And then slowly and awkwardly she turned to face me. Even in the gloom I could see the fat china cheeks, the over-large blue glass eyes, the rosebud simper.
Then she began to walk back towards me.
‘Oh, very well done,’ I said to Ursula. I blamed her, you see, because she’d drawn my attention to it. ‘Automated dolls – radio-controlled, is she? With a mini-chip?’
‘What are you going on about?’ I heard Ursula say. Then I heard her get up, and felt her standing behind me. And heard her sharp indrawn breath as she saw the doll. For the first time I felt a little nervous.
‘Come off it – have mercy on an old man’s nerves!’
‘It has nothing to do with me!’ she said sharply. ‘It is just an ordinary Jumeau.’
‘That just happens to walk, the moment you finish her. You’ll have to do better than that.’
The doll turned a little sideways, so that her tiny china tottering steps took her behind a large hand-blown glass jug. She seemed to be pressing herself against it, like an automatic toy when it runs up against a wall. And then the jug began to rock, and then it began to slide towards the edge of the cupboards.
And we both stood and watched, pressing closer together, Ursula saying over and over, ‘It has nothing to do with me.’
And then the glass jug tipped; and fell with a terrifying crash and scatter of fragments.
The doll turned and looked at me; then made off down the cupboards to the next object.
And I remembered Mrs Westover saying, ‘They’ve been terribly, terribly naughty. So they’ve had to be punished . . .’
The next object, an art nouveau bronze figure, began to totter. As I reached it, it fell on my foot. Without doubt my foot saved it from damage, but it certainly damaged my foot. I saw red and grabbed at the doll, which was heading for the next object. The doll leapt from the cupboards, and scuttled across the floor with a dry rattling like a crab, and with surprising speed. I could not catch it. I chased it round and round; a tall standard-lamp that I valued crashed over. Round and round the room, ridiculously, we went. The doll had the trick of moving as you reached down for it, rather like a cat that doesn’t want to be picked up.
In the end, I cornered it. It fluttered within my hands with dry, cold life . . . obscene. I held it hard by one leg, and raised it to smash it against the cupboards. Then I felt a hand on my wrist. A warm human hand, very determined.
‘How much was that jug it broke?’ asked Ursula, fiercely.
‘Twelve quid,’ I said, amazed at the question.
‘And you would break a five-hundred-pound doll for a twelve-pound glass jug? You won’t get rich that way, Geoff.’
That stopped me; that and the fact that the doll now lay quite motionless in my hands, smiling up at me.
‘You hold it, then,’ I said.
‘I will.’ She tucked it very firmly under her arm. ‘We need a good cup of coffee.’
I sipped my coffee while Ursula held the doll upside-down and inspected it, inside its froth of petticoats.
‘Perfectly ordinary legs,’ she announced. ‘Held together with my elastic.’
‘But it walked.’
‘There is another explanation,’ she said. She held the doll upright and made it walk on the table top, in a hideous facsimile of its former behaviour. ‘I can make it walk. So could something else. I think this poor expensive doll is quite innocent.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you have a mischievous poltergeist.’
‘But poltergeists throw things.’
‘They don’t, actually. The best authorities, like Wilson, say that they convey things through the air at great speed.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘A poltergeist can seem to throw a stone at you, but when it hits, it seldom hurts. And poltergeists can make a thrown object turn at right angles, like a flying saucer.’
‘You mean, when I grabbed it, I was struggling with a poltergeist?’
‘When it was wriggling in your hands, did it feel as if it was moving itself, as if it had a life of its own?’
‘No,’ I said, after thought.
‘Well then,’ she said, ‘it is best if we get this little one to a place of safety, from great brutish brainless men.’
‘But what about all the others?’
As if on cue, there came a tapping from next door. As of tiny china feet . . .
We went back in, slowly. Before we did, I switched on the light, for it was now quite dark.
And as the light went on, we saw them. Doll after naked doll, rising upright, faces smiling primly, rounded pink bellies glistening around navels, little pink limbs tapping out a stately dance in rhythm together, like an obscene chorus-line. There was a crash as some other precious object fell to the floor. I went berserk, remembering all the broken things in Mrs Westover’s house.
