The memory wood, p.19
The Memory Wood, page 19
Stone steps in front, pressure behind. Elissa struggles up.
So much time she’d thought she had before her. So many years unlived.
The ghoul shoves her again, harder this time. In response she climbs faster, hurrying towards her fate.
Keep good thoughts in her head. Thoughts of family, of love and laughter. But her mind is racing so fast she can’t fill it. In her panic, she bites her tongue. The pain is glass inside her mouth.
The ghoul’s torch illuminates a switchback. Elissa leans around it.
‘Up,’ he hisses. ‘Up, up.’
In an instant she’s back in her mum’s Fiesta, parked outside Wide Boys. Lena Mirzoyan is saying something – just a throwaway line, but it’s soaked in love, steeped in it; and then the scene falls away and she’s back on the staircase, emerging into a squalid room that might have been a kitchen long ago. That she’ll spend her last moments separated from those she cares most about, with no one to hold her hand, is the worst of all fates.
It’s light outside, an afternoon grey. After so long imprisoned in darkness, Elissa’s senses are overcome. Her muscles burn with the effort of walking. Her feet trip over floorboards warped by damp.
Ahead, a corridor of sloping shadows. Here, the air’s even colder. It presses at her shoulders, her face. ‘Please,’ she whispers. ‘I did what you said. I did.’
The ghoul is behind her. She could glance back and look at him, but she’s too scared to do that, too scared to consider what it’ll mean if he lets her. Even now, she can’t abandon hope.
All at once she’s outside, her shoes sinking into soft mulch. Around her, dripping trees point towards an overcast sky.
The Memory Wood, she thinks.
It’s so beautiful. The whole world is beautiful. Tears prick her eyes.
Then she sees the white van, parked to her left, and its sticker: a trilby-wearing skull smoking a cigarette.
CHILLAX.
The van doors are open. When the ghoul shoves her she bangs her knees against the bumper.
Suicidal to climb in, but what choice does she have? She can’t fight. Her muscles are so slack she can’t even run. Somehow, she lifts her right knee, swinging it on to the cargo bed. The ghoul grabs her other leg and flips her.
Elissa tumbles over, unable to protect her wrist. The pain is a white-hot scream. Her stomach clenches and she vomits, a liquid gush. Behind her, the ghoul leaps into the van.
Elissa blinks, but her eyes aren’t working. She smells something odd, recalls a vague memory of flowers. There’s something wet against her lips, and suddenly she’s so scared that she just wants this to end, and quickly.
How many more seconds of life?
How many?
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she whispers.
Then the darkness extinguishes her.
ELIJAH
Day 6
I
Night, and I’m sprinting through the Memory Wood, soaked to the skin. Above me, rain pours from a Bible-black sky. The trees rattle like shaken bones. I’m so cold.
As I run, I try to recall everything that’s happened since I last saw Gretel, but my mind’s so scrambled I can hardly focus. I think of the letter she dictated, the promise of a chess set all of my own. I knew that would bring trouble, so back in my room I vowed to destroy it. Last night, the letter stayed hidden in my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds. This morning I brought it out here with some matches.
But I couldn’t burn it.
Down in that cellar, Gretel lifted the curtains on a world I never knew existed. I so desperately wanted a part of it that I convinced myself it was possible. Returning home, I searched through Papa’s things until I found an envelope and a stamp. Then I set off for the Memory Wood’s western boundary. I remember my scramble through the barbed-wire fence that borders the lane. How long did I walk before I found the postbox? Two miles? Three?
The letter itself doesn’t matter. It’s what happened after that’s the problem. Up until I posted it, I had a reason to be beyond the perimeter, something to distract me from my fears. But once my task was complete, I fell apart.
I remember getting lost. Seeing things that made no sense. The voices of people asking my name. Next thing I knew, I was in a police car, riding to the station. There was the room with no windows, the Coca-Cola the officers brought me. They didn’t wear uniforms, like they do on TV.
