The memory wood, p.17
The Memory Wood, page 17
No answer. I look at the licked-clean bowl, stumped for what to do next. Finally, from my pocket, I pull out a handkerchief. ‘It’s not much,’ I say, tossing it into her lap. ‘We had cauliflower cheese for supper. I couldn’t bring you any of that, but there was a bit of cheese left in the grater. Just Cheddar, but still nice.’
Gretel makes no move to unwrap it. ‘Can I trust you, Elijah?’ she asks, gazing into my light.
‘Of course you can.’
‘Is the cheese going to make me sick?’
I can hardly believe the question. ‘No.’
‘Why do you keep coming down here?’
‘Because I like you. Because I want to help you.’
‘If you wanted to help me, you’d get me out of here. You’d tell someone. Someone who could do something. You’d tell the police.’
‘If I did that, I’d lose you.’
‘No. You wouldn’t.’
‘Yes. Because they’d find out. And before anyone could come, they’d kill you.’
‘They’re going to kill me anyway unless you do something.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘They killed Bryony.’
‘That was different.’
‘She wasn’t the first. Was she?’
I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly that. Don’t tell me Bryony was the first one to wake up in this bastard fucking place!’
Gretel whips out a hand, sending the empty bowl skipping across the floor. My ears burn with her profanity. If Kyle was down here, he’d probably have the world’s biggest erection.
Snot is running from Gretel’s nose. I’m too polite to mention it. Just like I’m too polite to mention the stink coming from the red bucket.
It’s not the right moment, but I can’t wait any longer. ‘I made something,’ I say, lifting my T-shirt. ‘I made something for us.’
IV
From my waistband, I remove a roll of paper. Careful to remain hidden behind my torch beam, I place it beside the iron ring and retreat to the far wall. ‘Can you guess what it is?’
Gretel regards my creation with eyes that have never seemed so dull. For a while, dismayed, I think she’s going to ignore it. Finally, she picks it up, unrolling it like a scroll.
The grid took me two hours to make, marking out the lines with a ruler I stole from Papa’s toolbox. I used a pencil to shade the darker squares, sharpening it six times before I was finished. Now, in the torchlight, the paper shines with graphite. ‘Eight by eight, just like you said,’ I tell her proudly. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s…a little smudgy.’
My tummy clenches as if I’ve been kicked. ‘There was so much colouring-in. I couldn’t help getting a few fingerprints on it. I tried my best.’
At that, something seems to wake in Gretel’s face. ‘It’s a pretty good effort,’ she says. ‘A really good effort, actually. Considering you did it all on your own.’
‘Well, I didn’t have any help. Not from Papa or Mama or anyone.’ My torch beam moves around the cell, landing on Gretel’s bag of chess pieces. I can almost hear the whisper of rosewood. Licking my lips, I say, ‘We have a board now.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So…does that mean we can play?’
My question hangs in the silence. Already, Gretel’s fingers are shiny with powdered graphite. ‘Yes, Elijah,’ she says. ‘It means we can. Thank you. Thank you for doing this.’
My chest swells. I watch her place my makeshift board on the floor. She uses her palms to flatten out the creases, and then…and then…
For a moment, my horror is so overwhelming I can’t breathe. Due to the angle of my torch, I don’t notice the puddle of filthy water until it’s too late. The paper soaks it up like a sponge. When Gretel tries to whip it away, a sharp nub of rock tears it to pieces.
‘Oh,’ she says, distraught. ‘Oh, Elijah. I’m…I’m so sorry.’
Water drips from the ragged mess.
It’s not her fault.
It’s just a stupid, stupid accident.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell her.
There’s a pressure in my head, as if something’s bursting to get loose. I want to reassure her further, but my teeth grind together, making an awful squealing sound.
Gretel’s green eyes flare. She edges backwards, as if something in my voice has scared her. ‘I mean it, Elijah, I’m sorry. After all that work…this place…I just…’
My fingers flex and unflex. I watch her for a long moment. Gradually, the pressure in my head begins to ease. ‘I can make another one,’ I tell her. ‘It’s no problem.’
I don’t mention the cramp I got in my forearm while colouring in those squares. Or how much it hurt. Or how excited I was, bringing it down here. Or how she could have been a tiny bit more careful.
Gretel wipes her fingers on her dress. ‘If you want a board that badly, you should write to FIDE. If nothing else, it’ll save you the pencil work.’
‘FIDE?’
‘The Fédération Internationale des Échecs, in France. Basically, the World Chess Federation.’
‘I don’t have money for stuff like that.’
‘You don’t need any. FIDE exists to promote chess. They’ll send a basic kit to any kid who writes them a suitable letter.’
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see. ‘That can’t be right.’
‘I promise you it is.’
‘For free?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
I think about it for a while. ‘What kind of thing do you have to write?’
‘Just a reason why you need the set and a bit about your interest in chess. Favourite player, or opening. That sort of thing.’
‘I don’t have a favourite player.’
‘Not yet, you don’t.’
‘And you haven’t taught me any openings.’