‘Damn that woman! She’s wished these things on to me. She knew – she knew. I hope she’ll roast in hell for this!’
As I said it, every doll collapsed gently back to the floor and all was still.
In the stillness, I heard the cat-flap in the kitchen behind us bang once. The way it does when a cat leaves the house, which is quite different from the noise a cat makes coming in. I could have sworn I had a sense of something leaving . . . then shook my head angrily to clear it of such rubbish. I went across and picked up my other broken treasure – thankful it was only a ruby wine-glass, part of a set of six.
‘Was that your cat going out?’ asked Ursula, shakily. But it hadn’t been, because Mirabelle had just walked in. She walked from doll to doll, casually sniffing them, then indignantly demanded her supper. There was a fresh layer of drizzle on her coat, and her fur was cold from the outdoors. I knew she had not been inside the house before.
‘Why the hell should she choose to come in now? She wouldn’t before. She fought me!’
‘I think she came in,’ said Ursula, with a careful attempt at scholarly detachment, ‘because something rather unpleasant just left.’ But her voice broke before she finished, and she shuddered violently.
It’s a funny feeling when something like that happens to you. I righted the standard-lamp (no damage, except the shade a little dented) and picked up the broken glass, glad the damage was less than twenty pounds – and the insurance would cover that, if I made up the right story. The real old ordinary world came flooding powerfully back (along with a smell of burning – Ursula ran into the kitchen and managed to save some of the omelette).
Or, rather, the old ordinary world came flooding back along the surface of my mind. But beneath, the darker part of my mind stayed occupied by something darker still.
‘What was it?’
Ursula nodded at Mirabelle, hungrily finishing off last night’s dried-out Whiskas. ‘Whatever it was, it’s gone. Or the cat wouldn’t have come home.’
‘What if . . . it . . . comes back?’
Again, Ursula nodded at Mirabelle. ‘I think we shall know – that one will tell us.’
‘She’d better stay indoors, then.’ I brought Mirabelle and a recharged saucer into the lounge, and closed the door. Mirabelle, miffed at being mucked about, gave me one contemptuous look, then went back to her meal.
‘Why did it go so suddenly?’ I asked. ‘Was it something we did? Something I said?’
‘Well, you were getting pretty ferocious.’
I thought of all the damaged objects at Westover Manor. ‘I don’t think it’s impressed by human rage, somehow. What can we do?’
Ursula got up briskly. ‘I know what I’m going to do.’ She rolled up the sleeves of her black jumper. ‘Get those dolls finished, and in a place of safety. Have you got a big cabin-trunk?’
I showed her the trunk they’d come in. ‘The locks are a bit dicey – they sprang open on the way over here.’
‘Did they?’ She fiddled with them. ‘They seem all right to me. Still, have you got a couple of spare padlocks? Leather straps? We could fas
ten them up, double sure.’
‘They might . . . burst out.’
She looked at me, narrowly. ‘When you grabbed that . . . doll that was . . . walking . . . how strong did it feel?’
I thought; and the gooseflesh ran up my arms from where my hands had gripped it. Then down my back, like someone walking over my grave. But I had to admit: ‘Not very strong. About as strong as a mechanical toy. Not as strong as me.’
‘Not as strong as straps and locks, then. And if we pack them tightly in with newspaper, they won’t hurt themselves. I’ll dress them; you pack them. You might as well do something to earn your living.’
‘What about that omelette?’
‘You eat it – I’m busy.’
And so we worked, while Mirabelle slept, paws fatly beneath her, just batting her ears occasionally at any unusual rustle we made. I’d managed to get a roaring fire going by then, and of course she slept in front of it. As midnight went through till one, then two a.m., it grew perilously cold. And still we dressed the dolls, and packed them tight in the trunk in rows like sardines. The job seemed endless, but it kept us from thinking, and I for one didn’t feel at all like sleeping.
