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‘Well?’
‘It’s come up with a message.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘“No internet connection. Make sure Wi-Fi or cell … u … lar data is turned on, then try again.”’
‘Show me.’
He twists around, scooting backwards until he’s right beside her. His proximity overloads Elissa’s already battered senses. Elijah’s so close she can smell him: a mustiness of unwashed clothes and greasy skin. Something is wrong – desperately so – but she cannot comprehend what. Or perhaps she can, and her mind refuses to accept it.
Gingerly, Elissa reaches out her good hand. She doesn’t take the phone, but she steadies it. Elijah’s finger brushes her thumb. They both flinch.
Her skin burns where it touches him. She hears her mum’s voice, crying out a warning.
Elissa’s vision jitters, skips. She swallows, grits her teeth, forces clarity from the swirl of colours. Gradually, the screen resolves. She hunts in vain for a reception bar. Her guts churn. ‘There’s no signal.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘These walls, this ceiling – they stop the signal getting through.’
Elijah turns to face her. His eyes, reflecting the phone’s blue light, are tiny computer screens. ‘You mean, like a lead box stops radiation?’
‘Exactly like that.’
As Elissa stares at him, he leans a little closer. The rest of his face materializes; and, with it, the reality of her situation – the reality ofElijah– finally emerges.
You’ll begin to feel dizzy, confused. You won’t even be able to trust your own thoughts.
Elissa feels a scream building, a dense knot of horror that can’t be contained. She traps it in her chest regardless, because to release it now, so close to this chance of life, would bring an end to all her hopes.
Elijah’s breath is warm against her face. It smells bad, like he has bits of old meat stuck between his teeth. ‘We can’t play chess?’
Impossible, now, to reconcile that pseudo-innocent voice with the person the candlelight has revealed. Because while Elijah speaks with the pitch and cadence of a twelve-year-old boy, he inhabits, undeniably, the body of a man.
Mairéad
Day 6
I
Lena Mirzoyan watches the recording of Elissa a second time, but she’s unable to offer further insight. Her distress, by the end, is so acute that no one with any compassion could put her through it again.
Outside, the sky grows darker, more malevolent. There’s no warmth in the Mirzoyan living room. Every surface seems touched by cold. Mairéad can’t offer Lena any comfort. All she can think about is the feeling of emptiness in her belly, and the conviction that something is deeply, tragically wrong.
Nine weeks she’s carried this spark inside her. Nine weeks she’s striven to coach it into fire. The nausea, although debilitating, had been comforting in its own way – evidence thatthispregnancy, over all her previous failures, was deeper rooted, more impervious to misfortune.
And now it’s gone.
Before she leaves Lena, she asks to use the upstairs bathroom. There’s no blood when she checks her underwear, no sign of spotting, like before. Pulling up her blouse, she gently probes her abdomen. But she’s a detective, not a doctor – she has no idea what she’s doing.
Mairéad closes her eyes and concentrates. Has the nauseareallydisappeared? Perhaps that two-minute footage of Elissa has temporarily robbed her of feeling. She’d viewed the clip repeatedly before coming here, but Lena’s presence magnified the horror a hundredfold.
Hold on, please hold on, stay with me, please don’t go.
She uses the toilet and washes her hands. On the sink, she sees two toothbrushes in a holder, one of them clearly Elissa’s. Few other traces of the girl exist inside the bathroom – no spew of teenage beauty products, no cluster of budget perfumes. How light her touch on the world has been. How short-lived her legacy, if she’s really gone.
II