The Doll's House (25 page)

Mary Louise frowned. ‘Yes, Harry and I were finished work for the week. We were relaxed and very comfortable.’

Harry nodded in agreement.

‘During the time you were watching the film, were you conscious of each other at all times?’

‘I knew Mary Louise was there, if that’s what you mean,’ Harry said.

‘But you were thinking about the movie rather than her?’

‘I suppose.’ It was Harry’s turn to frown.

‘Harry, can you remember eating each slice of pizza?’

‘No. I wasn’t thinking about it, just eating it.’

‘I can’t remember either.’ Mary Louise was quick to support her husband.

‘After the two of you got settled into the movie, were you thinking about other things? What happened at work or anything like that?’

They looked at each other before giving a simultaneous ‘No.’

‘Were you concerned for the girl’s welfare, the girl who was abducted in the movie?’

Again they answered together: ‘Yes.’

‘When Liam Neeson or, rather, the fictional character he was playing was running, driving fast or physically attacking the people he thought were involved with the abduction, did you feel his emotion?’

‘I suppose so,’ Mary Louise responded.

‘I wanted to kill the bastards,’ Harry emphatically declared.

‘Was your heart racing, Mary Louise?’

She stared at Kate. ‘At some points, yes.’

‘Even though in reality Liam Neeson’s daughter wasn’t taken, the character that Liam Neeson played didn’t exist, and all of them, including the actress in the role of his fictional daughter, were simply making a movie, you were nevertheless concerned for their safety?’

Neither Harry nor Mary Louise replied, so Kate continued: ‘Both of you disassociated from reality. You don’t remember eating each slice of pizza individually, yet you ate them. You forgot about your reality, lost your grasp on it, and for most of the period of watching the movie, you were no longer worried about work, or thought in any depth about each other.’

‘I fail to understand, Kate, what this has to do with Imogen.’

‘Mary Louise, when you and Harry watched the movie, you took the part of your consciousness that worries about work problems and other “real things” and separated it from your imaginative part. The imaginative part became dominant. You disassociated from one part of your consciousness for another.’

‘But when the film was over, I got up. I put the kettle on. I came back to reality.’

‘I know you did, Harry. But you acknowledge that for a period you left real events, even the simple act of eating a number of individual slices of pizza.’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘The same way you can’t remember eating each individual slice, Imogen can’t remember certain events. And it’s not because she’s watching movies, it’s because at some point or points in the past, her mind opted out from the here and now. She disassociated herself from real events.’

‘It still happens, Kate.’ The concern was back in Mary Louise’s voice.

‘I know it does, but Imogen is making progress. She’s beginning to remember. She won’t always get it right. Memory is fragmented. Sometimes it will get mixed up with other things, but she is remembering, and that is what’s important.’ Kate paused again. ‘There is one other thing I would like you all to think about.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Jilly, keen to be involved.

‘The example we just talked through is often described as escapism. We’re all familiar with it. And the loss of huge chunks of memory where it involves things of little importance doesn’t cause us any anxiety. It’s different in Imogen’s case. Let me explain it this way.

‘Suppose one of you needs to pay a visit to the hospital to have a procedure done. You take time off work, arriving early at the hospital for your appointment. You receive a local anaesthetic. It all goes well. You get two stitches in your upper arm, because a wound hadn’t
repaired correctly. Going home, you’re aware of a pain in your arm, but part of it still feels numb.’ They all sit silently, listening to her. ‘You get home. The anaesthetic is wearing off and, for some unknown reason, you’ve forgotten you’ve been to the hospital, or that you got two stitches in the arm. You’re in a considerable amount of pain, a pain you cannot ignore. You check your arm in the mirror. You see a bandage. There’s blood, and when you remove the bandage, you see the two large stitches. You’re still bleeding, although not excessively.’ Kate looked at them. ‘What’s the first thing you think?’

‘You’ve lost your marbles.’ Harry was the first to jump in.

‘Don’t say that, Harry.’ Mary Louise, aware of the implications.

