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II
The carving knife is still buried in his flesh. When I yank it out, a last tide of Papa’s blood gushes over me. He kicks his legs and sighs.
It’s so intimate, this. So weirdly emotional.
Because of my injuries, it takes me a while to draw back my knee and wedge it against his spine. Once that’s done, I grasp the ends of the double-looped chain and pull. Papa kicks again, but his struggles make no difference. He gargles, his eyes bulge; it’s all quite pathetic.
And then, just like that, it’s over.
I unloop my chain from his neck and loll forwards. Closing my eyes, I almost drift off. It’s such a shock that I jerk back my head, terrified that my life will end here, in a gross pool of his blood.
A helicopter blasts over the tool-shed roof. Coastguard, probably, on a regular patrol of the peninsula.
Working quickly, in case I pass out fully, I root through Papa’s clothes until I find the manacle key. Moments later, I’m free. I roll him off my legs and try to pull myself up. My attempt is a joke – if I wasn’t dying, and in a nauseating amount of pain, I’d probably find it funny.
My feet scissor back and forth, creating ripples in the blood lake. Somehow, I get a knee beneath me. Finally, I manage to stand. Blood drips from my clothing like rain. If I go down, I won’t get back up. I’m panting before I’ve even taken five steps.
Outside, I hear the asthmatic rattle of a diesel. I recognize it immediately – the white van that ferried me here. If Gretel’s trying to steal it, she won’t have any luck. Only Papa’s ever known the trick of firing up that engine from cold.Sometimes evenhecan’t do it on the first attempt. It’s probably why he didn’t worry unduly about leaving the keys in the ignition.
At last I reach the tool-shed door. The wind on my face, so fresh after the horrors at my back, is a blessing straight from Jesus. What I see unfolding down the slope is without doubt the work of the devil.
Elissa
I
The scream pierces Elissa’s skull like a drill.
Looking behind her, she sees Annie emerge from the shack. Such violence in the witch’s expression; for a moment, it freezes her rigid. Seconds later, a wasp-like helicopter blasts past in a violent sundering of the sky. The noise is incredible. It shakes Elissa loose of her paralysis. Turning from the shack, she stumbles down the slope.
In the fairy tale, Gretel burned the witch in her oven before freeing her brother from his cage. Elissa, by contrast, has allowed the witch to live and has left Hansel to his fate. It’s a failure of duty that might cost her everything.
The helicopter swoops in again. Printed on the door in bold yellow letters is the word she’d given up hope of ever seeing:POLICE.
‘Help me!’ Elissa shrieks, lifting her good hand to the sky.
This part of the slope is treacherously steep. To her left, jagged promontories thrust mossy elbows of rock into the sea. Far below her, a fleet of police cars bumps along the coastal road, emergency lights flashing. They look so far away.
At her back she hears a groan of metal. Glancing behind her, she sees the witch throw open the van door and climb behind the wheel.
II
The grass is slippery with moisture. Slick arrowheads of rock thrust up from the soil. Elissa knows she can’t descend any faster. If she falls, slams her injured arm, she’ll lie there screaming until Annie runs her down. Instead, she moves at a worm’s pace, carefully picking her way, checking each step before she takes it.
The helicopter plunges past on her left, thethwapof its rotors vibrating in her chest.
‘Help me!’ she shrieks. ‘Tell me what I shoulddo!’
There’s a loose rattle behind her – the van’s engine turning over. Elissa slips on to her backside, barely preventing her injured arm from smashing into the ground. For the space of two breaths she sits there, stunned, while chaos flows around her.
Again, the van’s engine turns over. Again, it clatters out.
‘Good, bitch!’ Elissa screams. ‘That’s what you get!’
In response, the witch runs the ignition a third time. The pistons punch and counter. This time they’ll surely catch a spark, but they don’t, even though Annie keeps them spinning for a good ten seconds.
The police helicopter blasts past yet again, rapidly losing height. Elissa sees, at the base of the slope, the flat patch of ground for which it’s aiming. Its nose angles up. The skids hit the ground and bounce once, twice. The pilot throttles down.
Dragging herself upright, Elissa continues her slow-motion descent. To reach the helicopter, she needs to cover anothertwo hundred metres. If the witch pursues on foot, she’ll have thirty metres of rough ground to make up. Annie’s fat and old, but Elissa’s injured, exhausted. She glances around once again, checking the gap between them.