The Doll House

by Phoebe Morgan

  ‘Thank you!’ I say. It’s the first time a stranger has said it. It feels wonderful.

  He smiles and leaves, gently shutting the door behind him. I don’t want to stay in the flat so I grab my trench coat from the back of the door, tuck the new keys carefully into my handbag and go downstairs. I’m too early to go to the gallery really but I want to get out of here, I don’t want to be in this flat for a second longer, even now the locks are changed and I know nobody else is inside. I cannot get the image of Beatrice out of my head. I think back to the policemen, of Beatrice in their clear plastic bag, a specimen to be studied. My beautiful doll now an item in their custody, proof of someone’s horrid act of violence. I want to go back to the police, tell them about everything else: the horrid pink bootees nestled in the cradle with that note. The rocking horse, the chimney pot, the little door ripped from my doll house. The dead rabbit, splayed for me to find. All of it. Dom doesn’t want me to, he’s worried they won’t believe me. But I’m going to persuade him tonight, when I’m back from dinner.

  We sat up last night in the horrible Travelodge room, trying to think of people who would do this to me.

  ‘I don’t have any enemies,’ I told him. ‘Really I don’t. This is a threat, Dominic. It isn’t me being crazy. Think about everything that’s happened.’

  He hadn’t met my eyes properly, kept glancing away from me.

  I’d leaned forward. ‘You do believe me, Dom, don’t you? You believe that this was in the house when I got home.’

  Silence.

  ‘I didn’t do it myself, Dominic!’

  He’d woken up at that, grabbed my hands. ‘I know, shh, Cor, I know. I wasn’t suggesting that! God. I was just thinking, is all. I was just trying to figure something out in my head. Why didn’t you tell me about Gilly knowing your dad earlier?’

  I shrugged. ‘I didn’t really have the chance.’

  ‘And you were by yourself when you came into the flat?’

  I’d stared at him. I couldn’t believe he would even consider that I would do something like this myself, that I would be making it up.

  I didn’t sleep all night.

  Out on the street outside, the light feels very bright after the dimness of the flat. The road is quiet, bathed in sunlight. I pull out my phone and text Dominic. Locks all done! I don’t feel like being near our building, not after everything that’s happened in the past twelve hours, so I head to the Underground, thinking I’ll get the Tube to Highbury and Islington and then walk down Upper Street. I can make the most of the sun for a bit until I need to be in the gallery at ten.

  The Tube is very busy; I know getting on is a mistake the second I’m through the doors. I thought it would make me feel safer than walking alone but when strangers brush past me I tense up. When a man leans close to me as I’m in the ticket hall I imagine his hand around my neck, pressing into my glands while his other hand reaches for my purse.

  I can’t wait to get off.

  My coat is too hot and I feel sweat start to pool underneath my arms. A big, heavyset man jumps on just as the doors are closing at Finsbury Park; he has to force them back open with the tips of his fingers. I wince. He squeezes up against me, pulling an apologetic face, and I take a deep breath, try to turn my head away so that I am not pressed up against his chest. The train rocks on the tracks and he is thrown against me again. I feel a pain in my left arm near my wrist; it is trapped between the man and the wall of the carriage but this isn’t an ache, it’s a needling pain, as though something sharp is cutting into me. There is no room to move so I can’t work out what’s causing it, can’t look down. I give a little yelp as the pain comes again, stabs into my skin. The big man I’m pushed up against frowns. I ignore him. It hurts! Perhaps my gold bracelet has come loose. The clasp of it is sharp, finely cut. It was a gift from Dominic. I don’t want to lose it.

  When we finally reach Highbury and Islington I get off, gasping a little, relieved to be out of the busy carriage. Immediately, I feel for my bracelet but it is fastened tightly on my wrist where it always is. The pain in my arm has gone but when I lift an arm to swipe my Oyster card it is there again, this time sharper. I jump at the sensation. What is that? Have I left a safety pin in this coat?

  Outside it’s still nice and sunny; I stand by the grassy roundabout for a few seconds, letting the sun warm my face. When I move a hand to my stomach, the pain in my wrist pricks me again; I frown, puzzled. With my other hand I pat the sleeve of my left arm and instantly there is another, sharper pain further up on my forearm. My fingers feel something very sharp; there’s definitely something stuck in this coat. I shrug it off, ease my left arm out of the sleeve.

