The Doll's House

by Tania Carver

  She heard him creep across the landing, booted feet moving as lightly as he could. She heard him in the bathroom. She heard the bathroom light going off. The bedroom door opened. He came in. Her stomach somersaulted.

  ‘Thought you’d be asleep,’ he said.

  She was sitting upright in bed, the paper propped before her. She hoped he didn’t notice her hands shaking. ‘Nope.’

  He sat on the edge of the bed, began to get undressed.

  Now, she thought. Tell him now.

  ‘How was your day?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, fine, you know,’ she said. ‘Didn’t do much. Took it easy.’ Apart from meeting Anni, asking for a clandestine drugs test. ‘Went shopping for Christmas presents, that kind of thing.’ Please don’t ask about the presents. Please don’t ask to see them. She paused. This is it, she thought. This is the time. Tell him. She opened her mouth to speak again. ‘How was your day? How’s the case going?’

  ‘It’s… interesting. I’ll tell you all about it if you like.’ He yawned.

  ‘You look done in,’ she said. ‘Tell me in the morning.’

  He got into bed next to her. She could feel him looking at her.

  She put the paper down.

  ‘Marina…’

  ‘Yes?’

  He stopped talking, became thoughtful. Now, she thought. Do it now. Just tell him and get it over with.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

  She opened her mouth to speak, to respond. But she was frozen. The words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Marina…’

  ‘I’m tired, Phil,’ she said. ‘It’s… it’s been a long day. I… I… I’m tired.’

  ‘But…’

  She turned over on her side. ‘I’m tired,’ she said more firmly. ‘Let’s… let’s talk in the morning.’ She put the light out.

  She closed her eyes. Aware of Phil still lying on his side, still staring at her. Willing her to move, to speak, to turn over and face him. She wanted to do so as well. But couldn’t. She was a coward and she hated herself for it, but she couldn’t.

  Eventually Phil sighed, lay down. Marina kept her eyes closed, tried not to move. To convince him she was sleeping.

  Hating herself for not being able to speak.

  She lay like that for hours, pretending to sleep. Knew he was doing the same. Knew he was as terrified as her of what the other would say if they spoke.

  64

  T

  he toad man said something. Imani didn’t wait to hear what it was, just kept running. She heard Khan clattering up the stairs behind her.

  The T-shirted man reached the doorway of the cinema and, knocking over a couple of prospective punters, turned left, ran up Hurst Street.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouted, and followed. She knew the words were meaningless, just something to key her up.

  The man ran towards the Hippodrome. Evening theatregoers were just emerging. Imani knew that if they got caught up in that crowd they would lose him. She ran all the harder.

  The T-shirted man saw the crowds ahead of him, risked a glance behind. Saw Imani and Khan were still after him, turned left and ran down a side street, away from the crowds, past the stage door. Imani gave chase. She heard Khan shouting something behind her, turned. He was making a call, giving their location, explaining the situation, requesting backup. Good. She ran all the harder to make up for his lack of pace while he was doing it.

  Down past the snooker hall, pavement smokers jumping out of the way. The man reached the end of the cut-through, looked round, turned right. Imani kept chasing.

  He ran along the pavement, dodging pedestrians, upsetting a few, towards the Holloway Circus roundabout. Looked round again. Imani felt her chest burning, her heart pumping. She was getting tired and wanted to stop, but she knew if she did that he would be gone. She pushed herself all the harder.

  Found herself gaining on him. Pushed herself more…

  He reached the corner, turned right. Down Smallbrook, past the all-night cafés, kebab shops and Turkish minimarts.

  He’s heading back to Hurst Street, she thought.

  She willed her feet to run faster. Chest burning, legs aching. Each breath tore her throat red raw. Faster…

  And there he was, an arm’s length away from her.

  She reached out, hand ready to grab him, pull him to the ground.

  He sensed what she was doing, turned. Stopped.

  And punched her square in the face.

  Imani, shocked as well as hurt, went down. He didn’t wait around, just ran on.