By six, we were finished. The last doll went in. A last layer of tightly crimped newspaper, and then the lid went down. It was a bit like closing a coffin – the same feeling of relief. Locks clicked, padlocks turned, straps were tightened. We ate corned-beef sandwiches, cut thick with tiredness.
Ursula went to the window, hesitated very slightly, then pulled back the curtains with a decisive ruthlessness, as if she might confront something outside. But there was only my garden, in a dim pink light.
‘Dawn,’ she said. I realized that birds had been chirping outside for some time. And there was the accelerating sigh of the electric milk-cart, and the solid clink of bottles. Suddenly, I felt safe.
Ursula yawned and stretched, with that boyish lack of self-regard. ‘God, I could sleep for a week. So much for a weekend’s rest. Have you a rug?’
I brought her one, and she flopped on to my studio-couch, pulled the rug up to her chin, placed both narrow, elegant hands smoothly under her head and fell asleep as softly as a child.
I wasn’t so inclined to sleep. Certainly I had no intention of going upstairs to bed on my own. I made up the fire and settled in the big wing-chair, not hoping to get in a wink. But Ursula slept on, and Mirabelle slept on, and the noises of the day began outside – cows in the lane, driven by old Harry Acton who was burping and belching and coughing off the results of another good night at the pub. I just closed my eyes for a moment. I felt my hand and bare arm (my sleeves were still rolled up) droop over the arm of the chair, like it always does. I heard Mirabelle stir and get up; then I must have dozed again. Gradually, I became aware of a small, soft creature brushing against my bare arm. A hot tongue licked my skin. I stirred, half awake, moved my arm irritably.
‘Oh, lay off, Mirabelle!’ She seemed to stop; I slept again. Then there was a little hot rough tongue rasping at my arm again, making the skin slowly sore.
‘Lay off, Mirabelle!’
Then I slept once more, my arm drooped again, and there was a little flash of pain, as if she’d playfully nipped me with her teeth, the way cats do. But before I could move, it was suddenly all right. It didn’t hurt any more. A kind of warm pleasurable numbness ran up my arm.
And then the dreams started, crazy dreams. A courtroom; rows of people dressed in black, with big white collars; a man pointing at me, accusingly. I started, and wriggled out of that dream. But the next one was worse: a scaffold, in a dreary, empty wasteland with nobody about, but with a hanged body swinging and turning in the wind. There were black birds perched on its shoulders, and when the wind turned it to face me, the eyes had been pecked out. But it had a skirt and long fair hair: it was a woman.
I struggled, trying to waken, to shake off the warm weight that dragged down on my arm. But I could not waken, and the last dream was the worst: Mrs Westover, in her nightdress with lace at the throat, screaming, choking. In smoke and flame . . .
Then someone was shaking me. I opened my bleary eyes, and there was Ursula, huge-eyed, shouting, ‘Wake up, Geoff. For God’s sake, wake up.’
I leapt up, half stupefied, half panicky, feeling sick. ‘Sorry, I was having a nightmare.’
‘Some nightmare. What have you done to your wrist?’
I looked down. The inside of my wrist was bleeding, from where the little blue veins are. Blood dripped down my fingers and on to the carpet.
Ursula knotted the clean white handkerchief round my wrist and said, ‘I’ll put it in a sling. You must keep it still, or it’ll start bleeding again. What happened?’
‘It sounds silly,’ I said shakily, ‘but I think Mirabelle bit me, while I was asleep. Except I couldn’t wake up and stop her. She’s never done that before.’
‘And exactly where is Mirabelle now?’
The door into the hall was ajar; we’d left it closed. ‘Funny – I didn’t know she could open doors. I know some cats can.’
Ursula went and looked out of the kitchen window. ‘She’s back on the garage roof, glowering at the house. Same as she was yesterday . . . I think . . . that thing’s back. I think we’ve got company again, Geoff.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Go and get her in.’
I watched from the window. Mirabelle came off the garage roof willingly enough, into Ursula’s arms; she’s a bit of a slob for a cuddle. But the moment Ursula moved towards the house, Mirabelle began to struggle like a mad thing. In the end, in spite of Ursula’s efforts, she broke away, and leapt back on to the garage roof. Ursula came back, her face bleeding from a scratch. ‘We’ve got company all right.’
