The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  Well, he wouldn’t allow that.

  He had talked to his solicitor, got his will changed. She would receive nothing, but he told her she would get everything. And the stupid cow believed him. He had smiled at that, laughed even.

  Blissful revenge.

  He tried to think what he could do with the money, since he had no children, no natural heirs. At first he thought about giving it to charity, but that would just be a waste. Then he thought of doing nothing with it. Eventually he came up with the idea of giving it to the university, creating a professorship in his name. He knew that would seriously piss her off.

  He just wished he could be there to see her face.

  He turned away from the window. This was it. It was really happening. Now. Tonight. His last night on earth.

  He still didn’t know how he felt about it. Still hadn’t decided. Part of him wanted to rage against the dying of the light, as he had read somewhere. The rest of him, or rather the little of him that was left, just wanted to let go. He was tired. He wasn’t living. He was just dying slowly.

  He pointed the remote, put the TV on. The One Show. The anodyne, unthreatening presenters were speaking politely to the studio guest, the crew behind the cameras laughing as if it was the funniest thing they had ever heard. He switched it off.

  He didn’t want his last memory to be of The One Show.

  He felt he should write something, say something. Make some statement, share the truths he had discovered from his time alive. But he couldn’t think of anything.

  He wondered about God, the afterlife. He had never believed in it and thought it was a bit late to start now, but just in case, he closed his eyes, and, hedging his bets, tried to say a prayer. Nothing came.

  So he just sat there. Waiting.

  28

  ‘

  W

  ell, that was nice. So what have got next, then?’ DC Nadish Khan laughed as he took the DVD out of the tray, replaced it with another one. It didn’t disguise his shaking hands.

  The woman sitting next to him didn’t respond. Her features were blank as she made notes in her pad.

  ‘Dunno about you,’ said Khan, ‘but this isn’t how I normally spend Friday evenings.’

  She put her pen down, looked directly at him. Lips curled into a smile. ‘You sure about that?’

  Bitch, he thought, grabbing the remote and stabbing Play. He sat back to watch the next DVD, angry. Not just with himself but with his new boss. Brennan had given him this job deliberately. And that pissed him off big time.

  Yes, it was deliberate. No doubt about it. He had seen the look on Brennan’s face the previous night when he had made a couple of comments about gays. Nothing nasty, just the usual stuff. Banter. Sperring had laughed, but then he was a good bloke. Brennan, however, had made it clear that he didn’t appreciate what he’d said or think it was funny. Still, thought Khan, he could have been going door-to-door down the gay bars on Hurst Street. Something else Brennan had threatened him with. So considering the alternative, sitting here watching filth might be getting off lightly. At least he wasn’t out in the cold.

  He looked at his fellow officer sitting on the chair next to him. Cold enough in here with her, he thought. Detective Constable Imani Oliver put down her pen, watched the screen.

  Khan didn’t like her. If he was honest, he didn’t like black girls at all. Just a personal preference, he always said; their skins were too dark for him to fancy them. And their features not pretty enough. He liked something a bit lighter and finer. But even he had to admit Oliver had a well fit body. Cracking tits and a great arse. Face wasn’t all that much, though, the usual wide nose and big lips, but he might forgive that, if he had to. I mean, who looked at the mantelpiece when you were stoking the fire?

  Not that he thought he would ever get to shag her. Her arse and tits might be great; it was her personality that turned him off. Typical black girl. Uppity. Always plenty to say for herself. Not all of it complimentary. Certainly not to him. He used to answer her back when she started giving it lip but stopped after a while. He was sure she was the type to cry racial harassment. He knew, from experience, that her sort always did.

  This was the third DVD and Khan was starting to get used to them. He checked himself – get used to them? Jesus. He hoped he would never find the kind of thing he was watching normal. Guys dressed as girls, behaving as girls, while other guys treated them as girls. It turned his stomach. And not only that, but some of them looked really convincing. Would make him think twice before picking someone up in Gatecrasher, that was sure. Well, maybe.

  They were all of Glenn McGowan, dressed up, calling himself Amanda. And the first two were home-made. Or rather amateur, not professional. They had been filmed with a static camera, pointed at the end of a bed. The victim himself had come into shot, walking round after switching the camera on, then lain down on the bed waiting for another transvestite to join him.

  ‘Make-up looks a little inexpert,’ Oliver had said. ‘Same with the clothes. I reckon this is an early one, before he got the hang of it. What d’you think?’

  Khan had agreed with her. Not just because he thought she was right – which he did – but because it saved him looking at the screen too much.

  The sex had been perfunctory. Ordinary, even. Just two blokes getting it on, if you took away the clothes.

  He had caught Oliver looking at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Why you looking at me?’

  ‘Just wondering,’ she said, as if giving the matter some serious thought.

  ‘Wondering what?’

  ‘Well, you know how men like to watch two women together?’

  Khan sensed a trap but knew he had to agree. ‘Yeah…’

  ‘I don’t think this is much different.’

