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Growling and snapping, Noakes’s two dogs scrabble up. Only their chains, attached to a corkscrew hoop sunk into the marshy ground, hold them back. As Meunier strides into the settlement, still yelling, I creep towards his Defender.
Already, others have begun to appear. Noakes is first, bundled up in his old coat, his skin like spoiled sausage meat, his hands bunched into fists.
The two men begin a heated exchange. Then, from their caravan, the new couple emerge. The woman is dressed in knee-high boots and a voluminous fake fur. Her face is heavily made up. Feathery smudges of blue, green and silver give her the appearance of a tropical bird.
I reach the 4x4. Press myself against the passenger door. I can hear Meunier demanding that the newcomers leave the estate.
Because the Defender’s windows are tinted, I can keep out of sight while I listen. Despite that, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched. Several times I glance back at the Memory Wood, but I see no one lurking among the trees. When I peer once again through the Defender’s side window, I spot something I’d missed.
In the vehicle’s central console, beside Meunier’s phone and wallet, lies today’sDaily Telegraph. Beneath the newspaper’s masthead, a huge image of Gretel stares up at me. They’ve used a different photograph this time – a better one,too. In her expression I see clear hints of the woman she might one day become.
Did you tell them aboutme,Elijah? Did you remember my name, like I told you?Elissa Mirzoyan.Did you explain where I was? What was happening down here? Did you tell them how to find me?
I know she thinks I failed her. I know she’s lost faith in my ability to help. If I’m honest, I’ve started to lose faith too.
I think of my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds and how much I’d like this image of Gretel to be a part of it. If I can’t save her, I have a duty, at the very least, to remember her. As gently as I can, I ease open the Land Rover’s door.
III
Autumn thunder rumbles across Meunierfields, chasing a flock of geese that erupts from the surface of Knucklebone Lake. The sound, violent and unexpected, fries my nerves. With the argument still raging behind me, I run for the safety of the treeline. There, kneeling in wet bracken, I tear Gretel’s picture from the newspaper.
Back on my feet, I’m about to head home when I see Magic Annie’s door clatter open. My spirit guide emerges on to the caravan’s front step. Gone is the Cowichan sweater and necklace of turquoise stones. Instead, she’s wearing a colourful woollen skirt – what she once told me was a Romanianfota. Her hair is bound up in a white clothmarama.
Descending to the grass, fingers laced before her, Annie approaches the group. She’s a gentle moonbeam among them. Meunier’s in mid-rant when he notices her. When Annie starts to speak he listens, and when he responds she gives him the same respect.
A minute later, Meunier marches back to his Defender. He accelerates away, tyres spitting grass and mud.
The Wheel Town folk watch him go. The woman with the peacock eyes hisses something at Annie, who narrows her eyes in displeasure.
I’ve been on the end of that look once or twice. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but the younger woman doesn’t seem to care. Following her outburst, she stomps off to her caravan, accompanied by the guy in the cap. Annie and Noakes, wearing troubled expressions, talk a while longer before they part.
Watching them, I can’t escape the feeling that everything around here, my own life included, is about to self-combust.
IV
I should leave, now, before I’m discovered, but seeing Annie has made me crave her companionship, so I break from cover and sprint towards her caravan.
She answers on the first knock, ushering me inside. I kick off my trainers and she puts them by the wood stove. While I take a seat near the TV, Annie pours a glass of milk and places three pecan-nut biscuits on a plate. She’s about to set them on the table when she pulls up short. ‘Anoki,’ she says, despite this not being a Native American day. ‘Why the tears?’
Unable to stem them, I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘What’s happening, Annie? What’s going on?’
Her brow creases. ‘What do you mean?’
I can’t tell her the real reason I’m crying, so instead I nod towards the window, at the tracks left by Meunier’s Defender. ‘Is he kicking you out?’
Annie’s eyes crinkle. ‘Isthatwhat’s got you all in a fluster? Don’t you worry about that old meanie. Come on, wipe your face and drink your milk.’
There’s a tightness in my throat I can’t swallow. ‘But what if hedoeskick you out?’
‘You just listen,’ she says, sliding on to the bench seat beside me. ‘Old Annie knows a thing or two about Leon Meunier, and you can be sure he knows it too. He won’t be kicking anyone out – not today, not tomorrow, nor any time soon.’
Fresh tears run down my cheeks. I want to believe her, but I’m so torn up by thoughts of Gretel’s infected wrist and my lost torch that it’s impossible to feel any comfort. ‘If you went, Annie, I don’t know what I’d do.’
She touches my face with a gentle finger. ‘You’re too good for this world, Elijah.’
I close my eyes, resting my head against her shoulder. Annie strokes my hair. From outside, I hear the familiar clatter of a diesel. I sit up straight as Leon Meunier’s Defender swings back into view, pulling up sharply beside the fire pit.
‘Saints preserve us,’ Annie mutters, rising to her feet.