The Turn of the Key

by Ruth Ware

  There was a long moment of silence, Ellie hanging limp and heavy in my arms, my own breath panting in my ears, and then her whole body stiffened and she let out a wail of indignant shock and began to cry, with all the desolate surprise of a child told off for something they had not realized was wrong.

  “Ellie,” I began, but she was struggling in my arms, her face red and contorted with upset and anger. “Ellie, wait, I didn’t mean—”

  “Let me go!” she howled. My instinct was to tighten my arms around her, but she was thrashing like a cat, digging her nails into my arms.

  “Ellie—Ellie calm down, you’re hurting me.”

  “I don’t care! Let me go!”

  Kneeling, painfully, trying to keep my face away from her thrashing hands, I let her slide to the floor, where she collapsed with a wail onto the rug.

  “You’re mean! You shouted!”

  “Ellie, I didn’t mean to scare you, but that doll—”

  “Go away!” she wailed. “I hate you!”

  And then she scrambled to her feet and ran from the room, leaving me ruefully rubbing the scratches on my arms. I heard her feet on the stairs, and then the slam of the door of her room.

  Sighing, I went through to the kitchen and tapped on the tablet. When I clicked through to the camera, it was to see Ellie facedown in bed, plainly bawling, with Maddie sleepily rubbing her eyes in puzzled surprise at being woken up like this.

  Shit. She had come to me last night for reassurance—and for a moment there I had thought we were making a breakthrough. And now I had screwed it up. Again.

  And it was all because of that vile little doll’s head.

  I had to get rid of it, but somehow I could not bring myself to touch it, and in the end I went through to the utility room and got a plastic bin liner. I slid it over my hand, inside out, like a makeshift glove, and then knelt, and reached under the sofa.

  I found I was holding my breath, absurdly, as I reached into the dark, slightly dusty space, my fingers groping for the hard little head. I touched hair first, just a few straggling strands, for the little porcelain skull was almost bald, and I used it to tug the head itself closer, and then closed my hand over it in one firm, swift movement, like scooping up a dead rat, or some insect you fear may still sting you, even dead.

  I was gripping it hard—as if the force of my grip could stop it exploding or escaping from my grasp. It did neither. But as I stood, gingerly, I felt something twinge in my index finger, a shard of glass, so sharp I had barely felt it go in. It had pierced the bag itself and driven into my finger, drawing blood, which now dripped with a steady rhythm onto the wooden floor. The head was not china, I realized, but painted glass.

  At the sink I pulled the glass out of my finger and then wound my hand in a piece of kitchen paper before wrapping the head in a tea towel, and then another bin bag. I tied the top and stuffed it deep, deep into the rubbish bin, feeling like I was burying a corpse. My finger throbbed as I pressed down on it, making myself wince.

  “What happened to Ellie?”

  The voice made me jump, as if I’d been caught hiding the evidence of something guilty, and swinging round I saw Maddie standing in the doorway. Her expression was slightly less truculent than usual, and with her hair standing on end she looked like what she was—just a little girl with a comical case of bed head, woken up too early.

  “Oh . . . it’s my fault,” I said ruefully. “I’m afraid I shouted at her. She was about to touch some broken glass and I scared her, trying to stop her. I think she thought I was angry . . . I just didn’t want her to hurt herself.”

  “She said you found a doll and you wouldn’t let her play with it?”

  “Just a head.” I didn’t want to go into the whys and wherefores with Maddie. “But it was made of glass, and sharp where it had got cracked. I cut myself clearing it up.”

  I held out my hand like evidence, and she nodded, somberly, seemingly satisfied with my incomplete explanation.

  “Okay. Can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

  “Maybe. But, Maddie—” I stopped, not quite sure how to phrase what I wanted to ask. Our rapprochement felt so fragile that I was scared of endangering it, but there were too many questions buzzing in my head to abandon the topic completely. “Maddie, have you ever . . . do you know where the doll came from?”

