Page 18 of The Memory Wood

II

Even though this latest revelation is the worst yet, Elissa refuses to let it swamp her. She still can’t prevent a sob. When it bursts free, a single uncontrolled release, the sound is so unrecognizable it’s like it came from a stranger.

The manacle, made of pitted iron, encloses her right wrist. From it hangs a set of heavy links. Elissa feels along them to their anchor, a smooth metal ring trapped by a U-shaped bolt. She gives the bolt a tug, but it’s solid – two inches thick and set into concrete.

Time, right there, to pause and gather her thoughts. So far, she’s doing all right, but another shock, coming any time soon, might just finish her. It’s hard to accept that someone has left her like this, as if she’s an animal to be caged and then forgotten.

Using her left hand, she checks herself for abrasions, bumps; other signs of injury. There’s an unpleasant wetness to her dress in places, but the culprit is vomit, not blood, which is gross but OK. Opening her legs, she finds she’s still wearing her underwear. The discovery elicits another hard sob, but that’s OK too. Better than OK, in fact.

Gone is the white cardigan that gave her so much trouble back at home. Did she take it off at the tournament? If so, she can’t remember. On her feet, she’s wearing the same shoes. She feels deep scuffs on the heel leather and knows they’ll never look as good again. The shoes don’t matter, but it does matter that her mum bought them, with money earned through hard effort.

Right there is another reason to survive this: revenge.

It’s a ludicrous notion, and Elissa laugh-sobs as she contemplates it. Reaching for her rucksack, she unzips the main pocket. The first thing she feels is Monkey. Hauling him out, she presses his tummy to her face and breathes him in. He smells of home, of bed, of all things good. Best of all, his presence means she’s no longer alone.

‘We’re going to get out of this,’ she whispers, face still buried in his softness. ‘You just see.’

Propping him in her lap, Elissa delves back into the rucksack. This time, her hand closes around her Evian bottle. She drags it out, fingers working at the cap. It pings away into the dark. She gulps down water, choking as it lubricates her throat. Until now, she had no idea how thirsty she was. Elissa nearly drains the bottle before she realizes her mistake. With a lurch, she pulls her mouth away. Precious waterspills down her dress. How long might she have to wait before she can drink again? How utterlyidioticto consume her supply with no thought to the future. It’s her first error, but it’s a serious one. Shaking the bottle, gauging its weight, she knows that, at best, she has only a mouthful of water left. She reaches out with her left hand, hunting for the bottle cap. She recalls it bouncing away. Perhaps it rolled beyond her chain.

In chess, when Elissa makes a mistake that results in a loss, she’s learned not to punish herself too harshly, nor analyse her shortcomings too deeply. There’s a time for that, but it comes much later. Right now, it’s essential she maintains confidence in her ability to cope. Perhaps, if she reduces her situation to the abstraction of a chess match, she might just find a way through. So, instead of berating herself for her lack of discipline, she acknowledges the error and casts it aside. Carefully, she places the bottle on a level part of the floor.

With both hands free, Elissa resumes her search of the rucksack. She touches her bag of Stauntons and hauls it out. Beneath it she finds her two books, along with her notebook and gel pens. Right at the bottom, under a bag of home-made banana chips, she finds a satsuma, squashed but still whole. The temptation to eat the fruit is almost irresistible, but she controls the urge and places it back. The rucksack’s rear pocket offers a final gift, and it’s a good one: the Marks and Spencer brownie, still in its polythene wrapping.

Elissa has food, and she has means of keeping herself hydrated. Already, her situation is far better than she’d first assumed. Her next priority is a full examination of her surroundings, mapping every square centimetre of the floor. Using the iron ring as her centre point, she begins a fingertip search. Sharp nubs of rock press at her knees. But she has a task, now, a focus.

