I want you to think about all the ways your mother has let you down. Every little spite, every dereliction, every selfish act.
She has thought about that. Aside from Elijah’s visits, she’s had little else to occupy her. If the ghoul asks her to talk, she won’t disappoint. She’s wary of being too placid, of losing his respect, but she’s just as frightened of another attack.
‘What day is it?’ she asks, watching the candle flame as it flickers and sways. In response, the ghoul walks over.
She closes her eyes, bracing herself for a blow. Instead, something is set down before her. When she dares to look, she sees a travel bottle of Evian. All at once she realizes how thirsty she is. Snatching up the bottle, she guzzles the contents.
On goes the studio light, burning her eyes with its fire. In comes the chair, placed in its usual position. Elissa struggles up and shuffles over. The movement wakes a litany of complaints from her battered body. For a moment, as she sits, she’s so light-headed she fears she’ll pass out.
The ghoul approaches. Taking her chin, he tilts her head towards him. The light bleaches out everything; she can’t see his face, anything at all. His stink is in her airways, so ripe and unpleasant the water in her stomach sloshes and churns.
‘You messed your hair,’ he whispers, pressing a brush into her lap. ‘Put it back.’
Elissa obeys, covering the injured side of her face.
The ghoul retreats to his equipment. ‘Talk,’ he hisses. ‘About your mother, like I told you before. Say you understand.’
‘I understand. But … what do you want me to say?’
‘An anecdote. An example of her selfishness. She divorced your father, for a start – that’s a rich seam of dereliction right there.’
This freak has no knowledge of her family life, or about how bad things were between her parents before they split. Or does he?
‘Say you understand.’
‘I understand.’
The red light winks on. ‘Speak.’
III
Following her monologue, the camera records thirty seconds of silence. Then the studio light dies.
Elissa bows her head. If the recording finds its way online, she hopes her mum will understand.
‘You cannot, surely, want to return to a mother like that,’ the ghoul whispers.
‘We all make mistakes.’
‘Some crueller than others. No doubt you consider me your jailer. Perhaps, instead, you should consider me your saviour.’
With her good hand, Elissa indicates her manacle. ‘You call this being saved?’
‘Cooperate, and you’ll get all sorts of nice things.’
‘Like what?’
Silence, for a moment. Then the door’s rubber seal squeals. The candle flame bobs.
As the ghoul re-enters the cell, Elissa strains her eyes. He’s carrying something bulky – something she can see only in silhouette. Her heart begins to thump. There’s no guarantee their definitions of ‘nice things’ concur.
He drops what he’s holding. It skitters softly when it hits the floor. Bulky it may be, but it’s also light. The ghoul turns without a word and the door squeals again. This time, when he returns, he’s carrying a tray. As he sets it down the light from his head torch touches what he just delivered: an inflatable mattress, on which he’s thrown a grubby tartan blanket.
‘Off the chair,’ he whispers. ‘On to that.’
Is this a reward for her cooperation? Or the prelude to something monstrous?
Shivering, Elissa slides off her seat. The mattress is so soft, so yielding to her aching limbs, that she cannot suppress a sob. When she manages to drag the blanket around her shoulders, the tears fall faster.
In her nose is the smell of hot food. On the tray is a plastic plate piled with crisp bacon, alongside two fried and congealed eggs. Threads of steam rise from a shallow lake of baked beans.
Elissa drags the tray close. Forgoing cutlery, she feeds herself with her fingers. The bacon is burnt, room temperature rather than hot, and the eggs were cooked some time ago. Only the beans are as they should be, likely because they were poured from a flask.
As Elissa fills her stomach she feels a rush of gratitude as powerful as it is misplaced. ‘Thank you,’ she mutters, around a mouthful of food. ‘Thank you.’
Cooperate, and you’ll get all sorts of nice things.
If a single story can achieve a bed, a blanket and a cooked meal, what could she earn with a more dramatic tale? Elijah might profess friendship, but all he’s ever brought her is a pecan-nut biscuit and a single piece of cheese. In exchange for a simple anecdote, the ghoul has provided all this.
The realization that she’s humanizing him chills her bones. Already, she’s losing her sense of right and wrong, of what’s real and what’s false. If she isn’t careful, she’ll lose herself entirely.
‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ the ghoul whispers as he collects her empty plate. ‘Maybe this can work.’
Maybe this can, Elissa thinks.
It is, without doubt, her scariest thought yet.
Mairéad
Day 5
I
The street outside Lena Mirzoyan’s home is even more jammed with vehicles than during Mairéad’s last visit. As soon as she climbs from her car she’s jostled by excited journalists. The PCSO by the gate does his best to hold them back.
‘How’re you feeling?’ someone shouts, a reference to her hapless morning press conference. ‘Has the investigation stalled?’
Ignoring the questions, she strides up the front path. Judy Pauletto, the FLO, answers the door.
‘Do they know?’ Mairéad asks.
Grim-faced, Judy shakes her head. ‘I’ve been keeping them away from the TV.’
The kitchen’s at the end of the hall. A uniformed officer hovers at the sink, fiddling with a tea caddy as if he’s thinking about making a brew. When he looks up at Mairéad, his expression is as doleful as the FLO’s. Everyone, it seems, knows the news she’s here to impart.
In the living room, Elissa Mirzoyan’s grandparents sit at opposite ends of the sofa, a dimple in the fabric between them.
Lena Mirzoyan stands by the window. Her face is a horror show – puffy skin, poached-egg eyes, stress rash across her forehead. ‘Have you found her?’ she blurts, and immediately covers her mouth, as if by calling back the words she can insulate herself against bad news.
It’s hard, this. For Mairéad, it’s always been the worst part of the job. She thinks of Bryony Taylor’s mother – of the trauma she suffered, is still suffering. ‘We haven’t,’ she says. ‘But we’ve every reason to believe that Elissa’s alive. I need to show you something. You might want to sit down.’
Eyes wide and unblinking, Lena Mirzoyan retreats to the sofa.
Mairéad opens her laptop. ‘This is going to be tough. Afterwards, you’ll probably have a lot of questions.’
Suddenly, it’s hard to find the right words, but the worst torture for any mother in this situation is the not-knowing, so she ploughs on, hoping to avoid any ambiguity. ‘There’s been a communication – a video, uploaded to YouTube a few hours ago. It shows Elissa talking.’