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He pauses, spits.
‘What things?’
‘Oh, stuff about you. Annie told her about Eli. About what you did.’
My blood crashes in my ears. ‘Papa—’
‘Save it.’ He drops his cigarette to the floor, grinding it out with his heel. ‘I probably shouldn’t even be here, warningyou like this.’ Retrieving the tray and its contents, he steps out and shuts the door.
Back at the safe house, when I called Papa from Ben’s phone, I fooled myself into thinking that this would be easy, that Gretel was already dead, that I could slide back into my old life without a price.
She’s clever, that Elissa. Ruthless, too. Some of the things she’s been saying …
Tilting my head, I listen for any hint I might not be alone. Outside, wind saws at the grass. It’s impossible to tell if anyone’s close, so I’ll have to trust my instincts. They’re not always as bad as I make out.
I know I’m a liar. Often, to survive, I’ve had no choice. I realize how fickle Annie can be; returning without a back-up plan would’ve been stupid. And while my IQ might not be as high as Gretel’s, I’m certainly not dumb.
Putting my free hand behind me, I reach under my T-shirt. The carving knife is fixed against my spine with strips of Elastoplast. I stole it from the safe-house kitchen after phoning Papa.
It takes me a few minutes to release it, working the handle back and forth. I examine the steel, careful – as always – to avoid my reflection. Scooping some dirt from the floor, I rub it on to the blade, dulling the shine. It’s dark in the tool shed, but I can’t take any chances. As I work I think of Gretel, sitting in the warmth while I’m tethered out here like one of Noakes’s dogs.
She’s clever, that Elissa. Ruthless, too. Some of the things she’s been saying …
Placing the carving knife within reach, I prepare myself for what’s coming.
Elissa
I
When she wakes, the witch is standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan. The ghoul is in his chair, smoking another roll-up. It’s a domestic scene from a horror movie, so surreal it’s almost comedic.
With effort, Elissa pulls herself up. Her right arm feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Her fingers are so swollen they look like they’ll burst at the slightest pressure. Her back throbs. Her legs feel tingly and light.
She can’t even see as well as she could. Unless she concentrates, the ghoul and the witch morph into blurry-facedbodachs, exuding malevolence like toxic gas.
Her thoughts turn to Elijah, chained inside the shed. He lied to her about so many things; even, it seems, his real name. And when he had the chance to save her, he chose instead to let her rot.
That boy, he’s a survivor. He values his life above all else. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.
But just like she told the witch, she’s a survivor too. She’s reached the point where nothing, however barbaric, is off limits. Her strength might be failing, but her resolve remainsstrong. She recalls the knife the witch showed her, and the obvious implication. She’s only thirteen. She shouldn’t have to think about such things. But if she wants to be fourteen, fifteen, eighteen – if she wants to grow up, lead a useful life – then perhaps it’s the only way. Killing Elijah would be a cost she’d bear all her days. But here, now, it’s not an act from which she’d retreat. She has a duty – to her mum, to her grandparents, toherself– to survive this.
At the stove, Annie pours the contents of the saucepan into a bowl, which she places on a tray. Then she fetches the knife from the countertop. ‘Decision time,’ she says, facing Elissa.
What if I say no?
What if I refuse to go outside?
What if I lie down, close my eyes and pretend this isn’t happening?
All those thoughts and more flash through Elissa’s head. She opens her mouth to speak. Instead of protesting, she climbs unsteadily to her feet.
II
Outside, the wind is a living thing, beating the grass into submission. A few miles out to sea, an oil tanker carves a white wake, the only other evidence of humanity. Elissa watches it as she walks. If she dropped the tray and raised her good arm, would anybody see? Even if someone did, she’s just a girl waving at a distant ship. Impossible to deduce her true plight from that.
As she approaches the tool shed, awkwardly carrying Elijah’s meal, she feels curiously absent of emotion. If fearlessness is a side effect of Annie’s pills, perhaps she owes the witch some gratitude.
Her breathing is elevated; her heart is crashing in her chest. When she blinks, or turns her head too fast, the landscape stutters like an image inside a zoetrope. In her mouth, her teeth feel sharper than before. Her tongue passes over their ridges, releasing an effervescent rush of sensation.