Corn Dolls

by K. T. Galloway

  Annie gave a chuckle, glad of Swift’s attempt to break the awful tension that had grown thick in the car.

  “Also,” Swift said as Annie’s heart rate returned to the same cruising speed she was now doing. “What did you mean about Rose? Did she really say I’d try and sleep with you?”

  Oh God, did I really say that?

  Annie felt her face heat again and was glad of the blast of wind still pummelling her cheeks.

  “Jeez,” Swift added. “Is that really what people think of me at the station?”

  “I don’t know if it’s everyone,” Annie said, trying not to think about how embarrassed she was. “Maybe just Rose.”

  “But I’ve never, ever said anything remotely like a come-on to her,” Swift said, rubbing his face again.

  “Yeah,” Annie said, a smile creeping on her face. “She’s gutted about that, too.”

  Swift made a garbled noise that could have been words and Annie laughed.

  “Right,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Don’t worry, Annie. I’m not like that. Besides, I’m married.”

  His words tailed off as he looked out of the window. Annie remembered what Rose had said about Swift’s absent wife. She didn’t know what to say now, so she kept quiet. The only noises were the rushing of the wind and the steady thump of tyres on tarmac. They drove on for a while in silence. The road signs started to mention place names Annie knew were near the coast; Sheringham, Cromer.

  “You wanna tell me what you meant back there about not being your father?” Swift said as Annie took the slip road down onto a single carriageway. “I honestly didn’t mean to push any buttons. I just thought with your training in forensic psychology you might be able to help.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. Rumour had it that everyone knew about her past, but normally it didn’t bother her because they were all too engrossed in their own lives to care about hers. And as long as her clients never found out, Annie was okay with it being out in the open. There had been a time, growing up, she would have been less relaxed about it, and that feeling had been reignited when Swift had shown her the photo of the corn doll.

  “It’s complicated,” she said, her eyes fixed firmly on the road now, it was too winding to look away.

  “I like complicated,” Swift said. “That’s why I’m a cop.”

  “Okay,” she conceded. “My dad was a police officer himself, he seemed totally normal until one day he just upped and left my mum and me, I was only seventeen. He took my three-year-old sister with him. I’ve not seen either of them since, neither has my mum.”

  “That’s awful,” Swift said, and Annie could feel his eyes on her, she could feel the pity even though she couldn’t see him. It was the reaction of everyone she told. Pity for Annie for being left behind. Pity for her for her missing sister and father. But Annie never felt sorry for herself, not in public anyway.

  “Truly awful.” Swift continued. “But what was it about voodoo and that weird doll that triggered your response?”

  “My dad didn’t just take my sister away with him to a new life. He joined a cult. A weird religious cult like the Jesus Army or the Solar Temple. But his was a neo-pagan group up north who facilitated altered state rituals and shite like that. For all I know, Mim has had her organs sacrificed to their gods.” Annie puffed out a dry laugh. “I look for her every time I’m out of the flat. But I have no idea what she even looks like now. People know about it, it was big news at the time, but I work in this field because probation sends up so much weird shit that mine seems almost normal. I just assumed, when you showed me that photo, that you were working with me because of an insider’s knowledge of the occult that I don’t actually have. I don’t. I really don’t. But it was wrong of me to assume.”

  “Sorry, Annie,” Swift said, his whole body facing her now. “I had no idea.”

  The house looked less welcoming than even the photo had portrayed. The North Sea was fast approaching over the flats of the marshes, and each wave sent up a spray of cold salty fingers as Annie drew herself out of the Golf. It was in stark contrast to its neighbour, whose path was well tended, bright with flowers that belied the harsh environment. Weeds caught at Annie’s ankles as she followed Swift up the driveway to the door, where he knocked loudly on the flaking paint. The windows were darkened by what looked like years of dust and grime, but Annie could make out movement in one of the rooms. A shadow of a looming figure stooped at the door and it was dragged open by the shell of a woman that Annie barely recognised.

  “Miss Finch,” Swift said, standing to the side so Annie was in view. “DI Swift, we met on Monday, and this is my colleague Annie O’Malley. Can we come in?”

  “Is there any news?” Maggie Finch looked like the North Sea had already swept her away.

  “We’re doing everything we can to bring Orla back safely.” Swift was diplomatic, but Annie watched the mother shrink even more at his words.

  They followed her through a small hallway to the front room which could have been either the dining room or the living room given the array of furniture. Though there was a general feeling of neglect—the dirt, the scuffed paintwork, the general cloying smell of bodies—Annie couldn’t help but notice the small things. There were pictures of Orla dotted about the room, her young face smiling up at the camera. Some pieces of furniture looked like Maggie had upcycled them herself. There was a new rug in the middle of the room. It all made Annie think that perhaps the neglect wasn’t Maggie’s fault, but the result of a money-grabbing landlord. She made a mental note to speak to Swift about the ownership of the house.

  Maggie Finch sat down on a dining chair with the weight of the world on top of her, heavier still with a baby bump that looked more than imminent. She pointed at the old worn sofa.

  “Please take a seat,” she said, her voice small.

