The Doll's House (15 page)

T
he house was in darkness when Phil let himself in.

He put his car keys on the kitchen table, his bag down by the side. They hadn't been there that long and already he was establishing patterns of behaviour, getting used to the new routine. He had read somewhere that human beings were predisposed to find routine in everything. He remembered an old crime novel he had read, years ago, in which a man left his family and job and went to another city to set up a new life. When the private detective found him, he had established a new family and a new life. Routine had taken over.

He shook his head, wondered why his mind had thought of that, opened the fridge door. There were half a dozen bottles of beer on their sides. Routine dictated that he would take one, sit down and use it to help him to dial out work, dial in the family.

Except it was very late and the rest of the family were in bed.

He closed the fridge door, made his way upstairs. He thought of having a shower, decided against it. He was dog tired and it might wake him up, then he'd never sleep. And tomorrow, when he went to talk to Hugo Gwilym, he would be half asleep and might miss something. Given the level of scrutiny he was feeling from the rest of his team, that wouldn't do.

Hugo Gwilym. Phil had heard of him, knew of his media profile, but nothing more specific than that. And he knew Marina was working alongside him at the university. She hadn't mentioned him, except a few disparaging offhand remarks, but he wanted to talk to her about him. If she was friendly with Gwilym – which he doubted – there might even be a conflict of interest and he would have to step down as SIO. If that happened, he could just imagine what the office gossip would be like. And how much further his standing would slip in the eyes of the rest of the team.

He made his way slowly up the stairs, using the flashlight from his phone, so as not to wake the other two. He put his head round Josephina's door, saw his daughter fast asleep, clutching her favourite soft toy, Lady. It was disgusting, filthy and ragged, but Josephina and Lady had been through a lot together, so neither he nor Marina minded her hanging on to it.

A quick visit to the bathroom, then into bed. Marina was lying on her side, eyes closed, breathing steady. He moved slowly round to his side, careful not to wake her, got undressed and slipped in beside her. Setting the alarm on his phone, he closed his eyes.

He had thought he would lie awake most of the night, working out the case in his mind, but he was so tired and, if he was honest, relieved to be engaged to this degree once more that he went straight off to sleep.

 

Marina had heard Phil come in. She knew his pattern: the door opening, the keys on the table, the fridge door. She heard the fridge close again, heard him make his way upstairs.

And her heart flipped.

She should talk to him. She knew that. Share what had happened to her.

But what
had
happened to her? She couldn't remember. She had spent all day trying to relive the previous night. Over and over in her mind, replaying every single second that she could remember until she wasn't sure what was real and what she was imagining was real.

Had she been raped? Or had it been consensual and she was so out of it she hadn't been able to remember? And if so, if she had been so out of it, wasn't that just date rape? Not if what Gwilym said was true. That she had wanted it, instigated it. She wished she could remember. Or at least part of her did. The rest wanted it never to have happened.

She heard Phil on the stairs. Opening Josephina's door, checking she was OK. Routine. Then the bathroom door. She quickly lay on her side, closed her eyes. Pretended to be asleep.

She knew it was cowardly, but she didn't know what else she could do. She couldn't talk to him about it. Not now, perhaps not ever. And that made her feel even worse inside.

She heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door close. And then Phil was in the room, making his way slowly round the bed. A considerate and decent man. One of the few she had met. Partly why she loved him so much.

He got into bed next to her. She didn't move in case he realised she was awake.

She needn't have worried. He quickly got himself settled and his breathing changed. She knew he was asleep.

Marina lay there, physically so close but emotionally miles away from her partner, feeling warmth from his body but so, so cold inside.

She didn't move all night.

T
here. That should do it.

The Arcadian stood back, stared at the doll's house once more. It still didn't look right. It looked wrong, unbalanced. And that didn't just niggle away at him when he looked at it; it burned. Inside. Even when he wasn't looking at it, he knew it was there, could feel it was there. He had wanted perfection. He had failed.

The blonde doll sat at the table where she always sat. Her new friend sat in an armchair next to her. And the Arcadian hated seeing him there.

He wasn't the one the doll should be with. One look told him that. The Arcadian had done what he could to make the new doll fit in. He had already prepared him before he had gone to the house, what he thought he should look like, be dressed in. His character built up in the Arcadian's mind, how he would complement the doll already there. But the reality was very different. The fat, legless slob he had discovered just wasn't right for the doll, not right at all. Not fit to share her house, not worthy of being her companion.

But he had to make do with what was there. The Arcadian had known this one would be different, accepted that. But he hadn't known just how different. How much of a disappointment it would be.

He looked at the new doll once more. It fell off the chair.

Anger rose within him. He wanted to tear it apart, throw it at the wall. But he didn't. He just picked it off the floor, plonked it roughly back down again, forcing it down, making it stay.

