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II
I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to do. Silent, I watch the vehicles speed towards Meunier’s mansion. This is his land. Behind me stands his cottage. Those trees, burning in the Memory Wood, belong to him too. Perhaps the police will think this is his fault.
I hear the crackle-snap of distant flames, the frenzied screams of wild boar. Those cries, of course, could be illusory. I have, as I’ve so often said, an overactive imagination.
‘It’s done,’ Kyle says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘You won’t escape what’s coming.’
‘I haven’tdoneanything.’
‘You thought this place was bad, but it’s nothing to where you’re going.’
‘I tried to save her!’
‘Same old bullshit, Eli. Trouble is, nobody’s listening any more ’cept me.’
‘I tried toSAVE her!’
Kyle hawks up something foul and spits it into the rain.
I turn and run back up the garden path, splashing through puddles and filth. Above me, the sky unleashes its full fury. Thunder rolls across Meunierfields like the hooves of stampeding cattle. Reaching the cottage’s front door, I push my way inside.
III
This place. This hated place. In many ways, it’s been a prison as claustrophobic as the Gingerbread House.
I’m still clutching the axe. When I drop it, the bit buries itself in the floor. The shaft points towards the front entrance, refusing to let me forget what’s out there, refusing to let me forget what I’ve done.
Except I haven’t done anything.
Certainly not what Kyle said. I didn’t save Gretel, but I didn’t burn her. I wouldn’t.
As I stand, frozen, in the hallway, I can’t take my eyes off the axe shaft. It could almost be the pointer of a sundial except, like so many things around here – like Mama, like Bryony, like Kyle – it casts no shadow.
I retreat to the living room, calling for my parents, for my dead brother, even though I know they’re not there. I see damp walls, mould-stained furniture, the peeling Arthur Sarnoff print of rascally dogs playing pool.
On a side table beside the only armchair lies a transparent plastic case. Inside is a disc that shines all the colours of the rainbow. There’s a name on it:ELISSA. I recognize the handwriting.
Rain drums against the window. My breath catches in my throat. I stare at the disc and wonder what it is. Perhaps an alien, or a traveller from the far future, deposited it here while I was away.
Liar!someone screams, deep inside my skull.
LIAR!
It’s Gretel’s voice. I flee from it.
IV
Trailing wet prints, I slip-slide to the hall. I clatter up the stairs and burst into my bedroom.
The carnage that greets me stops me dead. All across thefloor, my stuff is strewn about. A wax jacket – filthy and stinking – lies on the bed. In the corner, the loose floorboard has been ripped away. Beneath the window, scattered haphazardly, are the contents of my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds.
I see the trio of knucklebones I can no longer bear to touch, the Roman coin, the child’s diary, Gretel’s filthy vest. Amid the loot lies a tiny perfume bottle, its lid removed, a dark stain where its contents have leaked out. I can smell the scent from here, and it immediately reminds me of Mama – not that I ever remember Mama wearing perfume.
Did I do this? Or was it Kyle?
By my desk are the cases for Papa’s video equipment. Leaning against them is Kyle’s .22. Earlier, I tore that from his hands and cast it into the grass. At least, that’s what I thought.
Strange colours swarm up the wall. I think I’m going to pass out, until I realize I’m seeing the reflections of flashing emergency lights converging on my home. That convoy wasn’t at Rufus Hall long. Perhaps Meunier directed it here.