She’ll consider him more closely later. Right now, she has another task. Clenching her eyes shut, she calls up her mental chessboard and rolls open the drawer at C8.
This one’s going to be tough. Acknowledging her fear, Elissa crosses time and space, all the way back to the car park of the Marshall Court Hotel.
II
She’s in the passenger seat of her mum’s Fiesta. Monkey’s in her lap. Shoving him into her rucksack, she scrambles from the car. Then the day goes dark.
Those first few seconds are the worst to relive. At the start, she was confused about what was happening but not scared. Her life had already changed, but the reality hadn’t struck. A panic attack, that’s what she’d thought. Or something stranger – narcolepsy, or possibly cataplexy. When her shoes travelled backwards across the tarmac, she wondered if the tournament’s public-school girls, with their unblemished record, were playing a prank. Then came the rotten-poultry stink of her abductor; the dark and dirty taste of his hand. That’s when she knew.
Now she’s in the van itself, heels scrabbling over the back bumper. There’s the thunk of a closing door. And that voice: Easy now. Easy. I’ve got plans for you, darl. You won’t die today.
She fights then, fights with the spit and venom of a cornered wildcat. When her efforts knock his hands loose, she thinks she has a chance, but almost immediately the cloth is over her mouth and she’s breathing butterflies and meadows. She sinks down and down. The van shudders beneath her.
CHILLAX.
That whole episode lasted no more than twenty seconds, and yet her memories of it are so scrambled – so tainted by terror and loss – she can’t guarantee they’re in the right order. Despite her anguish, Elissa replays those last few moments. Then a third time, even slower.
She sits up straight. Sweat breaks out across her forehead. She can’t be sure, even now, that she has the exact order correct. But of one thing she’s certain: when the engine turned over, its vibrations shaking the floor, the ghoul was still pressing the wet cloth against her mouth. The revelation is as disturbing as it is revealing: Elissa has not one jailer, but two.
III
Bad enough for the world that one such devil walks upon it. How can there be more? Suddenly, everything she thought she understood about this nightmare lies in tatters. In the wreckage, every one of her assumptions will have to be re-examined. And yet the discovery does nothing to reduce her list of suspects. Everyone she’s so far considered – the waitress, the three bodachs, those she met at the tournament – could have used an accomplice lurking out of sight.
Loading her recollections of the white van into her virtual chessboard, Elissa fast-forwards to the moment her cell door first opened.
IV
If only she hadn’t panicked. If only she hadn’t scrabbled like a wild animal to the far wall. In her haste to escape the ghoul, she’d forgotten about her shackle. When the chain snapped taut, the manacle bit into her wrist. Moments later, the ghoul’s white light skewered her.
I know you’re awake. 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.
She’d remained silent, so gut-churningly frightened that all she could do was feign sleep.
When one has a visitor it’s polite to acknowledge them, or did your mother never teach you that? Time to open your eyes, Elissa Mirzoyan, and see what is true.
In the coldness of her cell – in the now and not the then – she crawls to her rucksack and quickly inventories its contents: Monkey, water bottle, notebook and gel pens, satsuma and books.
I brought you something to eat. Something to drink, too. By your silence, I assume you don’t want it. No matter. It’ll be interesting to see how quickly you remember your manners. Perhaps a little fasting will hasten their return.
Elissa examines the notebook. She checks the inside covers and the cardboard back. Then she hauls out her books and checks those too.
Time to open your eyes, Elissa Mirzoyan, and see what is true.
The ghoul called her by her full name – and yet it appears on none of her belongings, nor any of her clothing. Did he know it before he snatched her? If so, what can she glean from that? If he’s learned it since, does that mean her abduction’s been widely reported? So far, other than her mum’s welfare, she’s hardly concerned herself with outside events. Now, for the first time, she begins to consider them.
Elissa’s stomach growls with hunger. There’s no way of telling how many hours have passed since she ate the pecan-nut biscuit, but it feels like a lot. She’s delving into her rucksack for the satsuma when she hears, outside, the rattle of deadbolts.
V
It’s not Elijah. She knows by the quality of the light. His is jaundiced, erratic. This – white, unflinching and utterly without mercy – comes from the ghoul’s head torch. It swabs over her, paying particular attention to her manacle and chain. She holds her breath while it hovers on the makeshift bandage. Then it dances away to the other objects in the cell.
The ghoul starts to whistle. The sound is dreadful, a tuneless escape of air. He begins to carry in the equipment from his last visit: tripods, camera, studio light and chair.
Should she initiate conversation? Last time, he beat her almost unconscious, but that doesn’t mean it’s the wrong strategy. She’s convinced, even now, that too much compliance will destroy her chances of survival. Still, considering the likely consequences, it’s hard to ignore his earlier instruction: You don’t speak until you’re told. Say you understand.
Elissa watches the equipment take shape. The studio light comes on, so bright it stings her eyes. The chair is dragged into position.
Then, silence.
As the seconds elongate, Elissa realizes he’s waiting for her to sit. It’s an opportunity to resist that she decides not to take. If there’s a rhythm to insurgency, instinct tells her this is one of the off-beats. Bracing her manacle, she unfolds her legs. Only as she rises does she realize how stiff her muscles have become.
Chain clanking, she shuffles over. The chair is a hundred times more comfortable than the floor. It’s another good reason to postpone her rebellion. Perhaps, if she gives the ghoul what he wants, he’ll let her keep it.
Footsteps now, scuffing towards her. The white light darkens as a silhouette passes across it. Elissa presses her knees together, clenching her eyes shut. She senses breathing, inches from her face, and then something new, something entirely inexplicable: a woman’s fragrance.
VI
It’s sweet yet earthy, a hint of apples warmed by cinnamon. It opens Elissa’s eyes and fills her lungs to gasping, because a woman, down here in this filthy hole, is the last thing she expected; and right now, a woman, undeniably, is leaning close.
Something soft and wet touches Elissa’s forehead. She flinches away, but the chair back stops her moving far. When the object touches her again she submits. It’s a cloth, nothing more, moistened with warm water. As it begins to clean her face – gentle, circular movements that gradually encompass her nose, her cheeks, her chin – she detects the vaguest scent of cucumber. There’s a brief antiseptic sting when it knocks away a scab. Otherwise, the woman washes her with conspicuous tenderness; such tenderness, in fact, that Elissa’s eyes fill with tears. When she shudders and lets out a sob the circular movements cease. For a moment, she fears the woman will embrace her. Instead, the gentle cleansing resumes.