Phoebe Morgan - The Doll House - A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist!

‘I felt as though the chimney pot was a nice reminder,’ I say. ‘I know that sounds odd but I liked it, it was like a little good luck charm. But it’s weird to find the door as well. Don’t you think? Are you listening, Dom?’ I tug on his arm, feeling like a child.

He doesn’t believe me anyway, I can tell.

‘Are you sure, Cor?’ he says, frowning at me. ‘I mean, seriously, why would it be there? It’s probably just something Marjorie’s left lying around. Come on!’ He pulls me towards him, puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.

‘I know you’re feeling stressed out. You’ll feel better when this is over, you know you will. We can go to Jubilee Café and get you a cup of mint tea. I think you’re probably just projecting a bit, you’re thinking about your childhood because of everything we’re going through, and because the anniversary is coming up. That’s all it’ll be. All right?’

I smile at him uncertainly, pull out my hand cream and massage my hands, watching the cream absorb itself into the cracks. I try to stop thinking about the sight of the little door, try not to imagine it now, sitting in my desk drawer, pulsing quietly in the dark like a heartbeat. I might bring it home from work tomorrow, show it to Ashley at the weekend.

The nurse comes to get us and it is time. The insemination. My leg muscles contract, tighten in anticipation of the soreness. Funny how the memory of that goes away. Even if it is painful, I can always go again. I feel a surge of excitement as we walk down the corridor, and Dominic squeezes my hand. This could be it. This might be my chance to have a child, this might be the time that everything works, my body co-operates and it all slots into place like perfect clockwork. I can be a good mother. I just need the chance. I think of myself placing dolls in their cradles, rocking them gently to sleep in the miniature bedrooms of the house. The little blue door opening and closing, trapping them inside. I’d do anything to have a child of my own. Anything.

Then

Today’s a bad day. Mummy didn’t seem to want to get out of bed this morning, so I had to go to school without breakfast. All that was left in the cupboard was her jar of pills, but she says she isn’t taking those ones any more. They looked almost like they could be sweets and I was so hungry I almost ate one, but there was a big sticky label saying not to and anyway the top was really hard to open. So I had nothing.

In Maths, my stomach growls and Toby Newton laughs at me.

‘Poor little rich girl,’ he says, and I don’t understand what he means. It happens a lot after that though, as though it’s catching on, spreading like a disease through the school. They hiss it at me in the corridors, whisper it as I walk past. I’ve started to just keep my head down, focus on my shoes. I need new ones. I’m not a rich girl , I want to say. Rich girls have shoes without holes.

Mummy says she’ll buy me some, when she’s feeling better. On the way home today my feet got wet, the puddles soaked through into my socks. When I get home she wants to go straight away, she says we’re going to do an all-nighter. I don’t want to go. Not tonight.

But she makes me. We get in the car and drive until we’re outside, and then we go round the back and hunch down in the usual place. There are lots of stars tonight; I start to count them, and for a while Mummy tells me their names but then the lights in the house go on and she stops talking to me because she’s listening for them. After a while I give up trying to talk to her and just listen too. Usually I get distracted, by the creepy-crawlies or the scabs on my knees but today I sit further forward, right up next to Mum. Her breathing is fast; she’s pointing at something.

‘Do you see it?’

My eyes hurt from straining so hard but I stare at where she’s looking and I do see it. My insides curl up and I have to look away. After a while, Mummy takes my hand in hers and strokes it, she pulls me close to her and gives me a little cuddle. It helps.

It’s been Mummy and me ever since I was born. I think that’s why Mummy is sad, and it makes me feel guilty. I try to be good, to do everything she w ants. I go with her everywhere and watch when she tells me to watch and listen when she tells me to listen. But it doesn’t make her happy. Some of the time it makes her angry, and most of the time it just makes her sad. Then I get sad too, and sometimes I feel cross because I just want her to be like the other mothers, all smiley and happy and like a normal mummy.

But we haven’t got a normal family. Not any more. Mummy says we were going to have but that it got taken away. Someone else got it instead. When she says that it gives me a funny feeling inside, it makes me want to pull on the ends of my hair until the strands come out and it hurts a little bit. I did that a lot when I was younger but Mummy said I had to stop or I’d never be able to plait my hair like they do. I stopped after that, because their hair is lovely, it’s the thing I’m most jealous of right now. I’ve seen them plait it through the upstairs window, I think they do it before they go to bed.

7

Kent

Ashley

Ashley gently shakes her son awake. The roads to her mother’s house were horribly busy, and she has done all the driving. James is not here. She slips a hand into her cardigan pocket and brings out her mobile; has he even called yet? But of course, there isn’t any reception at the house. Never has been. She’d bet on the fact that he hasn’t rang anyway. Ashley sighs. She’s eaten Minstrels all the way to Kent, dipping into the bag proffered by Benji. No wonder James isn’t here; he probably doesn’t want to be stuck with a fatso like her.

Ashley shoves her phone away, takes a deep breath and gently kisses Benji’s still-closed eyelids. She’ll have to put James to the back of her mind, but it’s hard. Beside Benji, Holly stirs in her car seat. Her little fists are clenched by her sides. They have had to stop three times on the way, once to change her nappy, once to buy Lucy a magazine and once to get Benji the Minstrels. Every stop has been a struggle. Lucy has been quiet and unhelpful, Ashley is hot and tired from juggling all three children on her own. Without James.

Every time Ashley thinks of it she gets a little spurt of anger. She had pleaded with him to come but he had been resolute.

‘Ash, I have to be in the office on Saturday morning. I’m sorry, I know it’s not ideal but . . .’ He had tailed off, looked down at the floor. Lucy had come into the kitchen moaning about her shoes (‘Where are they, Mum? I left them in the hallway. Why do you always move everything?’) and the moment had gone, slipped away from Ashley like sand through her fingers.

‘I’ll meet you there, I promise,’ James had murmured, planting a brief kiss on her forehead. She had reached for him, brushed the ends of his shirt as the jangle of his mobile pulled him into the next room. He had pressed it tight against his ear, turned his mouth away from her so that she couldn’t hear what he was saying, or who was on the phone. She’d watched the back of his head through the glass window in the door frame, the way the muscles in the back of his neck stood tense and alert.

At least this weekend is an excuse to get away from the house. Ashley is not sure how many more nights sitting alone in front of the TV she can take, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, waiting for Holly to start crying again. Lately, when Benji and Holly are sleeping upstairs and Lucy has retreated to her room, Ashley finds herself at a loss – not that there isn’t anything to do, there is always washing to be done, surfaces to be wiped – but she finds herself alone, left with nobody to talk to. When this happens, she realises what is happening – she is missing her husband. Even in the marital home they have shared for years, Ashley is missing the man she married.