  I’m bleeding. I realise with a shock that there is a long, vivid scratch trailing up from my wrist bone and a small trickle of dark red blood snaking its way out. I blot it with the end of my scarf then shake the coat out in front of me, hoping to dislodge whatever is inside. I gasp. It’s not stray pins – it’s glass. Tiny shards of it fall onto the grass in front of me, glinting in the sunlight like miniscule knives. Frantically, I keep shaking, ignoring the strange looks from passers-by, and when I think it’s all out I walk shakily down the high street, lean against the wall of a coffee shop, oblivious to the people tutting as they try to move past. I hold the left sleeve of my coat up to my eyes.

  The lining has been ripped, there is a hole up by the shoulder. The little shards of glass have been pushed through so that they fell down to my cuff, gathered together by my wrist, ready to cut into my flesh. I look around me, feeling sick. How could they have got there? This is my trench coat, the one I always wear – I had it on the day before last. The hole is neat, the edges crisp as though it’s been made with scissors. Someone has done this on purpose.

  ‘Spring daffs, only a pound a bunch!’

  The sound of the flower seller cuts through my consciousness. I look up; it’s a little stall on the edge of the street, and the short, balding guy at the front of it is waving bunches of daffodils in his hands, calling out to passers-by. He has seen me staring and I try to smile at him, try to look as normal as I can even though my brain is racing, thinking about the hidden glass, imagining fingers going through my kitchen drawers, taking out our scissors, snipping a deft hole in the lining of my coat. Hands shoving the glass in, taking care not to cut themselves. Who? Who?

  ‘Interested, love?’

  I stare at the brightly coloured petals shining in the sun, but all I can see is the glass, the deadly shards left for me to find.

  ‘Maybe later,’ I tell the man and I start walking away, feeling a bit unsteady. I’ll go to the gallery early, at least I’ll feel safer there. My arm throbs. The flower seller looks disappointed when I move off. I attempt a nod when he catches my eye. I’ll come back; I can get some daffodils on my way to meet Ashley and Mum after work, they were always Dad’s favourite. I can leave them at the gravestone.

  I walk down Upper Street, my hands across my stomach, my coat folded carefully over one arm, held away from my body as though it’s poisonous. It’s not cold without it; I’m wearing a woollen dress today that comes down past my knees. I wanted to look nice, I wanted to feel special today for Dad. Twelve months. Sometimes I cannot believe it. It will be good to do it properly, mark the occasion.

  I call Mum from my mobile as I walk towards the gallery. I’m not going to tell her about the glass, of course I’m not, she’ll panic – but Dominic’s picking her up later and I want to make sure she hasn’t forgotten. I wonder how she is coping with today so far. I think of her, cowering in her house, unable to tell me how she really feels. I put a hand to my forehead. Everything is so horrible. I just want to get through today, remember Dad properly. I want to do it right.

  Mum’s home phone rings and rings; she doesn’t pick up. I frown. She hardly ever goes anywhere; she’s usually rattling around the house. Still, it’s a nice day. Perhaps she’s in the garden. Dom will get her later on.

  I put my mobile back in my bag, w
ait anxiously at the crossing opposite the gallery. I can’t stop looking around, staring at the people on the streets. Is it you? Has one of you been in my flat? My eye catches sight of a woman coming out of Lullaby, the baby shop on the other side of the road. She’s heavily pregnant, her stomach stretches out before her and she’s carrying lots of bulging lilac bags, emblazoned with the shop’s distinctive logo. I avoid this shop normally, used to avert my eyes whenever I had to walk past it.

  The lights change and I cross the road, still with my coat held gingerly across my right arm. The blood on my wrist has dried, I can feel the hard crust of it on my skin. I pause outside the baby shop. I can see a sales assistant hovering by the door, smiling at me hopefully. I dither awkwardly. I’ve had such a bad night. Perhaps this will help. When I walk in I feel weirdly nervous. The sales assistant smiles at me warmly. Rebecca, her name badge says.

  ‘Welcome to Lullaby! What can I help you with?’