  She put her hand to her face. It came away dark and wet with something more than rain.

  ‘Bastard…’

  She became aware of Khan running past her, not stopping. Groaning from the pain in her legs, her chest, her face, she pulled herself to her feet. Gave chase once more.

  She knew from the direction Khan was heading where their target had gone. Down Hurst Street once more.

  She ran past the Ming Moon restaurant and casino, left on to Ladywell Walk, past the cheap hotels and the even cheaper Chinese restaurants. Their quarry hesitated at the corner of Wrottesley Street, decided against running down there. He knows the area, thought Imani, still running. He knows that’s a dead end.

  Khan was running as fast as he could, calling for help – or rather shouting – at the same time. Imani gave chase behind him.

  The man ran on to Pershore Street. It was darker here, away from the bars and theatregoers. The market and the corner of the Bullring shopping centre towered above them on one side. Below was an occasional oasis of sodium street light against a huge stretch of darkness.

  He ran towards the city centre. He showed no sign of slowing down.

  Bastard’s fit, thought Imani.

  Queensway went over the top of them. Underneath were arches and alleyways. A car park.

  He ran into that.

  Khan followed. Imani, a few seconds later, did likewise.

  The smell of exhaust fumes hit as soon as she entered. She was lightheaded enough from running and the punch; she didn’t need that too. Cars were dotted about. The lighting was sporadic, episodic. Fluorescent tubes guttered and spat overhead. Slow-motion strobes.

  Khan was standing just inside the doorway. Out of breath, hands on knees. Doubled over, but his eyes were roving.

  ‘Came in here and I lost him,’ he said through gasps of air.

  ‘Is this the only way out?’

  He pointed along to his right. ‘Exit’s there.’

  ‘I’ll get over there.’

  Khan looked at her. His eyes widened in shock. ‘Jesus Christ…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s done a number on your face.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She didn’t know if Khan was going to apologise for his words or laugh at her. She didn’t wait to find out. ‘I’ll go to the exit.’

  She moved as quickly as she could. Got there. Waited. She looked along at where Khan was, saw him start to edge his way in further. Head moving from side to side, eyes scanning the whole time.

  ‘Here!’ he shouted, and was off.

  Imani looked towards the exit, then back the way Khan had gone. Gave chase. She saw him run into the depths of the garage. Saw a shadow detach itself from the wall behind a parked Nissan, come at him. One dark arm bigger than the other. Khan didn’t have time to see that their assailant had found a weapon. He only had time to feel it connect, take him down.

  ‘Nadish!’ Imani ran towards them.

  The figure saw her, turned. She saw that the weapon was a heavy metal car jack. She ran towards him, trying to remember her training. She wasn’t going to get caught the same way again.

  Reason with him, she thought. Stall him, play for time.

  She opened her mouth to speak. He ran at her, the jack held above his head. She managed to get most of her body out of the way, but the jack connected with her forearm. She screamed, went down on her side.

  He ran.

  She pulled herself u
p to her knees, her body almost singing in pain. She saw her quarry reach the main door. Her heart sank as she realised he had got away.

  Then…

  A quick burst of light and he fell to the ground.

  She got to her feet, made her way to the door. Mike Pierce was there, out of breath, with a handful of uniforms. One of them holding a Taser.

  ‘Response team turned up,’ said Pierce. ‘Just in time, too.’

  Imani looked down at the man lying there. Knelt down, checked his forearm. That was the tattoo, all right. And something else. His penis, deflated now, was still sticking out of the front of his jeans. She stood up again.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘No problem,’ said the officer with the Taser. He noticed the front of the man’s jeans. Shook his head. ‘Didn’t even have time to tuck himself in.’

  ‘My God,’ said Pierce, looking away from the prone man and properly at Imani for the first time. ‘Let’s get you an ambulance.’

  Imani nodded. ‘You should see the other fella,’ she said.

  Then sank to the ground.

