Blackwood Bay. An ordinary place, home to ordinary people.

It used to be a buzzing seaside destination. But now, ravaged by the effects of dwindling tourism and economic downturn, it's a ghost town - and the perfect place for film-maker Alex to shoot her new documentary.

But the community is deeply suspicious of her intentions. After all, nothing exciting ever happens in Blackwood Bay - or does it?

Scroll down to read an excerpt from SJ Watson's latest thriller, Final Cut.

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'Shit,' I muttered under my breath, then a second later my ankle twisted beneath me, liquid pain shot up my leg and I stumbled once more, this time landing in the wet snow. I knew straight away that nothing was broken, but I also knew that I was defeated. I was going to have to wait it out. I hobbled back to the car.

That was an hour ago, maybe two. It's hard to tell. The temperature has dropped further; my breath mists the air then disappears. The car seems to be shrinking, hemming me in, but it's too cold to open the window. I look up at the stars. I search for Betelgeuse, the belt of Orion, fiery Venus. I make promises.

Let me get out of here and I'll turn round and go straight back to London. Screw the channel, screw Dan, screw the film.

But I've no idea with whom I'm bargaining. Not God. Even if he exists, he gave up on me years ago. And in any case, there's no reply, just the empty, spectral howl of the wind over the moor. The snow falls silently, no longer even melting on the windscreen. My teeth begin to chatter. A car appears in the rear- view mirror, but it doesn't stop; I probably imagined it. I wonder how I'll look when they find me. My lips frozen, ice in my hair, my face covered with frozen snot, but still hugging my camera like it's the only thing that matters. She died for her art, they'll say. Ha ha ha. My head tips forward as I begin the slide into the dark, into the soft, black nothing.

I catch myself in time. No, I tell myself. I didn't make it through what I made it through, didn't achieve what I've achieved, to die here. And in any case, this isn't a war zone, or even the wilds of Alaska, where it's forty below. This is the north of England. Not far from here, there'll be teenagers queuing outside nightclubs, the girls wearing not much more than their makeup, a short skirt, heels and a crop- top.

The boys will be luckier, in T- shirts and jeans, but not much. I can see them, might have even been with them once, shivering not with the cold but with the anticipation of the night ahead. Eager for a drink and to dance, for the laughter and the lights, for the sickly- sweet smell of dry ice and warm flesh pressed in tight. Cigarettes, vodka. Pills and powder.

No. I'm not going to freeze to death. I just have to stay awake, that's all. I dig my nails into my palms, so hard I think I might draw blood, and then, in the rear- view mirror, I see the light.

**

Final Cut is the gripping story of Blackwood Bay - an ordinary place, home to an extraordinary secret.