The memory wood, p.16
The Memory Wood, page 16
CHILLAX.
That whole episode lasted no more than twenty seconds, and yet her memories of it are so scrambled – so tainted by terror and loss – she can’t guarantee they’re in the right order. Despite her anguish, Elissa replays those last few moments. Then a third time, even slower.
She sits up straight. Sweat breaks out across her forehead. She can’t be sure, even now, that she has the exact order correct. But of one thing she’s certain: when the engine turned over, its vibrations shaking the floor, the ghoul was still pressing the wet cloth against her mouth. The revelation is as disturbing as it is revealing: Elissa has not one jailer, but two.
III
Bad enough for the world that one such devil walks upon it. How can there be more? Suddenly, everything she thought she understood about this nightmare lies in tatters. In the wreckage, every one of her assumptions will have to be re-examined. And yet the discovery does nothing to reduce her list of suspects. Everyone she’s so far considered – the waitress, the three bodachs, those she met at the tournament – could have used an accomplice lurking out of sight.
Loading her recollections of the white van into her virtual chessboard, Elissa fast-forwards to the moment her cell door first opened.
IV
If only she hadn’t panicked. If only she hadn’t scrabbled like a wild animal to the far wall. In her haste to escape the ghoul, she’d forgotten about her shackle. When the chain snapped taut, the manacle bit into her wrist. Moments later, the ghoul’s white light skewered her.
I know you’re awake. There’ll never be anything, ever in this life, that you can conceal from me. Take as long as you need to learn that lesson, but for your own comfort I’d advise haste.
She’d remained silent, so gut-churningly frightened that all she could do was feign sleep.
When one has a visitor it’s polite to acknowledge them, or did your mother never teach you that? Time to open your eyes, Elissa Mirzoyan, and see what is true.
In the coldness of her cell – in the now and not the then – she crawls to her rucksack and quickly inventories its contents: Monkey, water bottle, notebook and gel pens, satsuma and books.
I brought you something to eat. Something to drink, too. By your silence, I assume you don’t want it. No matter. It’ll be interesting to see how quickly you remember your manners. Perhaps a little fasting will hasten their return.
Elissa examines the notebook. She checks the inside covers and the cardboard back. Then she hauls out her books and checks those too.
Time to open your eyes, Elissa Mirzoyan, and see what is true.
The ghoul called her by her full name – and yet it appears on none of her belongings, nor any of her clothing. Did he know it before he snatched her? If so, what can she glean from that? If he’s learned it since, does that mean her abduction’s been widely reported? So far, other than her mum’s welfare, she’s hardly concerned herself with outside events. Now, for the first time, she begins to consider them.
Elissa’s stomach growls with hunger. There’s no way of telling how many hours have passed since she ate the pecan-nut biscuit, but it feels like a lot. She’s delving into her rucksack for the satsuma when she hears, outside, the rattle of deadbolts.
V
It’s not Elijah. She knows by the quality of the light. His is jaundiced, erratic. This – white, unflinching and utterly without mercy – comes from the ghoul’s head torch. It swabs over her, paying particular attention to her manacle and chain. She holds her breath while it hovers on the makeshift bandage. Then it dances away to the other objects in the cell.
The ghoul starts to whistle. The sound is dreadful, a tuneless escape of air. He begins to carry in the equipment from his last visit: tripods, camera, studio light and chair.
Should she initiate conversation? Last time, he beat her almost unconscious, but that doesn’t mean it’s the wrong strategy. She’s convinced, even now, that too much compliance will destroy her chances of survival. Still, considering the likely consequences, it’s hard to ignore his earlier instruction: You don’t speak until you’re told. Say you understand.
Elissa watches the equipment take shape. The studio light comes on, so bright it stings her eyes. The chair is dragged into position.
Then, silence.
As the seconds elongate, Elissa realizes he’s waiting for her to sit. It’s an opportunity to resist that she decides not to take. If there’s a rhythm to insurgency, instinct tells her this is one of the off-beats. Bracing her manacle, she unfolds her legs. Only as she rises does she realize how stiff her muscles have become.
