The Doll House

by Phoebe Morgan

  That was this morning. It’s late afternoon, now, I’ve almost made it through the day. Dom still hasn’t called but he texted earlier to say he was on the way to get Mum and to check I was OK. I didn’t mention my coat or the cut on my arm; he’d only worry more, or make me go straight home. And I have to go and see Dad tonight, there’s no way I’m not going. Whoever is trying to hurt me won’t know where I am if I’m not at the flat, I haven’t told anyone about Dad’s anniversary. Except for Dominic, of course. The only other people that know what today is are his old colleagues, but they’ll all be at the memorial dinner at the RIBA. For a moment, I picture the scene and wish I could be there – smartly dressed men in suits raising a glass to Dad’s memory, to his success, his cleverness and his charisma. And an empty space at the table where he should be. I blink, quickly. No, it’s better that we have our own private time to remember, away from all the fuss. Home is where the heart is.

  I’m meeting them both in an hour at the cemetery gates. As if reading my mind, the gallery phone rings and it’s Ashley on the line. ‘I’m here already, the traffic was on my side! Got the flowers?’ she says. ‘Dom is dropping Mum off here, right?’

  ‘Right, he should be there soon,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘I want the flowers to be fresh so I’ll get some on route, I saw a guy selling daffodils this morning so thought I’d get some of those.’

  ‘Perfect, thank you,’ she says a little breathlessly. ‘I’ve made reservations for us at Taprinska. We can have steak! Dad’s favourite, so he’d definitely approve. I’ll just meet you in the cemetery? I’m going to go up now and just sit with Dad for a while.’

  Before I can reply she’s hung up. Thank God we wiped all the paint off, it would be so horrible for her to have to see the gravestone like that. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. I shudder, remembering. I don’t want to tell Ashley about Beatrice, I don’t want to upset her today.

  Checking the time, I’m relieved to see it’s only ten minutes until we close the gallery. Dominic and Mum must be on their way. He’ll be annoyed later that I haven’t told him about the coat straight away, but I want to tell him in person, want to see his reaction. I’ll sit him down, tell him everything I’m feeling. Force him to come to the police with me tomorrow morning. Tonight is about Ashley, Mum and Dad and our immediate nuclear family, small as it is. A year is a milestone. A time to remember. We’ll sit and have a proper meal, and talk about Dad, and raise a big glass of wine to his life. Well, I’ll probably have tonic water.

  50

  27 March 2017

  The day of the anniversary

  Kent

  Dominic

  Dominic drives to Sevenoaks to pick up Mathilde, telling Alison that he needs the afternoon off. She has been distant with him recently, ever since he overheard her phone call. The Carlington House piece has not yet aired, she is keeping it back but he doesn’t know why. He worries that he has inadvertently done something wrong but doesn’t know what. Erin keeps telling him not to worry, that she is sure Alison has her reasons.

  ‘She loves you, you can tell,’ she told him this morning. ‘Teacher’s pet, you are.’ Dominic had tried to laugh. He isn’t really in a laughing mood.

  It takes him longer than it should to reach Mathilde’s, the roads winding and confusing, conspiring against him. A flurry of roadworks on the outskirts of Kent stops him, diverts him off course and he begins to want some water.

  He cannot stop thinking about the doll, about Corinne’s face as she stared at him. He can imagine how horrible finding it must have been, feels so guilty for leaving her alone in the flat. He pulls out his mobile to call her, tell her he is in Kent, but the screen stares blankly back at him – of course, there is no signal here. Never is.

  He can almost see Mathilde’s house through the trees at the end of the road; he drives the car the last few metres and pulls in, his tyres crunching on the gravel. There are no lights on; it doesn’t look like she’s in at all. The idea strikes him as odd, Corinne says she hardly ever goes out. He should have called her first but she is expecting him at this time. Perhaps she is just waiting to go.