  He sensed himself reddening. Suddenly the room felt hot. ‘What d’you mean? This isn’t… isn’t like that. This is…’ He looked at the screen. ‘God…’

  She shrugged. ‘They’re dressed up, stockings, suspenders, the lot. Wigs, make-up. Some of them make more convincing women than some women.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think that’s what men go for. The dressing up. It doesn’t matter who’s inside, as long as they’ve got the right kit on.’ She turned to him, smiling. ‘Don’t you think?’

  He didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘Bet you’ve looked at this kind of stuff before,’ she said.

  ‘No I haven’t. It’s… fucking perverse.’

  ‘Really? Come on, you’re a man. You can’t tell me you haven’t been trawling through the internet looking for something to get yourself off to and fancied something a little different. Bet you have.’

  Again he said nothing. Just went back to looking at the screen. With another added layer of discomfort.

  The second DVD had been similar to the first. The only difference being in the severity of some of the sexual acts. An unmistakable tone of sadomasochism had crept in, with Amanda on the receiving end of some increasingly brutal punishment.

  That’s not sex, thought Khan. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not sex.

  Amanda’s partner was male, hooded and wearing leather. No help at all.

  This new DVD was different to the others. He spotted that straight away. Perhaps not up to professional standards, but certainly not amateur. There was more than one camera, for a start, one for long shots, one for close-ups. And Amanda – he was referring to her like that now – was much more professionally made up.

  He leaned forward. ‘Hold on…’

  Oliver caught his serious tone. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Look,’ he said.

  She did so. The screen showed Amanda dressed exactly the same as she had been on the night of her death. But there was more to it than that. The room on screen was the living room they had discovered Glenn McGowan’s body in. Amanda was going to the door, letting someone in.

  ‘Ben,’ he heard her say in a
parody of a woman’s voice, ‘what a surprise. Come in.’

  A man stepped into shot. Only visible from the shoulders down.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Khan. ‘Can’t we, I dunno, can the techies let us see his face?’

  ‘We might see it later,’ said Oliver. ‘Keep watching.’

  They did. The newcomer was ushered in, Amanda talking all the while about what a thrill it was to have him for dinner. The camera followed as they went to sit on the sofa. Ben’s head was in full view.

  ‘No we’ve… Oh.’

  He had a thick head of jet-black hair, obviously a wig. He also wore heavy facial hair and sunglasses.

  ‘He looks like a seventies porn star,’ said Oliver. ‘I bet that’s deliberate.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Khan. ‘Thought we had him there.’

  They kept watching.

  ‘So what d’you think?’ asked Oliver. ‘Is this it? Are we watching Glenn McGowan’s last night on earth?’

  ‘I… don’t know…’

  He didn’t. But he had that copper’s tingle he always got when he was on to something. He knew this would be one film he would watch all the way to the end.

  29

  T

  he Arcadian had the plans of the house in his head, memorised. All he had to do was get inside without being seen or recognised.

  No problem.

  He had spent his life hiding in plain sight. Going about his business without anyone aware he was actually there. He knew that the best way to not be noticed was to just be ignored. He didn’t dress flashily, behave outrageously. He had made a study of ordinary people and knew how to behave like one. Still, after tonight his work was going to receive more recognition, so he had to be prepared for that. But he couldn’t draw attention to himself. No matter how much he wanted to. How much he wanted to shout from the rooftops about what he was doing, how brilliant he was. He had the dolls. He would tell them about it. They would have to do.

  For now.

  The street was full of big houses. All hidden from view by huge hedges and fences, all made unreachable by electronic gates, sensors, motion lights and alarms. Physical dividing lines between the haves and the never-will-haves. The Arcadian could smell the money. It even made the air feel different. Richer, more rarefied. And something else: fear. Like he had no right to be there, breathing it in.

  He smiled. He had every right to be there.

  He placed a gloved hand on the gate. It swung soundlessly open. Giving one more look around, checking he hadn’t been seen – he hadn’t, the street was deserted – he stepped over the threshold.

  A thrill of anticipation ran through his body. Almost sexual. He loved it, that rush before the job. Even a relatively quick one such as this. It was still the same, the expectation then the commission. Then reliving it afterwards. The perfect cycle.

  But he had to concentrate now. Focus on the job in hand. Because if this went wrong, there might be no afterwards.

  He walked slowly up the gravel driveway, trying to stay out of the pools of light cast by the ornate faux-Victorian lampposts that lined the sides. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that the driveway wasn’t well kept, weeds reclaiming the stones.

  He reached the house. Looked round, listened. Nothing. There had been barely any vehicle or pedestrian activity on the street; back here it seemed like he was out in the country. There was no sound from inside the house either. Just a dim light coming from behind the curtains in the huge bay window on the left. He stood before the front door. Large and imposing, old, heavy wood. He placed a gloved hand on it. It opened.

  Just as he had been told.

  He stepped inside. The hallway was in darkness, but he could make out shiny, glittering features. A huge chandelier overhead, gold sconces and gilt frames on the walls. Black and white tiled floor covered by a faux-leopardskin runner. Money but no style, he thought.