My nose wrinkles. I sound like a spoiled brat, but I can’t help myself. Suddenly, more than anything, I want my own board and pieces, sent all the way from France. ‘Are you sure you won’t eat?’
Gretel considers my offering. Then she unwraps the handkerchief and stuffs the cheese into her mouth. For a while, the gloopy sound of chewing fills the silence. ‘I can help you write the letter,’ she says, between swallows. ‘You’d just need to post it.’
‘How long would the set take to come?’
She shrugs. ‘A week. Maybe two.’
‘Is the board made of rosewood?’
Gretel laughs. ‘Nope. You’ll probably get a standard tournament mat. But they’re waterproof, at least.’
‘What about the pieces?’
‘Plastic.’
I’m sad that I won’t be getting hand-crafted versions, like Gretel’s. Then again, without her help, I’ll be getting nothing at all. ‘Can we do it, then?’
She tilts her head and peers into the light, and I find myself wondering if she’s as sick, or deflated, as I first thought. ‘What will you do for me, Elijah?’ she asks.
Silence falls between us. It feels like we’re balancing on a tightrope. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to protect me,’ she says. ‘I want you to tell me how to survive this.’
‘I swear to you, Gretel. I’ll do everything I can to make sure nothing bad happens.’
Her head is still tilted. Slowly, she straightens. ‘I like it when you call me Gretel.’
‘I’d like it if you’d call me Hansel.’
‘OK…Hansel.’
‘Will you do it, then? Will you write to FIDE?’
Gretel indicates her rucksack. ‘I have a notebook in there. Pens, too. But I don’t think I can write. Not with my wrist the way it is.’
‘You could dictate.’
‘If they find out about this, about what we’re doing. Would they…’
‘They wouldn’t be happy,’ I tell her. ‘But I can keep a secret, if you can.’
Then I switch off the torch. In perfect darkness, I steal across the floor towards Gretel.
‘Hansel?’
She sounds scared. I hear the scrape of her chain and know she’s backing away. Sad, really – and pretty pointless. If I intended to hurt her – which I would never do – she wouldn’t be able to escape. Ignoring Gretel’s lack of trust, I fetch the rucksack and dig through it. Finding the notepad, I bend back the cover. Then I uncap a pen.
I can write in pitch-darkness, no problem.
‘Shoot,’ I say, thinking of the deer Kyle drilled, the calamity inside its head, the calamity inside mine, and what my brother would say if he were down here with us right now.
I flex my toes and wonder what happened to my shoes. Sometimes, life is so gosh-damned strange it hardly seems real.
V
It’s later. I’m outside the back door. My feet are so cold I can’t feel them. I stayed with Gretel far longer than I’d intended. By the time I snuck out, it was beginning to get light. I only came home because she was getting tired.
I’m not. My head’s far too busy for sleep. Gretel’s words go round and round. I feel that wall inside my mind trembling, as if the whole thing’s about to come crashing down.
If you wanted to help me, you’d get me out of here. You’d tell someone. Someone who could do something. You’d tell the police.
I do want to help her. I do. And yet…
They’re going to kill me anyway unless you do something.
It doesn’t have to be like that.
But I know that’s how it is.
I want to help her so badly. But I’m terrified of what’ll happen if I try.
The wall shivers. I reach out invisible hands to brace it.
Am I losing my mind? Why did I leave the house without shoes? I’m starting to feel like an actor in a play where all the scenes have bled together. Annie calls it déjà vu. Knowing the word doesn’t make it any less scary.
Opening the back door, I let myself into the darkened kitchen. Our cottage is unheated, but it’s warmer than outside. I wipe my frozen feet on the mat and tiptoe to the hall.
The staircase creaks as I climb it. I hear Papa’s snores and Mama’s soft breathing. Passing Kyle’s room, I enter my own and close the door. Only then do I turn on the light. Near the bed, I see my trainers and wet socks. The room smells strange – damp and unpleasant. There are no copper coins on my pillow, but that doesn’t mean no one’s visited. I can’t shift the feeling that something’s wrong.
I go to the bed and sit down. Pulling out the paper torn from Gretel’s notebook, I read the letter she dictated:
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing in the hope that you’ll please send me a free introductory chess set. Even though I’ve learned the full rules, I currently have no board or pieces, and therefore no way of actually playing.
Dietmar Pfister is currently my favourite player. Caspian Alexandr is also very good. Often, they manage to turn the tables on what seem like hopeless situations. There’s something particularly exciting about Pfister’s game. The way he defeated Jacob Nyback in Tblisi last year was truly astonishing.
Although I’m a late starter, I hope that with a board and pieces of my own I’ll develop into a competent player. Grateful if you could send my set to the address at the top of this letter.
Ever your servant,
Kyle North
Gretel told me a bit about Dietmar Pfister, so that bit isn’t a lie. Whether there are other lies, I don’t know. The words aren’t my own, which means I can’t trust them.
But I do want that board, so badly I can think of nothing else. At the top of the page are two addresses. The one on the right is Leon Meunier’s, my brother’s name above it. The one on the left, I don’t recognize. It’s somewhere in England, which worried me, until Gretel explained that FIDE has member federations in every country. Luckily, I still remember the address she gave me when we first met: I’m thirteen years old, and my name’s Elissa Mirzoyan. M-I-R-Z-O-Y-A-N. I live at six, Cloisters Way.