  65

  T

  he rain had started up again, turning the night even darker, murkier. The Arcadian and his new friend walked through the Mailbox, not stopping to window-shop in Harvey Nichols or for a drink or something to eat at one of the many chain restaurants at the far end. They went out the other side, down the ramp on to the towpath at the side of the canal at Gasworks Basin.

  Neither had spoken much. Neither needed to. They both knew what they wanted. And it wasn’t conversation.

  This would be an experiment, thought the Arcadian. Taking someone back to his while the doll’s house was set up. Wondering if they would notice it, what they would make of it. It was his way of showing off, he thought. Letting the world – or one person in the world – see what he had done. He had to tell someone but he couldn’t be obvious. So he would regard it as a puzzle for them to read. And if they did manage to work it out and, even worse, want to do something about it… Well, the doll’s house might have another tenant.

  ‘Wonder what the police wanted,’ said the bear, stooping to avoid the low bridge they were walking under.

  ‘Druggie, probably,’ said the Arcadian. ‘Pickpocket. Nothing important. No one important.’

  The bear smiled. ‘Best not to get involved.’

  They had both seen the police chasing a man with his cock out down Hurst Street. They hadn’t hung around to find out what would happen next.

  ‘Is it much further?’ asked the bear. ‘I need to warm up.’

  ‘Not much further,’ the Arcadian said. ‘Just round this bend.’

  ‘And then we warm up?’ Another smile, his eyes glittering from more than the rain.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the Arcadian. ‘That’s right.’

  He needed it. The contact, the friction. The force. The high. It was the next best thing and he needed it. And the guy with him, big, strong-looking, muscular, seemed like just the man to supply it.

  The bear stopped walking, pulled the Arcadian’s arm, made him stop too.

  ‘What?’

  The bear looked around, saw that they were alone, made a grab for the Arcadian’s cock.

  ‘Not here,’ said the Arcadian, angry at not being in control. ‘We’re nearly there.’ He walked on. The bear, not disappointed in the slightest, followed.

  The towpath curved round. New buildings – the Symphony Hall, the Sea Life Centre, the National Indoor Arena – replaced the older, brick-built ones. Canalside apartment blocks towered all around. Houseboats and narrow boats were moored along the banks. It looked like the future and past had collided.

  The Arcadian walked up a ramp, crossed a bridge, down the other side. It brought them down by another towpath. A sign on the block of flats nearby said King Edward’s Wharf.

  ‘Nice,’ said the bear.

  Several houseboats painted in traditional primary colours were moored alongside, their chimneys smoking, steam rising from their roofs as the heat inside evaporated against the cold night air.

  The Arcadian walked past the moored craft. At the corner of the wharf was an ancient, run-down boat, the kind of thing a family might have taken a holiday in on the Norfolk Broads in the seventies. Mildewed and rusting, it was badly maintained and inexpertly repaired. It looked like it was barely watertight. The Arcadian stopped in front of it.

  ‘You live here?’

  The Arcadian turned to him, angry again. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing…’

  The Arcadian took out a key, fitted it in the padlock on the door, opened it, went in. The bear followed.

  Inside was cramped and dark. It smelled of damp and various kinds of uncleanliness. He put the light on. The squalid surroundings matched the smell.

  The bear was wrinkling his nose. The Arcadian turned to him. ‘You don’t like it?’

  The bear looked round the tiny space, back to the Arcadian. Found a smile. ‘It’s fine. It’ll do.’ And then he noticed the doll’s house. ‘What’s that?’

  The Arcadian smiled. ‘A hobby.’

  The bear nodded, laughed. ‘Right.’ He turned to the Arcadian, the doll’s house forgotten. ‘But this is more important.’

  He grabbed hold of the Arcadian, kissed him roughly on the mouth. The Arcadian responded. He felt the bear’s hands digging into him. His face pulled away. The bear looked at him.

  ‘D’you like it rough?’ Almost a whisper.

  ‘Yeah,’ the Arcadian nodded, ‘I do.’

