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‘Don’t fuckin’callher that,’ he hisses. ‘I’m done with your make-believe shit.’
I cringe at his language. The worst thing is, he’s not eventrying to shock me; this is just how Kyle thinks and speaks. A wander through his head would reveal nothing but bad words, naked girls and the mounted heads of dead animals.
I’ve never understood how we could end up so different. We’re like Nelson Muntz and Martin Prince Jr – the bully and the wimpy kid fromThe Simpsons, a cartoon I sometimes watch in Magic Annie’s caravan. Still, Kyle has a point; right now, it’s important to respect the girl by using her real name. ‘Elissa,’ I say, blinking up at him. ‘Elissa’s gone.’
‘No shit.’ He expels the words so violently that a bolus of spittle flies from his mouth and hits my lip. It buzzes there, a warm nimbus of electricity. ‘You might as well use the proper words. She’sdead, Eli. And whose fault is that?’
I gasp, eyes wide.AmI responsible? It’s what I’ve been telling myself ever since I stumbled out of the cellar, but hearing it from someone else is infinitely worse.
Kyle seems to spot some element of doubt in my eyes. It drives him to fury. This time, when his hand strays to his rifle, I’m convinced he’s going to put a calamity inside my head. I’m so filled with remorse that I don’t even flinch, but my brother pulls up short. ‘I fuckin’likedher, Eli,’ he spits. ‘I fuckin’ liked playin’ around with her. When she wanted, she could say some interesting shit.’
‘I … I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t think they’d find out.’
Kyle straightens, his expression loaded with contempt. ‘Well, they did. And now, because of you, she’s dead.’ He drags a scrap of fabric from his pocket and flings it at my face. By the time I snatch it away he’s already turned his back. I watch him march off, kicking through the undergrowth like a stag during the rut.
I fuckin’ liked playin’ around with her.
I feel a brief pang of jealousy; I thoughtIwas the only one who played with Gretel. Pointless to feel jealousy about anyof this, but I can’t forget Kyle’s words. What were they talking about, down in that cellar? And how does he know this is my fault?
I’m thinking so hard about that I almost forget what he threw at me. When I check I see it’s a girl’s vest, streaked with brown stains. I want to hurl it away, but I can’t dismiss Gretel so easily. Clutching the garment to my chest, I croak out a word I’ve used far too often, and with far too little effect: ‘Sorry.’
Around me the light is dying. I don’t want to be in these woods at full dark. Five minutes later I’m shuffle-scurrying along the track beside Fallow Field. The feasting crows I saw earlier have vanished. Whatever they were eating appears to have been consumed.
II
Night, and I’m standing at the kitchen sink, preparing supper. Because of the way we live – wilder than other families, more dependent on the land – it’s vital that everyone pitches in. I don’t go to school but I have my reading and numbers, and when that’s done I have my chores.
When I got home, I found a pheasant lying on the drainer. I know it came from Papa because a shotgun brought it down. It could do with a few days’ hanging, but none of us are fussy. Personally, I prefer game with as little flavour as possible.
I don’t bother plucking the bird because I’m not going to roast it whole. Instead, I cut off the head and trim away its wings and feet. With a knife, I score along the spine, removing the skin in a single, ripping movement. Opening the chest cavity, I scoop out the innards and toss them in the bin. By the time I’m finished my fingers are slick with blood.The thighs go in the fridge for tomorrow’s meal. The breasts I wrap in bacon and put in the oven. While they’re cooking I boil carrots and potatoes. All the while I face the wide kitchen window. I can’t see anything past the glass, and I deliberately avoid my own reflection.
For some reason, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Clearing away the vegetable peelings, I wonder if Kyle is looking in at me. I imagine the sights of his rifle lining up between my eyes and think of the muntjac he shot, and the calamity inside its head, but I refuse to lower the blinds. There are worse things on this estate than my brother and his gun. It’s important to stick to my usual routine, to act as if nothing has happened.
