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I’m heading nowhere in particular when I stumble across them: four dark furrows that twist between the trees. They’re tyre marks, and it’s obvious where they lead. Obvious, too, that something out-of-the-ordinary has happened.
There’s no vehicle parked outside the ruined cottage when I arrive, but that’s where the tracks converge: one set made on arrival, one set on departure. Magpies caw on the cottage roof. Their calls seem like an invitation:Elijah, come and see, come and see, come and see.
Studying the trees and what lies between them, I see no sign of anyone else. Kyle could be watching, but I don’t feel that weird itch between my shoulder blades that sometimes signals he’s close.
As I step into the clearing there’s commotion to my right. A muntjac springs from the undergrowth and zig-zags in front of me, eyes showing white. I brace for the sound of my brother’s rifle, but all I hear is scrabbling hooves as the deerdisappears into the trees. My heart, now, is galloping out of control. A minute passes before I’m calm enough to approach the cottage’s front door.
Can my hunch about those tyre marks be right? Can the cellar really have a new resident?
The building’s dead eyes look hostile. Up on the roof, the magpies’ cries sound less invitational than before. I know it’s my mind playing tricks, the part that wants to investigate fighting the part that does not.
At the threshold, just like it always does, my curiosity wins out. The need to discover what prize fate has plonked into my lap is irresistible. I think of the crow with the broken wing that Papa nursed back to health. Perhaps, down in the cellar, I’ll find my own chance for redemption. Just like the time before. And the time before that.
How many months since Bryony left me, the last resident of this place? It’s been so long I’ve lost count.
It’s dark in the hall. I pass the living room, where an ash tree has burst through the floor, and sidle past the old dresser. I feel as if I’m gliding above the floor rather than walking upon it. In the kitchen, I barely see the spreading ivy before I’m through the pantry door and drifting down the stone steps into darkness. My last image is of the pickling jars that line the shelves, their murky contents like foetuses in a museum collection.
The steps double-back. Soon I’m at the bottom. I draw out my torch and switch it on. Before me stands the soundproofed wall with its reinforced door. All three of the deadbolts are in the closed position, the middle one secured by a padlock. I can hear nothing from the other side.
On the floor, pressed into the dirt, is a single footprint. When I hover my shoe over it, the similarity in size is uncanny. A rash of goosebumps tightens my skin. Is this evidence that the cellar has a new guest? I’ve been visiting every week forthe last six months, but this is the first time I’ve seen any indication.
There’s little else I can glean from the print so I step over it. At the door, I lift my hand to the topmost deadbolt and draw it back. I repeat the move with the bottom bolt. There I pause, flashing the torch behind me. If it shines on Kyle’s face, I’ll drop dead from a stopped heart, but my brother is nowhere in sight.
Convinced, now, that my inkling is correct, I take out my key and slide it into the padlock. One turn, a click. I drop the lock into my pocket and draw back the last bolt.
Here we are, then. On the cusp of another adventure. They always end the same, but at the beginning – like now – there’s often some semblance of hope.
I clear my throat, mentally rehearsing my greeting. First impressions count, even down here in the dark. The rubber seal squeals as the door swings open. Holding my breath, I step through.
II
The first thing I notice is not the girl but the candle – its flickering yellow flame. It’ll reveal me if I’m not careful, so quickly I raise my torch, aiming its beam at her eyes. It’s unkind but unavoidable – until I know more about this newcomer and her nature, it’s vital that I protect myself. I still remember the time I was attacked in here, in the days before the iron ring.
The girl flinches from my light. Then she steadies herself and lifts her chin. Her eyes, narrowed against the glare, are as vivid and green as polished emeralds.
She’s nothing like I expected.
They never are.
Silent, I play the beam over the rest of her. My skin tingles as I follow the light. This pause before speaking is magical, a spell I’m reluctant to break. Here, at the start, so much of our relationship is unexplored. My knowledge of her –ourknowledge ofeach other– is limited purely to what we see. And so far, blinded by my torch,shesees nothing at all.
Those green eyes draw me in. Considering them, I want to believe that this time will be different, that everything will turn out all right, that I’ll be able to save her from the future she’s been dealt.
Her black hair is mussed, damp where it touches her skin. She has what Magic Annie would call Celtic features: high forehead, sharp nose and chin. Her skin is pale, but whether that’s natural or because of what’s happened to her, I can’t tell. She’s a little older than me: perhaps a year, perhaps two.
When I spot the manacle on her wrist my heart nearly breaks. Blood has dried in a crust around a deep wound just above it. More blood, fresh and glistening, seeps between the clots. I wonder if she was trying to free herself. If so, she won’t have any luck – not unless she smashes her hand to a pulp and pulls it, wet and flaccid, through her restraint.
Flaccidis the word for a body part hanging loosely or limply, especially if it looks gross.
Silent a moment longer, I cast around the room. I see the buckets, fresh candles, a matchbox. There’s a wet patch on the floor, near the stinky pillow. The air smells bad. Wrinkling my nose, I try to ignore it. To do otherwise would be rude.
‘Hi,’ I say, returning my torch beam to her face. ‘What’s your name?’
The girl’s green eyes flare. Her jaw drops open and shescrambles up. It’s obvious she was expecting a different voice. I can only imagine the thoughts now rushing through her head.
‘I’m Elissa,’ she croaks. ‘Elissa Mirzoyan. Please – get help. Before he finds you here.’
I’ve discovered, in these first moments, that it’s wise to hold a few things back. I’m not deceitful by nature – at least, that’s what Mama says – but trust is built gradually or not at all.