The Doll's House (31 page)

‘Financial adviser. He has an office in town. I’m looking at him too. Kate, I gotta go. Butler’s smiling at me, and I fucking hate when he does that.’

It was late when Martin arrived home last night. Thankfully he left me alone. This morning I thought about phoning Ruby after he’d left for work, then thought again. Every time we speak, we have another row. It’s as if the same bloody chasm that existed between me and Mum is destined to infest another generation.

In a few minutes I’ll see Gerard Hayden again. I walk down the now familiar street, with its small houses on either side of the road, and click down the handle of the gate. I remember that sound from a previous regression session. When I ring the bell, it’s as if Gerard Hayden has been expecting me for some time because he opens the door within seconds. He must sense my mood because straight away he tries to put me at my ease, speaking to me about all kinds of things that are of no importance. But they relax me, taking my mind off how strange this process feels.

As we walk through the door with ‘Office’ stuck on it in black letters, Gerard asks, ‘Are you okay, Clodagh?’

Without meaning to, I give him the automatic response: ‘Yes.’

Soon I’m lying back on the bed, the room now lit by vanilla-scented candles. Gerard is asking me to count backwards from two hundred. I can smell the wax burning, the light in the room softening. More than anything, I want to release my mind of all thoughts. This time I feel different. It’s as if some sort of soft cloud is gathering, telling me to really let go. I count down the numbers, my voice getting lower with each one, as if it, too, wants to give way to this release.

The numbers start to get mixed up. I’m finding it harder to remember the next one. I raise my index finger to tell Gerard that I
have lost track. He is asking me to visualise the garden, the one with the flowers smelling so rich that their scent is stronger than any other I have experienced. I can feel the grass beneath my feet, as the relaxation touches some safe layer below my consciousness. I almost look for the staircase, even before Gerard mentions it. The steps that will take me down deeper, to a place beyond the wild flowers and the beautiful garden I can now see.

This time the stairs are different too. They are the stairs of Seacrest. Gerard is telling me the staircase can look however I want it to look. It can be made of any material I want it to be made of, marble, stone, wood, but no matter how hard I try, the stairs remain unchanged. He is asking me to count again, and when the numbers get muddled, he tells me to raise my index finger. I’m counting backwards from one thousand. The staircase feels as if it goes an awful long way down. Gerard tells me there is no limit to the number of steps in it. The more I go down, the deeper my hypnotic state will be. I begin to wonder if I’ve lost track of the numbers, but my conscious mind keeps jumping in. It tells me to keep counting. As if it needs more time, as if it has decided that it doesn’t want my subconscious to take over.

Gerard asks me if I want to raise my index finger, and I reply, ‘Not yet.’ I keep walking down the stairs, and all the time I feel as if there may be nothing more than an abyss below me, one I’m not yet ready for. I hear Gerard’s voice once more. He’s saying, ‘Clodagh, your conscious mind is putting up resistance. We’re going to try something else. Is that okay?’

I hear myself say, ‘Yes.’

‘Clodagh, I want you to continue with the counting, but I also want you to move your eyes from right to left, then back again. I want you to keep doing this, and while your eyes are moving back and forth, you will also count backwards from thirty-seven. At some point, Clodagh, I’m going to tap you on the forehead, and when I do, it will aid your journey into your subconscious. At no point will this cause you any pain. Do you understand me, Clodagh?’

‘Yes.’

Gerard has spoken to me about this before, in case we ever get into difficulty in attempting to regress. He told me that the physical act of him touching my forehead, while my conscious mind is trying to count, will confuse it – a form of shock treatment allowing the subconscious part of my brain to step in, jerking it back into memory. When this happens, it can cause a sudden change to my physical condition. It’s not unusual to feel a huge swell of emotion. The sheer shock of snapping from my conscious to my subconscious mind might even bring me back to the trauma, or past event, that I may be least prepared for. If this happens, and he feels I’m at any risk, he will pull me out of my regression.

