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This time, despite her pounding heart, Elissa doesn’t rush for the cell’s far corner. Instead, she remains beside the guttering candle and lifts her head. Doing so takes every ounce of her will, but she wants her jailer to know she’s unbroken. All her life, her mum has taught her to be strong. This deviant might have stolen her freedom. He won’t trample her spirit.
Through the open doorway shines the yellow cone of a torch beam. Elissa squints, tries to peer past it, but everything outside its arc is as black as night. Her jailer’s feet scuffacross the uneven floor. They pause somewhere in Y3, just outside the reach of her chain.
For a moment she wonders: Is he as frightened of her as she is of him? It’s a ridiculous thought, and she dismisses it immediately. Currently, only one person holds the power in this relationship.
The beam lingers on her a while longer. Then it roves around the room, pausing on the buckets at B3, the water stains from F5 to G4, the pillow, the lit candle, the matches, the filthy vest.
Moments later, Elissa finds herself spinning in fresh turbulence, because somehow – contrary to all her expectations – the voice she hears next belongs not to her jailer, but to another.
It falters, high-pitched, and for a crazy instant she thinks of Ethan Bandercroft from school, and the romance she knows will never blossom. Itisn’tEthan, of course: this voice, although mellifluous, is far less self-assured.
There’s something about it, too. Something that makes water of her insides.
Elijah
Day 6
I
Throwing myself down, I press my tummy to the floor, but it’s already far too late. If the 4x4’s driver looked up at my window, I’ll have been plainly silhouetted. Everyone on the estate knows this is my bedroom. The driver will know what I’ve seen.
I think of the copper halfpennies on my pillow: two watchful eyes. The message was clear, and already it’ll seem like I’ve ignored it. But I can’t turn back the clock – either on my presence at the window or on events beneath the Gingerbread House.
My heart knocks against the floorboards. It’s a horrible reminder of my mortality and it triggers fresh thoughts of Gretel, and everything the poor girl endured. Outside, I hear the loose rattle of the 4x4’s exhaust as the vehicle bounces along the track. Gradually, the sound fades.
Climbing to my feet, I snatch at the pull-cord above the bed. Darkness rushes over me. Once my eyes adjust, I step back to the window. Now, the land out there is deathly still – no evidence of humanity, or what passes for it.
Was the vehicle I saw Meunier’s Land Rover? I can thinkof no reason for him to visit that part of the estate so late. Other than the Memory Wood, all that lies in that direction is Knucklebone Lake.
If the late-night traveller wasn’t Meunier, perhaps it was one of the drifters from Wheel Town. I know some of them practise a little poaching at this time of year – more than once, among the trees, I’ve found baited traps or snares. How much of that is down to Kyle, I don’t know, but it can’t all be my brother’s work. Last time I visited Magic Annie I saw no 4x4s parked up, but some of the Wheel Town vehicles are kept under tarps, including the van Kyle used as target practice, until he was made to stop. Like most things around here, a lot remains hidden.
Has Gretel been replaced so quickly? The thought sickens me, but almost as sickening is my undeniable prickle of excitement, my grief at her passing – and my sorrow at another taking – offset by the prospect of a new friend. If the worst has happened, at least I’ll have a purpose again. It’s pointless to dwell on how the last friendship ended in failure, because they always do.
I think of a story Magic Annie once told me, this one not as brutal as the foxes that fell into a pit. It was about Robert the Bruce, who became King of Scots in 1306. After fighting the English six times and losing, he escaped to the island of Rathlin. Holed up in a cave, he watched a spider try repeatedly to weave its web, succeeding on the seventh attempt. Inspired, Bruce returned to his homeland, where he won his next battle.
I’m no Scottish king, but I do what I can for those who wake beneath the Memory Wood. Right now, despite my fear of what lurks outside, I feel myself compelled.
Put on the full armour of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.
As always, it’s easier to read the Bible than to obey it. Idon’t want to return to the Memory Wood tonight, certainly not to the Gingerbread House, but I know that I must.
From my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds, I retrieve the padlock key. I slip it into my pyjama pocket and feel around for my torch. When I can’t find it straight away, my heart begins to thump. Has someone discovered my collection and rooted through it? Of all my treasures, I can’t imagine that a cheap plastic torch would interest anyone. Then I recall my last visit to the cellar in the woods; the spinning shadows as my torch slipped from my fingers; the darkness and my sudden panic.
I left it there, didn’t I? Left it right where I dropped it. For a while, the memory freezes me rigid. How could I have been socareless? How could I have ignored all the lessons I’ve learned to cover my tracks? If I had reason to return to the cottage before, I have twice the reason now, but I can barely bring myself to climb off my bed.
Feeling for my clothes, I dress before I can change my mind.
II
Out in the hallway, tiptoeing towards the stairs, it’s impossible to keep my movements silent. Each floorboard creaks like it’s trying to wake the dead.
Passing my parents’ room, I hear their snores and peek inside.
I’m amazed at how vulnerable they look. So easy for someone to creep in and slash their throats while they sleep.That’sa terrible thought, and yet I can’t shake it. I want to slip under the covers and worm between them, but there’s far too much at stake.
When I step past their door towards the stairs I realize with a lurch that somehow I’ve turned myself around and am heading back to my own room. The discovery unbalances me. Putting a hand to the wall, I wait for my dizziness to fade.
Now, another thought strikes me. How did my parents fall asleep so quickly? Only a handful of minutes have passed since they were in my room, and yet here they are, deep in slumber. How did they manage to wash, change into their nightclothes and climb into bed, all in such a short space of time?