III
Here, inside this cobwebby cavity, is where I keep my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds. The container itself is nothing to boast about, just a Tupperware box that I found one day while rummaging through the Meuniers’ bins. Still, I’ve personalized it a bit. Across the lid, in black marker pen, it says: TOP SECRET. PRIVATE PROPERTY. DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT PERMISSION. Carrying the box to the bed, I carefully ease off the lid.
Immediately, I’m greeted by the familiar smells of its treasures. Not all of them are nice. Chief culprit, among the nasty ones, is the trio of knucklebones I found beside the lake. I’m pretty sure they aren’t really knucklebones, nor any other part of a child. Weird, but even though the cartilage has shrivelled and the bones themselves have dried, their stench never fades. These days, I don’t touch them if possible, and yet I can never quite bring myself to throw them away. I’m funny like that – the longer I possess something, the harder I find it to let go. When I became keeper of these bones, I elected myself Rememberer-in-Chief of whichever animal once owned them. If I choose to give them up, it’ll be as if that creature never lived.
Now, with care, I lift out the other items in my collection. There’s a smooth grey stone, cracked in half to reveal a fossilized ammonite; a pair of glasses which once may have fitted me but do so no longer; a Roman coin; a neatly folded handkerchief with a monogrammed B; a bundle of Panini football stickers; a tartan cat collar and tiny metal bell; a plastic phone card; a rosewood chess piece; a vial of perfume; a blunted Stanley knife; and a silver necklace with links so delicate they slip like sand through my fingers.
Then there are the skulls. Most belong to birds, but among them there’s a rabbit and a squirrel, and one that’s either a fox or a badger – I’m never quite sure. I cleaned them all with bleach, but a few blackish stains remain. At the bottom is a child’s diary, the corners scuffed. The name on the cover isn’t mine.
From my pocket I retrieve Gretel’s vest. Carefully, I lay it over the diary, adding the padlock key from the Gingerbread House. Then I pile the other items on top. I’m just resealing the lid when I hear the rattle of a latch downstairs.
The front door opens. There’s commotion in the hallway, followed by muttered conversation. The kitchen tap runs. Water roars into a kettle. When I hear footsteps on the stairs I slither off the bed and thrust my collection back into its hidey-hole, leaping away just as the bedroom door swings wide.
Mama sweeps into the room. She stops dead, almost as if she’s surprised to encounter me. Her eyes flare, moving to the corner where I was standing, but she can’t see it clearly – my bed blocks her view. Perching on the mattress, she pats a section of it. Obedient, I join her.
‘I’m sorry you had to eat alone,’ she says. With a finger, she traces the floral patterns on my duvet. I watch, captivated. Mama’s fingers are flawless. Her skin is like marble and her nails, painted a deep maroon, are perfectly manicured. I don’t know how it’s possible to work the land like she does and retain such immaculate hands.
‘Did you read your Bible?’
‘Not yet, Mama.’
‘Ephesians tonight, I think. Starting at chapter six.’
I nod, knowing that she’ll want me to focus on verse ten in particular.
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on the full armour of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.
Not many kids can quote Scripture so easily, but me and the Bible go way back. Mama has always loved Jesus, so it’s only natural that she wanted me to love him too.
‘Elijah? Are you all right?’
I brush my hand across my eyes, dismayed she’s seen my tears. ‘Kyle,’ I say. ‘He blames me for—’
‘That boy needs a firmer hand. I’ll rein him in, Elijah. You just watch.’
Trouble is, I doubt even Mama wields much power over my brother these days. I look at her hands and wish, more than anything, that she would open her arms and allow me to climb into her lap, the way she did when I was younger.
As if she’s read my thoughts, she laces her fingers tightly together.
Out in the hall, a floorboard creaks. My bedroom door opens a second time, revealing Papa. He stares at us for a moment before he enters. Taking off his cap, he twists it like he’s wringing out water.
‘Eli,’ he says. His voice is strained and he sounds tired. I wonder what he’s been doing since we came home – fixing tools, probably, or running errands up at Rufus Hall. ‘We need to talk about what happened.’
For a moment I think he means Gretel, but of course he doesn’t – he’s referring to how the police picked me up, wandering along a country lane three miles from Meunierfields.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I just got confused.’
‘Because if you were trying to run away—’
‘You know I wouldn’t.’
He should know – I was the one who made the police call him so he could fetch me back.
‘Out there, Eli, it’s a dangerous world. You might think you know it, but you don’t. Round here you have a lot of freedom – space to run about, do what you want. But we can’t have you wandering off like that again. Everyone was very worried.’
Mama rises from the mattress and stands beside him. An image of Gretel pops into my head and I try to shoo it away, anxious that my parents will read my thoughts. Luckily, they don’t stay long, closing the door behind them. It’s only when I exhale that I realize how long I’ve been holding my breath.
On the nightstand lies my Bible. I’m too exhausted to pick it up. I’ve already recited the lesson that Mama wanted me to read. Seeing the words in print won’t make their meaning any clearer.
Put on the full armour of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.
A pull-cord hangs from the ceiling, allowing me to climb beneath the covers before I turn out the light. I’m just about to do that when I notice what’s on my pillow.
IV
Blood rushes like a river in my arteries. Downstairs, a TV comes on. I imagine my parents sitting in front of it, their faces bathed in pale light. Canned laughter rolls up the stairs.
On my pillow, so lustrous they could have been minted hours earlier, lie two copper coins. They’re tiny, smaller even than the pennies in Papa’s change bowl. Both feature the same image: an old-fashioned sailing ship with billowing sails. When I move my head the light winks off them, making it seem like they’re gliding across a blood-red sea. Looking closer, I see they’re halfpennies. In Ancient Greece, coins were placed on the eyes of the dead to pay for transport across the River Styx. Whoever left these coins is making a very obvious point, designed to frighten me.
It’s worked. I can barely think. My heart knocks like a beating drum.
Have the coins been here all along? I didn’t spot them when I came in. For a crazy moment I wonder if Mama left them here, but she wouldn’t do that. Strange she didn’t say anything, even so – perhaps, like me, she failed to notice them. Papa didn’t come anywhere near the bed, which counts him out. And besides, he’s not the type to play games.
I don’t want to touch the halfpennies, but I can’t leave them. When I pluck them from the pillow they’re cold against my palm. Tugging open my curtains, I raise the sash window. The moon is up, its light made milky by cloud. Beyond our vegetable garden I see the western half of Fallow Field. A breeze rolls in, cold enough to give me goosebumps.