Kyle
I
The house reminds me of a place I barely remember, a place of love and warmth and a feeling I can’t describe; a place where your throat never got tight and your tummy never twisted up.
The first night here, I lie under a clean duvet on a mattress covered by a crisp white sheet. Every piece of fabric, from the towels to the pillow cases, has the same fresh-flowers smell. When I walk barefoot through the carpeted rooms, I feel no dirt beneath my toes. All the windows have three panes of glass. It’s like being inside a spaceship.
Shortly after we arrived I sat down with Rita to a huge meal of Thai food, which is now my favourite thing in the world, ever. She didn’t even need to cook it – she just phoned some guy who brought it round in his car.
Rita’s not the only person looking after me. There’s Ben and Ryan, two policemen who don’t wear uniforms. Sometimes, there’s an older man with a white beard. Beckett’s his name – another doctor, I think. We’ve had a couple of chats. I like him a lot.
I just wish the questions would stop. Rita disguises them pretty well. Always, at first, it seems like we’re having a normal conversation, but soon it starts heading towards places I don’t want to go. She asks about Mama, and sometimes about my brother. Mostly, she wants to talk about Papa.
I don’t want to talk about him. Now that I’m here, I don’t even want to think about him. When she mentions his name, it’s a cold wave washing over me. I freeze up. My teeth clamp together. That wall inside my head trembles and shifts.
She asks about Gretel, too. I’ve told her about the letter I posted, the injury to Gretel’s arm, the phone I stole from Leon Meunier. I’ve even told her about how Gretel kissed me, and how in my panic I fled from the cellar, knocking over the petrol cans in the hall. Rita asked me to describe that in great detail, which was difficult because my memory of it isn’t great. I had to make some of it up. Luckily, I don’t think she noticed.
Already, the people in this house feel like my new family. But I know it can’t last. Like most good things, it’s just an illusion.
When I’m not answering questions – or trying to avoid them – I read or look out of the window. There are no other houses in sight of this one. Just fields, a country lane and lots of woods. I’m allowed to walk unchaperoned in the huge back garden, which I do as often as I can.
It’s there I think about Gretel and everything we shared. The girl cast such a spell over me that I rerun my memories of her time and again. Gretel tricked me – I realize that now – but I wasn’t honest with her either. I wish we’d managed to play chess. Looking back, I suspect she deliberately destroyed my makeshift board.
The fourth night here I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I hear Rita’s questions. A handful of times I almost go downstairs to find Ben, but I don’t want him to think I’m weak. Hours later, exhausted and miserable, I finally fall asleep.
And that’s when everything unravels.
II
Above, the sun is a bright penny, its heat like a hot towel pressed to my face. I’m in a garden, not a big one. Everything about it feels familiar: the uneven path along the washing line, the sandpit enclosed by sunken planks. I hear splashing behind me, a joyful scream, and when I turn around there they are, my family, glorious and complete.
Mama’s wearing her stripy swimsuit, her shoulders red from the sun. In one hand she holds Elijah’s ice cream, which has begun to melt over her fingers. Those fingers are perfect: the skin soft, the nails smooth and bright. ‘Smurf,’ she says, smiling. ‘We’ve missed you.’
Elijah, standing in the paddling pool, is just as he always was: cheeky, carefree, bursting with life and mischief. The moment Mama’s attention is diverted he jumps in the air and lands on his bottom, sending up a huge plume of water. Mama shrieks in mock-outrage.
I want to go to them, but my feet have fused with the grass. Moments later a crack appears in the ground between us. As it deepens and grows wider, Mama and Elijah sail away, floating on an island all of their own. I hold out my hands, begging them to stay, but they aren’t looking at me any more, laughing and splashing and playing.
Now, the scene changes. I’m on a car’s back seat, travelling at speed. Sun-scorched leather burns my bare legs. Beside me sits Elijah, his face a round moon of fear. Behind the steering wheel, instead of a driver, is a buzzing cloud of flies.
‘What’s happening?’ Elijah moans. ‘Where’s Mummy?’
I can’t answer. If I open my mouth, the flies will swarm down my throat.
‘Kyle! Who IS he? Where’s he taking us?’
Mouth clenched shut, I grasp my brother’s hand.
In the front seat, the cloud of flies solidifies into a man. He holds the steering wheel delicately, wrists angled higher than his knuckles. His eyes float in the rear-view mirror. ‘You behave yourselves back there, boys. Say you understand.’
I scream myself awake, and go on screaming long after I’ve brought everyone running. At first it’s just Ben, and a man I don’t know. Then Rita arrives with Dr Beckett. There are questions, and this time I answer them. My reward’s a plastic syringe filled with something sweet.
That wall inside my mind has crumbled; the dam has finally burst. ‘Where’s Mama?’ I moan. ‘Where is she?’ The doctors trade grim looks and usher me back to bed.
The next day, I hardly have enough energy to walk. My head feels like a battlefield machine-gunned by enemy soldiers. I can’t eat anything for breakfast. When I refuse lunch, Rita asks if I could manage some Thai food. After I say yes, she drives off to find a supermarket.
I’m flooded by memories, so intense they pummel me flat. I hear my brother’s voice, begging for help. And I hear Gretel’s voice too.
If only I could return to the way things were. Back at Meunierfields, I had a purpose: bring comfort to those who wake beneath the Memory Wood; remember them once they’ve gone. Here, I have no purpose at all. Wandering through the house, I find Ben in the living room and collapse into an armchair.
‘OK, sport?’ he asks, and I nod, even though it’s not true.
He’s fiddling with his phone, so I ask if I can play chess. He doesn’t have the app Gretel mentioned, but he downloads one that’s similar. When I see the board, all set up, the chaos in my head fades. Ben shows me how to control the pieces with my finger.
I hunch forward, all my attention on the screen. After a moment’s uncertainty, I take my first move: queen pawn to D4. To my delight, black responds with a pawn to D5. This time, I don’t hesitate, answering with a pawn to C4. Gretel didn’t teach me many openings, but she taught me this one. It’s called the Queen’s Gambit. Black can choose to accept the gambit, or decline.
I wait, barely able to breathe.
Then black accepts.
Mairéad
I
Monday night, news of Kyle Buchanan’s identity leaks out. By Tuesday morning, his face – along with his younger brother’s – is appearing on every news outlet. The photo is the one circulated in 1999 after their abduction. In it, the boys grin for the camera, grown-up teeth too big for their young mouths.