Page 63 of The Memory Wood

‘Say you understand.’

‘I understand.’

The red light winks on. ‘Speak.’

III

Following her monologue, the camera records thirty seconds of silence. Then the studio light dies.

Elissa bows her head. If the recording finds its way online, she hopes her mum will understand.

‘You cannot, surely, want to return to a mother like that,’ the ghoul whispers.

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘Some crueller than others. No doubt you consider me your jailer. Perhaps, instead, you should consider me your saviour.’

With her good hand, Elissa indicates her manacle. ‘You call this being saved?’

‘Cooperate, and you’ll get all sorts of nice things.’

‘Like what?’

Silence, for a moment. Then the door’s rubber seal squeals. The candle flame bobs.

As the ghoul re-enters the cell, Elissa strains her eyes. He’s carrying something bulky – something she can see only in silhouette. Her heart begins to thump. There’s no guarantee their definitions of ‘nice things’ concur.

He drops what he’s holding. It skitters softly when it hits the floor. Bulky it may be, but it’s also light. The ghoul turns without a word and the door squeals again. This time, when he returns, he’s carrying a tray. As he sets it down the light from his head torch touches what he just delivered: an inflatable mattress, on which he’s thrown a grubby tartan blanket.

‘Off the chair,’ he whispers. ‘On to that.’

Is this a reward for her cooperation? Or the prelude to something monstrous?

Shivering, Elissa slides off her seat. The mattress is so soft, so yielding to her aching limbs, that she cannot suppress a sob. When she manages to drag the blanket around her shoulders, the tears fall faster.

In her nose is the smell of hot food. On the tray is a plastic plate piled with crisp bacon, alongside two fried and congealed eggs. Threads of steam rise from a shallow lake of baked beans.

Elissa drags the tray close. Forgoing cutlery, she feeds herself with her fingers. The bacon is burnt, room temperature rather than hot, and the eggs were cooked some time ago. Only the beans are as they should be, likely because they were poured from a flask.

As Elissa fills her stomach she feels a rush of gratitude as powerful as it is misplaced. ‘Thank you,’ she mutters, around a mouthful of food. ‘Thank you.’

Cooperate, and you’ll get all sorts of nice things.

If a single story can achieve a bed, a blanket and a cooked meal, what could she earn with a more dramatic tale? Elijah might profess friendship, but all he’s ever brought her is a pecan-nut biscuit and a single piece of cheese. In exchange for a simple anecdote, the ghoul has provided all this.

The realization that she’s humanizing him chills her bones. Already, she’s losing her sense of right and wrong, of what’s real and what’s false. If she isn’t careful, she’ll lose herself entirely.

‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ the ghoul whispers as he collects her empty plate. ‘Maybe this can work.’

Maybe this can, Elissa thinks.

It is, without doubt, her scariest thought yet.

Mairéad

Day 5

I

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