  Annie caught Swift wrinkle his nose at the sight of the sofa, but it looked clean, if a little worn to the springs. She sat down, thanking Maggie, trying not to wince at the pain in her backside as she hit the wooden structure through the foam. Swift started pacing the room before deciding to lean against the window frame, silhouetted by the blue sky turned grey through the coated glass.

  “As DI Swift said, my name is Annie O’Malley. I’m a psychotherapist. We have met before, do you remember me?” Annie said.

  Then the door to the living room darkened with an approaching figure as a fierce rattle rang out.

  Seven

  A plump woman with an apron and a tray full of cups smiled at them all from the doorway.

  “Sorry to startle you all,” she said, in a sing-song Yorkshire accent. “I’ve made us all some tea. Thought we could use it.”

  She placed the tray on the dining table and pulled out another chair to sit on. She put a hand on Maggie’s arm.

  “This is Aila,” Maggie said, clutching at Aila’s hand on her arm, her face lit up in the presence of the motherly figure.

  “Aila Clough,” Aila said, pulling herself back to her feet with the help of the table. She reached out to shake Annie’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Maggie’s advocate, she called and asked me to be here for when you arrived.”

  Advocate?

  Aila groaned as she stood up straighter and walked over to shake Swift’s hand. She was early fifties if Annie’s guess was right; the woman reminded her of jam sandwiches and hot cocoa.

  “Can I ask why you have an advocate?” Annie said, as they all sat back down.

  “She was assigned to me by the County Council when Orla was given a social worker.” Maggie looked pointedly at Annie. “I do remember you now. You worked with Tim, didn’t you?”

  Annie nodded. “Yes, I did. Tim was my client up until the week he disappeared. He missed his last session, which I thought was odd for him.”

  Maggie scoffed. “He’s a waste of space. Look at me. How could he just desert me like this? He was the reason Orla was given a social worker in the first place, the reason I needed Aila he
re to be my advocate. And thank goodness, hey? Social services were worried about the access Orla may have to drugs, and the kinds of people that Tim used to be involved with. And they were right to be worried, weren’t they? He’s probably still involved with them, isn’t he? They were worried he would hurt her. He hasn’t just hurt her; he’s hurting me too, and his unborn child. This must have been what he wanted.”

  She spat out the words, giving Annie a glimpse of how angry she was.

  “You think that Orla’s father had something to do with her disappearance?” Annie asked, nodding a thanks as Aila passed her a cup of tea.

  “Of course, he did,” Maggie said, her anger swelling her like a balloon. “You saw him when he was using, he was a mess. He would do anything for a fix. Anything.”

  “But what about the corn doll nailed to the door? Would Tim do that? Why would he do that?” Annie asked in a way that she hoped would keep Maggie’s anger simmering and not boiling over.

  Maggie’s shoulders slumped and Aila put an arm around her.

  “I don’t know,” she said in barely a whisper. “Maybe he was trying to scare me off? To warn me?”

  “To warn you of what?”

  “I don’t know!” Maggie shouted. “Look, I’m holding on to the fact that Tim has Orla, because the alternative is something I cannot bear to think about. At least I know Tim. No matter what a mess he is, I know he loves and cares about Orla.”

  This was too much for Maggie. Her body crumped into Aila’s, wracked with sobs.

  Annie looked over at Swift and nodded towards the door.

  “Do you mind if we take a look in Orla’s room again?” Swift said. Annie was on her feet in an instant.

  It was hard to see as Maggie was enclosed in Aila’s arms, but she shook her head. Annie and Swift left the room and headed up the rickety staircase. Annie could hear Aila’s comforting words to Maggie but couldn’t help thinking that they were empty words. Aila had no idea if the police were going to bring Orla home safely. Or even that Orla was okay. She probably thought she was doing the right thing, but false hope was sometimes the worst kind.

  “Any idea who owns this house, Swift?” Annie said, rattling at the bannister as it came perilously close to falling free from the wall.

  “Landlord,” Swift said, already at the top and walking to the end of the landing. “We’re trying to locate him; the letting agency is based in the city and they look after a few houses owned by the guy. They’re sending over his home address, but I think he’s in London. I hope they’re not all as decrepit as this one.”

  Annie skipped a few steps to catch up.

  “This place needs renovating. I don’t think it’s Maggie’s fault her house is like this. She’s looks like she’s trying her best. Tim used to say she was the best mother.”

  “Tim is a drug addict who may or may not have snatched his own child weeks after abandoning her with tales of woe is me,” Swift said bluntly, as he pushed open the door at the end of the landing. “Why are you so quick to defend Maggie? Don’t advocates only get assigned to people that need parenting help?”

  Annie shrugged. She knew Swift was right, but Maggie looked like a mother in distress. They walked together into Orla’s bedroom. Light streamed in through the window, highlighting how sparse the room was, just an old, child-sized bed and a hanging clothes rail. The carpet was thin, the floorboards peeking through in places, white matting in others. A few teddies were scattered on the unmade bed and the clothes that had made it back onto the hangers were threadbare and faded. Annie’s heart hurt at the sight.

