the shot.
“Let’s start again.” Ramsey let out a long breath. They’d been here for hours already, and it was
starting to show on his face. “Your mum has now been missing for more than sixteen years. In all
that time, there has been no sign of her. No activity on her bank accounts, no communication with