I have no idea at what point he will tap my forehead. I’m finding it harder to count down the stairs, while moving my eyes from right to left, and back again. I’m still counting backwards from thirty-seven. I can feel those soft, dark clouds all around me, as Gerard’s hand taps my forehead twice, and I know I’m going back.

Kate put the framed photograph of herself, Declan and Charlie face down in her desk drawer. Soon she would replace it with a different one, with only her and Charlie in it.

Her next appointment wasn’t for another half-hour. She looked at her case notes. Keith Jenkins’s body had been discovered in the early hours of Saturday morning. It was now Thursday. O’Connor would need all the luck he could get when he was talking to Butler.

She knew all changes in pattern meant something. The killer had changed his
modus operandi
with Jimmy Gahan: the attack and drowning had happened in the same area. Altering behaviour wasn’t unusual, and familiarity with the victim might have initiated the change. Repetition of a similar location could well connect him personally to the area, choosing it because of some attachment, irrespective of its suitability. The creation of mental shortcuts, whether during repetitive tasks, like making breakfast or sitting behind the wheel of a car to drive to work, is perfectly normal. In this regard, killers were no different. In general, people’s activities are mainly confined to familiar neighbourhoods, which are often connected to their home or work, acting as mental anchor points.

Kate looked at the photographs of Jenkins’s body spreadeagled in the water, and Gahan’s the same – carbon copies of each other. Gahan was single, but Jenkins was married. If the killer had removed the wedding ring, it constituted an act of rebuttal. If he was making a moral judgement on his victim, the killing could be tied to anyone with whom Jenkins had had an affair.

She flicked to her notes on the hotel receipt. Assuming it was a plant, apart from being proof of Jenkins’s infidelity it meant the killer had been tracking him for some time. He might have taken the receipt months before, especially if he was the one who had given the information to Gahan.

Whoever the killer was, he’d been planning this for a protracted period. O’Connor needed to dig deeper on his background checks. Whoever the perpetrator turns out to be, he wouldn’t be capable of maintaining a normal existence. Someone close to him must have seen the signs.

‘Clodagh, I want you to try to open your eyes. Can you do that?’

Again my eyelids feel like they’ve been stuck down with the strongest glue, and again I cannot open them. ‘No,’ I hear myself say, but this time my voice sounds different, as if it belongs to someone else.

‘Good,’ says Gerard. ‘At the count of three, you’ll be able to open your eyes again. One, two, three …’

I open my eyes.

‘Clodagh, can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m inside the doll’s house.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I can see the small sash windows. There are floral curtains on each of the windows.’

‘Who else is in the doll’s house with you?’

‘I don’t know. There are sounds coming from everywhere.’

‘What kind of sounds?’

‘Whispers, muffled voices – adult voices, I think.’

‘What are you doing, Clodagh?’

‘I’m looking around the room.’

‘Which room?’

‘My old bedroom.’

‘Your bedroom looking out on the strand?’

‘Yes, but it’s inside the doll’s house. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what I see. The girl is there too.’

‘Your younger self?’

‘Yes.’

‘What age is she, Clodagh?’

‘Seven.’

‘Does she know you’re there?’

‘I think so, but she’s busy playing.’

‘What is she playing, Clodagh?’

‘She has my old blackboard standing up in the corner. She’s writing words on it in yellow chalk.’

‘Can you read the words?’

‘It says, HAPPY FAMILIES.’

‘What are you doing now, Clodagh?’

‘I’m walking over to her. She has her back to me.’

‘Is she saying anything?’

‘No.’ I stop talking.

‘Are you okay, Clodagh?’

‘I’m kneeling down beside her. I think …’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think if I kneel down I can make myself smaller. She mightn’t feel afraid.’

‘Do you think she is afraid?’

‘I don’t know. I can hear her singing. It’s an old nursery song.’

‘What song is it?’

“Rock-a-bye Baby’.’ I hear myself singing it out loud, but again it doesn’t seem like my voice. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the voice of the little girl:

‘Rock-a-bye baby,

On the treetop,

When the wind blows,

The cradle will rock,

When the bough breaks,

The cradle will fall,

Down will come baby, cradle and all.’

