Page 89 of The Memory Wood

She staggers into the toilets, barricading herself in an empty cubicle. Pain lashes her. Air hisses between her teeth.

She tugs down her trousers, her underwear. There’s blood everywhere, bright and wet and accusatory. Mairéad kicks off her heels, quickly strips off her clothes. Lifting the toilet seat, she straddles herself across it. Her breath comes in staccato bursts. She should be at home, in the privacy of her own bathroom, surrounded by familiar things. Instead she’s two hundred miles away, locked in a cramped police station toilet within spitting distance of a child killer. But the location doesn’t matter. Not really. Right now, she could be anywhere on earth and she’d still be alone.

The pain intensifies. For a while, it’s all there is. And then, finally, it begins to ebb.

When Mairéad stands, the evidence of her loss is stark and unequivocal.

How dismal, this. How particular the grief.

Her fingers grope for her wedding band. She needs to speak to Scott, tell him what has happened. But she can’t, not yet.

Mairéad opens her bag and searches through it. At least she came prepared. Inside there are wipes, sanitary pads, leggings and fresh knickers. Carefully, she begins to clean herself. Her grief is a boulder rolling towards her, so heavy and sluggish it’ll take a little time to arrive. Unbidden, a memory surfaces: Lena Mirzoyan, six days ago, sitting in the manager’s office of the Marshall Court Hotel:I know you’ll try. All of you – I know you will. But you’vegotto succeed. You’ve got to bring her back. Promise me you will. Promise.

Mairéad flushes the toilet. She leaves the cubicle as fast as she can. In front of the mirror, she tries to make herself look human. Does she serve Elissa best by handing the interrogation to someone else? Crazy to believe that she can walk out of here and straight into an interview room.

Or is it?

Perspective, right now, is impossible.

She knows what a court would think, should she choose to question Kyle North. She knows what her chief constable would think. But a court will never know, and neither will her boss. She’s so invested in this, so invested in Elissa.

That boulder of grief is gathering speed, but it’s still some way behind. She can outpace it, dance before it, do what needs to be done.

Jesus.

Kyle

I

At first, being locked up isn’t as bad as I feared. The cell is clean, and although the bunk is hard, there’s a mattress coated in blue plastic and even a matching pillow. I’d prefer dimmer lights, and the bleach smell is unfortunate, but you can’t have everything.

On the floor is a tray of food, now cold. I don’t deserve to eat, not after what I did. Every time I close my eyes I see choking black smoke, so instead I stare at the wall. I wonder how many of my Memory Trees have burned. I wonder if Bryony’s yew is gone, and Mama’s oak.

I think of Kyle, and what will become of him. Then I remember that my brother is dead – that I killed him long ago – and that he wasn’t Kyle at all but Elijah, the name I took as my own. Strange how, over time, the stories we tell ourselves come true.

It’s quiet right now. I should try to savour the peace. I know what they do to people like me. My black eye in the police van was just the start. After this I’ll go somewhere filled with Men Who Do Bad Things. Magic Annie told me all about them – about what they do to you, what theyputinyou. My tummy clenches. I feel that wall inside my head tremble, as if an earthquake is shaking the corridors of my mind. Being alone like this is bearable, but the thought of prison empties my lungs. I should probably kill myself before I have to face it, but I can’t even work out how. Hugging my legs to my chest, I hear commotion outside the cell. My ordeal’s about to begin.

II

The interview room isn’t the same one as before, but that was a different police station and they were different officers. This room is far smaller. Even on my own, it feels like a tight squeeze.

My hands are cuffed. Every time I look at them I think of Gretel and that awful injury on her wrist. I’m pretty sure she was dying, even before the fire – her arm had swollen up like a sun-ripened pumpkin. The pain must have been horrendous, but she never complained. Not like Bryony, whose whining became a bit much towards the end.

Two video cameras bolted to the ceiling watch everything I do. Funny, really. In a way, it feels like I’ve traded places with those I used to visit.

The door opens. First through it is the woman who arrested me. She looks different to how she did at the cottage, but I can’t work out what has changed. Following her is a man I don’t recognize. The door’s about to swing closed when a third person enters – someone I know well and did not expect to see again. Mama.

III

Such is my joy, my sheer relief at her presence, that I’m only half aware of the detectives as they sit down. Mama doesn’t join us at the table. Instead, she leans against the far wall. She’s wearing her weekend clothes: blue jeans, desert boots, North Face gilet and plaid work shirt. There’s mascara on her eyelashes and maroon lipstick on her mouth. She looks exactly like I want my wife to look, if I ever end up getting married. Some people might think that’s weird, but it’s not. Mama is perfect, and perfection only comes in one size.

On her back is the sun-faded orange rucksack she was wearing when I last saw her. Only now do I recognize it as Elijah’s. Odd that I ever forgot.

She looks so sad that my eyes fill with tears. I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her. But Mama wouldn’t ever allow that, and nor would these two detectives. She’s sad, not for herself, but for me. Somehow, that makes me feel even worse, yet when I open my mouth to say something she puts a finger to her lips and gently shakes her head.

‘Hello, Kyle,’ the policewoman says.

When I turn to face her I realize how cramped the room has become. With the three of us huddled around this table and Mama leaning against the wall there’s hardly enough air to breathe.

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