That smell accompanies him, of something rotten and sweet. It gets in her nose and won’t let go. His light picks out her manacle, her chain. Then it darts around the floor, pausing at each item of note.
Again, the aroma of food slowly permeates. She hears the shuffle-scuff of approaching feet and cringes, holding herself still. Something is placed on the floor near by.
Silence ensues. Elissa counts to thirty before the ghoul breaks it.
‘When one has a visitor,’ he whispers, ‘it’s polite to ack—’
‘How long have I been here?’
Her voice is firmer than she’d expected. She’s terrified that this attempt at bravery, however pathetic, will backfire; even more terrified that meek acquiescence will ensure a slow walk towards destruction. A cat, she knows, plays longer with a mouse that fights back.
The ghoul draws a breath, slowly lets it out. In that moment she recalls his words from their first meeting: There’ll never be anything, ever in this life, that you can conceal from me. Take as long as you need to learn that lesson, but for your own comfort I’d advise haste.
The smell of cooked food intensifies. Her stomach growls, her body admitting to weaknesses that her mouth will not.
‘Well, I suppose that’s an acknowledgement,’ the ghoul hisses, ‘even if it’s little else. I see your manners haven’t improved. Perhaps your mother never taught—’
‘How long have I been here?’
This time, as she asks the question, a fit of shaking claims her. Her jaw muscles spasm and she bites her tongue. The pain is excruciating. Even worse is her anticipation of the ghoul’s reaction.
His breathing is steady and slow. ‘It’s Monday.’
In his tone she hears mockery, petulance and something she can’t quite unravel. How can it be Monday? If he’s telling the truth, she’s been gone at least thirty-four hours; possibly as long as fifty-eight. She wonders if the police will have sent someone round to console her mum. It’s the kind of thing they do when kids go missing.
For a moment, her distress becomes cold rage. How dare this freak create such chaos in her family and expect to go unchallenged? She’s never been one for violence, but if she had a blade right now she’d plunge it into him, rip it loose and plunge it in again, stabbing and cutting until nothing remained except ragged meat.
‘There’s food,’ the ghoul whispers, ‘but it’s the last you’ll get for free. From now on, you’ll work for your meals. Say you understand.’
She thinks back to her conversation with Elijah:
‘Why did he bring me here? What’s he going to do?’
‘Nothing bad. Long as you follow the rules.’
‘What’re the rules?’
‘They change.’
Elissa lifts her head. ‘I understand.’
The torch beam slides off her face, settling on her injured wrist. ‘Down here, if you don’t keep yourself clean, injuries like that can get infected. First thing you’ll feel is the skin getting itchy, getting hot. The flesh will swell, start to suppurate, like it’s a piece of fruit someone trod on and left out in the sun. You ever seen an apple in an orchard go all brown and wet? Bad meat smells worse, I assure you. And it’s not too late in the season for flies, maggots, all kinds of other filth, especially down here in the dark. You’ll begin to feel dizzy, confused. You won’t even be able to trust your own thoughts.’ He clears his throat and spits. Elissa hears a bolus of phlegm land somewhere near by and cringes, thinking of the millions of bacteria it harbours. ‘I have disinfectant, antibiotics – all kinds of medical supplies. But they don’t come for free.’
‘What do you want?’
‘There’s food on the tray. Also a cloth. Right now, you look a mess – hungry, dirty, unattractive. Eat, clean yourself up, make yourself presentable. Afterwards, you and I – we’re going to make you famous.’
Hearing that, she can barely breathe. ‘Famous?’
‘Eat,’ whispers the ghoul. ‘Make yourself nice.’ Before she can respond he slides out of the cell, leaving her in darkness.
III
Elissa cannot dwell on his words. When she woke in this cellar she made herself a promise: whatever happens, she’ll survive it. Fear and adrenalin have tightened her muscles to the point of snapping, but that promise is no less important than it was. Right now, there’s food, a means of survival. It might not be here long.
Elissa crawls to G7, where she left matches; her hands are shaking so badly that the first one she strikes slips from her fingers and dies.
She screams. Tries to take out another. Ends up scattering a pile of them. Finally, tears streaming down her face, she scratches a match into life and cups it long enough for it to take hold. Lighting a new candle, she screws it into the holder.
The flame flickers. Immediately, Elissa sees why. This time, the ghoul hasn’t closed the soundproofed door behind him. If not for her manacle, she could slip out of the cell to freedom.
In A6 lies a wooden tray. Upon it stands a plastic bowl. A collection of faded Disney characters parade around the rim. Beside it is a plastic spoon and a Thermos flask, the cap unscrewed. Steam coils from the neck.
Despite her hunger, the thought of eating food prepared by the ghoul is almost unbearable. Only by refusing to think – of what she’s about to do, or what’s about to happen – does it become possible.
Supporting her manacle as best she can, Elissa inches across the floor. Sharp nubs of rock scratch her buttocks. With her good hand she tilts the Thermos. Something red and wet splatters into the bowl. In the bobbing candlelight it looks like the entrails of a slaughtered animal. Elissa recoils, but the smell is stronger now, more recognizable. When she leans close, she sees spaghetti shapes in tomato sauce.
Snatching up the spoon, Elissa shovels food into her mouth. It’s hotter than she expected, scalding her tongue, but she swallows it down regardless.
The shapes are Peppa Pig characters: Peppa, George, a rabbit, an elephant. The food’s sheer cheerfulness, down here in this filthy cellar, feels horribly out of place. When her spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl she pours out what’s left in the Thermos and eats that too. Then she licks the bowl clean. Should she keep the spoon? It’s flimsy as hell. Snapped in half, it might provide a sharp point, but unless she plunges it into her jailer’s eye it’s unlikely to do much damage. And she’s pretty sure he’ll have considered that.
There’ll never be anything, ever in this life, that you can conceal from me.
The candle flame bows and nods, accompanied by sounds of movement. The ghoul is back.
IV
Dropping the spoon, Elissa scoots as far as possible from the door. She ends up in G2, clutching the manacle to her chest.
The ghoul appears in the doorway, accompanied by an ice-white light that lances her eyes like a needle. She screws up her face, realizing that he’s donned a head torch. Light bounces off the walls, casting him in silhouette. There’s a scratchiness to his movements – a start-stop jerkiness – that makes him seem subhuman, as if she’s woven him from the threads of old nightmares.
Worse, his silhouette makes no sense, boasting a plethora of appendages and spiky protrusions. It’s a full minute before she realizes it’s an illusion caused by a bulky tripod, which he sets up in Z5. When he attaches something to the mount, Elissa sees, in the light of his head torch, that it’s a flip-screen camcorder.