Finally, he climbed out of the car and took all Dennis’s clothes and personal possessions and placed them inside the trailer. He folded the royal-blue suit neatly. He then locked the trailer, unhooked it from the car and left it where it was, askew across the muddy lane. He put the old Volvo in gear and drove away slowly along the lane, past the weed-filled grounds of the house, beneath the winter-bare trees, against the rising green shoulders of the South Downs, under a brightening sky.
THE DOLL’S HOUSE
Jonathan Green
Some of you may know Jonathan Green better as the mild-mannered author of Abaddon’s long-running steampunk series, Pax Britannia, but within this gentlemen of words beats a dark heart. ‘The Doll’s House’ is in the tradition of the more gruesome stories found in the old Pan Book of Horror series, but while there is most certainly a shock here of the most gruesome kind, this is also a meticulously crafted piece of horror fiction; one that will draw you quickly into its dark influence.
The house is an unremarkable, mid-terrace, Edwardian build that the estate agents described as “a spacious and skilfully extended, four bed period property in a central location.” In truth the kitchen is smaller than Jen would have liked, there’s no off-street parking, the Tube is a good fifteen minutes’ walk away, and the fourth bedroom is little more than a box room.
But it’s nice enough, in need of a little repainting – and most of that’s upstairs, the previous owners having given the downstairs a sprucing up to get people through the door – but nothing major, and it’s a step up from the two-bed maisonette they moved into before Toby was born. The box room will be big enough for the new baby, when it arrives, and hopefully they won’t have to think about moving again for a good few years.
And so they sign on the dotted line and after a fretful few weeks they’re finally standing in the hallway of their new home, keys in hand, idiot smiles on their faces, their arms around each other. Toby’s already out doing laps of the postage stamp of grass that passes for a garden, squealing with delight.
Chris turns to her, looking like the excited twenty-something she first met at Uni all those years ago. “We’ve done it!” he says, a boyish twinkle in his eyes again. “We’ve really done it! I can’t believe it’s ours!”
He pulls her close, taking care not to squeeze her too tight now that her bump’s showing, and they kiss.
They only stop kissing when there is the sharp rap at the front door and a burly shadow appears through the glass panels. The removal men are here.
It’s the isolation she finds hardest to cope with.
Toby goes to Nursery three mornings a week and is keen to help her with the re-decorating whenever she’ll let him. And although his efforts can only be described as patchy at best, his indefatigable enthusiasm encourages her to keep at it herself.
The two of them paint his room first, choosing the colour scheme together. She even braves IKEA one afternoon, while Chris is at work – he hates IKEA at the best of times – but with Toby in tow, picking out his first big boy’s bed and putting it together that same day. When Chris gets in that evening, Jen’s just putting on the new dinosaur duvet cover and matching pillow case, while Toby’s having his bath.
“Dada! Dada!” Toby shouts, hearing the door go downstairs.
“Alright, buddy?” Chris’s voice comes from the hallway below.
Jen smiles, straightening the corners of the duvet cover as she lays it on the new bed.
She hears the thud of Chris’s bag on the polished floorboards and the clatter of him kicking off his shoes before he bounds up the stairs to see his son.
“Dada! Dada! I’ve got a big boy’s bed!”
“Have you, Toby?” she hears Chris say over the excited splash of bathwater. “So did you and Mummy go shopping today?”
“Yeah. We went to the big yellow shop.”
“IKEA?”
“Yeah. High-KEA. An’ I got a big boy’s bed and went on the slide.”
“You went on a slide?”
And then he’s there, slipping his arms around her bulging belly, making her jump. She hadn’t heard him come into Toby’s bedroom behind her.
“And did Mummy have fun at IKEA?” he asks, kissing the back of her neck.
“Hello,” she says, struggling to turn around within his embrace, kissing him on the lips. The aroma of his aftershave still lingers upon him but she can also taste the chocolate muffin he’s obviously enjoyed on the way home. “Good day?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Could’ve been worse. But enough about me. I want to hear all about your adventures at IKEA.”
“It wasn’t that exciting.” She smiles.
“You don’t say. Looks good,” he says, releasing her at last and running a discerning hand over the white laminated chipboard.
And then he turns back to face her, concern written large on his face. “You didn’t overdo it, did you? Lugging this up here?” he says, eyeing the pile of flat-packed cardboard and broken polystyrene in the middle of floor.
“No, of course not. I’m fine. Anyway, Toby helped me.”
“But just the same.”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, you know me. I can’t stand sitting around here doing nothing.”
He grins again. “You can’t stand sitting…?”
“You know what I mean,” she says, slapping him playfully on the arm.
“So, what have you got planned for tomorrow? Painting the Forth Bridge?”
“The baby’s room.”
“Okay, but there is such a thing as doing too much. You don’t want to go getting overtired.”
“And I won’t. In fact I was going to cook us some supper while you put your son to bed, and then I thought I might have an early night.”
“Oh, yeah?” her husband says, an excited teenager smile on his face, encircling her in his arms once again.
“Yes, while you go through all those reports, or whatever it is you’ve brought home with you.”
