Page 5 of The Memory Wood

This is my fault. All of it.

It’s too much. My torch clatters to the floor and winks out. Blackness floods in. I lose all sense of myself, of what is real and what is not. I hear choked cries and can’t believethey’re mine, convinced, suddenly, that I share this space with something hostile, something with claws and teeth. I turn, run blindly for the door, misjudge its location and shoulder-slam the jamb, knocking myself to the floor. A sharp edge of rock cuts my knee. The pain is a bolt of electricity that races up my leg and explodes inside my skull. Crab-like, I scuttle from the chamber and keep going until my arms knock against the cellar’s bottom step. Blackness becomes grey. Shadow becomes light. I see an ivy-clad ceiling, a fungus-blotched wall. Then I’m on my knees again, outside this time, back in the Memory Wood and panting great lungfuls of air. Trees swarm around me like wolves gathered to a kill. There’s a shrieking in my ears. The magpies have returned: three on a nearby branch, four on the sagging cottage roof. I remember the old nursery rhyme and it chills my bones:Seven for a secret, never to be told.

I don’t know what to think.

I don’t know what to do.

Gretel has gone. And it’s all because of me.

Elissa

Day 1

I

It’s Saturday, which means it’s a chess day, although in reality every day’s a chess day because that’s all she ever thinks about. Still, this one’s particularly special. Exceptional, in fact. Because this is an English Youth Grand Prix event for which she has been practising, it feels, her whole life.

The £100 prize for the overall winner is small, but money has never interested her. She already owns a set of Staunton chess pieces hand-carved in Brazilian rosewood, the only thing her dad ever gave her worth keeping. They’re triple-weighted, gliding about on bases of soft leather. Apart from the Stauntons, all she needs is a board, and she has one of those too: a slab of solid hardwood inlaid with maple and anegre. Her mum bought it from an online shop soon after her dad stopped calling, eating tinned beans for a fortnight to afford it. The one thing Elissa wants in the world that she doesn’t have is a date with Ethan Bandercroft from her class, and that’snevergoing to happen, even if she wins the prize money.

No, she’s excited about the Grand Prix – so excited that each breath threatens to lift her from the ground and carryher clean away – because the winner will be invited on to the English national team to compete at either the World Youth Championship or the World Cadets. To land a place would be the culmination of years of hard work.

‘Lissy? Lovely? You OK up there? It’s time to go!’

‘I’m fine, Mum!’ she yells. ‘Just coming!’

She grabs the green velvet bag that holds her Stauntons. She won’t need them today – at the event they’ll use tournament boards and pieces – but she wants them, regardless. They go into her rucksack, along with the other items she’s packed. There are two chess books, the first by Jeremy Silman and the second –Chess Bitch: Women in the Ultimate Intellectual Sport– by Jennifer Shahade. Along with the books is a lunchbox containing a bottle of Evian, a cling-film-wrapped tuna sandwich, two satsumas, a packet of pineapple Yoyo Bears and a Marks and Spencer chocolate brownie. There’s also a roll-up chess mat, a notepad to record her moves and three gel-filled pens secured with an elastic band. Nestled on top is a knitted monkey wearing a tiny white T-shirt. He’s a freebie from a PG Tips box, along to masquerade as her mascot. At previous tournaments she’s seen similar totems: Lego figures, Pokémon toys, rabbits’ feet. It all seems a bit pointless, but she has no wish to distance herself from the other kids she might meet on the tour. As a result, Monkey’s been pressed into service.

‘But if you throw me off,’ she whispers, fixing him with what she hopes is a baleful stare, ‘if you do anything to bring disgrace on my family’s good name, when we get home I will take you outside to the garden, strap you to the barbecue, and then I will burn you.’

She stares into Monkey’s glossy black eyes. If he’s fazed by her warning, he doesn’t show it. Perhaps, like her, he suspects her words are empty threats. Zipping him into the rucksack, she throws one arm through a strap. Onher way to the door she catches herself in the mirror and pulls up.

Her mum bought the dress. It’s bottle green, the colour of the ocean on a summer day. It’s not something Elissa would have chosen but she sort of likes it, despite how girly it makes her look. She could have worn her normal outfit – jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt – but today she hadn’t wanted to be distracted by clothing choices, so she’d asked her mother to intervene.

The dress is sleeveless. Although she’s wearing a cotton vest underneath, her arms are still cold. Going to the wardrobe, she stares at the cardigans hanging up. There are various colours. To help her decide, she restricts her choices to black or white.

Immediately, Elissa realizes her mistake. Black and white are the traditional colours of a chessboard, along with the pieces that move upon them. Will her choice of cardigan influence her game? Her heart begins to jump.

Calm down. It doesn’t matter.

And yet the decision has paralysed her. She wants to call out to her mum, but suddenly her jaw feels wired shut.

Black or white? Black or white?

Blackorwhite, blackorwhite, blackorwhite?

It feels like an intricate set of cogs has seized inside her brain. This happens sometimes. A decision, seemingly routine, will render her helpless. Her muscles freeze and she’ll remain in the same position, gently swaying, until something knocks her back into motion.

Black or white? White or black?

She blinks. The movement is involuntary, a reaction to dry eyes.

‘Lissy?’ Her mum’s voice, from downstairs.

Odd that in chess, a game all about tough decisions, shenever experiences this. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons she loves it.

‘Lissy!’

And then, just like that, she’s back. Her jaw releases. She lurches forwards, almost colliding with the cupboard. ‘White,’ she gasps, dragging the cardigan from its hanger before paralysis can reclaim her. At the mirror, she allows herself a final glance. Her black hair is neatly brushed, held by a plastic Alice band the same colour as her eyes. She’s always wished her eyes were brown and not green. So many people comment on them. She’s never felt comfortable with the attention.

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