If she doesn’t speak, doesn’t challenge him, she knows she’ll make herself complicit in whatever depravity he has planned. Earlier, adrenalin had given her a voice. Now, the prospect of speaking, of engaging him, is too frightening to bear. And yet she cannot shy away. If she survives this, she’ll live with the decisions she made down here for many years to come.
Resting the manacle in her lap, Elissa lifts her head. The box of candles is close. A well-aimed shot might knock over the tripod, smashing the camera. But what would that achieve? Likely just a more brutal ordeal than the one she already faces. What she needs to do – what she remembers from a programme about hostages she once watched – is make him see her as a person, a human being and not an object. She recalls his earlier mention of her manners. Perhaps that’s a good place to start.
Elissa clears her throat. ‘Thank you for the food.’
If the ghoul hears, he gives no indication. Going to the tray, he examines the contents carefully before carrying it from the cell. She’s grateful, now, that she didn’t try to steal the spoon. A fragment of memory comes to her, something Elijah said just before he left: He’ll test you. Most people fail.
The ghoul reappears, his silhouette bristling with new appendages. He deposits something in Z4. When he bends over it, his torch illuminates a second tripod, just like the one supporting the camera.
‘It’s been a few years since I watched Peppa Pig,’ Elissa says.
Silent, the ghoul fiddles with the mount.
‘You get all kinds of spaghetti shapes these days, don’t you? Once, my mum bought me Minions spaghetti. Can you believe they make that? She took me to see the movie, too. It was pretty funny, I guess, but not as good as the first one. We didn’t see Despicable Me at the cinema, but we have it on Blu-Ray. Some people think I won’t like movies because I’m a chess geek, but I do. Toy Story’s one of my favourite movies ever, even though I should probably prefer stuff like Twilight.’
Completing his work on the tripod mount, the ghoul leaves the cell yet again. She hears him clanking around in whatever antechamber lies beyond the door. Within moments he’s back, hunched over like a crab. He’s carrying something bulky, but she can’t see details. Nor has she glimpsed anything of the ghoul himself except the briefest of snatches: black boots, wet from whatever he’s tracked in from outside; large hands, slick with engine grease or something similar.
‘They made a third Minions movie,’ Elissa says. ‘I haven’t seen it yet, but I want to.’
He grunts, hefting the box on to the tripod mount.
‘My mum said we can stream it on Amazon.’ She pauses. ‘I hope we get to do that.’
The ghoul steps back, examining his work. Finally, Elissa sees what he’s been erecting: an expensive-looking lighting rig. He leaves the cell again, returning with a large battery pack.
‘We always have popcorn with a movie. Mum likes salty and I like sweet, so we usually get salty and sweet.’
The ghoul turns to face her.
Caught in that unforgiving white glare, Elissa begins to tremble. Now she has his attention, she’s not sure she wants it.
‘To be honest,’ she stammers, ‘we watch TV more than movies. Mum doesn’t like soaps, but she gets into all those talent shows. Once you know the people, it’s pretty hard not to follow them. I think X Factor’s a bit cruel, but I like the dancing one.’
The ghoul steps closer. She hears his breathing, slightly elevated.
Elissa swallows. Tries to still her jaw. She’s never been one for small talk; she can’t believe how many words she’s found to paper over the silence. ‘Do you ever wonder how many more series they’ll make? I mean, you’d think at some point they’d run out of contestants. It’s a shame they only ever make talent shows about singing or dancing. I’d be much more interested in—’
Lizard-quick, he strikes her.
At first, Elissa can’t work out what has happened. One moment she’s sitting up straight, squinting into that fierce halo of light; the next she’s prostrate, her wrist a screaming abomination, one side of her face beating like a second heart. She tastes blood in her mouth, hears a ringing in her ears. The room cuts loose from its moorings and begins to spin.
Elissa squirms, convulses, too pain-wracked to control her movements.
‘You don’t speak until you’re told,’ the ghoul whispers. ‘Say you understand.’
His voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a cupboard. When she answers, her own voice is just as distorted: ‘I unner’thand.’
‘We’re going to make a movie. You’re going to do exactly as you’re told. Say you understand.’
Elissa begins to weep.
Again, that emotionless whisper: ‘Say you understand.’
She swallows a mouthful of blood. ‘I unner’thand.’
How foolish – how naive – to think she could challenge him. She can barely breathe for the pain in her wrist, can hardly see past her tears.
Where is her mum? Where are the police? She’s been here two days. Why hasn’t anyone found her?
Her vision fragments, a million glass shards. For a moment she thinks it’s some kind of seizure, until she realizes that the lighting rig’s been switched on.
Blinking away tears, her eyes slowly adjust. Details bleed out of the miasma. In E4, placed over the iron ring, is a chair that wasn’t there before. It’s rickety as hell – thin wooden legs and a simple curved back.
Invisible, the ghoul retreats behind the camera. A red LED winks on.
‘Sit on the chair,’ he hisses. ‘Say you understand.’
V
She wasn’t expecting this. Not the chair, nor the instruction to sit. She doesn’t know how to interpret it. ‘I unner’thand,’ she splutters, blood spilling over her chin.
Abruptly, the light blooms into different colours, a rainbow spectrum of such beauty that she gasps. For a moment, Elissa wonders if it’s God, announcing His presence. She’s never had much time for religion, but she knows from RE that God can be merciful, even to those who don’t believe in Him. It’s a nice idea, but a darker one follows it; perhaps this isn’t God at all. Perhaps it’s just her body shutting down. Perhaps she’s simply dying.
That thought is so shocking that she kicks out her feet and tries to right herself. She can’t die in this filthy cell. Taking shallow sips of air, she pushes up.
Elissa stagger-crawls to the chair, rainbow colours swirling around her. It feels like she’s in a TV ad for Skittles, or some crazy cartoon. She places her chin on the seat, persuades her legs to scissor out. Something is wrong, but she doesn’t know what. Her vision jitters, kaleidoscopic. Her skin feels fuzzy – prickly and delicious. Her heart is racing, but no longer from fear.
She clambers on to the chair. It’s an effort to keep her head up, and when it nods against her chest for the third time in as many seconds, she bursts out laughing.
Nothing funny about this, so why is she suddenly so carefree? The ghoul, flickery and lizardy, emerges from behind his equipment. ‘Say you understand.’ His words are rich, melodic, as if his voice is a xylophone crafted from the world’s finest wood.