A bottle of wine from Rufus Hall’s cellar stands beside the kettle, robed in a fine coat of dust. It wasn’t there this morning. The Meuniers donate one now and then, usually to reward a favour from Papa. I wonder what’s prompted this particular offering. Neither Mama nor Papa are big drinkers. Most of the time, the only wine they have is what I add to our meals.
I look at the label and see that it’s French: a Bordeaux from Saint-Émilion, bottled in 1998. Papa says the amount of dust on a bottle is a good guide to quality. By that standard, this is a decent one. Reaching out, I slide my finger across the neck, revealing a slim window of deeply hued glass. In it I see a reflection of myself, grossly distorted. Quickly, I turn away. Dust falls from my fingers like ash.
The kitchen fills with the scent of cooking meat. I get out some plates, wondering if anyone will join me. Right now, I’m not sure if eating alone would be worse than eating in company. It’s warm in here, but the other rooms are cold. The cottage has no central heating and I haven’t lit a fire.
My thoughts return to my dead friend. She called me Hansel and I called her Gretel. Renaming things was partof our game. The cottage – not this one but its dark twin inside the Memory Wood – became our Gingerbread House. Somehow, it took the edge off our fears; mine, at least – I was never sure whether Gretel was ever truly afraid although, looking back, I suppose she must have been.
To Jesus, I murmur.If any of her family are sick or old or just fed up with life, please let them die tonight so she’s not all alone.
If I think about Gretel much longer, I won’t be able to eat, so for a while I push her out of my head. I drain the potatoes and mash them. Then I take the meat from the oven, cut one of the pheasant breasts in half and place it on my plate. It’s a tiny portion, but I doubt I’ll finish it. I add carrots, fill a glass with water and carry my meal to the dining room. Taking my usual seat, I douse the food with salt, but it makes little difference; when I fork some into my mouth it still tastes like clay.
Somehow, despite my poor appetite, I eat everything. Back in the kitchen, I wash the dishes. I no longer feel watched through the window over the sink, which is a relief, until I remember my bad instincts.
Upstairs, the house is even colder. A wind has sprung up, stirring the curtains in my room. I undress, carefully folding my clothes. Apart from the swishing trees and the shriek of a solitary fox out on Fallow Field, the night is silent.
Going to the window, I draw the curtains. Only then do I tiptoe to the loose floorboard in the corner and carefully lift it aside.
III
Here, inside this cobwebby cavity, is where I keep my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds. The container itself isnothing to boast about, just a Tupperware box that I found one day while rummaging through the Meuniers’ bins. Still, I’ve personalized it a bit. Across the lid, in black marker pen, it says:TOP SECRET. PRIVATE PROPERTY. DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT PERMISSION.Carrying the box to the bed, I carefully ease off the lid.
Immediately, I’m greeted by the familiar smells of its treasures. Not all of them are nice. Chief culprit, among the nasty ones, is the trio of knucklebones I found beside the lake. I’m pretty sure they aren’treallyknucklebones, nor any other part of a child. Weird, but even though the cartilage has shrivelled and the bones themselves have dried, their stench never fades. These days, I don’t touch them if possible, and yet I can never quite bring myself to throw them away. I’m funny like that – the longer I possess something, the harder I find it to let go. When I became keeper of these bones, I elected myself Rememberer-in-Chief of whichever animal once owned them. If I choose to give them up, it’ll be as if that creature never lived.
Now, with care, I lift out the other items in my collection. There’s a smooth grey stone, cracked in half to reveal a fossilized ammonite; a pair of glasses which once may have fitted me but do so no longer; a Roman coin; a neatly folded handkerchief with a monogrammed B; a bundle of Panini football stickers; a tartan cat collar and tiny metal bell; a plastic phone card; a rosewood chess piece; a vial of perfume; a blunted Stanley knife; and a silver necklace with links so delicate they slip like sand through my fingers.