  Dominic looks at his watch. His headlights shine onto the dark windows of the house; they stare back at him blankly. He goes to the front door, knocks twice. There is no answer. He wonders how Mathilde has dealt with this day, the anniversary of her husband’s death. It must be incredibly tough for her down here, all on her own in this house. Dominic always remembers Richard as such a big presence, always the centre of attention. To lose that kind of energy around you must be very strange. There were times when Richard’s need to be in the middle of things grated on Dominic slightly – just little moments, ones that he would never and has never mentioned to Corinne. A flash of something in his dark eyes when the conversation moved away from him. A witty retort that left Dominic in the dark. He wasn’t the sort of man Dominic felt he could keep up with, and at times he worried that Corinne would notice the differences between them – her shining father versus her local journo boyfriend. Still, it hardly matters now.

  Dominic is about to go round to the side door of the house when something makes him pause. There is a sound, a very faint thudding sound, quiet, but unmistakably there in the silence of the countryside evening. Something about it makes him feel uneasy. He turns back towards the house. It is totally dark, but Mathilde has no neighbours, the house is isolated. Could the noise be coming from inside? On instinct, Dominic approaches the main front window of the house, the one that looks into the sitting room. The curtains are open; he steps gently onto Mathilde’s flowerbed, his feet sinking into the soft soil. He stares through the window, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.

  He catches sight of something then, and for a moment he thinks he must be wrong but then he looks closer, presses his face right up to the glass, and what he sees sends waves of horror straight through his body, over and over like a horrible electric shock. Mathilde isn’t out. She isn’t out at all.

  51

  27 March 2017

  The day of the anniversary

  London

  Ashley

  Ashley is walking to the graveyard, her black heeled shoes tapping on the pavement as she hurries down the hedge-lined road to the leafy Hampstead cemetery. Her mobile rings and she scrabbles desperately in her pocket for it, pulls it out with a shaking hand.

  ‘Ash?’

  ‘James?’ Her heart is in her mouth. Her fingers are tightly clenched. She wants him to tell her quickly, get it over with, and, mercifully, he does.

  ‘Ashley, it’s all right. They’re letting me stay. They’re going to keep me on.’ Ashley feels as though her knees might give way. She stops still and clutches the phone, taking a huge, shuddering breath. Thank God. Oh, thank God.

  ‘Ash? You there?’

  She finds her voice. ‘Of course, oh, James, that’s so wonderful. I’m so pleased.’ She has tears in her eyes, wishes she could be with her husband, hold him close to her, kiss him. She closes her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her eyelids. The evening sun is oddly bright for the time of year, casting a burning orange glow as it dips slowly below the horizon. It is beautiful; the first warm day of spring.

  ‘I love you,’ she tells James. ‘I have to go to Dad’s grave, but I’ll be home later. We’ll celebrate, OK? I’m so relieved. And I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Thank you for trusting me, Ashley. It means a lot. Now go be with your family, the kids and I will be fine. I’m going to drive to June’s and pick Holly up now.’

  They hang up. Ashley can feel waves of relief crashing over her. She takes a deep breath, thanking God that James trusted her at last, that they are going to be all right. How horrible it must have been for him, not knowing how to tell her, not knowing what would happen. She still can’t quite believe he let it all get so out of hand in the first place, but she knows that she wants to be there for him, to support rather than condemn. He is her family, her partner. He’s the man
she loves.

  Ashley puts her phone back in her pocket, switches it to vibrate. At the entrance to the cemetery, she pauses, looks at her watch. Corinne won’t be here for a while. She pushes open the black iron gates; she can sit by the grave, take half an hour to herself with her dad.

  She can’t believe it has been a whole year, a year since his body finally gave in to the cancer, since Corinne closed his eyes in the hospital room. Some days it feels like a lifetime, some days it feels as though it was yesterday. It has always seemed ridiculous to her that a man such as her father could succumb to something like cancer – it didn’t fit with his whip-smart brain, his endless ability to problem solve.

  Ashley is wearing black; her best coat and suit. It’s one of her only outfits that hasn’t been ruined by the children, most of what she owns has been lost over the years to glitter and glue, snot and saliva. She smooths a hand over her skirt and, as she does so feels her mobile begin to ring again, the vibration shuddering through her jacket pocket.