  “What do you mean?” Her face was puzzled, guileless. “We’ve got lots of dolls.”

  “I know, but this is a special, old-fashioned doll.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to fish the nightmarish broken head out of the bin, so instead I pulled out my phone and searched on Google Images for “Victorian doll,” scrolling down until I found one that was a slightly less malevolent version of the doll from the attic. Maddie stared at it, frowning.

  “There was one like that on TV one time. It was a program about selling ankeets.”

  “Ankeets?” I blinked.

  “Yes, old things that are worth a lot of money. A lady wanted to sell an old doll for money but the person in charge of the show told her it wasn’t worth anything.”

  “Oh . . . antiques. I know the show you mean. But you’ve never seen one in real life?”

  “I don’t think so,” Maddie said. She turned away, and I tried to read her expression. Was she being too casual? Wouldn’t a normal child ask more questions than this? But then I shook myself. This second-guessing of everything was starting to border on paranoia. Children were self-absorbed. I knew that well enough from the nursery. Hell, there were plenty of adults who were incurious enough not to question something like this.

  I was just trying to formulate a way of bringing the conversation back to the writing on the wall and Maddie’s Alphabetti Spaghetti, when she changed the subject abruptly, bringing it back to her original question with the single-mindedness typical of young children.

  “So, can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

  “Well . . .” I bit my lip. Sandra’s list of “occasional” foods were being consumed more and more frequently by the day. But then again, she shouldn’t have it in the house if she didn’t want the children to eat it, should she? “Yes, I guess so, just for today. But it’s the last time this week, okay? Back to Weetabix tomorrow. Go up and get your school uniform on, and I’ll have it ready by the time you get down. Oh, and will you tell Ellie there’s a bowl for her too, if she wants it?”

  She nodded, and as she disappeared upstairs I reached for the kettle.

  * * *

  I was spooning some porridge into Petra’s mouth with my uninjured hand when a little face appeared at the kitchen door and then just as quickly slipped away, leaving a piece of paper scudding across the floor.

  “Ellie?” I called, but there was no answer, only the sound of feet disappearing. Sighing, I made sure that Petra’s straps were secure and went to pick up the piece of paper.

  To my surprise it was a typed letter, formatted like an email, though with no subject, and nothing in the “To” field. Under the Gmail header was a single line of text with no punctuation.

  Dave Owen I am very sorry for scratching and waning away from you and saying that I hate you please don’t be angry and don’t go away like the others I am sorry love Ellie p. S. I got dressed by myself

  Dave Owen? The words made my brow furrow, but there was no mistaking the intent of the rest of the message, and I unclipped Petra, put her in the playpen in the corner, and picked up the letter again.

  “Ellie?”

  Silence.

  “Ellie, I got your letter, I’m really sorry for shouting. Can I say sorry to you too?”

  There was a long pause, then a little voice said, “I’m in here.”

  I made my way through the media room to the living room. At first sight it looked empty, but then a movement caught my eye, and I walked slowly to the far corner of the room, filled with shadow where the morning sun had not yet come round. She was wedged in between the end of the sofa and the wall, almost invisible apart from her blon
d hair, and the tips of her shoes peeping out.

  “Ellie.” I crouched down, holding out the letter. “Did you write this?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s really good. How did you know all the spellings? Did Maddie help you?”

  “I did it myself. Only . . . the acorn helped me.”

  “The acorn?” I was puzzled, and she nodded.

  “You push the acorn and you tell it what you want to write and it writes it down for you.”

  “What acorn?” I was bewildered now. “Can you show me?” Ellie flushed with shy pleasure at demonstrating her own cleverness, and squeezed out of the little corner. There was dust on her school skirt, and her shoes were on the wrong feet, but I ignored both, and followed her through to the kitchen, where she picked up the tablet, opened up Gmail, and pressed the microphone symbol above the keyboard. Light dawned. It did look a little bit like a stylized acorn—particularly if you had no idea what an old-fashioned microphone looked like.