Chain clanking, she shuffles over. The chair is a hundred times more comfortable than the floor. It’s another good reason to postpone her rebellion. Perhaps, if she gives the ghoul what he wants, he’ll let her keep it.
Footsteps now, scuffing towards her. The white light darkens as a silhouette passes across it. Elissa presses her knees together, clenching her eyes shut. She senses breathing, inches from her face, and then something new, something entirely inexplicable: a woman’s fragrance.
VI
It’s sweet yet earthy, a hint of apples warmed by cinnamon. It opens Elissa’s eyes and fills her lungs to gasping, because a woman, down here in this filthy hole, is the last thing she expected; and right now, a woman, undeniably, is leaning close.
Something soft and wet touches Elissa’s forehead. She flinches away, but the chair back stops her moving far. When the object touches her again she submits. It’s a cloth, nothing more, moistened with warm water. As it begins to clean her face – gentle, circular movements that gradually encompass her nose, her cheeks, her chin – she detects the vaguest scent of cucumber. There’s a brief antiseptic sting when it knocks away a scab. Otherwise, the woman washes her with conspicuous tenderness; such tenderness, in fact, that Elissa’s eyes fill with tears. When she shudders and lets out a sob the circular movements cease. For a moment, she fears the woman will embrace her. Instead, the gentle cleansing resumes.
Despite her distress, Elissa’s mind works feverishly. In the last ten minutes, everything she believed about this place has been overturned. It’s imperative she doesn’t tune out.
Soft fingers touch her jaw, encouraging her to lift her chin. Carefully, the cloth scours away grime. Afterwards, a brush is tugged through her hair. The woman is as gentle as before, easing off every time she finds a knot, styling it in a way that feels alien.
Belatedly, Elissa realizes it’s an attempt to conceal the injuries inflicted by the ghoul when he last visited. Her work complete, the silhouetted woman steps away.
The studio light shines on Elissa’s face, drying the last traces of moisture. Leaning against the tripod is the whiteboard from the ghoul’s previous visit. On it she sees the same words.
The red light winks on.
‘You look into the camera,’ he whispers from the darkness behind the light. ‘You read the words. Say you understand.’
VII
In the hours since their last encounter Elissa has tried to forget the message printed on that board. Now, she can’t help but confront it. ‘I understand.’
She clears her throat, lifts her head. ‘My name is Elissa Mirzoyan. Today is the twenty-fourth of October.’ Her chin begins to tremble. ‘I have not been harmed. I do not wish…I do not wish…’
The words on the whiteboard swim out of focus.
‘Wipe your eyes,’ the ghoul whispers. ‘Start again.’
Elissa brushes away her tears. ‘Why’re you doing this?’
‘Look into the camera. Read the words.’
She clenches her jaw. ‘My name is Elissa Mirzoyan.’ This time, in her voice, there’s the merest hint of defiance. If she’s forced to say these words, she wants the world to see she doesn’t believe them. ‘Today is the twenty-fourth of October. I do not wish to be found. I do not wish anyone to look for me. Since finding sanctuary, I’ve come to realize’ – now she speaks through gritted teeth – ‘that Lena Mirzoyan is not the good mother I thought.’
The red light observes her a moment longer.
Then it dies.
Elissa swallows. No one who sees the tape will believe she meant those words, but that won’t diminish their power to cause hurt.
She can’t see the ghoul behind the recording equipment, but she knows he’s there. Is the woman at his side?
Lena Mirzoyan is not the good mother I thought.
Staring straight ahead despite the studio light’s glare, she says, ‘Why? Why’re you doing this? What have I done to—?’
‘This is not to punish you,’ the ghoul whispers.
‘Then who—?’
‘You said it yourself. Lena Mirzoyan is not the good mother you thought. And who would know better than her daughter? Who would know better than you?’