  Her heart leaps as she glances at the screen: blocked number. James wouldn’t ring from a blocked line. Please, not again. The last thing she needs tonight is another silent call. She hesitates, standing in amongst the headstones, the slightly swaying trees that dot the cemetery. The phone vibrates again in her hand and she quickly presses the little green button.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice is hushed, she feels somehow guilty for speaking loudly in the quiet of the cemetery.

  ‘Mrs Thomas? It’s Doctor McPherson here, I’m calling from the surgery. How are you?’

  Ashley breathes out. Of course – doctors’ numbers are always withheld.

  ‘Fine,’ she says, pressing the phone to her ear and resuming her walk through the graveyard. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Thomas, Ashley, I won’t beat about the bush here – we’ve had Holly’s blood test results back in and I’d be keen to have a word with you.’

  Ashley freezes on the spot. The graves around her feel suddenly too close, as though they are closing in on her, hemming her in.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Everything will be fine, Mrs Thomas, but I would like a quick chat with you as soon as possible. The results are a little unusual, you see. I’m sorry they’ve taken a bit of time to come back but I ran them past a few people, wanted to be sure.’

  ‘I . . . What do you mean? What’s the matter with her, what’s the matter with my baby?’

  ‘I’d really rather discuss this in person, Mrs Thomas. Is it possible for you to come to the surgery? As soon as you can?’

  ‘I’m – I’m in Hampstead,’ Ashley says. ‘We’re – my father . . .’

  ‘Ah.’ The doctor’s voice is clipped, firm. He knows their family history, knows about Richard’s death. Ashley thinks he attended the funeral, it is all a bit of a blur but she has a vague recollection of clasping his hand as they said their goodbyes, before the crowds gathered in the old house for the wake.

  ‘Is Holly all right?’ Ashley’s voice is urgent, loud. She has given up speaking quietly.

  ‘Your daughter is not ill, Mrs Thomas, she is in no immediate danger. I would, however, request that both you and your husband come to the surgery first thing in the morning, I can book you in for eight-thirty. I would rather explain this in person.’

  Ashley swallows, confused. What can be so important that she cannot be told over the phone? And if it is so serious, shouldn’t she be with Holly now? Making sure she’s all right? Her mind floods with scenarios – leukaemia, blood clots, all manner of terrible diseases take shape in her brain.

  ‘Please,’ she says, ‘please can you tell me what’s wrong with her? I’m her mother, I need to know.’

  ‘I will go through everything in the morning,’ the doctor says. ‘Please try not to worry, but do come see me, as soon as you can. Thank you, Mrs Thomas.’

  Before she can say any more, the line goes dead. Ashley stands still, her mind racing. She thinks of her baby girl, screaming and crying, the huge wide blue of her eyes. She will die if there is something wrong with her. She will not bear it. Your daughter is in no immediate danger. Is it her imagination or was there something unusual in the doctor’s voice, something cold, almost accusing? It seemed to contain none of his usual familiarity, none of the normal warmth.

  There’s a rustle in the trees behind her, at the side gate to the cemetery and Ashley turns around. Nobody there. The sun dips behind the church and the cemetery is plunged into gloom, the trees dark shadows against the sky.

  Ashley makes her way down the familiar gravel path leading to her father’s grave, her thoughts spinning. Ought she to go visit the doctor now? The surgery won’t be open. Should she ring James? Her footsteps echo on the stones. As she rounds the corner of the church, she sees a figure, standing alone at the gravestone. She frowns; the girl is too blonde to be her sister, and too tall. She is holding something in her arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket.

  Ashley picks her way through the mounds of earth until she is right beside the woman. The blonde is staring at the gravestone, holding herself very still. Ashley feels awkward. Perhaps she’s one of her dad’s old colleagues? Bit young though. She clears her throat.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The woman looks up, straight into Ashley’s eyes. Her eyes are cold and blue, like chips of ice in her face. Her blonde hair hangs down her back in a golden stream. She’s beautiful, and oddly familiar.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ashley says, ‘I just . . . This is my dad’s headstone, I was just coming to put some flowers down.’