The address on the letter isn’t that one. I hate to be suspicious, but I have to protect myself. Earlier, Gretel asked if she could trust me. The question I need to ask is whether I can trust her. She’s already tried to fool me once.
Again, I feel that dizzying sense of a wall beginning to topple. I sway on the bed, trying to keep my balance. Once I’ve recovered, I read the letter again, searching for traps.
All I need now is an envelope and a stamp. There’s a postbox a few miles down the road. If all goes well, I could have my new board within a week.
There are no pennies on my pillow, but that doesn’t mean I’m safe. The chess set, like everything else, is a fantasy. I have bad instincts, but thankfully not that bad. Going to the corner, I lift the loose floorboard and retrieve my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds. I place the FIDE application letter inside. It can stay there until the morning, when I’ll destroy it.
ELISSA
Day 5
I
In the light of her seventh candle, Elissa eats the scrap of chocolate brownie she hid inside her underwear. The six candles already consumed equate to a forty-eight-hour burn time, but she knows she’s been here far longer; knows, too, that she’s nearing the limit of her endurance. Her injured arm throbs from her elbow to her fingertips. When she dares to examine it, she finds a foul-smelling pus seeping through the makeshift bandage.
Inside the cell, the temperature has dropped further. Her soiled vest is still wet. Otherwise, she’d have put it back on. Earlier, she dried a small section over the candle flame, but it’s a task she can only manage in stages.
On her mental chessboard, the drawer to E8 is open. Into it, she plans to store her every interaction with Elijah, along with her every insight into his character.
It won’t be easy. Because Elijah, now she’s got to know him better, frightens her more than anyone.
For a start, he’s a contradiction. He acts like he wants to help, but despite her pleas he’s consistently failed to raise the alarm. Neither has he been entirely honest. Twice during their conversations he’s mentioned his high IQ. Yet when pressed for his score, it was clear he’d never taken a test.
‘Ninety-nine,’ he’d told her, as if expecting that number to impress. Elissa could have explained that the median adult IQ is one hundred. Hers is one hundred and thirty-eight.
Even if Elijah were to take a test, she doubts the results would impress. The time he took to scratch out his FIDE letter was staggering, and although she didn’t see his handwriting, she’s convinced it’d resemble that of someone far younger. He’s clearly unstable; she suspects, too, that he suffers a form of mental impairment; high-functioning autism, perhaps – something she’s encountered a few times on the chess circuit. When she pointed out he was barefoot, he seemed genuinely confused. And yet he was smart enough to recognize her ploy with the mobile phone.
Elijah seems shockingly unaware of the modern world. He hasn’t heard of the internet; hasn’t heard of apps or tablet computers. Is that because he’s led a sheltered life? Or because he’s spinning her a lie? And why is he so careful to remain hidden? Is he worried she’ll betray him? She could do that easily enough without describing his appearance. Once before, she imagined him as a child-sized monstrosity, with lamp-like eyes and a horribly deformed mouth. Now, unbidden, a new image comes to her; of a boy with smooth skin instead of eyes, and lips as plump and moist as tulip petals. She knows this version of him is just as inaccurate as the first – if Elijah was blinded by deformity, what reason would he have for a torch?
He’s probably still her best chance of surviving this, but the effort of treating him like a friend is exhausting. When she thinks of the affectionate way he calls her ‘silly’, or his delight at their Hansel and Gretel monikers, her stomach grips with nausea. His voice – petulant at times, thoughtful at others – makes her cringe. There’s a quality to it that nags at her, advertising something not-quite-right. When he visits, she feels like Clarice Starling in the company of Hannibal Lecter; or Frodo Baggins in the tunnels with Shelob. Even worse, despite her hope that he’ll help her, he’s already admitted he couldn’t save Bryony.
Still, she got her tree. I made sure of that, even if I couldn’t make sure of anything else. Picked out a tall one, just like she asked.
Maybe that’s why he calls this place the Memory Wood. She imagines, above ground, a landscape of dripping trees, with children’s bones buried among the roots. The thought is enough to set her teeth squealing.
Outside the cell door, the deadbolts rattle in their mountings.
II
It’s the ghoul.
Elissa knows by the stink of him and the harsh white beam of his head torch. She waits in silence as he sets up his equipment. Finished, he carries out the red waste bucket, returning with a clean one.
I want you to think about all the ways your mother has let you down. Every little spite, every dereliction, every selfish act.
She has thought about that. Aside from Elijah’s visits, she’s had little else to occupy her. If the ghoul asks her to talk, she won’t disappoint. She’s wary of being too placid, of losing his respect, but she’s just as frightened of another attack.
‘What day is it?’ she asks, watching the candle flame as it flickers and sways. In response, the ghoul walks over.
She closes her eyes, bracing herself for a blow. Instead, something is set down before her. When she dares to look, she sees a travel bottle of Evian. All at once she realizes how thirsty she is. Snatching up the bottle, she guzzles the contents.