‘You know I don’t believe that. Nor will anyone else.’
‘People believe what they’re told.’
‘Not that.’
She has no idea where this shot of bravery comes from, but for the first time she’s successfully engaging him. Despite the danger, she knows she mustn’t stop. ‘This is wrong. You have to let me go.’
‘If I returned you to an unfit mother, what would that make me?’
‘Why do you think she’s unfit?’
‘If you follow the rules, you’ll suffer no harm.’
‘Why? That’s what I don’t understand! What kind of freak—?’
The word slips off her tongue before she can call it back. It floats in the silence, and she knows, just by listening, that she’s badly mis-stepped.
‘Whoever one is, and wherever one is,’ the ghoul whispers, ‘one is always in the wrong if one is rude.’ He waits a while, then adds: ‘Maurice Baring wrote that. He was an English dramatist, and a great man of letters.’
Unable to trust her mouth, Elissa presses her lips together.
‘I want this to work,’ the ghoul tells her. ‘We all want this to work. Personally, I think you’re a little too headstrong, which means your chances aren’t great. But perhaps you’ll surprise us yet.’
The studio light winks out. Darkness rushes in. There’s a rasp of something metal being unscrewed. A rich scent hits Elissa’s nose: Peppa Pig spaghetti.
Her stomach churns.
‘You follow the rules,’ the ghoul whispers, ‘you eat. You break the rules, you’re no more. Say you understand.’
She drags out the seconds as long as she dares. ‘I understand.’
‘You forget your previous life because this is your life. If you cooperate, things will change. Six months from now, if we get that far, you’ll understand why this was necessary. Another year, you’ll be thanking us.’ He removes the camcorder from its mount. ‘We’re going to do more of this, you and I. Keep cooperating and you’ll get all sorts of nice things. In the meantime, I want you to think about all the ways your mother has let you down. Every little spite, every dereliction, every selfish act.’
Elissa opens her mouth, but the ghoul’s characterization of Lena Mirzoyan is so baseless she’s rendered mute. She breathes cucumber-scented cleanser, Peppa Pig spaghetti, home-crafted apple-and-cinnamon perfume. If there’s any logic to this, she can’t find it.
Personally, I think you’re a little too headstrong, which means your chances aren’t great.
He’s right about that. She won’t be brainwashed; not by him, not by anyone. Which means time, for her, is almost certainly running out.
Vital she doesn’t squander what’s left.
ELIJAH
Day 5
I
I was going to leave it until tomorrow to show her what I’ve done, but I’m so excited I can’t wait.
All through dinner I sat on my secret. Watching me, Kyle soon suspected something was up. Usually, I’m pretty quiet at the table, but tonight I talked like a flibbertigibbet while Mama and Papa looked on, bemused. Eventually, Papa put down his cutlery and asked if I was OK. That’s when I knew I was in trouble, and that if I talked any longer my mouth would run away completely.
I haven’t committed a crime. Not exactly. But that doesn’t mean what I’m doing is OK.
After dinner, Papa goes outside for a roll-up. Mama sits in the living room with her sewing while I wash the dishes. Standing at the sink, I look through the window at Papa chugging his smoke into the night.
When I open the pantry door to fetch a tea towel, Kyle – appearing from nowhere – bundles me through it.
Inside, there’s no light, just unpainted wooden shelves filled with tinned goods. My brother talks so quietly not even Mama will hear. I could cry out, but his knife is pressed to my belly. His other hand grips my throat, forcing back my head.
‘You’re up to something, shithead,’ he hisses. His breath is awful, like he’s been chewing on roadkill. ‘You’re tryin’ to fuck us, and I ain’t gunna let it happen.’
My shirt has ridden up. The point of Kyle’s blade presses deeper. When I feel a slow spread of warmth, I think he must have punctured me, until I realize that fear has made me squirt out some pee.
I recall our stand-off yesterday, in the Memory Wood – how I bit down on the barrel of his .22. Why am I so much more frightened now?
