The door opens. First through it is the woman who arrested me. She looks different to how she did at the cottage, but I can’t work out what has changed. Following her is a man I don’t recognize. The door’s about to swing closed when a third person enters – someone I know well and did not expect to see again. Mama.
III
Such is my joy, my sheer relief at her presence, that I’m only half aware of the detectives as they sit down. Mama doesn’t join us at the table. Instead, she leans against the far wall. She’s wearing her weekend clothes: blue jeans, desert boots, North Face gilet and plaid work shirt. There’s mascara on her eyelashes and maroon lipstick on her mouth. She looks exactly like I want my wife to look, if I ever end up getting married. Some people might think that’s weird, but it’s not. Mama is perfect, and perfection only comes in one size.
On her back is the sun-faded orange rucksack she was wearing when I last saw her. Only now do I recognize it as Elijah’s. Odd that I ever forgot.
She looks so sad that my eyes fill with tears. I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her. But Mama wouldn’t ever allow that, and nor would these two detectives. She’s sad, not for herself, but for me. Somehow, that makes me feel even worse, yet when I open my mouth to say something she puts a finger to her lips and gently shakes her head.
‘Hello, Kyle,’ the policewoman says.
When I turn to face her I realize how cramped the room has become. With the three of us huddled around this table and Mama leaning against the wall there’s hardly enough air to breathe.
Perhaps she understands my discomfort, because she gestures at my handcuffs and turns to her colleague. ‘Let’s have those removed.’
The man stands and crabs around the table. He seems wary, as if he thinks it’s a bad idea, but he doesn’t say anything, unlocking the cuffs and slipping them off my wrists.
The woman introduces herself as Detective Superintendent MacCullagh. After that she asks my name, which is weird because I told her during my arrest. Then I remember the cameras. ‘Kyle North,’ I say, glancing at Mama.
‘What’s your date of birth, Kyle?’
‘Third of February.’
‘Year?’
‘Nineteen eighty-seven.’
‘Which makes you …’
‘Twelve years old.’
MacCullagh pauses, her eyes flat. I hope I haven’t offended her. Sliding my hands between my thighs, I vow not to interrupt her again. I’m in trouble here, serious trouble. I won’t make things better by forgetting my manners.
‘Before we begin,’ she says, ‘I’d like to explain your rights again. Check that you understand them fully.’
‘OK.’
MacCullagh’s voice changes, becomes wooden, like in a movie I once watched in Annie’s caravan – Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It scares me, that voice, until I realize she’s reciting something learned by rote. Afterwards, she asks if I want a solicitor – which I think is a kind of lawyer – but I can’t see why I would.
I look up at Mama, so grateful she hasn’t abandoned me. Earlier, watching the smoke rise over Meunierfields, I convinced myself I wouldn’t see her again.
‘Did it burn?’ I ask. ‘Is it gone?’
MacCullagh’s face is a mask. ‘Did what burn?’
‘The Memory Wood.’
I want to ask about the Gingerbread House, too, but I’m not sure I can stomach the answer.
‘You mean the woodland a few hundred yards from your house?’
I nod.
‘There was a fire, yes.’
‘Has it all gone?’
‘Not entirely. The rain stopped it spreading far.’
‘My Memory Trees,’ I begin, and abruptly close my mouth.
‘Your Memory Trees?’ MacCullagh’s voice is gentler now, mesmeric.
‘Careful,’ Mama says, pushing away from the wall. ‘Don’t lose yourself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, addressing both women. ‘I think I lost myself.’
MacCullagh leans backwards. Her seat releases a brief farting sound. I know well enough not to smile.
‘Kyle,’ she says, in that same soft voice. ‘I’m not here to judge. I’m not here to make accusations, cause trouble, anything like that. I’m just investigating the disappearance of Elissa Mirzoyan, trying to find out what happened. I know you’re a smart guy. What can you tell me about that?’
It’s been a while since anyone praised my intelligence. The day Gretel taught me chess, I told her about my high IQ and she asked my score. I’d never heard of an IQ score so I made one up – ninety-nine. It’s not a lie if it’s true, and there’s every chance it is. With an IQ like that, Gretel said, I’d have no problem with chess. And she was right. I didn’t. The rules, at least. I still haven’t played a game.
Behind the detectives, Mama folds her arms. ‘You can’t trust her, Elijah. She’s trying to flatter you, that’s all. She doesn’t want the truth. She just wants to lock you up.’
‘Kyle? Are you OK?’ MacCullagh asks. ‘Do you need anything? Some water, perhaps?’
‘Yes, please. That would be nice.’
She nods at her colleague, who gives me a steady look and rises from his seat. Mama sidesteps to allow him out. He returns with a plastic cup of water, which he puts down in front of me.
MacCullagh waits a while, until she realizes I’m not going to drink. ‘Kyle, when we met you at the house, I asked about Elissa’s whereabouts and you said, “She’s gone.” Do you remember saying that?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Mama glances up at the ceiling cameras.
I flinch. ‘I mean … did I?’
‘Do you remember saying it?’
MacCullagh’s voice is so hypnotic, so measured and calm. How nice it would be to hear her reading stories before bed. I might have the best mama in the world, but she’s rarely around at night. I wonder if this detective has kids. Lucky for them if she does.
‘Kyle? Do you remember saying it?’
‘Not really.’
Her forehead creases a little. ‘A moment ago you said you did.’
‘I was …’ I look up at Mama, who nods. ‘I was confused.’
MacCullagh glances over her shoulder, then back at me. I find myself wondering: could these two women ever become friends?
‘Listen, Kyle,’ the detective says. ‘I know this must seem overwhelming. It’s a unique situation – for you, for everyone involved. But I’d like you to think about something, if you can. Right now, this very minute, there are people out there – people like Elissa’s mum, Elissa’s grandparents – who are hurting. They’re hurting very badly indeed. They’ve been separated from someone they care deeply about, someone they love very much, and they desperately want to know what’s happened to her. I’m hoping you can help them, Kyle. I’m hoping that you and me, working together, can find a way to ease their suffering.’
I think of the deer my brother shot and the calamity inside its head. I wonder what memories and dreams would be lost if the detective’s brains, grey and glistening, were plastered across the earth.