Page 64 of The Memory Wood

The street outside Lena Mirzoyan’s home is even more jammed with vehicles than during Mairéad’s last visit. As soon as she climbs from her car she’s jostled by excited journalists. The PCSO by the gate does his best to hold them back.

‘How’re you feeling?’ someone shouts, a reference to her hapless morning press conference. ‘Has the investigation stalled?’

Ignoring the questions, she strides up the front path. Judy Pauletto, the FLO, answers the door.

‘Do they know?’ Mairéad asks.

Grim-faced, Judy shakes her head. ‘I’ve been keeping them away from the TV.’

The kitchen’s at the end of the hall. A uniformed officer hovers at the sink, fiddling with a tea caddy as if he’s thinking about making a brew. When he looks up at Mairéad, his expression is as doleful as the FLO’s. Everyone, it seems, knows the news she’s here to impart.

In the living room, Elissa Mirzoyan’s grandparents sit at opposite ends of the sofa, a dimple in the fabric between them.

Lena Mirzoyan stands by the window. Her face is a horror show – puffy skin, poached-egg eyes, stress rash across her forehead. ‘Have you found her?’ she blurts, and immediately covers her mouth, as if by calling back the words she can insulate herself against bad news.

It’s hard, this. For Mairéad, it’s always been the worst part of the job. She thinks of Bryony Taylor’s mother – of the trauma she suffered, is still suffering. ‘We haven’t,’ she says. ‘But we’ve every reason to believe that Elissa’s alive. I need to show you something. You might want to sit down.’

Eyes wide and unblinking, Lena Mirzoyan retreats to the sofa.

Mairéad opens her laptop. ‘This is going to be tough. Afterwards, you’ll probably have a lot of questions.’

Suddenly, it’s hard to find the right words, but the worst torture for any mother in this situation is the not-knowing, so she ploughs on, hoping to avoid any ambiguity. ‘There’s been a communication – a video, uploaded to YouTube a few hours ago. It shows Elissa talking.’

Lena’s throat spasms. She reaches out to her parents. They anchor her firmly, as if she’s in danger of lifting off from the sofa. ‘It’s him,’ she whispers. ‘Oh God. Isn’t it? The one the papers are talking about.’

‘We believe so.’

This time, her voice is little more than a flutter of breath. ‘Show me.’

Mairéad swivels the laptop screen and hits play.

Lena releases her parents and hugs her knees. On the laptop, from a slow fade, Elissa Mirzoyan materializes, head angled down like that girl from the movieThe Ring.

II

In the living room, no one breathes.

Lena raises her hands. She starts to cover her eyes, hesitates. Starts to cover her ears, hesitates again.

Onscreen, Elissa lifts her head. Her skin has the pallor of a dead thing. She stares at the camera and clears her throat. When she speaks, she sounds far older than her thirteen years. ‘My name is Elissa Mirzoyan. Today is the twenty-fourth of October.’

‘Oh,’ Lena whispers. ‘Oh, my child.’

The girl’s attention flickers to something out of shot. With her left hand, she wipes her mouth. When she nudges the hair that’s been brushed halfway across her face she exposes – just briefly – the edge of a bloody bruise. After watching this clip twenty times, Mairéad’s convinced the move was deliberate.

‘I do not wish to be found,’ Elissa says, eyes returning to the camera. ‘I do not wish anyone to look for me. Since finding sanctuary, I’ve come to realize …’ Now she hesitates, continuing with a clenched jaw: ‘… that Lena Mirzoyan is not the good mother I thought.’

Her face fills the frame for another five seconds. Then the screen goes dark.

Instantly, the living room feels like a vacuum chamber.

‘We know she spoke under duress,’ Mairéad says. ‘We know Elissa didn’t mean that.’

Lena blinks, eyes still on the laptop. She looks like someone just opened her chest and tore out her heart. ‘I let her go,’ she whispers. ‘That day at the hotel. Elissa asked me for the car keys and I just handed them over. I could have gone outside with her, but I didn’t. I just did what she asked. And now, and now …’

‘This isn’t your fault, Lena. It isn’t.’

‘What else can you tell me?’

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