Page 4

This isn’t my kitchen. There’s no hum of a fridge, no tick of a wall clock. Ivy has invaded from outside, creeping across the ceiling like a rash.
Despite the broken windows and freely moving air, I notice a vague scent of something that wasn’t here before. It’s not unpleasant but it gives me major jitters. When a breeze stirs the ivy leaves and sets them whispering, the scent is flushed away.
To my right is the pantry door. There’s no horror-movie squeak when I turn the handle, no squeal of unoiled hinges when I swing it open. The darkness inside is that of a cave.
I take out my torch and switch it on. The beam – weak and yellow, flickering at the slightest movement – illuminates a cracked tile floor and cobwebs that hang like rags. Towards the back, past shelving that holds a few forgotten jars of preserves, lies a square of purest black that swallows my light completely, because it’s the entrance to the cellar where I found her, and where I hope she’ll still be.
X
This is the point where Idoneed my courage. Police stations and deadfall traps are nothing in comparison. For as long as I can remember I’ve had a fear of small spaces, a recurring dream of being trapped underground. These walls are solid enough, but the ash tree in the front room has deformed the ceiling above it. If the building collapses while I’m down in the cellar, who knows if I’ll survive long enough to be dugout? Papa would come looking, so I’m not worried about dying from hunger or thirst, but how much air would I need? And how would I cope once the batteries in my torch failed?
Shuffling to the cellar entrance, I begin to descend. The steps are stone blocks, slippery with damp. Halfway down they double back and the greyness behind me winks out. That aroma of something not-quite-right grows stronger, a cleaner smell amid all the decay.
Soon I’m at the bottom. The floor here is uneven, partly dirt and partly solid rock. In one corner lies a metal barrel so orange with rust it’s started to collapse. Passing it, I come at once to the barrier that separates this half of the cellar from what lies beyond.
XI
It’s constructed from the same boarding you see on the windows of abandoned shops – smooth and yellow, flecked with softwood chips. From here, I can’t see any of the timber frame to which it’s nailed.
Cut into the centre is a door. Two heavy-duty hinges extend in slim triangles across it. The metal glimmers, cold and bright. All around the jamb is a seam of black rubber. Three large deadbolts provide security. The one at chest height is usually secured with a padlock. I have the key in my pocket, but I won’t be needing it today. The padlock has disappeared.
In my dismay I fumble the torch, nearly dropping it. For a crazy second, light bounces around me. Shadows flitter from the walls like bats. I want to flee up the steps to the Memory Wood, but I have a responsibility here. I’m part ofthis. Whatever happened down in this cellar happened because of me.
A sick taste, now, at the back of my throat. I reach for the topmost deadbolt and slide it back. Pausing, I tilt my head. Did I hear something just then? Down here, in the gloom? Or from somewhere up above? I think of the ash tree’s branches pressing at the living-room ceiling and throw back the second deadbolt before I can change my mind.
XII
No sense in dawdling. Nothing beyond this door can hurt me physically. Of that I am sure. I worry, instead, that I’ll see something so awful I’ll never scrub it from my memory.
Putting my hand on the last bolt, I draw it back.
Pause.
Listen.
No sound breaks the silence. No whisper of a breeze.
I grip the handle, turn it clockwise and pull. The rubber squeals as the door releases from its frame. I step back, blinking into the revealed darkness.
The smell that wafts out is the same one I caught upstairs, but far stronger, so sharp it makes my eyes water. I recognize it, too: household bleach. Not the citrusy kind you sometimes get but the regular stuff, the sort that gets in your nose and feels like it’s stripping away the hairs.
The chamber didn’t smell like this before. I fear that during my time away something monstrous has happened. When I step inside and shine my torch around, I know it has.
XIII
Just like the rest of the cellar, the floor here is covered with nubs of sharp rock. They press through my trainers and hurt my feet. Three walls of rough-cut stone form part of the cottage’s foundations. The fourth, now behind me, is made of the same thick fibreboard I saw on the way in.
A great deal of care has been put into its construction. The open doorway reveals that the false wall is a foot thick, the cavity packed with PVC bags filled with soundproofing. Someone, at some point, has tried to damage the door from the inside. Deep scratches mark the wood.
I can hardly breathe, but somehow I manage to speak: ‘Gretel?’
The name rebounds off the walls. In here my voice sounds deeper, more throaty, as if the cellar has aged me fifty years.
‘Gretel,’ I repeat, and now my voice sounds more twisted than ever. The torch blinks furiously. I try to steady it, pointing the beam at the very centre of the chamber.
Through the bedrock, a U-shaped bolt has been sunk, trapping an iron ring. Previously, Gretel’s chain was attached to that ring. Now, both the chain and the girl are gone.
The bleach fumes are thick in my throat. My tummy flops and I gag. Aiming my torch around the chamber, I see that the pillow, the wash bucket and the makeshift toilet have also disappeared. The floor looks like it’s been scrubbed. I don’t want to think about what’s been scoured away, or the meaning of that antiseptic smell.