Page 63 of The Elements

Lying in my makeshift coffin, I slowly began to understand that there is only one thing crueler or more virulent than a fourteen-year-old boy: two of them.

At first, I had been terrified, convinced that I would quickly run out of oxygen and die beneath the earth.

The breathing tube the twins had fed through the ground worked well enough, but even so, every breath I sucked desperately into my lungs felt as if it might be my last. The darkness contributed to my panic.

I heard sounds, or imagined I did. Sometimes I found myself laughing hysterically, then breaking down in tears.

As the hours passed, I started to imagine that the outside world was a fantasy and that only here, inside my tomb, was reality.

Occasionally, I pinched myself, wondering whether I’d succumbed to some horrible nightmare.

I dozed, then woke with a shock, my hands pressing impotently against the ceiling.

I found ways to pass the time. I sang my favorite songs over and over.

At school, I’d memorized the names of all the English kings and queens, from William the Conqueror to Elizabeth II, and I recited them backward.

I thought of every job that began with the letter “M” and every country that started with the letter “A.” I came up with the most disgusting ways to destroy the lives of fourteen-year-old boys.

I decided upon the meal I would have eaten, had I known this would be my last night on earth.

I composed letters in my head, one to Hannah and one to Beth, telling them what terrible parents, or surrogate parents, they had been.

I counted my fingers and toes and became convinced that I had nine of the former and eleven of the latter.

I tried to remember as many of Black Beauty’s owners as I could.

I closed my eyes and dreamed of wide-open spaces.

I cried. I laughed. I made popping noises with my mouth. I think, at one point, I slept.

When I finally heard the sound of the soil being cleared from above me, I panicked again, uncertain what fresh torture might be in store for me, and when the lid was lifted at last and the morning sun shone down on my face I was momentarily blinded.

As my eyes adjusted, however, I recognized the faces of the boys kneeling in the soil, looking down at me with anxious expressions.

The birthmark on Arthur’s neck seemed more pronounced than ever, and they appeared surprised, even frightened, when I didn’t immediately leap from my improvised grave.

“Freya,” said Pascoe, reaching a hand down, his voice filled with fear. “Freya, are you all right?”

I stared at his hand, uncertain whether to take it.

“Come on, Freya,” said Arthur. “It was a joke, that’s all. A game. Don’t be mad at us.”

So, this was the second game we had played.

Which was worse? I wondered. One that involved my being repeatedly raped in a cave or one that saw me being buried alive?

And if there was to be a third, what form might that take?

Perhaps they would tie me to a wall and throw axes at me.

Or take me to the top of the cliffs and hang me over by my ankles.

Slowly, I felt the warmth return to my body and I sat up cautiously, my back aching from the long hours I had spent lying in the same position.

Pulling myself to my feet, I felt my knees tremble as I exhumed myself.

To my right, I noticed a long steel pole discarded by the builders in the dirt and considered picking it up and bashing their brains in with it.

Then I thought, no, I’ll kill just one of them.

That would hurt more . I was familiar enough with their ways to know that neither could possibly survive without the other.

“We didn’t mean to leave you there for so long,” said Arthur, doing his best to sound repentant. “It was only meant to be for an hour or two. But we fell asleep. Father didn’t come home—we usually wake when he does—so we couldn’t come back. We don’t know where he is.”

He looked at me as if he expected me to offer an explanation for Kitto’s absence, but it was the furthest thing from my mind.

“You buried me,” I whispered, my voice grainy. I was dehydrated, badly in need of water. “You left me to die.”

“It was a game,” he repeated, and I turned to Pascoe, who appeared far less contrite than his twin.

If anything, he looked mildly irritated, as if he considered it something of a bore that I wasn’t willing to laugh along at their actions.

Arthur moved forward and, worried that he was going to put me back where he’d found me, I pushed him away.

He stumbled, almost falling into the pit himself.

I ran from them both, my unsteady legs gathering strength as I raced toward the beach.

When I reached the shoreline, I ran into the water, desperate for the sea to cleanse me.

I remained there a long time, swimming much further out than I’d intended. I could swim to France if I wanted, I told myself. I could drown. I could escape them all.

On the shoreline I saw the twins waving for me to return.

Their heads were pressed together, locked in conversation.

I guessed that they were frightened, just as I had been frightened.

Fearful of what I might do, who I might tell.

There were so many ways that I could cause trouble for them, after all.

The cave; the grave; these waves. Their telling me that their father had murdered their mother.

I had rarely thought of this since they’d first mentioned it, but it came back to me now as I floated there, wondering whether it might, in fact, be true.

If the boys were psychopaths, then it stood to reason that Kitto might be one too.