We wear play clothes.
I thought they were teasing. I’m not good at being teased.
When Papa whisked me out of there I could have cried with relief. Back home, earlier this afternoon, I waited until he went into the garden for a smoke. Then I crept downstairs and escaped to the Memory Wood. Outside the Gingerbread House I found a patch of disturbed mulch – evidence that a vehicle had come and gone. I never saw it, but I knew, immediately, that it had taken my friend away. Down in the cellar, I found a single print that matched my own shoe, in size if not in shape.
I recall the clatter of deadbolts as I unlocked the door, the stench of bleach so powerful that it burned my nose; the empty cell, the iron ring, the knowledge that something awful had happened.
That’s when I fled. This evening, up in my room, Mama urged me to read Ephesians: Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on the full armour of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. But the devil has sunk his claws deep, and in my selfishness I’ve assisted him.
Once Mama had left, I found the coins on my pillow. Standing at my window, flinging them into the night, I saw a 4x4 bouncing along the track beside Fallow Field. Meunier, perhaps? Someone from Wheel Town? There was no reason for anyone to be out here so late.
That’s when I remembered what had happened in the empty cellar, my horror at Gretel’s loss causing the torch to slip from my fingers. Instead of retrieving it, I turned and fled, leaving it for anyone to find. Not only that, I left the cell door unlocked.
If my prying is to go unnoticed, I have to erase the evidence.
Through the trees, I see the rain-soaked cottage, silhouetted. There’s no vehicle parked outside, no sign of anyone else. The rain beats against my scalp. Shoulders hunched, I break from cover.
II
Twice, as I blindly feel my way down the cellar steps, I nearly fall. My trainers, clogged with wet mud, offer no grip. I’m leaving prints, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
At the bottom of the steps I shuffle forwards, hands raised before me. When I fled Elissa’s cell earlier this afternoon, I didn’t pause to slam the door. Now, I’m wary of striking my head against its edge.
My arm swabs left and right, feeling for obstacles. The stench of bleach isn’t as potent as before, but it’s still enough to make my eyes water. Finally, my hand touches the door.
It’s closed.
When I move my fingers across it I discover that the deadbolts have been drawn. The padlock I’d removed is back in place.
It takes me a moment to process the full implications. Around me, the darkness seems to breathe.
III
They know.
That’s the most obvious thing.
All this time, I’ve been so careful to cover my tracks. From the very start, I’ve understood what’s at stake for those who break the rules. My parents can’t protect me against what’s coming. No one can.
Again, in my head, I feel something shift. The wall I’ve constructed is losing the battle against what’s pushing against it. I don’t know what will happen if it falls.
Around me, the darkness feels heavy, like I’m trapped beneath the ocean with a mile of black water pressing down. Squashed by all that pressure, I can hardly breathe.
Will they be waiting when I go back upstairs? I imagine the building’s outer walls lit by the beams of a dirty white van.
CHILLAX.
Shuddering, I listen for any sound. But it’s silent down here, the deathly quiet of a crypt. When I delve into my pocket I feel the hard curves of the padlock key.
Not thirty minutes ago I was standing at my bedroom window, watching a vehicle bounce along the track beside Fallow Field. The driver must have been coming here. The cell had already been stripped of Elissa’s presence – washed, scrubbed, disinfected. Was the door resealed as a message, or is there another reason?
My hands are shaking so badly it takes me an age to undo the padlock. I draw back the central bolt. Two others follow. Gripping the handle, I pause in the darkness.
I should walk away, find that police station. Tell the truth this time, instead of lies.
Grimacing, I open the door.
IV
Out of the cell, just like before, rolls that hellish stench of bleach. I hesitate on the threshold, letting it wash over me. Then, clenching my fists, I take a forward step, feeling the way with my toe. I don’t expect to find my torch, not now, but at least the act of searching will be a distraction from what might be waiting above ground.
