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When she sees me, her eyes crinkle like crêpe paper. ‘Anoki,’ she cries, more evidence that she’s having a Native American day and that this is not the occasion to call her Magic Annie.
‘Kamali,’ I reply, bowing low. She told me once it meansspirit guide. It fits her perfectly, and I know she likes it. Stepping back from the door, Annie welcomes me in.
‘My trainers are wet,’ I say. ‘My socks, too.’
‘Then strip them off and let’s get them dry.’
Following her inside, I surrender my footwear. A greyishhaze – musty yet sweet – hangs in the air. On the table by the window a cheroot smoulders in an ashtray. On the sill above the sink a stick of incense throws off silken coils.
‘I’ll open a window,’ Annie says, but I shake my head, sliding on to the U-shaped bench seat that surrounds her table. Although the smoke makes my eyes water, I find it relaxing.
The TV stands on the countertop, angled towards me. It’s showing that programme with the judge who sorts out people’s squabbles. Annie picks up the remote and mutes the sound. ‘These daps of yours are falling apart,’ she says, carrying them to the wood stove. ‘About time your da bought you a new pair.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is that a growling tummy I hear?’
Opening a cupboard, she takes out her biscuit barrel and arranges three pecan-nut biscuits on a plate. Then, pouring a glass of milk, she sets the lot down in front of me.
‘WhatIwant to know,’ she adds, huffing the turquoise lock out of her eyes, ‘is what you’ve been doing in those woods without a jacket or jumper, with wet socks and shoesandbare legs.’
My hand freezes in the act of reaching out. Has Annie somehow learned of my discovery in the Memory Wood? It’s only when I realize she’s concerned solely about my inappropriate clothing that my heart resumes its beat.
I snatch up a biscuit. Nobody makes them like Annie, gooey and crumbly and packed full of niceness. I’m on to my second before she’s filled her kettle and taken down her mug.
The show with the bad-tempered judge finishes. I watch an ad for Bold washing powder, followed by another for Petits Filous. I pluck up the third biscuit and am about to tackle it when Elissa Mirzoyan peers out of the TV screen.
IV
She watches me for at least three seconds before I even make the connection. The girl I met in the cellar looks nothing like this image.MyElissa might be dirt-streaked and shivery, she might be bloody and frightened, but she’s determined, strong. Chained, yes, but still a dragon.
This girl, by contrast, is a pale imitation. The photograph is a formal head-and-shoulders shot. In it, Elissa’s wearing school uniform – blue blouse and striped tie. She looks uncomfortable, reluctant to pull a smile but too polite to object. The result is forced and unnatural. Her eyes, even so, are just as arresting.
Promise me. Promise you won’t let me die in here.
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t.
Promise me.
I hear Annie put down her mug. From the counter she can’t see the TV, but any closer and she’ll have a perfect view. Just before she comes over Elissa’s picture disappears and a whitewashed Victorian building fills the screen. Across the front, in big black letters, is its name:THE MARSHALL COURT HOTEL. Now, the image changes again – a huge room filled with long tables, covered with chequerboards crowded with little statues. Children hunch over them, deep in thought.
The room is replaced with another. This time there’s only one table. Three people sit at it. In the centre, a woman with Elissa’s mouth and cheekbones is crying. She reads from a piece of paper as an older man rubs her back. The screen flickers white and I wonder if I’m about to faint. Then I realize there are others in the room that I cannot see, people with cameras taking photographs.
Annie reaches for the remote. I think she’s going to change the channel. Instead, she cancels the mute. My ears fill with words I don’t want to hear.
‘—ust want my daughter back,’ the crying woman says, followed by something I can’t make out. ‘… precious,’ she sobs. ‘… so talented and beautiful.’ The cameras go crazy. A telephone number appears onscreen.
‘There are people on this earth,’ Annie says, ‘that have no business walking it.’
When Elissa reappears, we stare at her in silence.
‘Did you come for the magic?’ Annie asks, eyes still on the TV.
I swallow.
On TV, Elissa is replaced by a weather report. Dark swirls race across a barren land. I wonder how long it’ll be before the storm hits.