MacCullagh flinches. Her chair scrapes against the floor. Still watching me, she pulls the phone from her pocket. When she stands, her colleague stands too. ‘Interview terminated, seven forty-two p.m.’
Before I can say anything more, both officers leave the room.
Mairéad
‘MacCullagh,’ she says, limping along the corridor with DS Halley trailing in her wake. Her mind is racing. She cannot believe what she just heard.
On the line is Paul Deacon, the crime-scene manager at Meunierfields. ‘We found two more trees,’ he tells her. ‘Both with inscribed names.’
‘Mama,’ Mairéad says, through gritted teeth.
‘That’s one of them.’
‘Don’t tell me the other.’
‘Elijah,’ he replies.
‘Shit. Shit, shit.’
‘We’ve already started digging. But I’ll tell you now, I don’t expect to find anything.’
‘I want hourly updates. Anything you find in the woods. Anything you find in the cellar. Anything you find in North’s cottage, the mansion, or that camp down by the lake.’
‘Moment I have something.’
‘Even if you don’t have something. Hourly updates, Paul.’
Deacon rings off. In the incident room Mairéad finds a spare desk and opens her laptop. Fingers shaking, she keys in a search query. For a moment, her exhaustion wins out; instead of one screen in front of her, she sees three.
Her phone rings again. This time, it’s Arya Chaudhuri, from the lab they used to process the DNA. ‘Got some results for you,’ Chaudhuri says. ‘You’re never going to guess who he is.’
Outside, the night sky shows no hint of moon. Mairéad thinks of Paul Deacon’s team digging through the Memory Wood’s sodden earth, and the firefighters pumping black sludge from the ruined Gingerbread House. She thinks of Elissa Mirzoyan, locked inside that cellar; of Bryony Taylor; of all the children who came before.
‘He isn’t Kyle North,’ she says, twisting the laptop towards Halley. ‘He’s Kyle Buchanan. Abducted from Swindon twenty years ago, along with Elijah Buchanan, his younger brother.’
She indicates a photograph of two laughing boys. It makes her heart ache to look at it. ‘Twelve years old – that’s what he told us. That’s how old he was when he was snatched, and I guess that’s when the clock stopped for him.’
Halley’s eyes scroll left and right. ‘Fuck me,’ he mutters. ‘We don’t just have a suspect. We have a survivor.’
Kyle
I
Two uniformed officers return me to my cell. The tray of untouched food has disappeared, which is a shame. For the first time in days I actually feel hungry.
When the officers slam the cell door, the sound rings in my ears, but after it fades all I hear is silence: no voices; no accusations; no appeals. Perhaps this path of honesty is the best course. I haven’t told the detectives everything, but I’ve avoided telling more lies.
The peace doesn’t last. Soon, I recall the black smoke rising over the Memory Wood. That wall in my mind trembles, loosened by all the nightmares stacked against it. I read a story, once, of a little Dutch boy who plugged a leaking dyke with his finger. Right now my brain feels like that dyke, but try as I might, I can’t fix the leak.
Instead, I lie down on the bunk. My eyes feel gritty so I close them. Tears roll down my cheekbones towards my ears. I’m tired, that’s all. Emotional.
II
A commotion outside wakes me. The cell door swings wide, revealing Detective Superintendent MacCullagh beside a woman I don’t recognize and an officer in uniform.
‘Kyle,’ the detective says, in a tone I can’t fathom. ‘This is Rita Ortiz. She’s going to be responsible for your welfare from now on.’
I stare at them both, trying to figure out what’s changed. Rita has a wide face framed by oversized glasses. Her black hair is held in place with bobby pins like those used by private investigators to pick locks. I don’t think she’s police.
‘Hello, Kyle,’ she says. ‘I’d like you to come with me.’
‘Where to?’
‘We haven’t quite figured that out. But somewhere nicer than this. Somewhere you don’t have to be afraid. Before that, though, we’ll get you a hot shower, some clean clothes. A decent meal.’
She steps forward and I fear she’s going to strike me. It’s all I can do not to cringe away. When Rita puts a hand on my arm and squeezes, that wall inside my head shakes as if an earthquake has hit. I’m crying again. I can’t seem to stop.
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you again.’
Because of my tears I can’t see her clearly, but I can hear her tone and I know she’s sincere. When I sob once, loud and hard, it feels like a plug has been pulled. My knees sag. All my strength ebbs away.
They try to hold me up, but they can’t support my weight. I fall in slow motion. Light swirls around me. Rita’s hand finds mine and I clutch on to her as best I can. From somewhere, I hear raised voices.
Booted feet smack off the epoxy floor. I feel myself being lifted. For a moment I wonder if I’ve died and am rising straight to heaven. But even though I’ve shared some of my story, I haven’t shared it all. The parts I haven’t told will bar me from God’s mercy a thousand times over. Still, it’s a pleasant enough feeling, this weightlessness.
Rita Ortiz squeezes my fingers. I can’t summon the energy to squeeze back.
III
I have no watch but now and then, in the different rooms I visit, I spy a clock, or someone’s wristwatch, and marvel at how quickly time races by. Detective Superintendent MacCullagh appears every so often, but she asks hardly any questions, except to find out how I am. I tell her I’m OK, even though I don’t understand what’s changed. When I ask about my Memory Trees, she says they’ve found more of them. Mama’s oak survived. Bryony’s and Elijah’s, too.
For a while, I wait in a first-floor office with a partial view of the road. Outside, in the amber glow of the streetlamps, I see vans bristling with aerials and white dishes. I know they’re from TV. I think of the Daily Telegraph headline: HOPE FADES. If only someone would bring me a newspaper. I could ask Rita, perhaps, but I doubt she’d agree.
I’m wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, a navy top. They’re the nicest clothes I’ve ever owned – they smell like they’ve been washed in rose petals. I have a toothbrush, a tube of paste, even something to spray under my arms. Rita says I can have a haircut later, although it might take time to organize.
When I see her next she has a bag over her shoulder. ‘We’re getting out of here, Kyle. Somewhere you can be yourself for a bit. Read a book, relax.’
‘Will there be biscuits?’ I ask. Immediately, my cheeks fill with colour. I didn’t want to sound foolish, and now I do.
She laughs. ‘Biscuits aren’t going to be a problem. In fact, biscuits are mandatory.’