Eyes closed despite the darkness, I move across the cell, sweeping the floor with my foot. I need to do this carefully. I can’t afford to miss a single millimetre. I’m halfway to the iron ring – or think I am – when I hear something.
Even though I freeze, straining my ears, my breathing’s far too loud, my heartbeat far too fierce. ‘Hello?’ I venture, bracing for the impact of a hammer, or the slash of a blade.
The darkness pulses like a living thing, a black lung. ‘Hello, Elijah,’ it replies.
MAIRÉAD
Day 6
I
In Salisbury, Mairéad is back in the Mirzoyan living room for her third visit in four days. Lena and her parents sit opposite. Judy Pauletto hovers near by. Yesterday, Lena looked like a corpse. Right now, she looks worse.
Mairéad doesn’t feel much better. This morning she managed a full breakfast, but she barely kept it down five minutes before bringing the whole lot back up. Thankfully, she’s had no more abdominal pain since yesterday’s press conference, and no repeat of the spotting. Last night, she’d been too dog-tired to arrange a referral to the early-pregnancy assessment unit. Thanks to the latest discovery, she hasn’t found the time since.
‘There’s been another communication,’ she explains. ‘I won’t lie. It’s going to be upsetting. But I need you to watch it. You might notice something we haven’t.’
With a glance at Judy, she opens her laptop and taps the play button. Elissa Mirzoyan emerges, as if from a nightmare.
The girl looks dreadful. Emaciated, scared, ill. When Lena Mirzoyan sees her daughter, she sags forwards as if her strings have been cut.
Onscreen, Elissa takes a few steadying breaths. Then, in a voice that rasps like wet sand, she says, ‘There was this time, last summer. Mum promised to take me to London. I’d always wanted to ride on the Underground, take a Tube to all the famous stops – check out Madame Tussauds, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, 221B Baker Street.’
‘Did you go?’
Even though she’s watched this two-minute clip thirty times, Mairéad still stiffens when she hears that voice. On the sofa, Lena Mirzoyan recoils.
‘Yes,’ Elissa replies. ‘Although not to any of those places I said. We ended up going to the cinema to see a repeat showing of Léon, this old movie my mum likes. I hated it, hated every minute.’
‘That doesn’t sound fun.’
‘No. Afterwards, we were meant to go somewhere for cake. Black Forest gateau, just like she promised.’
‘You didn’t get cake?’
‘We went to a pub. Mum drank five vodkas, then we caught the train home.’
‘Your mum sounds like a real bitch.’
Elissa Mirzoyan stares at the camera for five long seconds. When the laptop screen goes dark, Mairéad closes the lid. ‘I’m sorry. I know that’s hard to watch. It’s what seems to motivate him – getting girls to disparage their mothers for the camera.’
Lena lurches to her feet. Eyes wild, she races from the room. Judy Pauletto goes to follow, but Mairéad holds up a hand. ‘Give her a moment.’
Within a minute, Lena is back. ‘Elissa,’ she says, breathless. ‘She’s sending us a message.’
II
The air inside the living room acquires a static charge.
Mairéad stands up far too fast. The room drains of colour. She clenches her teeth, waiting for the dizziness to pass. ‘Explain.’
‘We did go to London on her birthday, but we never used the Tube. Elissa made me promise we wouldn’t – she hated the whole idea. We took a train to Waterloo, and from there we hopped on buses everywhere she wanted to go.’
‘You said there was a message.’
Vigorously, Lena nods her head. ‘That’s part of it, don’t you see? Why change that bit of the story? The man who’s holding her – he wouldn’t know. That bit’s just for us. We used buses that day, but Elissa says we used the Tube. I think she’s telling us she’s underground.’
Mairéad opens her mouth. She glances at Judy Pauletto before saying, ‘That’s quite a leap.’
Lena shakes her head. ‘Not if you know my daughter. Besides, I don’t think it’s the only message. Those places she mentioned – we never went anywhere like that. We spent the morning in the British Museum and all afternoon at the Science Museum.’ She holds out a sheaf of tickets. ‘See? I still have our stubs.’
