Snatching it off him, Mairéad scans the handwriting.
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing in the hope that you’ll please send me a free introductory chess set. Even though I’ve learned the full rules, I currently have no board or pieces, and therefore no way of actually playing.
Dietmar Pfister is currently my favourite player. Caspian Alexandr is also very good. Often, they manage to turn the tables on what seem like hopeless situations. There’s something particularly exciting about Pfister’s game. The way he defeated Jacob Nyback in Tblisi last year was truly astonishing.
Although I’m a late starter, I hope that with a board and pieces of my own I’ll develop into a competent player. Grateful if you could send my set to the address at the top of this letter.
Ever your servant,
Kyle North
Frowning, she glances up. ‘What exactly do you think this is?’
‘It’s a message. A coded message, from Elissa.’
‘It looks like some kind of application letter.’
‘Yes,’ Haagensen says. ‘To FIDE.’
‘Which is?’
He rolls his eyes, frustrated. ‘The Fédération Internationale des Échecs. In other words, the World Chess Federation. I’m a member, but not a representative.’
‘So?’
‘So why address this to me? Even if I did have something to do with FIDE, they don’t give out chessboards to kids. They never have – although Elissa and I once had a conversation about exactly that, where she argued quite forcibly that they should.’ He taps the address at the top of the letter. ‘Go there and you’ll find her. Guaranteed.’
When she doesn’t immediately react, Haagensen turns to Lena Mirzoyan. ‘Fuck it. If they won’t, I’ll drive you myself.’
‘Slow down,’ Mairéad snaps. ‘You’re going nowhere. You said there was a code.’
‘Get on the phone, summon the cavalry and you might just save her. Elissa, she loves chess, but she also loves codes. It’s been a game of ours since I started coaching her – a little puzzle each week, for one of us to deconstruct. Read that message again. Look at the first letter of each sentence. Put them all together and what do you get? T.I.E.D.C.O.T.T.A.G.E. Tied cottage. Look at the address at the top of that letter: Meunierfields. I checked it out on Google. It’s an estate up in Shropshire, owned by the lord of Famerhythe: some guy called Leon Meunier.’
Mairéad stares at Judy Pauletto. ‘Leon.’
Judy nods. ‘The Luc Besson film.’
Swearing, Mairéad digs out her phone.
Oh Elissa, you brave and clever girl. You just hold on. We’re coming. We’re coming right now.
Elijah
Day 7
I
Lashed by rain, I stand beside my older brother and watch the Memory Wood burn. The black smoke, gushing into a storm-darkened sky, freezes my blood in my veins. I cannot believe what I’m seeing and yet this, of everything, I know to be true.
At the heart of that inferno stands the Gingerbread House. I imagine the ash tree in its living room haloed by fire, the roof above it collapsing into flames. I think of the cellar, transformed into a witch’s oven. I see the iron ring, the loop of chain, the manacle … and suddenly I can’t see anything at all.
‘It wasn’t me,’ I whisper. ‘It wasn’t me.’
As I stare at that calamity raging in the woods, that filthy column of smoke, my brother lifts his arm and points east across Fallow Field, all the way to Rufus Hall. A sycamore-lined avenue connects it to the public road. Along the avenue, emergency lights flashing, races a convoy of police cars.
II
I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to do. Silent, I watch the vehicles speed towards Meunier’s mansion. This is his land. Behind me stands his cottage. Those trees, burning in the Memory Wood, belong to him too. Perhaps the police will think this is his fault.
I hear the crackle-snap of distant flames, the frenzied screams of wild boar. Those cries, of course, could be illusory. I have, as I’ve so often said, an overactive imagination.
‘It’s done,’ Kyle says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘You won’t escape what’s coming.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You thought this place was bad, but it’s nothing to where you’re going.’
‘I tried to save her!’
‘Same old bullshit, Eli. Trouble is, nobody’s listening any more ’cept me.’
‘I tried to SAVE her!’
Kyle hawks up something foul and spits it into the rain.
I turn and run back up the garden path, splashing through puddles and filth. Above me, the sky unleashes its full fury. Thunder rolls across Meunierfields like the hooves of stampeding cattle. Reaching the cottage’s front door, I push my way inside.
III
This place. This hated place. In many ways, it’s been a prison as claustrophobic as the Gingerbread House.
I’m still clutching the axe. When I drop it, the bit buries itself in the floor. The shaft points towards the front entrance, refusing to let me forget what’s out there, refusing to let me forget what I’ve done.
Except I haven’t done anything.
Certainly not what Kyle said. I didn’t save Gretel, but I didn’t burn her. I wouldn’t.
As I stand, frozen, in the hallway, I can’t take my eyes off the axe shaft. It could almost be the pointer of a sundial except, like so many things around here – like Mama, like Bryony, like Kyle – it casts no shadow.
I retreat to the living room, calling for my parents, for my dead brother, even though I know they’re not there. I see damp walls, mould-stained furniture, the peeling Arthur Sarnoff print of rascally dogs playing pool.
On a side table beside the only armchair lies a transparent plastic case. Inside is a disc that shines all the colours of the rainbow. There’s a name on it: ELISSA. I recognize the handwriting.
Rain drums against the window. My breath catches in my throat. I stare at the disc and wonder what it is. Perhaps an alien, or a traveller from the far future, deposited it here while I was away.
Liar! someone screams, deep inside my skull.
LIAR!
It’s Gretel’s voice. I flee from it.
IV
Trailing wet prints, I slip-slide to the hall. I clatter up the stairs and burst into my bedroom.
The carnage that greets me stops me dead. All across the floor, my stuff is strewn about. A wax jacket – filthy and stinking – lies on the bed. In the corner, the loose floorboard has been ripped away. Beneath the window, scattered haphazardly, are the contents of my Collection of Keepsakes and Weird Finds.
I see the trio of knucklebones I can no longer bear to touch, the Roman coin, the child’s diary, Gretel’s filthy vest. Amid the loot lies a tiny perfume bottle, its lid removed, a dark stain where its contents have leaked out. I can smell the scent from here, and it immediately reminds me of Mama – not that I ever remember Mama wearing perfume.
Did I do this? Or was it Kyle?
By my desk are the cases for Papa’s video equipment. Leaning against them is Kyle’s .22. Earlier, I tore that from his hands and cast it into the grass. At least, that’s what I thought.