  He didn’t see the punch coming. It connected with the side of his face, spun him round, sent him reeling into the side of the cabin.

  He staggered, put his hand to his mouth. Winced from the pain. It felt like his jaw had been dislocated.

  ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ he shouted. He noticed the bear was wearing latex gloves. He hadn’t seen him put them on.

  ‘I like it rough too,’ said the bear, and swung at him again.

  The Arcadian ducked, but the blow still connected with his ribs. The air went out of him and he fell to one knee, spilling old pizza cartons and plastic bottles off the table as he did so.

  ‘I’m… supposed to be in charge…’ said the Arcadian, getting to his feet. ‘Me…’

  The bear was no longer smiling. He said nothing. Just punched the Arcadian again in the face. His head snapped back and he was down. The bear didn’t let him get up this time. He was on him again, punching him repeatedly. The Arcadian tried to fight back but the blows were too fast, too strong to respond to.

  ‘This what you want?’ the bear asked, pulling open the Arcadian’s belt, yanking down his jeans and underpants so that he was exposed. ‘This better?’

  Another punch. The Arcadian could no longer see out of one eye.

  He made another attempt to get to his feet, fighting the pain that had taken up sudden sharp residence in his body. The bear slapped him down. As he fell, he made a grab for the doll’s house, brought it down with him.

  The bear pulled the Arcadian’s belt from his jeans, looped it round his neck. Pulled hard.

  ‘You fucked up,’ he whispered in the Arcadian’s ear. ‘Badly. Terminally.’

  He pulled the belt tighter.

  ‘Should have left it to the professionals. Not some sad little wannabe like you. You shouldn’t have been anywhere near this.’

  The Arcadian processed the words as quickly as he could, realised what was happening. He tried to talk, to argue. It was no good.

  The belt was pulled tighter.

  This couldn’t be happening, he thought. Not now. Not to him. He was the Arcadian. He was better than this. It was him who should be doing this, not receiving it. It made him so angry. So impotently angry.

  The belt was pulled as tight as it could go.

  The Arcadian gave up struggling.

  Through his one working eye he saw the doll lying on the floor next to him. She was smiling. He smiled back.

&nbs
p; Beyond that, in his mind’s eye, he saw a little red fire engine.

  And beyond that, nothing.

  No butterfly.

  PART FOUR

  BLACK SABBATH

  66

  W

  hen his iPhone rang, Phil felt as though he had hardly been asleep. He checked the clock on the phone. He was right.

  ‘Phil Brennan…’ His words were slurred. He rolled over on his side, away from Marina, who had jumped when the phone rang but seemed to be drifting back off now.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Constable Pierce here. City Neighbourhood. We’ve got a suspect in custody in connection with the case you’re working on.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Phil said, still barely awake.

  Pierce continued, patiently, ‘He has the tattoo you were looking for.’

  That opened Phil’s eyes. He sat up. ‘Really? The tattoo? Is he…’

  ‘He’s in custody, as I said, sir. The two detectives who brought him in are a little shaken up. And it looks like you’re the best bet for the interview.’

  ‘Shaken up? How?’

  ‘He didn’t want to come quietly, sir. DCs Oliver and Khan, they’re a bit the worse for wear.’

  ‘Don’t suppose this’ll keep till the morning? Clear head and all that.’

  ‘He’s been booked, sir. The custody clock’s ticking.’

  Phil rubbed his eyes with his free hand. ‘Right. I’ll be along as soon as I can get there.’

  He hung up, put the phone back on the bedside table. Looked at Marina. She opened her eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Got a suspect. The murder I’m working. Need me to do the interview.’

  Marina nodded. ‘OK. Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He paused, kept looking at her. Wondering if she was going to say anything more. Wondering if he should say anything more. Her eyes closed again. The moment, if it had ever been there, passed.

  Phil threw the duvet back, felt the cold immediately. Put his feet to the floor, stumbled off to the shower. He checked his phone again. Nearly five o’clock. He wondered how much sleep he had actually had.