“Oh. Really?” He looks at her with what he clearly thinks are appealing, puppy dog eyes.
“Really. You know you’ll be annoyed if you have to take them back again tomorrow unlooked at.”
“I suppose so.”
“And besides, you don’t want me getting overtired, do you?”
“Dada! Dada!” Toby shouts from the bathroom. “Watch this!”
“Come on, let me go. Your son wants you.”
So much more aware is she, now, of the impact the new baby with have on their lives, that she makes the most of that glorious phase between being virtually crippled by morning sickness – with Toby miming vomiting every time he walks past the loo – and being so big she can’t even see her own feet to tie her shoelaces.
She and Toby paint the baby’s room between them and the three-year-old seems very pleased to have played his part, even if more paint ended up on him than the walls. But by the time the two of them have finished, the box room has been transformed into a vision of soft lavender, finished with cuddly animal-themed detailing.
The last room to see a fresh lick of paint is the master bedroom. The guest room that was put in the attic by the previous owners will have to wait, just as will the clean white canvas that they’ve inherited on the ground floor.
And then that time is gone in the blink of an eye, or so it seems, and she’s feeling like a bloated whale again, the water retention making her curse the celebs that adorn her glossy weeklies with their personal-trainer-and-nanny-bought perfect post-baby bodies.
She can’t see her feet anymore and resigns herself to several weeks of back ache, haemorrhoids and half a dozen trips to the bathroom during the night.
The baby, when it comes, is almost two weeks late. The labour itself isn’t half as gruelling as it was with Toby, and the birth leaves her with a feeling of optimistic euphoria and utter joy. She now has a daughter as well as a son. A matching set.
Chris brings Toby in to see the baby the next day, having had a ch
ance to go home, get some sleep and freshen up the night before while Jen and Emilia – Emmie for short – spent their first night together in hospital.
Toby looks so angelic, with his curly blond locks, and as he kisses his baby sister gently on the forehead, Jen is overwhelmed by emotion.
After only a couple of trauma-free days in hospital – made more comfortable by Chris stumping up for a private room – they’re pulling up outside the house to be greeted by a gaggle of curious neighbours, Chris’s mum and dad beaming at them from the doorstep.
Toby helped make the banner that’s been pinned to the cornicing in the sitting room. It reads ‘Welcome Home Emmie’ in big bold day-glow letters. Seeing it makes Jen start to cry all over again.
“So, how are things?” her mother asks several weeks later.
She’s looking well. Jen wishes she could say the same about herself. Her mum’s lost weight and has a glorious tan that her white sleeveless top shows off to good effect. But then a six week cruise of the Caribbean will do that.
Jen carefully puts down her coffee on the kitchen counter and takes a deep breath before answering.
“I told you, Mum, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure, dear? Only you sounded a little – how shall I put this? – a little stressed when we spoke on the phone.”
“Oh you know how it is. Toby had jam all over his face and I didn’t want him getting any of it on the new sofa.”
“Why you chose a white sofa with a little one around and a new baby in the house, I’ll never know.”
“It’s champagne.”
“What is?”
“The colour of the sofa. It’s champagne, not white.”
Her mother huffs in irritation. “I don’t know. Why do they have to make up all these ridiculous names for things these days? What’s wrong with ‘white’?”
“Because it isn’t white.”
“Cream, then.”
“I told you,” Jen says with forced calm, “in the brochure it’s classed as champagne.”
“Still a silly colour to choose when you’ve got little ones, no matter what you call it,” her mother mutters into her coffee.
Jen takes a deep breath before counting to ten. “Anyway,” she says with a sigh, “moving on…”
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Look, I told you, I’m fine.”
“Only you look tired.”
“Of course I’m tired!” Jen suddenly snaps. “What did you expect? I spend all day running around after an active three year-old and a six week-old baby. There’s shopping, laundry and cleaning to be done, and don’t even mention the ironing. I’m more fully employed than Chris is at work! And now Toby’s started playing up...” Jen lets out her pent-up frustrations in a loud sigh, her shoulders sagging. “The honeymoon period’s definitely over.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I think he’s jealous. And he’s getting rather naughty.”
“Not my little boy, surely? Anyway, I thought he was going to Nursery five mornings a week.”
At that moment, heralded by the rattle of keys, the front door bangs open and Toby charges down the hall and into the kitchen.
“Nana!” he exclaims in delight, throwing his arms around his grandmother’s legs.
In response, Jen’s mother bundles him up in her arms, giving him a huge bear-hug.
“And how’s my little sausage?” she asks, kissing him noisily on the cheek and provoking a flurry of giggles.
“Nana, we’ve been to the park!” the toddler manages to tell her at last, once he’s got his breath back. “And I went on the swings and the slide and the see-saw two times. And me and Dada played football!”
“Goodness me, you have been busy boys.”
“Hi, Julia, how are you?” Chris asks, entering the kitchen laden down with Toby’s scooter and the football. Putting an arm around his mother-in-law’s shoulders he plants a kiss on her cheek. “You’re looking well!”