  Not like the doll’s house. She had real style. Real class. Or the part she had decorated did.

  Light framed a doorway to the left. He put his hand on the handle, turned. Entered.

  The room had the same type of decoration as the hall. Opulent but tasteless. And the same lax attention to upkeep as the driveway. It had been turned into a downstairs den: a bed ran along one wall, oxygen cylinder next to it, an easy chair over to one side by the huge TV. Shelves of DVDs behind it, the spines brightly coloured and football- or car-related.

  And in the centre of the room sat what was left of a man in a wheelchair.

  The man looked up. No surprise on his face, just exhaustion. ‘You’re here, then,’ he said, looking him over. ‘Thought you’d be… I don’t know. Taller, something.’

  The Arcadian stopped moving, took the man in. His lack of legs was the first thing he noticed, the remaining stumps clothed in filthy tracksuit bottoms, folded under, stained at the crotch. A similarly discoloured T-shirt covered his shrunken torso. From the contours of his body he looked like a large man who had lost weight but forgot to tell his body. Rolls of stretched, useless skin lay around him like creases in a baggy sweatshirt. He was unshaven, his hair unwashed, his skin the colour of a rotten egg yolk. He smelled of death, even though he wasn’t yet dead.

  The Arcadian thought back to the doll, the hours of fun they had had together, the consummation, the execution… then looked at the pathetic, stinking figure before him. This wasn’t going to be fun at all.

  ‘Come on, then,’ the lump before him said, ‘get it over with. Haven’t got all night.’ He laughed at his own joke, which caused him to cough, which caused him to retch blood into a filthy handkerchief.

  The Arcadian’s first response was to turn round, walk out. This wasn’t what he wanted. Wasn’t what would make him happy, give him fulfilment. Then he remembered what he had agreed to. Be professional. Put his skills and training into practice. Even if the thought of touching the lump revolted him.

  He moved closer, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell.

  ‘Just be quick,’ said the lump. ‘Although to be honest, I doubt you could give me any more pain.’ He held up a jar of pills. ‘Morphine. This is the stuff, this is. Do what you like. I won’t feel it.’

  The Arcadian said nothing, thought hard. He had toyed with methods of death over and over in his mind. Some flamboyant, some mundane. He hadn’t allowed himself to settle on any particular one, telling himself he would be adaptable, fit whatever felt right into the situation at hand. But now, staring at the stinking cripple, he was at a loss.

  ‘You can throw some stuff around if you like,’ the cripple said. ‘Make it look like a robbery.’ He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Up to you.’ He fell silent again, looking into his lap, then back up, straight at the Arcadian. ‘I’m scared. Please, I… I’m scared. I…’ He sighed. ‘Just do it. Please.’ He closed his eyes, braced himself, as if waiting for a punch.

  The Arcadian looked round. Something to hand, he thought. Something in the room. Make it look less premeditated, more opportunistic. A statue, ornament to bring down on his head or face… no. Too much mess. Too much transfer of DNA. Something…

  A cushion. A pillow. Yes.

  He walked over to the bed, picked up the pillow, crossed back to the cripple, who opened his eyes.

  ‘Oh. Right. This is… this is it, is it? This is it…’

  He placed the cushion over the cripple’s face. The cripple struggled, coughed. The Arcadian pushed harder.

  It didn’t take long. The cripple had hardly any life left in him. The Arcadian dropped the cushion on the floor, looked at the cripple. Head back, eyes open, mouth wet with saliva and blood.

  But no butterfly. No soul.

  The Arcadian felt angry then. Cheated. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. There was no euphoria, no catharsis. No release. Like building up to an orgasm but being denied it. Not right. Not right at all.

  He let the anger build, then waited for it to explode. To manifest itself on the room. Ornaments were thrown at walls, pictures
and photos torn down and hurled against cabinets, smashing. DVDs were pulled from shelves, furniture upended. The cripple was thrown from his wheelchair on to the floor.

  Eventually the Arcadian’s anger was spent. He stood in the centre of the room breathing heavily, surveying the damage. It looked like a break-in now.

  He turned, ready to go. His disappointment like a stone in his stomach. As he reached the doorway, he stopped.

  ‘Keith? Keith? The front door’s open, are you OK…?’

  He looked round, tried to find a hiding place. No time. Just hid behind the door. Waited.

  The door opened. In walked a blonde woman dressed like a footballer’s wife. Her cloying perfume masked the stench of the cripple. His first response was to wait until she was well inside the room, then try to get past her, run out. But the plan didn’t get that far. Because as soon as she entered, she turned, saw him. She opened her mouth to scream and he was on her. He held her tight, arm round her throat, gloved hand clamped tight over her mouth. There was no way he could just escape now.

  As he held her, he smiled.

  Perhaps he would have some fun tonight after all.

  30

  M

  addy opened her eyes to find herself walking. She looked round, surprised and startled at where she was. A residential street in Selly Oak, not far from the university campus. Not far from her home. But it was dark. And the street was deserted. And freezing.