‘I did what you asked. You know I always do.’
‘I didn’t ask you to do anything.’
I blink. ‘Yes, you did. You told me to … to …’
Hesitating, I rerun our earlier conversation. He’d called Elissa ruthless. Accused her of saying stuff about me. He said something else, too: I probably shouldn’t even be here, warning you like this.
But that’s all he said.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ Papa says. ‘It’s been good having you around. But this thing between you and the girl; it got way out of hand. It led you into trouble. It led us all into trouble. I’ve lost my trust in you, boy.’
‘Papa,’ I say, but he shakes his head.
‘You liked her, Eli. And despite that, look what you did. Who could feel safe around someone who does the things you do? We might be on the road for months. If you think I’m bunking down next to you every night, risking the chance of a cut throat … well, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’
Papa steps into the shed. Crouching beside Elissa, he rests a filthy finger against her cheek. ‘Annie only ever takes kids whose folks don’t meet her standards,’ he says. ‘’Course, after a while, most kids don’t meet them either. They lie, try to escape. They exhibit bad manners or a lack of respect. You were different, Eli. You always did the right thing.’
I stare at him, aghast. I know I’m a liar, but Papa’s a liar, too. What he just said simply isn’t the truth. Once, I was disobedient too.
‘But that girl changed you, Eli,’ he continues. ‘She filled your head with her crap and you weren’t strong enough to resist.’
I think of the letter I wrote to FIDE, the phone I stole off Leon Meunier. ‘Papa, please.’
The knife lies a few feet from Gretel’s body. He reaches out, picks it up. Then he stands and stalks towards me.
III
Queen’s Gambit, I think. But Papa still approaches. He’s wearing a look that steals my breath: eyes wide, teeth exposed, like he’s about to tuck into a steak. Around the knife, his knuckles are white.
‘We can do the dance if you like,’ he says, ‘but I’d really rather we didn’t. This isn’t a punishment, Eli. You’ve been in pain a long time.’
He’s right about that. But it doesn’t mean I want to die. As Papa draws closer he blocks out all the light. I can no longer see his expression, his intent.
I’m taller than him, but he’s stronger. And height makes no difference when you’re sitting down. Right now, he towers over me. I can’t take my eyes off his silhouetted blade.
Queen’s Gambit, I think, but it makes no difference.
Will he stab me? Slash my throat? When I raise my hands to protect myself, the chain clanks across the floor.
‘Give it up,’ Papa whispers. ‘You’ve got no good reason to stick around.’
A moment later he makes his play, swinging the knife in a fast arc towards my throat.
I have no option but to fend him off. The blade cuts a bright path across my palms. Blood splatters across the tool-shed wall.
I cry out. Not from pain, but shock. I drive my heel into Papa’s shin. It doesn’t drop him, but I gain a half-second to scramble back. His second slash is aimed at my face. I block it with my forearms, the knife opening my clothes and skin as if they were paper. Changing his grip, Papa thrusts in and out.
At first, I don’t even realize I’ve been stabbed. I kick out with both feet, and this time I knock him off balance. Then the pain hits – a shark bite to my gut, a savage spike of heat.
Papa topples on to me, his face inches from my own. ‘Your brother fought too,’ he hisses. ‘Do you remember?’
Hearing that, something breaks loose in my mind. Suddenly, I’m not in the tool shed at all; I’m back in the cellar beneath the Memory Wood, long ago. In my hand, I’m holding a glass shard. Elijah cowers opposite, beside a smoky candle. ‘Please, Kyle,’ he whimpers. ‘Please don’t.’
Back in the present, I smash my head into Papa’s nose. He rears back and I see the knife, its blade slick with my blood. I grab his forearm, but when he wrenches it away my hands are too slippery to hold on. Papa plunges down, and this time I feel the knife go in.
I think of the deer I shot, the calamity inside its head, and how I always believed that would be my end. This is worse. It hurts and it isn’t quick. ‘Please,’ I cough, repeating my brother’s plea. ‘Please don’t.’
But Papa isn’t listening. He stabs me again, deeper this time.
When the blade pulls loose, it releases a black fountain.
Behind him, through the tool-shed door, I see overcast sky. Too bad there’s no sun, but at least I won’t die below ground. That was always my worst fear. By the door, Gretel lies on her face, cheeks smeared with blood.
Her name isn’t Gretel, I remind myself.
Just like mine isn’t Hansel.
Papa’s blade flashes down. This time, my arm knocks it aside. He throws a leg over me, straddling my stomach. Thanks to his weight, I can’t breathe.
In the corner, like a wight waking inside its barrow, Gretel lifts her head. She’s so pale it seems as if every last drop of her blood has drained away, but I know that can’t be true, because the blood that stains her cheeks and clothes is my own, from a cut I opened on my arm moments before Papa entered the shed. Earlier, delivering my last meal, Gretel also brought a knife. I knew they’d send her in here to kill me, and I didn’t want her to find out whether she’d try. That kind of knowledge can haunt someone a long time.
Papa slashes at me, opening another gouge across my forearm. With my free hand, I slap at his chest.
Gretel sits up straight, revealing my smuggled knife. She blinks, tries to orient herself.
Reaching out, I get a grip on Papa’s arm. He tries to shake me off but somehow I hold on. The knife jerks back and forth. Spittle flies from his lips.
Suddenly, I’m in the cellar again, clutching that shard of glass. ‘We have to do this, Elijah,’ I whisper. ‘Otherwise, we’re never going home.’
Two weeks we’d spent down there, my brother slowly weakening. Obedience had gained us nothing – it was time to try something new. Elijah begged me to change my mind, but I’d already made it up.
Gretel picks up the knife. As she stands, I fear she’ll block out the light, alerting Papa to what’s happening, but all his attention is on me. ‘Queen’s Gambit,’ I hiss as we wrestle. I’m losing blood faster now. I feel my strength failing.
In chess, as in life, a gambit sacrifices something of lower worth to gain an advantage. When it comes to me and Gretel, I am the thing of lower worth. Back at the safe house, I told myself she was dead, but I never really believed it. To find the courage to return, I had to invent a lie: that I intended to go back to the way things were before, that I could forget, all over again, the horrors of which I’ve been a part.
Papa’s knife flashes past my face.
Promise me. Promise you won’t let me die in here.
Gretel’s words, the first time we met. I didn’t promise her that, but I did promise I’d come back.
As she takes an uncertain step towards us, it’s all I can do not to look at her. Queen’s Gambit, I think.