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ I mutter. ‘I’m not up to anything.’
‘Liar.’
The blade tip can’t press much harder without opening me up. I imagine it slicing through flesh, my guts spattering on to the tiled floor.
The back door rattles open: Papa, coming back inside. Serpent-quick, Kyle withdraws his knife and retreats.
II
Another hour passes before it’s safe enough to slip out. The wind gusts about me as I skirt Fallow Field. Inside the Memory Wood, the trees bend and swish like angry broomsticks; it’s a nasty, frantic sound, and I don’t like it at all.
At the centre of the clearing the Gingerbread House stands alone, stone walls slick with rain. I creep through the darkened ground floor, and it’s only when I reach the cellar entrance that I dare use my torch. I’m half-expecting Kyle to ambush me again, but my journey down the steps to the partition wall is uninterrupted. Releasing the padlock, I draw back the deadbolts and swing the door wide.
III
‘Bet you weren’t expecting me,’ I say, going in.
Gretel is curled around the iron ring, head on the mildewed pillow. Slowly, she struggles up. Her eyes, as she squints at my torch beam, are bloodshot and dim.
‘Hello, Elijah.’
Her voice sounds heavy, like she’s filled herself up with dark thoughts.
Hearing it, all my excitement drains away. Near the end, Bryony was like this. I’d hoped Gretel was stronger, but you never really know how someone will handle the bad stuff until they face it. ‘Has something happened?’ I ask. ‘Are you sick?’
She laughs, a staccato burst of sound. There’s no humour in it, only misery. On the floor near her feet is a plastic bowl. Apart from a few orange smears, it’s been licked clean. Gretel’s hair has been styled since I was last here. It suits her, I think, this new look, but I’m sensitive enough not to say anything.
I’m disappointed she’s being such a mope. It’s not the right time to reveal my secret so I sit down opposite.
‘It’s cold in here,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s freezing, actually.’
‘Up there, it’s blowing a gale.’
Gretel looks at the ceiling. ‘I don’t hear anything. I can’t even tell if it’s day or night.’
‘It’s night,’ I say. ‘Just past eleven.’
She nods listlessly.
‘How’s your wrist?’ After half a minute’s silence, I add, ‘Gretel?’
‘What?’
‘How’s your wrist?’
‘Feels…hot.’
‘Really?’
‘Kind of…my whole arm feels hot. Tingly.’
‘Maybe it’s healing.’
‘Doesn’t feel like it.’
‘Did the bandage help?’
She takes a breath, wheezes it out. ‘Elijah?’
‘What?’
‘You sounded different. When you came in.’
‘I did?’
‘Like you weren’t wearing any shoes.’
Caught off guard, I nearly shine the torch at my feet, revealing myself. I’m so annoyed by her trickery that I start to get up and leave. But when I flex my toes and feel cold, uneven rock beneath them, I realize she’s right: I’m barefoot. ‘I…I must’ve left the house without them,’ I say. But how can that be?
‘Do you live close?’
My mind has gone into a tailspin. ‘Yeah. But still…’
‘How far?’
‘Five minutes, if I run. Our place, it’s…it’s just the same as this.’
‘It’s a cottage too?’
‘Tied cottages, they’re called. All the cottages on the estate are tied.’
Gretel licks her lips, leaving a sheen of saliva. ‘Tied how?’
‘It means they belong to the landowner and he rents them out to his employees. At least, that’s what it used to mean.’
‘It doesn’t now?’
I shrug. ‘I’m no expert.’
‘What’s the estate called?’
Even if I answer Gretel’s question, I doubt she’ll remember what I said. And it’s nothing I didn’t share with Bryony, and all the others before her. ‘Meunierfields,’ I say. ‘Leon Meunier owns it. He’s a lord, a hereditary peer, which means if he has children they’ll inherit his title. He doesn’t, though. Not yet. He’s got a wife, but…’ I shrug. I’ve never really understood why the Meuniers don’t have kids. ‘Are you hungry?’