  Now she spoke into the tablet.

  “Dear Rowan, this is a letter to say I am very sorry, love Ellie,” she said slowly, saying the words as distinctly as her childish palate would allow.

  Dave Owen the letters unfurled on the screen, as if by magic, this is a letter to say I am fairy—

  There was an infinitesimal pause and the app self-corrected.

  very sorry love Ellie

  “And then you press the dots here and it prints on the printer in Daddy’s study,” she said proudly.

  “I see.” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I compromised by crouching down and hugging her. “Well, you’re very clever, and it’s a lovely letter. And I’m very sorry too. I shouldn’t have shouted, and I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

  She hung on to me, breathing heavily on my neck, her chubby cheek warm against mine.

  “Ellie,” I said softly, unsure if I was about to wreck our hard-won confidence, but unable not to ask. “Ellie, can I ask you something?”

  She didn’t say anything, but I felt her nod, her little pointy chin digging into the tendon that ran from my collar bone to my shoulder.

  “Did you . . . did you put that dolly head on my lap?”

  “No!” She pulled back, looking at me, a little upset but not as much as I’d feared. She shook her head vehemently, her hair flying like thistledown. Her eyes were wide, and I could see in them a kind of desperation to be believed. But why? Because she was telling the truth? Or because she was lying?

  “Are you sure? I promise I won’t be angry. I just . . . I wondered how it got there, that’s all.”

  “It wasn’t me,” she said, stamping her foot.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I backpedaled a little, not wanting to lose what ground I’d gained. “I believe you.” There was a pause, and she slipped her hand in mine. “So . . .” I was treading carefully now, but this was too important not to press a little further. “Do you . . . do you know who did?”

  She looked away at that, not meeting my eyes.

  “Ellie?”

  “It was another little girl,” she said. And somehow I knew that was all I would ever get out of her.

  “Maddie, Ellie, come on!” I was standing in the hallway, keys in hand as Maddie came flying down the stairs with her coat and shoes already on. “Oh, well done, sweetie. You did your shoes yourself!” She slipped past, avoiding my outstretched arms, but Ellie, coming out of the downstairs toilet, was less quick and I caught her up, growling like a bear, kissed her squashy little tummy, then set her squealing and laughing back onto the floor, and watched as she scampered out of the front door after her sister to clamber into the car.

  I turned back, to pick up their schoolbags, and as I did, I almost collided with Mrs. McKenzie, standing with her arms folded in the archway that led to the kitchen.

  “Shit!” The word slipped out without meaning to, and I flushed, annoyed with myself for giving her more ammunition for her dislike of me. “I mean, gosh, I didn’t hear you come in, Mrs. McKenzie. Sorry, you startled me.”

  “I came in the back way, I had mucky shoes,” was all she said, but there was something a little bit softer than usual in her face, as her eyes followed the girls out to the car. “You’re . . . ,” she stopped, and then shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “No, what?” I said, feeling annoyed. “Come on, if you’ve got something to say . . .”

  She pursed her lips, and I folded my arms, waiting. Then, quite unexpectedly, she smiled, transforming her rather grim face, making her look years younger.

  “I was just going to say, you’re doing very well with those girls. Now, you’d best be getting a move on, or you’ll be late.”

  * * *

  As I drove back from Carn Bridge Primary School, Petra strapped into the car seat behind me, pointing out the window and babbling her half-talk, half-nonsense syllables to herself, I found myself remembering that first drive back from the station with Jack—the evening sunset gilding the hills, the quiet hum of the Tesla as we wound through the close-cropped fields, filled with grazing sheep and Highland cows, and over stone bridges. It was gray and drizzling today, and the landscape felt very different—bleak and raw and entirely un-summer-like. Even the cows in the fields looked depressed, their heads lowered, rain dripping off the tips of their horns.

  When the gate swung inwards and we began to climb the winding drive up to the house, I had a sharp flash of déjà vu back to that first evening—the way I had sat there beside Jack, scarcely able to breathe with hope and wanting.