  There’s a silence.

  Ashley clears her throat. ‘Did you – did you know him too?’

  The girl is staring at her. There is a strange expression on her face. She shifts the bundle in her arms. Ashley frowns. It looks like it could be a baby or an animal, but it’s completely covered up. Maybe she’s protecting it from the sunlight?

  ‘What are the chances,’ the woman says. Her lips are painted with a thick gloss, her teeth are bright white. ‘This is my dad’s headstone too.’

  Ashley stares. She must have misheard her. ‘What? Sorry, I—’

  ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you, Ashley,’ the girl interrupts. ‘How’s Lucy doing?’ She shakes her head, a quick little movement from side to side. ‘I’m sorry about all that. Didn’t quite . . . go to plan.’ She gives a little tinkling laugh. Her eyes don’t leave Ashley’s face.

  ‘What?’ Ashley says again. She can’t think what else to say, cannot understand what this woman is saying. How does she know about Lucy?

  ‘Sorry, how rude of me!’ The girl steps forward, so that she is even closer to Ashley, they are standing on the soil of her dad’s grave, directly above his body. Ashley can smell the woman’s perfume, it smells like thick vanilla.

  She lifts the bundle in her arms so that she is gripping it with only one hand, and stretches out the other towards Ashley. Her nails are small and round. Her hand is perfectly still but the bundle in her left arm stirs slightly, begins to move.

  Now

  Ashley’s face is a picture. I want to keep it in my mind, suspended in my consciousness for ever, with all the other pictures of her I have collected in my mind over the years. This is the best one yet. I can almost taste her surprise.

  This is the release of it all, the end of the years of waiting. The adrenaline is electric. I’ve been up since five but I’m not tired – I was awake before the light, packed everything I needed into the car, checked and double-checked. Then I picked up the keys off the hook, including his with the stupid little football key ring, and I closed the front door. As I drove, I threw them out of the window, one by one, pulling them off the key ring and tossing them into the open air. The wind swallowed them up. I didn’t look back.

  And now it is worth it. It is worth what I had to do earlier, the horror of it, the way her elderly body twitched on the ground as I wound the rope round and around. I wasn’t expecti
ng her to know about me, about what happened with Mum. It put me on the back foot a bit, but I’m here now. I’m ready. I smile at her. It begins and ends now.

  I look once more around the graveyard, checking to see if anyone else is around. It’s deserted. They’ve cleaned his headstone, it glistens in the gloom. The trees are dark and, for a moment, I think I can see her, the little girl crouching in the darkened garden, and I narrow my eyes at myself. Pathetic. I’m not going to be that girl any more.

  ‘I didn’t introduce myself properly,’ I say. The baby is heavy in my arms. ‘I’m Erin. Your sister.’

  52

  27 March 2017

  The day of the anniversary

  Kent

  Dominic

  Dominic rushes to the front door of Mathilde’s house and begins to throw his weight against it, over and over, ramming his shoulder against the lock until it gives and springs open. The air rushes out of his lungs as he pushes open the door to the sitting room, steps forward into the gloom. The sight in front of him is worse than anything he saw in his news reporting days.

  Mathilde is lying curled in an S shape on the cold wooden floorboards, her arms and legs tied with rope. It cuts into her thin wrists. She has been banging her joined hands onto the floor, trying to get his attention. Dark red marks are blooming either side of the ties.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

  ‘Dominic . . .’ Mathilde’s voice is weak, like that of a child.

  Dominic’s first instinct is to call the police, but he can’t bear to leave her tied up for even a second longer, the sight of her fragile arms encased in the bonds makes him feel physically sick. Mathilde is wearing a purple cardigan he remembers Corinne buying her last Christmas and brown, old-lady shoes; she looks like a broken bird. Her face is pale, her lips dry. Her eyes are closed but, as Dominic steps forward she opens them, looks into his.