Magic Annie told me a horrible story, once, about a Daddy Fox who fell into a deadfall trap while hunting for his family’s supper. Mummy Fox tried to rescue him by throwing down a rope, but while she was hauling him up her feet slipped and she tumbled in too. The five children, when they learned what had happened, made a fox-chain to rescue their parents. The oldest son locked his jaws on to a tree trunk while his brothers and sisters lowered themselves into the hole. Mummy Fox began to climb, and she was halfway to the top when Daddy Fox began to follow her. All that weight was too much for the oldest son, and when his jaws loosened on the tree his entire family tumbled into the hole. He waited at the edge for five days, watching his parents and siblings die, and then he died too – not of hunger or thirst but of heartbreak.
I’ve never found that story in a book, which makes me wonder if Magic Annie made it up. Often, I’ve tried to imagine what would happen if I fell into a trap like that. Papa could hold on to the tree, but with only Mama to help him, how would they reach down far enough to rescue me?
It’s not something to ponder right now. There’s no deadfall trap beneath these leaves. I’m procrastinating, which is a word for putting off something you don’t want to do but must. Closing my eyes to calm myself, I count to ten, then backwards to one. I empty my lungs and take a long breath. Finally, my eyelids spring open.
Strangely, the cottage seems closer now, as if it slunk a tiny bit nearer while my eyes were shut.
Disgusted, I shake my head. ‘Witling,’ I mutter. ‘Melodramatic witling.’
Up on the roof, one of the magpies caws and shakes its wings.
I creep towards the entrance. The door, swollen in its frame, has stuck halfway open, revealing a narrow rectangle of dark. I mouse around outside for a bit, building my courage. Then I go in.
VIII
In here I use my nose more than my eyes, as if by crossing the threshold I’ve transformed into some kind of bloodhound. The cottage reveals itself in a jumble of different scents: mildew and rust, damp mortar and wet ashes, mouldered curtains, weeping plaster, rotten wood. Overlaying that are the smells from an earlier time which my imagination fools me into sensing: woodsmoke, hanging bacon, the yeastiness of fresh bread.
This far into the woods, there was never any possibility of electricity or gas. Water was fetched from the well near Knucklebone Lake. Light was provided by tallow candles and the burning of lamp oil refined from fish or kerosene or mustard. At least, that’s what Papa says.
Now, my nose tickled by old ghosts, I step deeper into the ruin. Its layout, identical to my parents’ cottage, is unsettling. It feels like I’ve catapulted myself forwards to some future date, seeing our home as it’ll look after a cataclysmic event: an alien invasion, a zombie plague or a worldwide nuclear exchange.
Paper has peeled from the walls like old skin, exposing plaster blotched with black fungi. A dresser of scarred hardwood stands beside the stairs, flanked by a row of rusted petrol cans. Tucked into one of its alcoves is a parcel of sticks that looks vaguely like a broken wicker doll, but is most likely the nest of some departed bird.
On my left looms the sitting room. Inside I see the ash tree, so strange and out of place that it hardly seems real. The uppermost branches press against the ceiling. It’s only a matter of time before they punch through.
As I move along the passage towards the kitchen the thud of my trainers sounds disconnected, as if this is playing out on an old cinema screen and there’s a lag between the images and the sound. For a moment I wonder if I’m really here at all, but I’d have to be pretty crazy to dream up a situation like this and place myself at the heart of it.
Are you looking forward to going home, Elijah?
That’s what one of the policemen asked me in the interview room, earlier today. But this isn’t my home, just a dirty reflection of it. I step into the kitchen and tell myself that again.
This isn’t my home.
IX
This isn’t my kitchen. There’s no hum of a fridge, no tick of a wall clock. Ivy has invaded from outside, creeping across the ceiling like a rash.
Despite the broken windows and freely moving air, I notice a vague scent of something that wasn’t here before. It’s not unpleasant but it gives me major jitters. When a breeze stirs the ivy leaves and sets them whispering, the scent is flushed away.
To my right is the pantry door. There’s no horror-movie squeak when I turn the handle, no squeal of unoiled hinges when I swing it open. The darkness inside is that of a cave.
I take out my torch and switch it on. The beam – weak and yellow, flickering at the slightest movement – illuminates a cracked tile floor and cobwebs that hang like rags. Towards the back, past shelving that holds a few forgotten jars of preserves, lies a square of purest black that swallows my light completely, because it’s the entrance to the cellar where I found her, and where I hope she’ll still be.
X
This is the point where I do need my courage. Police stations and deadfall traps are nothing in comparison. For as long as I can remember I’ve had a fear of small spaces, a recurring dream of being trapped underground. These walls are solid enough, but the ash tree in the front room has deformed the ceiling above it. If the building collapses while I’m down in the cellar, who knows if I’ll survive long enough to be dug out? Papa would come looking, so I’m not worried about dying from hunger or thirst, but how much air would I need? And how would I cope once the batteries in my torch failed?
Shuffling to the cellar entrance, I begin to descend. The steps are stone blocks, slippery with damp. Halfway down they double back and the greyness behind me winks out. That aroma of something not-quite-right grows stronger, a cleaner smell amid all the decay.
Soon I’m at the bottom. The floor here is uneven, partly dirt and partly solid rock. In one corner lies a metal barrel so orange with rust it’s started to collapse. Passing it, I come at once to the barrier that separates this half of the cellar from what lies beyond.
XI
It’s constructed from the same boarding you see on the windows of abandoned shops – smooth and yellow, flecked with softwood chips. From here, I can’t see any of the timber frame to which it’s nailed.
Cut into the centre is a door. Two heavy-duty hinges extend in slim triangles across it. The metal glimmers, cold and bright. All around the jamb is a seam of black rubber. Three large deadbolts provide security. The one at chest height is usually secured with a padlock. I have the key in my pocket, but I won’t be needing it today. The padlock has disappeared.
In my dismay I fumble the torch, nearly dropping it. For a crazy second, light bounces around me. Shadows flitter from the walls like bats. I want to flee up the steps to the Memory Wood, but I have a responsibility here. I’m part of this. Whatever happened down in this cellar happened because of me.
A sick taste, now, at the back of my throat. I reach for the topmost deadbolt and slide it back. Pausing, I tilt my head. Did I hear something just then? Down here, in the gloom? Or from somewhere up above? I think of the ash tree’s branches pressing at the living-room ceiling and throw back the second deadbolt before I can change my mind.