M. Arlidge - The Doll's House

‘Why a bluebird?’

‘God knows. Never asked. Perhaps they wanted to fly away together?’

She laughed unpleasantly, before the coughing started up again. Once the fit had relented, she lit up. It was banned in here of course, but no one in this hole was going to stop her.

‘What happened to her?’

‘My Summer died, didn’t she. Heroin overdose. Ben went looking for her, when she didn’t come home. Found her in the park. Covered in vomit she was, her eyes clamped shut. Silly sod thought she was asleep. Had to be prised off her by the police in the end – he was convinced she’d wake up and be back to normal any second. Wouldn’t let go of her, they said.’

‘Ben? He’s your son?’

Jane grunted a yes.

‘Was he an addict too?’

‘God, no. Her brother didn’t have the balls for that and he was only small when she died. Twelve or so.’

Emilia scribbled this down and considered her next question.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Stuck around for a bit, but he and I had never got on, so after a few weeks, he took off.’

Emilia had a bad feeling they were winding up to a massive dead end.

‘And you’ve not seen him since?’

‘Didn’t say that, did I? Saw him a few months back – in town, you know.’

‘So where does he live?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Jane. You just said -’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. Didn’t want me hanging about, I guess.’

Emilia didn’t push it – she could tell more was coming by the sly look on Jane Fraser’s face. She pulled Emilia in close, so close she could smell the stink of stale tobacco on her breath as she whispered:

‘But I do know where he works.’

He lay on the dirty bed, his mind full of strange and exciting thoughts. He had been so blind for so long, trying to see gold in the heart of a worthless slut. Now that he could see again, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt light as feather. He had stood and watched Summer until she closed the curtains and retreated inside. He had then done a couple of circuits of the street, checking for CCTV, street lighting, as well as the names on the bells at her house. Like all the places round there, it had been divided into numerous flats. He had been pleased to see the names on the top and bottom bells sounded foreign. Far less likely to kick up if they did hear or see anything. But he would make sure they didn’t. He was pretty practised at this now, after all.

As he’d walked home, his head had been full of her. Those bewitching eyes, the tenderness of her touch, her gentle South Coast accent – identical to his of course. He had kissed his fingers and pressed them to his tattoo – then chuckled at the extravagant nature of his tribute. People must think him mad.

As thoughts of her overwhelmed him, he undid his fly and slipped his hand inside his trousers. He had been denying himself for so long, but now it felt so natural, so right. As he closed his eyes and let his mind drift, he saw them back there, two little conspirators hiding in the attic room. Whenever their mother came home, they always scurried up there to avoid her sharp tongue and rough hand. It was their little refuge – she was a heavy smoker and could never be arsed to climb up after them – and for them it was like a magical kingdom. It was only full of junk, but to them it was their world. They would open up the old doll’s house and play with the two cracked figures inside, dreaming up all kinds of scenarios in which they lived happily, in splendour and comfort. At these times the dirt and damp of the attic didn’t register – they were safe in the cocoon of their fantasy.

Sometimes the fantasy worked, at other times reality intruded – usually because of noises downstairs. They lived at the top of a rickety old terraced house and the loose, creaking steps in the communal parts always gave them warning of their mother’s approach. If she was marching up, it meant she was in a mood or having an episode. If the steps were slow and irregular, it meant she was stoned. And if there was more than one pair of feet, it meant she had ‘company’.

Ben hated drugs, never touched them, but his mother couldn’t get enough of them. She funded her habit by fraud, stealing and occasionally bringing foreign sailors home from the dockside bars. They didn’t pay much, but they came and went pretty quickly. When she was ‘entertaining’, Ben and Summer would lie dead still, peering through the floorboards into the flat’s only bedroom. They didn’t understand what they saw at first – believing the men were hurting their mother – but at the end of it everyone seemed happy. And after a while, they began to realize that these grunting, half-naked men were taking pleasure in these acts and that on occasion their mother seemed to be too.

It was only when they were older – Summer was fourteen and Ben eleven – that they truly understood. He had been surprised when Summer slipped her hand into his trousers, but he didn’t mind.

Later, they went further, exploring each other’s bodies, when their mother was entertaining those men below. Their little private joke. Did their mother suspect anything? If she did, she never said anything. As long as Summer was on hand to run down to the park for her next baggie, that was all that mattered.

The thought of this made him angry. He tried to concentrate on his fantasy, but he could feel his desire ebbing away now. His fury at his mother for dragging Summer away from him into the vile world of drugs still burned strong. He had seen that awful woman not three months ago. He was shocked to see her and his first reaction had been to beat the living hell out of her. He was older, bigger now – she wouldn’t have stood a chance. But she wasn’t worth it and he had bigger fish to fry, so he’d said a few curt words to her and sent her on her way.

There was no point continuing, he was too angry to focus on pleasure now. Zipping up his trousers, he rose from the bed and headed down to the ground floor. His mind was turning and he walked straight into the old utility area. It looked like a bloody school chemistry lab now and stank as bad too. But he always liked it here. He always felt a sense of achievement in its narrow confines. It had taken him a long time to learn how to distil trichloroethylene, but when he had he was childishly pleased with himself. He remembered the first sniff of it – the pleasant light-headed feeling it gave him. He laughed too as he remembered his experiments with dosage. There were numerous rats in the house and he didn’t discourage their presence as they were useful for his experiments. He’d killed a few before he got the saturation levels in the wool right of course, but practice makes perfect.

This brought him up short. Excited as he was about the future, there was still the present to deal with. Now that the real Summer had returned, she was surplus to requirements and he just wanted her out. So, summoning his resolve, he unlocked the basement door and descended into the darkness.

‘Do you think she’s on the level?’

Helen’s heart was pounding, her tone urgent.

‘To be honest I think it’s so odd, it has to be true.’

Emilia and Helen were huddled in the outside courtyard beloved of Southampton Central’s smokers. Mercifully they were alone today.

‘I don’t think Jane Fraser has the imagination to make something like that up. It sounds like the two children were very close. They always shared the same bed, never went to school, they lived in each other’s pockets. And I don’t blame them to be honest – their mother had no love for them. Clearly didn’t even know who their fathers were, so…’

‘So they were the world to each other.’