“Yeah, well six weeks in the Caribbean will do that to you,” Jen mutters under her breath.
“It’s great to see you. How was the holiday? Have you been here long? Have you met Emmie yet?”
“No, not yet,” Jen’s mother says, looking pointedly at her daughter. “Apparently her ladyship is having a nap and Jennifer didn’t want to wake her.”
“Well you know how grisly she was in the night,” Jen jumps in, looking from the baby monitor on the counter to her husband and giving him an imploring look, “and if she doesn’t catch up on her sleep now, she’ll be grisly all afternoon too, and I couldn’t bear that. Besides, it was just for an hour while I caught up with the ironing.”
“It’s alright,” Chris says, squeezing her arm and giving her a peck on the cheek too. “No one’s judging you,” he adds quietly in her ear.
“You sure about that?” she mutters back.
They hear the baby’s cries through the crackle of static on the baby monitor – the green and red LEDs arcing in response – and echoing down the stairs at the same time.
“Well, sounds like someone’s awake now,” her mother says.
“I’ll go,” Jen says hurriedly, glad to have an excuse to get away, if only for a moment.
“Right, Chris,” she hears her mother say as she climbs the stairs, “could you give me a hand with something?” And then the two of them – mother-in-law and son-in-law – are making their way to the front door, with Toby following, his toddler curiosity as indefatigable as ever.
Jen enters the closed-curtain gloom of the baby’s room to be greeted by her darling daughter, her face already near-purple from screaming, tiny fists bunched in impotent rage, legs kicking furiously as if she’s trying to bust out of her babygrow, and the unmistakable ammonia aroma of a full nappy.
By the time Jen’s cleaned her up and put her in yet another fresh babygrow – the soiled one joining the unending pile of washing in the laundry basket, the allegedly leak-proof nappy having leaked liquid shit all up Emmie’s back – and carried her downstairs, everyone’s back in the kitchen.
“Here she is,” Jen says, passing Emmie into her mother’s outstretched arms. “Mum, meet your granddaughter.”
“Oh, isn’t she gorgeous?” her mother says, nuzzling the baby’s silk-soft hair, and then continues in a coochie-coo voice as she stares into Emmie’s wide eyes, “Aren’t you my darling? Yes, you are. Yes, you are. You’re Nana’s booful baby girl, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
Emmie gurgles and giggles in response, a cherubic smile on her face, and no sign of the howling banshee that had greeted her sleep-deprived mother upstairs.
“Who’s a good girl, eh? Who’s a good girl?”
Jen picks up her now-cold cup of coffee and watches her mother with Emmie for a moment, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders a little.
“Where’s Toby?” she asks idly, taking a sip of the cold caffeine.
“Over there,” Chris says with a nod.
Jen turns and is so surprised she spills half the contents of her mug over herself.
Toby is kneeling at his toy table – which was the coffee table from Chris’s old flat, in a former life. He is busy placing the pieces of furniture inside the large doll’s house that’s open in front of him. His favourite toys have been shoved under the table to make room for the mock Georgian edifice.
Jen recognises the peeling paint façade, the dark lifeless windows and the drab grey tiles immediately.
“Careful,” Chris says, eyeing the stain on her top.
“What’s that doing here?” she hisses, her voice barely more than an angry whisper.
“It’s been sat at the back of the attic at my place for long enough,” her mother says, smiling at her grandson as he carefully places a miniature piano in what should really be the bathroom of the house, if Jen remembers correctly – and she does. “Besides, now my little boy’s a big brother I think he’s old enough to take care of it, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” Jen snaps back.
“Whoa, Jen, what’s the problem?” Chris steps in, giving her a look. “Toby’s loving it. It’s very kind of you, Julia.”
“My pleasure.”
“Well I can’t stand the thing.” Jen picks up a dishcloth and starts to work at the coffee stain. She soon gives up in disgust. “Something else for the never-ending laundry pile,” she growls.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer, you used to love playing with it as a child.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Of course you did.”
“No, Mum, I didn’t. I hated the thing. Why do you think Dad put it in the attic in the first place?”
“But it’s an antique,” her mother goes on. “It’s been in our family for generations.”
“Well, you can put in on eBay, for all I care.”
“Jen! What’s got into you?” Chris chides her. “I know you’re tired, but –”
“That’s right, I’m tired!” She slams her coffee cup down on the counter. The handle comes off in her hand, what’s left of the mug tipping over and spilling the rest of its contents across the counter.
She turns to Chris, red-rimmed eyes blazing. “There’s pizza for supper or you can order takeout if you want. But I don’t care. I’m going to bed!”
“Jennifer!” her mother calls after her. “I didn’t mean –”
“Thanks for coming over,” Jen calls back, already halfway up the stairs. “We must do this again some time.”
When she wakes, sweating, in the middle of the night to a silent house, she knows that she’s had the dream again. She hasn’t had it since she was a child.
So sudden is her awakening that it even causes Chris to stir.
“What is it?” he mumbles, turning his tousled head and peering at her in the half-light of the room.
House of Fear Page 29