Eventually, I returned to the beach, stepping onto the sand and walking past them, ignoring their attempts to talk to me. As I made my way back in the direction of the cottage, it pleased me to think that they would spend the hours and days ahead worrying about what might happen next.

Back home, I found Beth lying on the sofa, smoking a cigarette and watching one of those Saturday-morning television shows aimed at teenagers.

Scattered on the carpet were empty beer cans, and she waved in their direction, not taking her eyes off the screen, utterly oblivious to my soaking clothes, and instructed me to clear them up.

She was barefoot, wearing a tracksuit, and hadn’t showered yet, her makeup from the previous night streaked across her face.

“You were up and about early,” she muttered, and I knew then that she hadn’t even been aware of my absence the night before.

From the bathroom, I heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the taps turning on, and, glancing down the corridor, I expected to see Eli emerge through the door, his usual smile on his face when he saw me.

But when the door to the living room opened, it wasn’t Eli who stepped into the room, it was Kitto Teague.

I stared at him, unable to comprehend his presence here.

He paused for a moment and frowned, as if he wasn’t entirely sure who I was.

“Where’s Eli?” I asked, turning to Beth, and she shrugged her shoulders, took a long drag from her cigarette, then laughed at something one of the television presenters said, before answering.

“Eli’s history,” she said. “He’s gone. And good riddance too.”

“Gone where?”

“To the unemployment office, I expect,” said Kitto, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs and reaching for his shoes.

“Three weeks behind schedule,” he added, his voice so refined that it seemed almost comical, as if he was putting it on.

A cartoon Englishman in an American film.

“That’s what I get for hiring a yokel rather than bringing a professional down from London. I should have got rid of him long ago.”

“Ditto,” said Beth.

He walked over to the sofa and retrieved his coat, leaning over and whispering something in Beth’s ear. She muted the television for a moment before looking up at him.

“I don’t see why not,” she replied to whatever it was he’d said.

“Only, just so you know, I’m not here for a bunk-up any time you’ve got ants in your pants.

Take me somewhere nice next time, all right?

Somewhere fancy though, not just down the pub for cod and chips and mushy peas. I can get that any time.”

“Let’s wait and see,” he replied quietly. He made his way toward me, narrowing his eyes as he looked me up and down. For a moment, I thought he might prize my jaws apart and check my teeth.

“You’re friends with my sons, aren’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. It seemed pointless to try to explain the complicated nature of our relationship, which even I did not fully understand. “Do you have a favorite?”

“A favorite?” I asked, frowning.

“Yes, among the two of them,” he said. “Is there one of them that you like more than the other?”

I stared at him. It had never occurred to me to separate them in any way. They seemed like a composite being to me. They had always been the twins. Arthur and Pascoe.

“Or perhaps one that you dislike less?” he continued.

“Personally, I’ve always preferred Pascoe.

Arthur can be querulous. And I find that birthmark of his unsightly.

Their mother was a twin too, as was her father.

It’s not a Teague trait. I find it faintly ridiculous, if I’m honest. Their devotion to each other embarrasses me too.

I’d prefer they fought, as boys do, not carried on as if they’ve got some unholy crush on each other.

I’d rather hoped you might come between them, in fact. That they’d fight over you. Anyway…”

He drifted off for a moment and glanced around the room with a sigh, as if he was considering whether or not he should put the rent up or simply burn the place down.

“Don’t tell either of them I said that, will you?

” He reached down and took my chin in his hands.

“No one likes a tattletale.” Then he leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips, lingering there for a moment while Beth watched and took a long, slow drag on her cigarette as she observed us.

“It doesn’t really have to be somewhere fancy, Mr. Teague,” she called out as he left. “I was only joking. The local is as good as anywhere.”

He didn’t reply, merely raised a hand in the air without looking back.

Beth, on the other hand, wore a hopeful expression on her face.

I found it surprising that she would address him in such a formal way.

If they had slept together, as I assumed they had, then surely she could at least call him by his first name.

“I think I might be onto something there, sweetheart,” she said, rubbing the thumb and index finger of her right hand together in the universal sign for money.

Her cigarette fell as she did so, dropping onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice as it connected with a newspaper, igniting a small but determined flame.

I watched as the pages rose in anger, knowing I should say something but choosing to remain silent.

It took another thirty seconds before she realized that the heat around her ankles was the beginnings of a fire, and she quickly stamped it out.

I remained in my room for the rest of the day, stretched out on my bed.

Although I was exhausted, whenever I closed my eyes I imagined myself back in my coffin with the sound of the earth falling on the lid and the cramped walls closing in on me.

I was only twelve years old that summer, but I was mature enough to know that I would think about what had taken place during those months for the rest of my life.

Still, I reassured myself that all was not lost. After all, there was still a week left before I was due to return to Norfolk. There was still time to set things right.