The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  The new doll fell off its seat once more.

  He blinked, the sudden movement bringing him back into the room. How long had he stood there? He didn’t know. He had phased out again.

  The doll lay on the floor of the house. The Arcadian felt anger rise once more but controlled it this time. Tamped it down. Instead he went to the cupboard, rummaged around until he found what he wanted. An elastic band. He picked the doll up, forced the band round it. Tied it to the chair. He stood back, admiring his handiwork. Smiled.

  That was what you could do, he thought. If you controlled your anger. If you made yourself think. He was pleased with himself.

  He looked at the doll’s house once more. Still not right. But the elastic band was better. One thing missing, though. The woman. He checked his pockets. He had enough for a cheap doll. Because that was all she had been really.

  He grabbed his jacket, left.

  Determined to make some good come of this. Planning what he would do next.

  33

  M

  arina closed her eyes, put her head back, tried to relax. Willed the hot water to take away any dirt from her body, pain from her mind. Tried to think, rationalise. But all she saw was Hugo Gwilym’s leering, grinning face.

  She shook her head to lose the image, water droplets flying, and tried again.

  Put the night in order. That was what she had to do. And not for the first time. It was all she had thought about since Thursday night, all she had done. Put the night in order. The restaurant. The meal. The drinks.

  The drinks.

  Marina was sure now that she had been drugged. She had no evidence to support the idea, not yet, just a feeling, a conviction. Gwilym must have slipped something into her drink at the restaurant. Must have done. She hadn’t had enough wine to explain the awful headache the next day, the aching in her arms, legs.

  The blackout. The total absence of memory.

  Drugs. It had to be.

  She ran her hands over her body, examining herself. She opened her legs, inspected the tops of her thighs, her vagina for any signs. Bruises. Abrasions. Redness or soreness. Signs that he had been there.

  She had done the same thing the day before. Obsessively, compulsively, over and over, like Lady Macbeth trying to wash the guilt-staining blood from her hands. Hoping that her fears were as imaginary as that blood was.

  She had found nothing. Any time, yesterday or this morning. Nothing. She knew what she looked like, what she felt like when she had had sex. And this wasn’t it. She had investigated thoroughly and she was sure of it. Or she hoped she was sure of it. Hoped she wasn’t deluding herself, clinging desperately to a false belief, ignoring the obvious signs because she didn’t want them to be true.

  No. There was nothing to show he had been there. Nothing.

  But still…

  There was too much she couldn’t explain. The trip in the taxi. Gwilym knowing too much. Her panties in his pocket.

  Oh God. She was going to be sick.

  She put a hand to the wall, steadied herself. Kept her eyes closed, breathed deeply. Waited until the nausea passed.

  It did. Eventually.

  Marina knew she should finish in the shower, towel off, get going. But she stayed where she was, the water running all over her. Just one more feel, one more investigation…

  No. Still no sign. Nothing there.

  Or she hoped that nothing was there. Because the alternative…

  She shook her head, tried to shake Gwilym’s leering face from it once more.

  She still couldn’t believe what had happened. How a simple dinner with colleagues had turned into a nightmare. She hated to use such a clichéd phrase, but there was no other way to describe it. That was what it was. Her life, in the space of two days, had become a living nightmare.

  The enormity of what had happened played over in her mind once more. Someone she had been talking to, someone she knew, albeit briefly, had drugged her and forced her to have sex with him. If that was what had happened. Forced her to have sex with him.

  She knew the word for that all right. But she still couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not head on. She would skirt round it, try to approach it sideways. She knew she would have to say it eventually. But if she did, if she admitted and acknowledged it, that word, that one little word that defined what she had gone through, then that was her life off in a completely different direction. One that could redefine not only her but all her relationships with everyone else she knew or met. And certainly with Phil.

  Phil. It broke her heart not to be able to tell him what had happened. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she had it straight in her own mind. Not until she was ready to confront it herself.

  She was scared of what he would say. Or even what he would do. She had played out every possible reaction he might have, spent the night lying there going over and over them. He might believe her, go after Gwilym. Hurt him. Kill him, even. And she wasn’t sure she could live with him doing that, even though a part of her wanted him to. Worst of all, though, he might not believe her. Call her a slag and a slut, say she had asked for it, that it was all her own fault. That she had fucked someone else and was scared he would find out and this was how she covered for it. That was the reaction she dreaded most.

  She shook her head once more, tried to clear it. To calm down. Think. Plan. Decide on a course of action.

  Confront Gwilym. That was what she would do. Tell him she was going to report him to the university for what he had done. She thought again. Was that wise? Her career might be over if she did that. If she brought allegations against their star lecturer. Especially allegations she couldn’t substantiate with evidence.

  No. That wouldn’t work. She couldn’t do that.

  But she had to do something .

  Marina felt hands on her body. A quick, sudden movement, round her waist. She gasped, tried to turn, ready to fight. Lost her footing, slipped.

  She screamed.

  34

  ‘

  W

  hoa, hold on…’

  Marina stopped screaming. The hands round her waist grabbed on to her, steadied her, stopped her from slipping. She managed to right herself, turned. Phil stood behind her, naked.

  ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘I was just about to join you, but…’

  Marina leant against the wall, bent double and breathing hard, as if she had just made a dash for a bus she had no hope of catching.

  ‘It’s… it’s you…’

  ‘Course it’s me. Who were you expecting?’ Phil tried to laugh, but he could tell she was seriously spooked. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, I was… I was miles away.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Miles away. And nowhere good.’

  She straightened up. Became aware of her husband looking at her naked body. Usually she enjoyed him doing that, responded to it, returned it. The way his lips curled into an appreciative smile at what he saw, his eyes brightening as his imagination began working. His cock hardening…

  But not today, not now. She didn’t want him looking at her now. Not like this, not after what she had been through. The water hadn’t made her feel clean at all. Water alone, she doubted, ever could.

  She pulled the shower curtain in front of her, cutting off his view.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Just… just let me have some privacy…’

  ‘OK,’ said Phil, confused now. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She almost spat the word out in anger. Knowing it was a sure indicator that something was wrong, she tried to calm herself down. ‘Sorry. I’m just… I’m not… just some privacy, please.’

  Phil, clearly not happy and not understanding at all, picked up his dressing gown, turned and left the bathroom.

  Later, she joined him in the kitchen. Josephina was still in her pyjamas, eating cereal. Phil was dressed and ready for work. For him, every working day was dress-down Friday. It was one of the things she loved about him. He had got away with th
at when he had a lenient boss; she just hoped the new one was equally tolerant.

  There was no tailored jacket today, just his favourite old battered leather one. Levis and boots and a dark plaid Western shirt with pearl snap buttons over an old T-shirt. Not what the average MIU detective wore, she was sure, but what he wore.

  And, her heart breaking as she thought it, he looked wonderful.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, hoping she sounded normal. Or at least casual.

  He glanced at her, went back to what he was doing. ‘I’m making coffee. D’you want some?’

  She did. She sat at the table next to Josephina, started talking to her daughter. The normality of the scene made her inner turmoil even worse.

  Phil sat down next to her. Looked at her. She flinched, looked away.

  He passed her a mug of coffee. She took it; he put his hand on her arm. ‘You OK?’ he said, voice low, concerned.

  She nodded. His hand felt simultaneously warm yet uncomfortable. She didn’t want to be touched. By anyone. Not yet.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Fine.’ Her voice aiming for breezy, missing.

  She stood up, losing his touch as she did so. She walked over to the toaster, taking her coffee, her back to him.

  ‘So,’ she said, for something to say, ‘you’re going in today. Saturday’s normally your day off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Big case. You’ve probably seen it on the news.’

  ‘Haven’t been watching the news.’ Snappy again, jumping at him. She took a deep breath. Tried to calm herself down. It wasn’t Phil’s fault. He didn’t deserve to be shouted at. She kept telling herself that.

  ‘Yeah, this case,’ Phil was saying. ‘Can’t say too much here…’ she knew he was referring to Josephina, ‘but it’s a biggie. In fact, there was something I was going to ask you. D’you know Hugo Gwilym?’

  Her heart skipped a beat and her hand was in sudden pain. She looked down. She had spilt the mug of coffee she had been holding all over her other hand. Coffee pooled outwards on the kitchen work surface. She just stared at it.

  ‘Marina…’ Phil rushed over to her, held her hand up, examined it. It was red, burning. ‘Come here…’

  He guided her towards the sink, turned on the cold-water tap, put her hand underneath it. He looked at her. She tried not to make eye contact.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I just… I spilled it. Knocked it when I went for, went for the toast…’

  ‘OK.’ He turned the water off, put a towel round her hand. ‘That should be OK. I’ll get this mess cleared up. You sit down.’

  Like a sleepwalker she went over to the table, sat down next to her daughter.

  ‘Did Mummy hurt herself?’

  She looked at her daughter; Josephina’s eyes were wide with fear and compassion. She managed a smile.

  ‘I’m fine. Mummy was careless. Don’t worry.’

  She could see that the little girl wanted to believe her but was still wary.

  ‘I’m fine. Honest. You keep eating your breakfast.’

  Josephina, with some reluctance, did so.

  Phil was wiping up the spilled coffee, using too much kitchen roll as usual. Marina opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind. What came out was completely different.

  ‘Why d’you want to talk to Hugo Gwilym?’

  Phil put the sodden kitchen roll in the waste bin, wiped his hands. ‘Well, his name’s come up in the investigation…’

  ‘How? In what way?’

  Phil turned to her, frowning. ‘Just… came up. That’s all. Apparently he was researching some book and the…’ he looked towards Josephina, conscious that she was listening even though she was pretending not to, ‘person was one of the people he interviewed.’

  ‘Is he dead, Daddy? This person?’

  Phil and Marina looked at each other. Phil spoke first. ‘The person, he’s… been hurt. And I’m helping to find out who did it.’

  ‘Not dead?’

  Another look passed between them. Phil opened his mouth to speak once more, but Marina beat him to it.