  We swung around the final curve of the drive, and the squat gray facade of the house came into view, and I remembered too the rush of emotion I had felt on seeing it for the first time, golden and warm and full of possibilities.

  It looked very different today. Not full of the potential for a new life, new opportunities, but as gray and forbidding as a Victorian prison—only I knew that was a kind of a lie as well, that the Victorian facade presented to the driveway was only half the story, and that if I walked around to the back, I would see a house that had been ripped apart and patched back together with glass and steel.

  Last of all, my gaze went to the roof, the stone tiles wet and slick with rain. The window Jack had shut was not visible from here; it opened onto the inner slope of the roof, but I knew that it was there, and the thought made me shiver.

  There was no sign of Jean McKenzie’s car in the drive—she must have already left for the day—and both Jack and the dogs were nowhere to be seen, and somehow, what with everything that had happened, I could not bring myself to enter the house alone. It had come to something, I thought, as I parked the car and unclipped Petra from her seat, that even fending off the dogs from trying to put their noses up my skirt would have been a welcome distraction from the silent watchfulness of that house, with its glassy egg-shaped eyes observing me from every corner.

  At least out here I could think and feel and speak without watching my every word, my every expression, my every mood.

  I could be me, without fearing that I would slip up.

  “Come on,” I said to Petra. Her buggy was in the boot of the car, and I opened it up and slid her in, clipping the rain cover over her. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Me walk!” Petra shouted, pushing her hands against the plastic, but I shook my head.

  “No, honey, it’s too wet, and you’ve not got your waterproofs on. You stay snug and dry in there.”

  “Puggle!” Petra said, pointing through the plastic. “Jumpin muggy puggle!” It took me a minute to realize what she was saying, but then I followed her gaze to the huge pool of water that had collected on the gravel in the old stable yard, and understanding clicked.

  Muddy puddles. She wanted to jump in muddy puddles.

  “Oh! Like Peppa Pig, you mean?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “You haven’t got your Wellies on, but look—”

  I began to walk faster, and then jog, and then with an eno
rmous splash, I ran, buggy and all, through the puddle, feeling the water spray up all around us and patter down on my anorak and the buggy’s rain cover.

  Petra screamed with laughter.

  “Again! More puggle!”

  There was another puddle farther around the side of the house and obligingly I ran through that too, and then another on the graveled path down towards the shrubbery.

  By the time we reached the kitchen garden, I was soaked and laughing, but also getting surprisingly cold, and the house was beginning to seem a little bit more welcoming. Full of cameras and malfunctioning tech it might be, but at least it was warm and dry, and out here my fears of the night before seemed not just silly, but laughable.

  “Puggle!” Petra shouted, bouncing up and down underneath her clips. “More puggle!”

  But I shook my head, laughing too.

  “No, that’s enough, sweetie, I’m wet! Look!” I came round to stand in front of her, showing her my soaked jeans, and she laughed again, her little face scrunched up and distorted through the crumpled plastic.

  “Woan wet!”

  Woan. It was the first time she had made an attempt at my name, and I felt my heart contract with love, and a kind of sadness too—for everything I could not tell her.

  “Yes!” I said, and there was a lump in my throat, but my smile was real. “Yes, Rowan is wet!”

  It was as I was turning the buggy around to start the climb back up to the house that I realized how far we had come—almost all the way down the path that led to the poison garden. I glanced over my shoulder at the garden as I began to push the buggy up the steep brick path—and then stopped.

  For something had changed since my last visit.

  Something was missing.

  It took me a minute to put my finger on it—and then I realized. The string tying up the gate had gone.

  “Just a second, Petra,” I said, and ignoring her protests of “More puggles!” I put the brake on the buggy and ran back down the path to the iron gate, the gate where Dr. Grant had been photographed, standing proudly before his research playground, so many years ago, the gate I had tied up securely, in a knot too high for little hands to reach.