  “Oh God,” she said, picking up a small rabbit with a blanket that may have at one time been pink. “This is why I don’t work in Children’s Services. It’s too hard.”

  Swift followed her in.

  “I know what you mean. People say you get used to it. That’s bollocks. You never get used to something like this.” He was looking around the small space, his eyebrows knotted. “What are we missing? Children are very rarely taken by someone they don’t know. Orla is just about old enough to know about stranger danger. But it doesn’t feel like the work of the father. What am I missing, Annie?”

  Annie turned to Swift, his face was twisted. Her eyes locked with his. She could practically hear his words. Not wanting to look away, she walked up to him in the few steps it took and handed him the bunny, holding his hands as he took it for just a fraction of a second. Grounding him.

  “I think your men may have been on to something,” she said, quietly pushing shut the door to Orla’s room, trapping their voices inside. “This doesn’t feel right. I’m no expert, I’m not even a cop, but something about this has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.”

  “Your intuition is what makes you a great therapist, so I’m told. Keep talking.”

  They were both talking in whispers now.

  “Was this room searched?” Annie asked, something niggling at her brain, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  Swift nodded. “Yeah, but there wasn’t a lot to go on, as you can see.”

  “And is Maggie the religious type? Any affiliations?”

  “Not that she said. Atheist, apparently.”

  “No. Tim wasn’t either. Or he never mentioned it, and normally my clients with religious beliefs like to include them in their goal setting.” Annie took a deep breath, her eyes still on Swift’s. “Are there any known affiliations around here?”

  Swift cleared his throat and looked away.

  “I’ve got the guys on it back at the station,” he said, stroking the stubble on his chin.

  She shook her head and walked over towards the window. Swift closed the space between them.

  “Annie,” he whispered. “I’m really sorry. I never would have asked you to be involved if I’d known your family connections.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, feeling her neck prickle with goosebumps.

  They stood next to each other, staring out at the blue skies and the fields behind the house. A flock of seagulls scattered about the sky, crying to each other with soulful, haunting screeches. The small patch of garden was as overgrown as the front had been. The fence was missing panels and toppling over into the neighbour’s neat square of grass. They’d propped it up with some posts, but Annie could imagine they weren’t happy about it.

  “What about the neighbours?” Annie asked, curiously.

  “An older couple. In their seventies. Unlikely suspects, they were both in the house when Orla went missing, but neither of them saw anything. And they’re the only neighbours for miles around.”

  “Did they hear anything unusual?”

  Swift shook his head and Annie let out a huge sigh, steaming the window with her breath. A smudge appeared under the steam and Annie’s brain shot into gear.

  “Swift,” she said, standing back from the window. “Did your men clean this?”

  “The window?” he said. “No, why?”

  “It’s clean, we can see out of it. I think it’s the only window in the house that’s not covered in a thick layer of greasy dust.”

  Annie stepped back towards the window and let out a long breath on the glass, moving her head around so she covered a whole pane.

  “Shit!” Swift said, standing back to take in what Annie had uncovered.

  The windows were old wooden ones, the kind children draw in pencil pictures of neat square houses. The pane at the top right was steamed up with Annie’s breath, except for an outline of a large five-pointed star enclosed in a perfect circle, emerging like a ghost. Annie drew a breath and tried the other panes, her head swimming with the oxygen and the terrifying thought that this was looking more sinister than a familial abduction. The other top pane gave away nothing, and the bottom right was clear too. With her last breath Annie tried the final pane, her hand on the wooden windowsill to steady her swaying. Something was there. She breathed harder and stood back to see what she’d revealed.

  “A triquetra,” she whispered
.

  “A what?” Swift hissed.

  “A Trinity symbol; you know, The Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost? It’s a Christian symbol of one Godhead, of power over all.”

  “And the star?” Swift asked.

  “That’s the sign of the devil.”

  Eight

  “I don’t know what they are.” Maggie Finch grabbed Annie’s phone and held it close to her face, staring at the photograph of the window Annie had taken. “Oh God.”

  She fell back onto the dining room chair, the legs creaking loudly in protest. Aila comforted the woman as she collapsed in on herself like a popped balloon. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she passed Annie back her phone.

  “You’ve never seen them on her window before? Never seen them drawn anywhere else?” Swift asked, taking time to look around the living room.

  “Never,” Maggie sobbed. “What do they mean? Who’s got my baby?”

  Annie felt like her heart was being ripped in two. She had to get out of the room before she broke down herself.

  “Excuse me.” Ignoring Swift as he stared at her, Annie retreated back through to the hallway, trying to practice the deep breathing techniques she used with her patients.

  She made her way through to the back of the house and a room that once would have been a beautiful fisherman’s kitchen. Now, like the rest of the house, it was coated in a layer of grease and grime. The once practical Aga had been replaced with an electric oven from the seventies and the tiles could have been any colour.

  Annie went straight to the back door, flicked the locked hook out of its findings, and flung it open. Though the air was like walking into an oven, it was a darn sight clearer than the air in the house. The seagulls chattered in the blue overhead. Stepping outside, she looked up at the clear sky and took some deep breaths.

  “Everything alright there, missy?”