Mairéad’s heart begins to beat faster. Already, Judy is scribbling furiously. ‘This is good, Lena. This is excellent. What else can you tell us?’
‘Those other places. They might be part of the message too. Elissa’s only changing certain parts of the story. I think the replacements are meant to give us clues. Madame Tussauds, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, Baker Street – I don’t know what she’s trying to say, but I know she’s saying something.’
‘221B Baker Street,’ Elissa’s grandfather says, ‘was the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes.’
Mairéad nods. ‘And Madame Tussauds is the waxworks. Perhaps she’s hinting at a mask, some kind of disguise. Ripley’s Believe It Or Not was the place in Piccadilly that closed down. It had a huge collection of oddities: shrunken heads, five-legged lambs, all kinds of freakish stuff.’
Just for a moment, the strength seems to go out of Lena. Then she straightens. ‘We did go for cake, but it was carrot cake, not Black Forest gateau.’
‘You think she’s telling us she’s underground…in a forest?’
‘I’m sure of it.’ And then Lena swallows, because the horror of that is almost unbearable. ‘The film she said I liked – Léon. I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Léon’s a Luc Besson film. About a girl who strikes up a friendship with a hitman after her parents are murdered.’
Lena Mirzoyan sits on the sofa and hugs her knees.
‘You’ve got a very smart daughter,’ Mairéad says. ‘Would you watch the video with me one more time? See if you notice anything else?’
When Lena nods, Judy Pauletto opens her notebook to a fresh page.
Outside, rainclouds drag a curtain across the sky. Has Elissa Mirzoyan really been imprisoned underground, in woodland, far from prying eyes? If so, her chances of survival, already gossamer-thin, are virtually nil.
Hold on, please hold on.
Abruptly, and with a crushing and inescapable sense of loss, Mairéad realizes that her feelings of nausea have entirely disappeared.
ELISSA
Day 6
I
She wakes to a crashing in her head, like a harbour wall pounded by sea. Her face is stuck to something…by glue, or vomit, or blood – she cannot tell. Although her stomach is empty, her bladder is full to bursting.
Is this her coffin? Is that why her head feels so confined?
Her lungs grow tight. It’s an effort to breathe. When she tries, fractionally, to move her leg, it slides over something rough and cold. The floor beneath her is uneven. It’s also familiar. Somehow, she’s back in her cell.
What shocks her most is her relief. Relief that she’s back in surroundings she knows, relief that her situation has stabilized. Earlier, she’d convinced herself she was about to die. Instead, it seems she’s received a reprieve. She has no idea why the ghoul evacuated her to the van. Perhaps it was a test, or a sick form of entertainment.
The pressure in Elissa’s bladder grows. When she raises her head, something cold and slimy drips from her face – partly digested eggs and bacon. With her good hand, she wipes it away.
Next, she feels for the manacle, groaning when she finds it back in place. There’s a wetness all along her arm that she knows must be blood. She feels no pain from where the wound reopened – just a vague pulsing – but there is a smell, like someone threw a dead thing into a laundry basket of soiled clothes.
A rattling cuts through the chaos of her thoughts. Moments later, Elissa hears the squeal of a rubber seal. Cold air washes over her. Then a voice, wavering and uncertain.
II
‘Hello, Elijah,’ she says.
If he hears her response, he gives no indication. She doesn’t sense him cross the floor, doesn’t see his torch’s stuttering beam.
There’s shallow breathing. Nothing else.
‘Hansel?’
The name hangs in the air, but he doesn’t claim it. She hears him shuffle closer. Without candlelight, he could be creeping towards her with a knife and she wouldn’t know.
Pulling herself into a sitting position, gritting her teeth against a flood of nausea, she edges backwards. The chain clanks along the floor, betraying her retreat.
‘Gretel,’ Elijah says. So much emotion chokes his voice that she wonders if he’s crying. ‘I thought…I thought…’