Maybe I shouldn't have cut the legs off
, he thought.
But no. I had to. Because that was the way he was. And that's the way it has to be done
.

So he looked at the doll once more, mentally challenging it not to fall, threatening it with unspeakable tortures and punishments if it did.

It stayed where it was.

The Arcadian smiled. Relieved.

He thought back to the previous night. Shambles. Absolute shambles. But that was good in a way, he thought. That meant they wouldn't connect the two murders. He thought again, mentally corrected himself. Three murders.

The blonde woman. The only good thing about the previous night.

Killing the man had been most unsatisfactory. No release, no catharsis, nothing. No butterfly. But the woman, that was different. She had been more fun.

Once he had overpowered her – which was easy, because while she stood there in shock, mouth gaping open to scream, he was on her – he stood back, regarded her. Like a butcher deciding which cut would be the most succulent. No, not a butcher. A fishmonger. Because she wasn't meat, she was female. Smelt different, bled differently. And he had gone to work on her.

Maybe he had been angry with her and let it show. At least with her he had found his catharsis, his release.

No butterfly, though. Or at least not that he had noticed.

And no doll for her either. Yet.

The Arcadian didn't like women. Never had. The woman who was supposed to have been his mother hadn't been particularly maternal. And because of that he had nothing but hatred for her.

But he also had reasons to be thankful to her. Because if it hadn't been for her, he would never have found his true calling, his real identity.

He couldn't remember his father. He must have had one, but his mother never talked about him, or if she did, his description changed every time. Sometimes he was tall and bald, sometimes short with blond hair. It was only later that he realised what a whore his mother was and that his father could have been any one of a number of men.

That just made him hate her more.

But one thing he did remember. He'd been little, sitting at home in their flat, rehoused again in a high rise in Rotherham, watching TV. His mother had come into the room. He'd known instinctively something was up. She was smiling at him. She never did that unless she was either drunk or about to hit him.

‘Scott,' she had said, using his real name, his old name, ‘someone's here to see you.'

She stood aside and let two men into the room. They were both smiling. He felt immediately suspicious. They didn't look drunk, so it must be the other thing. One of them stepped forward, handed him a present. A red fire engine.

‘You can play with that in a while,' the man said, kneeling down. ‘We're just going to have a bit of fun first.'

Up close the man had bad, uneven teeth and his breath smelled. The man stretched out his hands towards him. He looked up, fear and panic gripping him. He saw his mother take some money – big money, notes – off the other man, tuck it down her top and leave the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

Then they had fun with him. Their idea of fun.

No matter how much he screamed, how much he begged, his mother didn't come back into the room. Not until they were finished. And all that evening she just sat on her own, away from him, drinking. She cried at first. But the tears soon dried up.

That was the first time. But not the last.

And the fire engine was never played with.

That day was the end of his childhood and the start of… something else. His journey to becoming who he was now. Who he could be.

After coming out of the YOI he had done time in for rape and assault, they approached him again. Not to use him any more. He was too old for that. They didn't fancy him. No. They wanted him to go recruiting. Find new young lovers, just like he used to be, that they could play with.

He didn't want to at first. Told them where to go, what to do with themselves. But they kept on at him. Reminding him of who had brought him up, the things they had done for him. And they
had
done things for him. Good things. They had given him days out, holidays. Bought him stuff, toys and clothes.

‘We were your real dads,' the first one, Brian, had said.

And they had been, really. They had been good to him and he had even got used to Brian's rotten teeth and breath.

Along with a few other things.

He felt guilty when they said that. So he did what they asked. And it wasn't too bad. It was fun. He enjoyed it. They even let him join in himself.

Targets were easy. Young single mums who weren't too choosy. Who wanted to believe everything he said. Give a fake name and he was in. He had to fuck them, which was distasteful, but he just kept in mind what he was getting in the end.

And it worked. Always. Well, nearly always. If it didn't, just offer money. That usually did the trick.

But something was missing. He didn't feel right. So he left town. Overnight; there, then gone. Ended up in Birmingham. Stuck in the middle of the country. He liked that.

And that was when he set about making a new identity for himself. That was when he started becoming the Arcadian.

He continued the education had started in prison. Bought books about things that interested him. Went to places that he enjoyed. Found people who shared the things he loved to do. And things were good.

Then he heard his mother had died.

He lost it a bit then. Drinking, drugs, sex, violence. Horror and hatred. Hitting out. Hard. But it was no good. Still he saw her face everywhere. And nothing he took or did could take that away.

Eventually he was spent. Slowly he rebuilt himself. And as he did so, he told himself there would be some changes made. No one would ever hurt him again. In any way at all. In fact, from now on he would be the one doing all the hurting. He would enjoy that. And it would make him perfect.

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.

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.