‘It’s okay, Mary Louise. Harry’s point is valid. You’d be worried about more than the stitches. You might wonder if you’d lost your mind. Another couple of instances like that might cause you to really question your sanity. Not remembering, when the stakes are high, is frightening. It brings everything into question. Imogen may not remember things, but at least now she realises her loss of memory is simply that. Imogen has been through a great deal working her way to this point. None of us can underestimate what a difficult path it has been for her.’

Imogen, who had stayed quiet throughout, looked nervous when she asked, ‘Kate, will I ever remember why this has happened to me? Why I can’t remember large chunks of my past?’

‘I hope so, Imogen. I really do.’

Turning the corner onto the strand, I see Dominic waiting for me. Despite the intervening years, my brother stands in the same way he did as a teenager, shoulders back, both hands held tight in the front pockets of his jeans. He leans against the front garden wall of our house like he doesn’t belong there, or doesn’t want to. I’m not surprised he’s waiting outside. Whatever memories the house holds for him, they’re no longer part of who he cares to be. Neither he nor Martin seems to see anything in the house other than financial gain.

When I’m within a few yards of him, he reluctantly stands upright, looking like he plans to assist but not lead. He says nothing about my bruises, although I know he has noticed them.

‘Does Martin know you’re here?’

‘He’s not my keeper.’ I give him a look that says he should know better. ‘Anyhow, he wouldn’t care.’

‘I don’t know about that, Clodagh.’

‘What’s with you two buddying up? Has selling the house encouraged you on another business deal?’

‘Nope. You forget, I know Martin well. He walks a line I’m not easy with.’ His eyes shift to the side of my face where the bruises are now a murky purple and yellow mess. ‘I may have grown up with him, Clodagh, but I’m not the one who married him.’

‘You’re the one who struck up the friendship, back in the day when Martin wouldn’t have said boo to anyone, least of all you.’

‘The guy changed.’

‘Well, I guess I didn’t see that coming either.’

‘You thought you were marrying a softie.’

‘Let’s keep my marital affairs out of this.’ I look at the house, hearing the waves crash behind me. I feel about twelve years old again, bickering with my brother when there are far most important things to talk about. ‘Dominic, none of that matters now. Something strange is happening. With the regression bits keep coming back.’ I hear the desperation in my voice. ‘I’m remembering things from childhood, but I can’t put all the pieces together.’

‘Nothing strange is happening.’ His voice is controlled.

I want to throttle him, as if we’re kids. Instead I say, ‘Let’s go inside – it’s cold.’

Before I open the front door, he asks, ‘What are you looking for, Clodagh? What do you hope to achieve by coming back here?’

‘I don’t know. Some parts of my memory are coming back. Other parts are still missing. But I feel close to connecting with them. Does that ever happen to you, Dominic? Do you ever not remember and then get a sense that you’re so close to something it’s like an unlit fire waiting for a match to bring it to life?’

‘None of us remembers everything, Clodagh.’

‘No?’

‘Nobody does.’

I close the front door behind us, leaning against it. ‘Do you remember when Emmaline died?’

He doesn’t flinch. ‘Yes.’

‘I don’t.’

‘You were only seven.’

‘I should remember it, though. Mum and Dad must have been traumatised. I can’t even remember the funeral. I thought I had, but then I realised it was Dad’s funeral, not hers. Gerard thinks the memory loss could be connected to trauma, maybe even Dad’s death.’

‘Clodagh, you’re making a big deal out of nothing.’ His words are angry.

‘But we never spoke about Emmaline. It was as if she was off limits.’

‘You’re being overdramatic.’

‘No, I’m not.’

His tone changes again, becoming patronising. ‘They say alcohol kills the brain cells.’

‘That’s a cheap shot. You’re starting to sound like bloody Martin.’ I can’t hide the upset in my voice.

‘Let’s get this over and done with,’ he says, walking up the stairs ahead of me.

Neither of us has mentioned Keith Jenkins or Uncle Jimmy since we arrived. I’m conscious that bringing up the subject of Emmaline has stressed him. I’d known it would. The same way I know he doesn’t want to talk about Keith Jenkins either.

On the landing, he walks over to the window, looking out onto the strand. He has his back to me.

‘Dominic, have you the key for the attic?’

‘What? Oh, yeah.’ He turns, reaching into his jeans pocket, taking out the small key, gesturing for me to take it.