  For just a moment, I stand still, breathe the shop in. I have imagined this in my dreams; choosing a pram, picking out little bootees, the perfect teddy bear. And now I’m finally here.

  ‘It’s my first baby,’ I tell her, ‘I haven’t bought anything yet.’

  ‘How exciting!’ she squeals; her joy is infectious and I let myself smile, allow myself to relax for just a minute. She tells me I can leave my coat and my handbag by the till while I walk around and I put the coat down gratefully, surreptitiously feeling it between my fingers as I do so. I can’t feel any more glass.

  She walks me round the store and, as we go up and down the aisles, I feel better and better, more and more happy, safe in the brightly lit shop. I’m going to have a baby! I’m going to be a mother. When it comes down to it, that’s what matters. Whoever is doing this to me can’t take that away from me. I won’t let them.

  48

  27 March 2017

  The day of the anniversary

  London

  Ashley

  Ashley has got the dinner ready for the children, laid everything out as she normally does. All James needs to do is put the fish fingers in the oven; she’s guessing he can manage that, whatever the outcome of today is. She looks at the clock. Quarter to four. She had been hoping to see her husband before driving to Hampstead, is desperate to hear the news. But she can’t cancel tonight, she has to go see Corinne and their mother, go visit the grave together and have dinner afterwards. It’s what they said they would do on the one-year anniversary. It has always been their plan.

  Ashley shakes the Birds Eye fish fingers out onto the oven tray, sets out three plates, three forks, three knives. Adds the bottle of ketchup, the salt and pepper in their little china pots.

  ‘Will you be home soon, Mummy?’ Benji is in a funny mood, clingy and a little bit tearful. He has been playing Grandmother’s Footsteps after school in the garden with Lucy, making the most of the first sunny day of the year. She kisses the top of his head.

  ‘Yes, darling, I’ll be back tonight. Daddy and Lucy are taking care of you this evening, remember? And it’s fish fingers and chips for dinner!’

  Lucy comes into the kitchen, wearing an old T-shirt with Minnie Mouse on it. She looks like a child for the first time in months and it inflates Ashley’s heart.

  ‘Come on, Ben,’ she says to her brother, ‘I’ll play racing with you until Dad gets back.’

  ‘He should be here,’ Ashley says, glancing at the clock again, thinking of James in the boardroom. Maybe he’s with Daniel right this second. Her stomach twists with nerves. She feels like time is speeding up; Lucy can watch Benji for a little while but she can’t leave Holly under their care too. She is too little, the risks are too high.

  When the clock reaches five, Ashley gives up. She has to go. She takes Holly over to June’s, armed with her little bag of spare nappies, change of clothes, the medicine the doctor gave them. Her daughter screams all the way there, her cries filling the car. Ashley glances at her watch. She feels terrible leaving Holly for June to deal with but she has to get to the cemetery and James is still not back from the office. She daren’t call him in case they are mid-meeting.

  June waves away Ashley’s apologies, shakes her head when Holly’s cries continue.

  ‘There now, someone’s in a bad mood, hey? Poor little love. Has she been like this all day?’

  ‘She’s been like it for weeks now,’ Ashley says, proffering the little bottle of medicine. ‘I thought it’d been getting better but today she’s a mess.’ Ashley pauses. June is looking at her sympathetically and she feels a sudden lump in her throat, swallows hard to quash it down. ‘Here’s the medicine, you know what to do if she wants to sleep. It’ll settle her down. I’m so sorry to leave her like this, June, really I am. I’m all over the place at the moment – I came to drop her off on the wrong day the other week, and now I’m descending on you unannounced! I’m so sorry.’

  June places a comforting hand on her arm, shakes her head. ‘Not to worry, I love having her here. Anytime.’

  Ashey smiles in relief. ‘Thanks, June. James should be round to collect her soon, he’s just been delayed at work and the thing is I’ve got to be in Hampstead – we’re having a memorial for my father tonight.’ She tries to say the words matter-of-factly, like an adult, not wanting the older woman to hear the tremor in her voice. But it seems June understands; she puts a hand on Ashley’s shoulder and smiles at her.

