At B7, overturned but miraculously unbroken, she finds the holder. The candle itself has rolled loose, so she crawls to G7, lights a new one and screws it into the dish.
Once again, the shadows retreat. This time, the bobbing yellow light reveals something ghastly: her right arm, from fingertips to elbow, is entirely sleeved in blood. The manacle has cut her wrist almost to the bone, the flesh parting like a set of red lips. Blood flows freely from the mouth, dripping to the floor in heavy spatters.
In the movies, when someone suffers an injury, they tear a strip from their clothing to bind the wound. But Elissa can’t tear her dress. Either the fabric’s too strong or she’s too weak.
Her vest lies near the iron ring, filthy and wet. She daren’t use it as a binding. When she casts around for alternatives, she notices something she’d missed until now: her rucksack, in which she’d stashed the food and the last of her water, has vanished.
Cold, hungry and in pain, she’d thought her situation could grow no bleaker. And now it has; immeasurably so. As well as her food and drink, she’s lost her Stauntons, her books, her notepad and pens. Worst of all is the loss of Monkey. However hard she tries to tell herself he was just a knitted sack, she can’t dismiss what he represented. Inanimate or not, he was her companion in this. Now that he’s gone, she’s truly alone.
Huddling close to the candle, Elissa listens to the slow drip of her blood and her stomach’s empty gurgle. Really, she should blow out the light and conserve her supply, but who knows how much longer she’ll possess it? Earlier, she’d scolded herself for drinking so much water. Now, she’s glad she did. She thinks of her mum, and when that becomes too painful she thinks of Monkey; and when that becomes too painful she closes her eyes and thinks of nothing at all.
VII
In the end, it’s not a week before her jailer returns, perhaps not even a day, but it’s a lot longer than a few hours. In his absence, her tongue has become a blister. By the time she hears the clatter of deadbolts, only a finger’s width of candle remains unburned. Its flame wobbles as the door squeals open.
This time, despite her pounding heart, Elissa doesn’t rush for the cell’s far corner. Instead, she remains beside the guttering candle and lifts her head. Doing so takes every ounce of her will, but she wants her jailer to know she’s unbroken. All her life, her mum has taught her to be strong. This deviant might have stolen her freedom. He won’t trample her spirit.
Through the open doorway shines the yellow cone of a torch beam. Elissa squints, tries to peer past it, but everything outside its arc is as black as night. Her jailer’s feet scuff across the uneven floor. They pause somewhere in Y3, just outside the reach of her chain.
For a moment she wonders: Is he as frightened of her as she is of him? It’s a ridiculous thought, and she dismisses it immediately. Currently, only one person holds the power in this relationship.
The beam lingers on her a while longer. Then it roves around the room, pausing on the buckets at B3, the water stains from F5 to G4, the pillow, the lit candle, the matches, the filthy vest.
Moments later, Elissa finds herself spinning in fresh turbulence, because somehow – contrary to all her expectations – the voice she hears next belongs not to her jailer, but to another.
It falters, high-pitched, and for a crazy instant she thinks of Ethan Bandercroft from school, and the romance she knows will never blossom. It isn’t Ethan, of course: this voice, although mellifluous, is far less self-assured.
There’s something about it, too. Something that makes water of her insides.
Elijah
Day 6
I
Throwing myself down, I press my tummy to the floor, but it’s already far too late. If the 4x4’s driver looked up at my window, I’ll have been plainly silhouetted. Everyone on the estate knows this is my bedroom. The driver will know what I’ve seen.
I think of the copper halfpennies on my pillow: two watchful eyes. The message was clear, and already it’ll seem like I’ve ignored it. But I can’t turn back the clock – either on my presence at the window or on events beneath the Gingerbread House.
My heart knocks against the floorboards. It’s a horrible reminder of my mortality and it triggers fresh thoughts of Gretel, and everything the poor girl endured. Outside, I hear the loose rattle of the 4x4’s exhaust as the vehicle bounces along the track. Gradually, the sound fades.
Climbing to my feet, I snatch at the pull-cord above the bed. Darkness rushes over me. Once my eyes adjust, I step back to the window. Now, the land out there is deathly still – no evidence of humanity, or what passes for it.
Was the vehicle I saw Meunier’s Land Rover? I can think of no reason for him to visit that part of the estate so late. Other than the Memory Wood, all that lies in that direction is Knucklebone Lake.
If the late-night traveller wasn’t Meunier, perhaps it was one of the drifters from Wheel Town. I know some of them practise a little poaching at this time of year – more than once, among the trees, I’ve found baited traps or snares. How much of that is down to Kyle, I don’t know, but it can’t all be my brother’s work. Last time I visited Magic Annie I saw no 4x4s parked up, but some of the Wheel Town vehicles are kept under tarps, including the van Kyle used as target practice, until he was made to stop. Like most things around here, a lot remains hidden.
Has Gretel been replaced so quickly? The thought sickens me, but almost as sickening is my undeniable prickle of excitement, my grief at her passing – and my sorrow at another taking – offset by the prospect of a new friend. If the worst has happened, at least I’ll have a purpose again. It’s pointless to dwell on how the last friendship ended in failure, because they always do.
I think of a story Magic Annie once told me, this one not as brutal as the foxes that fell into a pit. It was about Robert the Bruce, who became King of Scots in 1306. After fighting the English six times and losing, he escaped to the island of Rathlin. Holed up in a cave, he watched a spider try repeatedly to weave its web, succeeding on the seventh attempt. Inspired, Bruce returned to his homeland, where he won his next battle.
I’m no Scottish king, but I do what I can for those who wake beneath the Memory Wood. Right now, despite my fear of what lurks outside, I feel myself compelled.
Put on the full armour of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.
As always, it’s easier to read the Bible than to obey it. I don’t want to return to the Memory Wood tonight, certainly not to the Gingerbread House, but I know that I must.
From my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds, I retrieve the padlock key. I slip it into my pyjama pocket and feel around for my torch. When I can’t find it straight away, my heart begins to thump. Has someone discovered my collection and rooted through it? Of all my treasures, I can’t imagine that a cheap plastic torch would interest anyone. Then I recall my last visit to the cellar in the woods; the spinning shadows as my torch slipped from my fingers; the darkness and my sudden panic.
I left it there, didn’t I? Left it right where I dropped it. For a while, the memory freezes me rigid. How could I have been so careless? How could I have ignored all the lessons I’ve learned to cover my tracks? If I had reason to return to the cottage before, I have twice the reason now, but I can barely bring myself to climb off my bed.