Page 62 of The Memory Wood

Elissa

Day 5

I

In the light of her seventh candle, Elissa eats the scrap of chocolate brownie she hid inside her underwear. The six candles already consumed equate to a forty-eight-hour burn time, but she knows she’s been here far longer; knows, too, that she’s nearing the limit of her endurance. Her injured arm throbs from her elbow to her fingertips. When she dares to examine it, she finds a foul-smelling pus seeping through the makeshift bandage.

Inside the cell, the temperature has dropped further. Her soiled vest is still wet. Otherwise, she’d have put it back on. Earlier, she dried a small section over the candle flame, but it’s a task she can only manage in stages.

On her mental chessboard, the drawer to E8 is open. Into it, she plans to store her every interaction with Elijah, along with her every insight into his character.

It won’t be easy. Because Elijah, now she’s got to know him better, frightens her more than anyone.

For a start, he’s a contradiction. He acts like he wants to help, but despite her pleas he’s consistently failed to raise the alarm. Neither has he been entirely honest. Twice duringtheir conversations he’s mentioned his high IQ. Yet when pressed for his score, it was clear he’d never taken a test.

‘Ninety-nine,’ he’d told her, as if expecting that number to impress. Elissa could have explained that themedianadult IQ is one hundred. Hers is one hundred and thirty-eight.

Even if Elijahwereto take a test, she doubts the results would impress. The time he took to scratch out his FIDE letter was staggering, and although she didn’t see his handwriting, she’s convinced it’d resemble that of someone far younger. He’s clearly unstable; she suspects, too, that he suffers a form of mental impairment; high-functioning autism, perhaps – something she’s encountered a few times on the chess circuit. When she pointed out he was barefoot, he seemed genuinely confused. And yet he was smart enough to recognize her ploy with the mobile phone.

Elijah seems shockingly unaware of the modern world. He hasn’t heard of the internet; hasn’t heard of apps or tablet computers. Is that because he’s led a sheltered life? Or because he’s spinning her a lie? And why is he so careful to remain hidden? Is he worried she’ll betray him? She could do that easily enough without describing his appearance. Once before, she imagined him as a child-sized monstrosity, with lamp-like eyes and a horribly deformed mouth. Now, unbidden, a new image comes to her; of a boy with smooth skin instead of eyes, and lips as plump and moist as tulip petals. She knows this version of him is just as inaccurate as the first – if Elijah was blinded by deformity, what reason would he have for a torch?

He’s probably still her best chance of surviving this, but the effort of treating him like a friend is exhausting. When she thinks of the affectionate way he calls her ‘silly’, or his delight at their Hansel and Gretel monikers, her stomach grips with nausea. His voice – petulant at times, thoughtful at others – makes her cringe. There’s a quality to it that nags at her, advertising something not-quite-right. When hevisits, she feels like Clarice Starling in the company of Hannibal Lecter; or Frodo Baggins in the tunnels with Shelob. Even worse, despite her hope that he’ll help her, he’s already admitted he couldn’t save Bryony.

Still, she got her tree. I made sure of that, even if I couldn’t make sure of anything else. Picked out a tall one, just like she asked.

Maybe that’s why he calls this place the Memory Wood. She imagines, above ground, a landscape of dripping trees, with children’s bones buried among the roots. The thought is enough to set her teeth squealing.

Outside the cell door, the deadbolts rattle in their mountings.

II

It’s the ghoul.

Elissa knows by the stink of him and the harsh white beam of his head torch. She waits in silence as he sets up his equipment. Finished, he carries out the red waste bucket, returning with a clean one.

I want you to think about all the ways your mother has let you down. Every little spite, every dereliction, every selfish act.

Shehasthought about that. Aside from Elijah’s visits, she’s had little else to occupy her. If the ghoul asks her to talk, she won’t disappoint. She’s wary of being too placid, of losing his respect, but she’s just as frightened of another attack.

‘What day is it?’ she asks, watching the candle flame as it flickers and sways. In response, the ghoul walks over.

She closes her eyes, bracing herself for a blow. Instead, something is set down before her. When she dares to look, she sees a travel bottle of Evian. All at once she realizes how thirsty she is. Snatching up the bottle, she guzzles the contents.

On goes the studio light, burning her eyes with its fire. In comes the chair, placed in its usual position. Elissa struggles up and shuffles over. The movement wakes a litany of complaints from her battered body. For a moment, as she sits, she’s so light-headed she fears she’ll pass out.

The ghoul approaches. Taking her chin, he tilts her head towards him. The light bleaches out everything; she can’t see his face, anything at all. His stink is in her airways, so ripe and unpleasant the water in her stomach sloshes and churns.

‘You messed your hair,’ he whispers, pressing a brush into her lap. ‘Put it back.’

Elissa obeys, covering the injured side of her face.

The ghoul retreats to his equipment. ‘Talk,’ he hisses. ‘About your mother, like I told you before. Say you understand.’

‘I understand. But … what do you want me to say?’

‘An anecdote. An example of her selfishness. She divorced your father, for a start – that’s a rich seam of dereliction right there.’

This freak has no knowledge of her family life, or about how bad things were between her parents before they split. Or does he?

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