‘Aren’t you coming up with me?’

‘This is your wild-goose chase, not mine.’

‘But don’t you get it, Dominic? Two men are dead, and we knew both of them.’

‘So?’

‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘We knew them a long time ago, that’s all. They’re part of history, and not a pretty one at that.’

‘Do you remember Mum being pregnant, Dominic?’

‘Sort of.’ He turns away again.

‘What do you mean “sort of”?’

‘What the fuck do you think I mean?’ He turns as if his body is hitting out, his face angry. The same anger lines that appear on Martin’s forehead when he reaches boiling point.

‘Were Mum and Dad happy about the pregnancy?’

‘How the hell should I know, Clodagh? I was a teenager. I had other things on my mind.’

‘It’s just …’

‘What?’

‘When I was hypnotised, I remembered something. It was about Mum being pregnant. Dad wanted to touch her, to feel the bump, but she pushed him away.’

‘That guy is messing with your head.’ The patronising tone is back.

But I keep on talking. ‘Then I put Dad in the attic of the doll’s house.’

‘Christ, Clodagh – listen to yourself!’

‘I know it doesn’t make sense.’

He says nothing.

‘Dominic, are you coming up or not?’

‘I’ll wait here.’ There’s something defeated about the way he says it.

‘Suit yourself, but I need to go through your old bedroom.’

‘It’s only a room, Clodagh. Soon this house,’ his eyes glancing around him, ‘won’t be part of either of us.’

I feel the warmth of the key in my hand, hot from him holding it. Once again I remember the heat on the back of my neck, that day on the strand with Mum, and the man I now know to have been Keith Jenkins lying beside her.

Kate was pleased at how the session had gone with Imogen’s family. They had all gained a better understanding of Imogen’s memory loss and how it affected her. It gave Kate hope that good progress could be made. Imogen’s close family was the structure by which she could rise or fall.

She checked the time. There would be another squad meeting at Harcourt Street in five minutes at three o’clock. O’Connor would be under pressure. There were still too many questions about the canal murders that didn’t have answers, and he would soon be screaming for her report. Something had started to take hold in Kate’s mind, and it went back to what she had said to O’Connor about there being more pieces to this jigsaw than they could see.

In most investigations you nearly always start with the victim. When you know the victim, you know more about the person who killed them. The connection of Jenkins and Gahan brought a whole other dimension. Jenkins being in the public eye meant the field of suspects was vast, but the frame of reference had shifted from concentration on Jenkins to how he and Gahan were linked. There was seldom only one reason for a crime taking place. More often than not, it was a combination of factors. Kate had no doubt that both killings had been emotionally charged, but was it the primary or only motivation? Could other rewards play their part? Financial gain? Or something else?

She thought again about Imogen Willis, how relaxed the girl had looked leaving with her family. Kate’s own memory loss wasn’t as extreme as Imogen’s, but it often caused her to reflect.

She had speculated many times about her own attacker. Kate had barely turned twelve at the time. She could remember so much about that afternoon, the sense that someone was watching her, his breathing when he grabbed her from behind, her ultimate escape – individual images flashing forward, but when pieced together, there was still one image lost to her. She could never see his face. She remembered, moments before the attack, noticing him in the corner of her eye. Knowing something wasn’t right.

She felt she must have seen him clearly at some point. She remembered turning back to look when she’d sensed him following her. But the face was a blank. It left another unanswered question: could she not remember his face because she already knew him? Had she blocked it out?

Picking up the photograph of herself, Declan and Charlie that stood on the desk, Kate saw her reflection in the glass. It caught only one side of her face. Even so, she saw enough to recognise anxiety. Whether she liked it or not, part of it involved the collapse of her relationship with Declan while another part involved her growing feelings for O’Connor.

Access to the attic is via a small staircase in Dominic’s bedroom. It feels strange going into a room that has been dominated by my brother for so many years, him waiting on the landing, as if he’s not connected with it any more, or doesn’t want to be. It’s stranger still when I open the door to a room that is empty but for a single bed in the corner. I smell fresh paint. There is freshly laid carpet, dark cream against the stark white walls. The wooden staircase to the attic is also white, as if the same colour makes the stairs almost invisible.