‘Perhaps she just feels guilty about biting me.’
‘I don’t think that was Mirabelle,’ said Ursula, slowly.
‘What d’you mean, not Mirabelle?’
‘The wound was the wrong shape. It was more as if something had sucked you. I’ve seen Asian doctors using leeches, out in the Far East. It’s like the wound leeches make.’
‘Oh, come on. A leech crawling in here . . . Mirabelle would’ve killed it.’
‘I think Mirabelle saw whatever it was, and ran away to the garage. It’s back right enough, Geoff.’
‘Oh, God, I feel sick.’ I sat down suddenly, my injured wrist throbbing like mad. Then I jumped up again, in a fury. I picked up a poker. ‘Let’s find it, and kill it.’
We looked everywhere; searched the house from top to bottom, with every window and door locked, and the cat-flap blocked by the cabin-trunk. Every dark space we searched, every cupboard, drawer. Nothing.
Except, as we came back into the kitchen, a rustling . . . as of paper. It nearly drove us mad, till Ursula traced it. Then I wished she hadn’t. It was the cabin-trunk. Small pervasive rustlings, as if, in their beds of newspaper, the dolls were trying to turn.
I snatched at the straps wildly; I’d beat the things to a pulp!
‘No, Geoff. We know it’s not the dolls – the straps are still fastened. They’re harmless now. No, Geoff. Something left the house last night, and now it’s come back and it’s trying to move the dolls . . . What was your dream?’
I told her. We gazed at each other too long, too solemnly.
‘Mrs Westover . . .’
‘D’you think I’d better ring her?’
‘It would certainly ease my mind,’ said Ursula, bluntly.
But when I rang, a strange voice answered; a man’s voice, slightly coarse and slow, but full of authority. It had to be a policeman’s voice. It asked my name and address.
‘It’s strange you should ring, sir. I was just going to ring you.’
‘Me? How did you know about me?’
‘We found your name on a cheque in her handbag in the hall, sir. We got your address through your bank manager. From the date on your cheque, you may have been the last person to see her alive.’
‘She’s dead? She was quite well when I l
eft her. She hasn’t been . . . murdered?’
‘No, no, sir. Nothing like that. Her bedroom door was still locked when the brigade broke it down. And the window wouldn’t open wider than to let a cat through. You don’t know if she had a cat, sir? A stray she’d just picked up? She didn’t keep any animals that the charlady knows of.’
‘I saw no cat.’
‘No, sir. Well, I just thought . . . She had a paraffin-lamp alight in her bedroom apparently. She was frightened of the electricity going off all of a sudden in the middle of the night, the char said. It got knocked over, and the place went up like a torch, with her inside. Half the upstairs is gutted. I thought perhaps a cat had got in and knocked the paraffin-lamp over while she was asleep. But maybe she knocked it over herself, poor soul. She’s been drinking pretty heavily, the last year. Were you a friend of hers, sir?’
‘Well,’ I kept my voice straight with a terrible effort, ‘not a friend. I only met her two nights ago. I bought some dolls off her. I’m a dealer.’
‘Oh, yes, the dolls, sir. She was very keen on dolls, Mrs Westover. Gave talks to the Women’s Institutes about their history, and that. Will it be all right if I call on you later this morning, Mr Ashden? As I said, I think you may have been the last person to see her alive.’
‘Yes,’ I said weakly, and put the phone down.
‘What’s up, Geoff?’ said Ursula.
‘She was killed by a fire in her bedroom. Just after I’d wished she’d roast in hell. I didn’t mean it . . . What happened?’
‘I think you’d better sit down and listen, Geoff. You may say I’m quite mad, but what I think is that something heard you make that wish . . . and went and carried it out. Those dolls here stopped moving the moment you made that wish.’
‘Oh, that’s crazy.’
‘There’s a way you can test it.’ She nodded at the cabin-trunk, which was still gently rustling. ‘Wish those damned dolls to stop moving.’
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