‘I UNNER’THAND!’ Elissa screams. She belches, tastes spaghetti sauce and, beneath it, something else: something chalky and bitter. He’s drugged her, she thinks. Some kind of hallucinogen, mixed into the food.
The ghoul walks to the chair. Leans close.
He’s going to kiss me, and if he does I’m going to puke in his mouth.
Elissa howls with laughter. But the ghoul doesn’t kiss her. Instead, with one thumb, he lifts her eyelid.
She blinks, or tries to. His face is a black porridge, host to two runny-egg eyes. He smells atrocious, and when her stomach grips she belches again.
The ghoul mutters something she doesn’t catch. He raises his left wrist. Ribbons of light bounce off his watch.
‘TIME ITH IT?’ Elissa hollers. ‘TIME ITH IT, YOU FUCKABOO?’
Elijah
Day 4
I
I walk through the Memory Wood like I’m floating, as if the Earth’s gravity has entirely drained away. Above me, low-hanging clouds still threaten rain, but the air tastes fresh and clean. I don’t look at Bryony’s yew when I pass it, nor the other Memory Trees. Soon, I find myself following one of the deer trails that criss-crosses these woods. It leads me, as I knew it would, to the ruined cottage.
Because Annie’s magic still runs through me, I step into the clearing with none of my customary caution.
Bad instincts.
Kyle is leaning against the building’s front wall. Thanks to my carelessness, there’s no avoiding him.
My brother displays little of his usual swagger. If anything, he seems weighed down. His face is smeared with whatever gunk he uses to disguise his scent, but beneath the streaks his skin is pale, washed out. For a moment, as I look at him, I wonder if he’s here at all. The sun has fled behind a covering of cloud; Kyle casts no shadow upon the ground.
He grips his rifle in front of him, as if he’s making a last stand. When our eyes meet, his chest heaves.
Then he raises his weapon and points it at my face.
II
In more ordinary times, I’d throw up my hands in surrender. But what’s happening here is nowhere near ordinary. I don’t care about the rifle, don’t care that with a precise shot my brother could put a calamity inside my head. Right now, I’m a supernova, glowing with positive energy. Inferior satellites – like Kyle – will be sucked into my mass.
I walk forwards smiling, arms outstretched. Perhaps, by embracing him, I can transfer some of my good vibes.
‘The fuck, Eli,’ he growls, stepping away from the wall.
‘I’ve come to see her,’ I say, turning up my palms the way Jesus does. ‘I’ve come to see Elissa.’
‘The fuck you have. Stay back.’
As the distance between us shrinks, some of my euphoria begins to evaporate. ‘Is she down there?’
Kyle studies the woods at my back. Then he nods.
‘Is she alive?’
‘I think.’
‘Did you hurt her?’
‘Fuck you, Eli. I’m tellin’ you right now – get away from here and don’t come back. This one’s trouble. You ain’t got the nous to take her on.’
‘I don’t want to take her on,’ I say. ‘I just want to help.’
‘Like you helped Bryony?’
‘That wasn’t my fault.’
‘The fuck it wasn’t.’
I halt in front of him. ‘The swearing doesn’t scare me. Doesn’t bother me one bit.’
He spits something brown on to the ground. ‘That right?’
Looking him square in the eye, I say, ‘Let me through.’
In response, Kyle raises his rifle and sights along it. A handspan separates my face from the muzzle.
‘I’ll end you, little brother,’ he hisses, and I know he means it.
But I know, too, that it won’t happen today. Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around the gun. Then, careful not to disturb Kyle’s trigger finger, I guide the barrel to my mouth.
I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I sense it’s important. The metal tastes acidic, like I’m sucking the terminals of a nine-volt battery. With the weapon in my mouth, I can’t speak, but there’s nothing I need to say. This challenge to Kyle’s authority requires no words.
His eyes burn. He doesn’t recognize the little brother confronting him. Perhaps he fears an imposter. Right now, I feel about as different to the boy he knows as it’s possible to get. Annie’s magic has something to do with that, I’m sure, but mostly it’s down to Elissa.
Kyle’s trigger finger twitches inside the guard. If he fires at this angle, the bullet won’t enter my brain, but it will rip a path through the soft tissue behind my tongue. Perhaps it’ll nick an artery in my neck or splinter a vital section of vertebrae. Perhaps it’ll sever my tongue at the root.
When the gun starts knocking against my teeth, I can’t decide which one of us is shaking. An instant later, my brother yanks the weapon from my mouth. ‘Fuckin’ retard,’ he says. ‘Fuckin’ psycho.’
Again, I open my palms, in that age-old gesture of peace.
‘She ain’t like the others,’ he says.
‘I know that.’
‘You’re gunna cover us all in shit.’
When I step forward, Kyle steps back. If he retreats any further, he’ll leave the cottage entrance uncontested.
My brother waits another beat. Then, wordless, he shoulders his rifle and marches away. Seconds later, he’s lost among the trees. Soon, all I hear is the cracking of twigs and branches.
I wait until the gentler sounds of the Memory Wood swallow him up. Then I step inside the cottage, walk along the hall to the kitchen, open the pantry door and disappear down the stairs.
III
She’s sleeping when I enter.
Sometimes they pretend to do that, especially at the start. Still, I’ve become pretty good at working out when someone’s trying to fool me, and Elissa definitely isn’t.
Her brow furrows a little when my torch beam touches her face. Her eyes rove behind their lids. I can’t help wondering about her dream.
For a while, I consider peeling back one of her eyelids, just to get another glimpse of the emerald fire I saw when we first met, but that would be a violation, which is the word for when you do something to someone without their permission.
Shading the torch with my fingers, I creep closer. Elissa’s lying on her side, curled around her injured wrist. A bruise on her left cheek is brand new. Blood is crusted in the corner of her mouth. It looks like she’s taken a couple of hard punches, or perhaps just one that knocked her head against the floor.
I told her to follow the rules. Why didn’t she listen?
Squatting down, I place the back of my hand near her mouth. Her breath tickles my skin as she exhales.
She’s like an angel, or a fairy robbed of its wings. Injuries and filthy clothes can’t hide her beauty. Beneath the grime, her skin is as flawless as Mama’s. Unable to stop myself, I lift my fingers to her hair, feeling its softness. I touched it before when I helped her to drink, so it isn’t strictly a violation. Beneath my hand, I sense the warm skin of her scalp, the smooth curve of her skull and, beneath that, the complex miracle of her brain. I imagine the thoughts zipping around those grey folds, her hopes and fears and memories all carried by tiny sparks of electricity.