In her mind, Elissa forms an empty chessboard, each square measuring the distance between her elbow and middle fingertip. She labels them in the traditional manner, placing the iron ring at the centre of the cross formed by D4, E4, D5 and E5. Methodically, beginning at D5, the upper-left square of the central four, she populates them with what she finds: nothing at all in those except dirt and chiselled rock. From there she moves out to the twelve surrounding squares. At F5, she finds a pool of cold vomit. The pillow that supported her head lies in F4. It’s miserably thin – the down is compressed into clotted lumps and the slip smells strongly of mildew. Still, it’s better than nothing, and she resolves to look after it. The remaining ten squares of the circuit are empty, except for a patch of foul-smelling slime at C4 that Elissa refuses to investigate too closely.

With the second tier of squares searched and their contents itemized, she moves on to the third, starting at B7. Along the top row, comprising six spaces, she finds an area of flat ground that feels like concrete. As a place to lie down, it’s a better prospect than where she first woke.

The upper-right flank of this expanded grid, from G7 down to G5, is as empty as the central four squares. At G4, she finds another patch of drying vomit. The row from B2 to G2 offers nothing of use, but at B3 she finds something surprising.

III

The first item is a bucket, made of hard plastic. One part of the rim is gently contoured, forming a spout from which its contents can be poured. The handle is wire, slightly thicker than a coat hanger. A cylindrical sleeve, also plastic, threadsit halfway along. The bucket itself is dry and smells new. At the bottom Elissa finds a single roll of toilet paper.

Her stomach clenches. This is the first clear evidence that her jailer intends to keep her a while. Once again, she refuses to be overcome. Soon, the Evian will work its way through her system. Now, at least, she has found somewhere for it to go. She might be caged like an animal, but she won’t have to behave like one.

The second item in B3 is an identical bucket. This one’s been filled to capacity with a cold liquid, its surface bearded with bubbles. It smells like cleaning solution: something stronger than Fairy Liquid but not as abrasive as bleach. Floor cleaner, perhaps, or a general-purpose disinfectant.

From B3, Elissa works her way up the rest of the column, dragging her chain as she goes, refusing to consider anything except her immediate task. At B7, in the top-left corner of the tier, she pauses once more. This far from the iron ring, she’s at the limit of her chain. Stretching out, she uses her feet to explore the furthest spaces of her constructed board.

At A8, her foot touches a wall. Elissa can tell, from the sound her shoe makes, that it’s stone. Slithering on her belly, she follows the wall to H8, where it continues past her reach. Working her way down that column, trying not to scuff her knees on slivers of protruding rock, she comes to H7. There, her foot discovers a collection of little objects. With her heel, she hooks them into G7, where she can better examine them.

The first item, constructed of glazed ceramic, is impossible to identify. Its base resembles a steep-sided saucer from which rises a moulding like a honey pot. The top flares outwards, forming a second saucer smaller than the first. In the centre is a raised socket. A curved handle connects the upper and lower sections.

Elissa’s hands move blindly across the surface, hunting for further clues. The underside is the only area unglazed. She thinks something’s been scratched there – perhaps the potter’s initials – but they’re too faint to identify by touch.

Placing it down, she investigates the other items removed from H7: a box of matches and a larger box containing dinner candles. Immediately, the glazed pot’s purpose becomes clear: it’s a holder, the upper dish designed to catch drips of wax.

Lifting a candle to her nose, Elissa inhales. The wax smell triggers memories of Christmas. Last year, they had a box of these at home – dark-green ones they burned in pewter candlesticks at each end of the mantelpiece. On Christmas Day they put them on the table. Elissa recalls the dinner with her Nana and Grandad, the conversation and laughter.

Now, with memories of that day swelling in her mind, she hunches over, arms wrapped around her head. She begins to weep, and all her tears are for her mum, and her grandparents, and what they’ll have to endure thanks to the deviant who snatched her. At some point, still curled foetus-like, she slumps on to her side. When her last, weary shudders dissipate, she closes her eyes and sleeps.

IV

An urge to pee awakens her. At first, she doesn’t remember what’s happened, where she is, or why it’s so dark. Far too soon her awareness floods back, along with recollections of her new world: the manacle; the chain; the buckets; the matches and candles. Something has changed in here, while she’s been sleeping, but she can’t work out what.

Has night fallen? Has her jailer visited? Is there a breeze, now, where earlier, there was none?

---