Asleep like this, she’s horribly vulnerable. How easy it would be for someone to hurt her; offhand, I can think of a dozen different ways. The ticking pulse in her neck is so fragile that a lump grows in my throat. Gently, I slide my fingers on to her cheek. There, the skin is hot and damp. I bet if I licked it I’d taste salt.
Elissa’s mouth falls open. She moans, fighting whatever monsters stalk her sleep. I see her bottom row of teeth, glimmering with saliva. I want to slide my finger along the ridges and feel their sharpness – but that really would be a violation.
Instead, I place my hand directly over Elissa’s heart. Even through her dress, I feel its reassuring rhythm and imagine how it must sound, a steady bm-thm, bm-thm, bm-thm. As it jumps against my palm, it’s hard to accept it’ll ever fall silent. But that’s what happens to all our hearts. Especially down here, in this cellar beneath the Memory Wood.
‘I’m sorry this happened,’ I mutter.
Elissa stirs in sleep, shifting position on the floor.
I turn off my torch and sit in darkness.
Bm-thm, bm-thm, bm-thm.
For a while, I feel so at peace I don’t even realize I’m crying.
Elissa
Day 4
I
Cold fingers against her neck. Her pulse jumps against them.
The rhythm of her heart is all wrong. Earlier, it was racing. Now, it feels far too slow, like a shire horse plodding uphill. The bright colours in her cell have turned white. The voice of her jailer – the one she calls the ghoul – smears and elongates.
‘You look into the camera,’ he whispers. ‘You read the words. Say you understand.’
Elissa rolls her head, screws up her eyes.
‘You look into the camera,’ he insists. ‘You read the words. You send a message to the world and your mother learns you’re not dead. Say you understand.’
It takes a while to process his instructions. She can’t trust him – that’s obvious – but if there’s one thing likely to sway her, it’s the chance to relieve her mum’s anguish.
Which words, though? What does he mean? She opens one eye, groaning as the room rotates. Steadily, it settles. He’s placed a whiteboard near the camera. Words are printed upon it. They swim in and out of focus.
Elissa clenches her teeth.
‘Do you want your mother to know you’re not dead?’
She breathes deep. When she nods, her chin thumps against her chest. ‘Yeth.’ She spits out blood. ‘Yes.’
‘Look into the camera. Read the words. Say you understand.’
‘I unner’thand.’
The ghoul curses.
Suddenly there’s something hard against her mouth, the lip of a plastic beaker. She cringes away.
‘Drink.’
Twice, now, he’s drugged her. But when cool water touches her lips it’s impossible to resist. She drinks hurriedly, greedily, until the front of her dress is soaked.
‘Read the words. Say you understand.’
‘I understand.’
The ghoul retreats before she can focus, and then he’s behind the camera again, fiddling with the controls. The red LED reappears. Elissa knows it’s her cue. On the whiteboard, those stark black letters shimmer and grow firm.
‘My name …’ She pauses, swallows. ‘My name is Elissa Mirzoyan. Today is the twenty-third of October.’
The LED is like the eye of something terrible from a dream. Elissa avoids it, returning her attention to the whiteboard. Despite the water, her throat is already dry. ‘I have not been harmed. I do not wish … do not wish …’
She reads the rest of the sentence without speaking. Her jaw begins to tremble. Her teeth clatter together in her mouth.
‘Again,’ the ghoul hisses. ‘From the start. No pauses this time. Say you understand.’
‘I …’ Elissa begins. She’s hardly listening any more. Her eyes are locked on those stark black letters. Their message is so shocking, so utterly distressing, that it wicks the air from her lungs. The room rotates faster. She swears the ghoul is cavorting behind his camera, a whirlwind of jagged limbs, as if she’s the princess in the fairy tale and he’s Rumpelstiltskin dancing in the tower.
Round and round the room goes. Strength drains from Elissa’s limbs. She tries to tighten her grip on the manacle, but there’s nothing she can do, and even as she’s toppling from the chair her eyelids flicker like bat wings and the studio light, the rancid cell and the ghoul’s ragged breathing vanish into a bottomless hole and don’t come back.
II
Like before, Elissa’s bladder wakens her. For a moment, cruelly brief, she thinks she’s in her bedroom, but however hard she scours the darkness, she can’t see the blue numerals of her alarm clock. All too soon, reality floods back.
The cell; the manacle; the metal chain.
The ghoul; the camcorder; the red light.
She moans, sliding out her legs. A thousand different pains assail her. It’s colder, now. Does that mean it’s night? Bracing the manacle, she sits up. The movement triggers a bout of coughing that dislodges something thick from deep inside her lungs. Using the chain as a guide, she inches to the iron ring. From there, she orients herself and heads out to B3, location of the waste bucket.
It’s difficult to tug down her knickers without overbalancing, but somehow she manages. Soon, she hears the rattle of her urine against plastic. It smells bad, as if the drugs in her system have befouled it. Worse, as she’s squatting over the bucket, she gets the urge to poo, and there’s nothing she can do to stop herself.
That smells even worse, and it’s not something that’ll go away any time soon. She finds the toilet roll and wipes herself clean. Afterwards, she swishes her left hand in the cleaning bucket and dries her fingers on her dress. She’d like to pour some of the cleaning solution into the toilet to mask the odour, but the task defeats her.
Instead, she shuffles across the room to G7, location of the candles and matches. It’s a moment’s work to make light. When the candle flame swells, it reveals her rucksack, lying in F7.
Elissa cries out, so grateful for this small mercy that she nearly snuffs out the light. Dragging the rucksack over, she delves inside.
The first thing she touches is Monkey. Tears prick her eyes. Ridiculous to feel such emotion towards a stuffed toy. Putting her nose to his tummy, she breathes him in. When she stares into his face, his shiny black eyes brim with sympathy. It’s another ridiculous notion, but she cannot dispel it. ‘Don’t you dare leave me again,’ she tells him. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Setting Monkey down, she inventories the rucksack’s contents: Stauntons, notepad and gel pens, satsuma, chocolate brownie, banana chips. Her books have been returned, and her water bottle, which has been refilled.
This time, she won’t make the same mistake. Unscrewing the cap, she takes a steady drink. Then, legs crossed beneath her, she places Monkey in her lap and leans over the candle flame, soaking up its heat.
It’s Monday, or so the ghoul said. Perhaps by now it’s Tuesday. If so, she’s been here three full days, with only a bite of chocolate brownie and a bowl of Peppa Pig spaghetti to sustain her. No wonder she feels faint. Whenever she moves her head, the cell takes a moment to catch up.