  ‘Have you finished your breakfast, darling? Why don’t you go and watch TV in the living room?’

  Josephina, deciding that that was more interesting than two grown-ups talking, got down from the table and ran out. Phil and Marina waited in silence until they heard the shrill cries of cartoons coming from the next room. Phil put his back against the workbench, folded his arms.

  ‘What’s up? What’s wrong?’ His voice was warm, but the trained police officer’s interrogative wasn’t far from the surface.

  ‘I’m fine, I’m just… fine.’ He was about to speak again but Marina got in first. ‘So this guy who was killed knew Hugo Gwilym?’

  ‘Looks that way. I just wanted to ask you about him.’

  Her stomach roiled. ‘What sort of thing?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘Do you know him, what’s he like. That kind of thing. If he’s a close colleague of yours, should I declare a conflict of interest and step away? You know. The usual.’

  ‘No,’ said Marina emphatically. ‘No. I don’t, don’t know him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Phil. ‘Because this looks like being a biggie, like I said. And I’m in charge. If I pull it off, well. West Mids may actually start to respect me. Or even like me.’

  He smiled as he said it, but Marina knew there was some truth behind his words. She knew he hadn’t been fitting in, getting along well. He had tried to cover it up, knowing she was happy in her work. And she loved him for that. But he wasn’t good at hiding his feelings. And she hoped that wouldn’t drive a wedge between them.

  But she had other things to think about at the moment.

  ‘Well, you’re fine,’ she said. ‘No problems. I know him as well as you do. Seen him on TV. Apparently he’s a twat, though.’ She spat that last sentence out with more venom than she had intended.

  ‘Right. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘So you’re going to see him, then.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe later today sometime. If I get round to it. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Just wondered.’ She stood up. ‘OK. I’m off.’

  ‘Where you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno. Out. Into town, probably. Eileen’s busy today. I’ll take Josephina out somewhere.’

  ‘OK. Well…’

  She turned, left the room. ‘See you later.’

  Phil was left at the sink, watching her go.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said to empty air, ‘see you later…’

  35

  M

  addy opened her eyes to find another pair of eyes staring back at her. She jumped, gasped. And was met with a smile.

  ‘You’re awake. Morning.’

  She lay still, letting her consciousness catch up with her body. Retracing the steps of the night before that had brought her here. She looked at the young man lying opposite her. Even with his hair tousled and his eyes half open he looked handsome. Better-looking than she remembered, in fact.

  ‘Ben,’ she said, groaning instead of adding anything else. She tried to move, but her body wasn’t ready for that yet, so she lay flat on her back.

  ‘That’s me.’ He propped himself up on one elbow, hand on his cheek, kept looking at her. Eyes crinkling attractively as he smiled.

  She turned her head sideways. ‘How long you been awake?’ she managed.

  ‘Not long,’ he said. ‘I would say I’ve been watching you sleep, but that just sounds weird and creepy.’

  ‘Have you been watching me sleep?’

  ‘Yeah…’ He laughed. It was a good sound, a positive one. Maddy joined in. ‘But not inappropriately,’ he said. ‘I woke up but I didn’t want to disturb you. And I didn’t want to go creeping round the house. Your housemates might think I was a burglar. Call the police.’

  ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’ She was still smiling.

  ‘Oh.’ He traced a couple of
fingers slowly down her neck. Smiled as he spoke. ‘Have a lot of men here then, do you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, pulling away from him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, withdrawing his fingers. ‘Was only joking.’

  She turned back to him. Saw sincerity in his eyes. Slight hurt at his words being taken the wrong way. ‘I know.’ She took his fingers in her own. Held them.

  It had happened so easily, so naturally. After bumping into her on the street, he had walked her home. And that, she thought, would have been that. But standing outside her front door with someone who had seen the state she was in and not taken advantage of her, she thought she needed to do more.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she had said. ‘Sorry, that’s a bit… but would you? It’s cold and you’ve got to walk home. I’ve only got instant, though.’

  He had laughed. ‘Cup of tea would be nice.’

  And that was what they had had. Tea and a couple of rounds of toast and Marmite. And conversation. Lots and lots of conversation.

  ‘I feel like I’ve known you for years,’ Maddy had said. ‘Like I can just talk to you.’

  ‘That a good thing?’ Ben had asked.

  ‘Yeah, course. It means things aren’t difficult. They’re good.’

  ‘Great.’

  They had kept talking. Or rather Maddy had. After what she had recently gone through with Hugo, there were things she needed to say. And it was better to say them to a complete stranger than to a close friend. Close friends cared. They judged. Strangers didn’t care at all. At best, like Ben, they listened.

  So it all tumbled out. The relationship. The affair. The sex. Then the abortion. And how she felt he had just abandoned her. As she said that, she had tried to hide her wrist so he didn’t see the bandage. Then the confrontation in the café. The trip to Hugo’s house. Then… she didn’t know. She thought perhaps Hugo had… No. He couldn’t have. She was just imagining things. Anyway, she couldn’t remember. Her mind a blank until Ben had found her in the street.