  ‘You get on,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry about this little one, I’ll settle her down and then when that husband of yours gets here he’ll take her home. You concentrate on your family, on remembering your dad. I’m sure he’d be honoured.’

  She raises her eyebrows when she says ‘husband of yours’ and Ashley hesitates – she ought to tell June that she was wrong, that James hasn’t been playing away at all. She looks at her watch – she has to go. She’ll sit down with June next time, they can have a good laugh about how silly Ashley has been.

  Kissing Holly’s hot little cheek, Ashley feels her daughter’s hands clinging on to her, her fingers curl around Ashley’s hair, her jacket sleeve, the beginning of her collarbone. She starts to cry again, as though she cannot bear for Ashley to leave. June smiles.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘She’ll be fine once you’re gone. She always is! Now be off with you.’

  Ashley hesitates, can feel her heart twitching as her baby cries. But she has to get on. She needs to be with Corinne.

  Ashley disentangles herself from Holly, thanks June again and hurries back to the car. She has told Lucy to call her as soon as James gets back. Her mobile is safely ensconced in her pocket, she will feel it if they ring. Her stomach churns. Oh, please God.

  49

  27 March 2017

  The day of the anniversary

  London

  Corinne

  I’ve bought too much!

  I panicked when I got to the gallery because Marjorie was already there and I haven’t told her yet that I’m pregnant. I was going to hustle the Lullaby bags to the back room and hide them before she saw, but I had five of them and it was a struggle to get them through the door.

  She came towards me as I huffed and puffed, and I started to try to think of excuses but she peered inside the first bag and I saw the expression on her face. She knew, I know she did.

  ‘Marjorie—’ I said, but she must have heard the panic in my voice because she interrupted me.

  ‘Corinne, you’re pregnant?’

  I didn’t know what to say, it seemed ridiculous to lie.

  ‘I know I should have told you,’ I began, ‘but it’s really early days—’

  She was laughing. Marjorie was actually laughing! The nervous words died on my tongue as she smiled at me, took three of the heavy bags from my reddening fingers.

  ‘Oh, Corinne,’ she said, ‘that’s really wonderful news.’

  I was so surprised that she was being so nice that for a moment I forgot what had happened, I forgot the glass in my coat and the horrible night in
the Travelodge and I became for a second what I am – an excited, hopeful, soon-to-be mother. Marjorie helped me unload the Lullaby bags and stored them in the back room.

  She was being oddly kind, I’d never seen her like this before. I stared at her doubtfully as she started to rummage in the bags, looking excited. A thought occurred to me. Perhaps she sees it as a convenient way to let me go? She’s never seemed to like me much. I watched her hold up a little white bonnet and I suddenly hated myself for the thought; what’s happened to me? I never used to be so cynical. But then I saw the cut on my wrist, and I felt a spurt of anger – I know what’s happened to me: a dismembered doll in my kitchen and glass in my coat. I knew I needed to call Dominic but Marjorie was holding up a little pink Babygro now, her eyes bright.

  ‘So cute!’ she said. ‘Look how tiny it is. Pink – you’re having a girl then?’

  ‘Well.’ I’d shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Actually I don’t know. But that’s what I’m hoping for. We haven’t found out.’

  ‘Got a name yet?’

  ‘Not yet!’ I said. ‘But plenty of time!’

  I remember Dad and I used to spend ages coming up with names for all the dolls he bought me. Belinda, Emilie, Alicia, Lucille. Beatrice. I shiver. We’ve got to go back the police, chase them to take action. Judging by how long they took to arrive last night I’m not convinced they’ll do anything fast. I’m worried they weren’t taking me seriously enough yesterday, got the wrong end of the stick with the Gilly thing. I’m going to make Dom listen, especially after the glass. My mind spools back, remembering the mangled rabbit on the bonnet, the violence of it. The blood matting its fur, the blood trailing down my own arm. What if it was personal? What if this whole thing has been about as personal as you can get?

  I’m not going to take no for an answer any more.

  ‘You must be so excited, Corinne,’ Marjorie said to me, and then she put her arms around me, gave me a happy little cuddle, which was very unlike her but actually very nice. I wanted to cling to her, bury my face in her cardigan, but instead I just stood there and smiled, trying to pretend I was OK.