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Perhaps she understands my discomfort, because she gestures at my handcuffs and turns to her colleague. ‘Let’s have those removed.’
The man stands and crabs around the table. He seems wary, as if he thinks it’s a bad idea, but he doesn’t say anything, unlocking the cuffs and slipping them off my wrists.
The woman introduces herself as Detective SuperintendentMacCullagh. After that she asks my name, which is weird because I told her during my arrest. Then I remember the cameras. ‘Kyle North,’ I say, glancing at Mama.
‘What’s your date of birth, Kyle?’
‘Third of February.’
‘Year?’
‘Nineteen eighty-seven.’
‘Which makes you …’
‘Twelve years old.’
MacCullagh pauses, her eyes flat. I hope I haven’t offended her. Sliding my hands between my thighs, I vow not to interrupt her again. I’m in trouble here, serious trouble. I won’t make things better by forgetting my manners.
‘Before we begin,’ she says, ‘I’d like to explain your rights again. Check that you understand them fully.’
‘OK.’
MacCullagh’s voice changes, becomes wooden, like in a movie I once watched in Annie’s caravan –Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It scares me, that voice, until I realize she’s reciting something learned by rote. Afterwards, she asks if I want a solicitor – which I think is a kind of lawyer – but I can’t see why I would.
I look up at Mama, so grateful she hasn’t abandoned me. Earlier, watching the smoke rise over Meunierfields, I convinced myself I wouldn’t see her again.
‘Did it burn?’ I ask. ‘Is it gone?’
MacCullagh’s face is a mask. ‘Did what burn?’
‘The Memory Wood.’
I want to ask about the Gingerbread House, too, but I’m not sure I can stomach the answer.
‘You mean the woodland a few hundred yards from your house?’
I nod.
‘There was a fire, yes.’
‘Has it all gone?’
‘Not entirely. The rain stopped it spreading far.’
‘My Memory Trees,’ I begin, and abruptly close my mouth.
‘Your Memory Trees?’ MacCullagh’s voice is gentler now, mesmeric.
‘Careful,’ Mama says, pushing away from the wall. ‘Don’t lose yourself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, addressing both women. ‘I think I lost myself.’
MacCullagh leans backwards. Her seat releases a brief farting sound. I know well enough not to smile.
‘Kyle,’ she says, in that same soft voice. ‘I’m not here to judge. I’m not here to make accusations, cause trouble, anything like that. I’m just investigating the disappearance of Elissa Mirzoyan, trying to find out what happened. I know you’re a smart guy. What can you tell me about that?’
It’s been a while since anyone praised my intelligence. The day Gretel taught me chess, I told her about my high IQ and she asked my score. I’d never heard of an IQ score so I made one up – ninety-nine. It’s not a lie if it’s true, and there’s every chance it is. With an IQ like that, Gretel said, I’d have no problem with chess. And she was right. I didn’t. The rules, at least. I still haven’t played a game.