‘She keeps singing it over and over.’ I let out a gasp.

‘What’s wrong, Clodagh?’

‘She’s turned around. She’s looking straight at me. She’s known I was there the whole time and …’

‘And what?’

‘She’s crying. I want to help her, but …’

‘Keep going, Clodagh, you’re doing great.’

‘I’m reaching out my hand. Her face is changing. It isn’t her face any more. It’s Emma’s face.’

‘Who’s Emma?’

‘She’s one of my dolls.’ I can hear hysteria in my voice. ‘Her face is cracked. She’s talking to me, but it’s not her voice.’

‘Relax, Clodagh. If it’s not her voice, whose voice is it?’

‘Debbie’s.’

‘Your other doll?’

‘Debbie says, all smart, “CLODAGH, THERE’S NO POINT HIDING IN YOUR ROOM. WE NEED TO GO ON AN ADVENTURE.”’

‘Are you okay, Clodagh?’ I hear Gerard ask.

‘I think so. I need to go on an adventure.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. I’m leaving the room. Now I’m on the landing – the landing of the doll’s house. The whispers are getting louder. I’m following my little-girl self. When she smiles back at me, she looks like Debbie, all smug. She knows the way. She keeps turning around, making sure I’m following her.’

‘Clodagh, I’m going to bring you back. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to remember this point, the landing and your doll called Debbie. I want you to fix on this moment, following your little-girl self. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll return to this tomorrow, but for now, I want you to come back. I want you to look for the staircase. Can you see it?’

‘It’s very far away.’

‘Keep walking towards it. Is it getting any closer?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Now start counting.’

I do as Gerard asks, and soon I can smell the candle wax. He’s sitting on the chair as he did before. ‘Why did you bring me back, Gerard? I was going on an adventure.’ Even as I say the word ‘adventure’, it sounds ridiculous. ‘It felt important.’

‘Clodagh, I want you to tell me about Emma.’

‘She was my doll. She fell. Her face cracked. Did I not tell you this before?’

‘When she fell, what age were you?’

‘Seven.’

‘The year your dad died?’

‘Yes, the same year as Emmaline.’

It was after nine o’clock by the time O’Connor got back to his flat. After putting in a fourteen-hour shift he should have been exhausted, but he felt as far away from sleep as anyone could feel. The day had been a fiasco. They’d had a lead about an ex-boyfriend of Siobhan King with a nasty temper. He fitted the physical description of the killer, and also had a vague connection to Gahan through family ties. It had come to nothing in the end because the man’s lawyer had spent the day wasting everyone’s time. It didn’t take O’Connor long to down half a bottle of whiskey. Surprising how easily it can disappear.

It was on a whim that he’d phoned Kate. He should have rung her earlier, but so far they hadn’t unearthed a whole lot more on either Dominic Hamilton or Clodagh McKay. O’Connor knew he had taken his eye off the ball, and wasn’t keen on being reminded of it. Tomorrow he would invite them all down to the station, including Clodagh McKay’s husband, Martin, who it seemed had done business with Alister Becon. If any of them played awkward, the mountain would have to go to Muhammad.

After phoning Kate, he got a taxi to her apartment, but decided to give it a few minutes before going up. He really wanted another drink, but he lit a cigarette instead. He knew he’d been burying his head in the sand. It was partly the reason he’d got into this mess in the first place. He could trust Kate, and he needed to talk to goddamn someone.

The yellow streetlights on Mervin Road blurred his eyes. Leaning back against the lamppost, he asked himself for the hundredth time how he of all people had managed to fuck it up so much. Maybe that
was why he’d never married: he hadn’t wanted to get dragged into a complicated compromise with anyone. Like everyone else, he had a past and his own demons. He looked up at Kate’s apartment. She could test his resolve.

O’Connor sucked in some air in an attempt to clear the smell of nicotine and booze. He thought again about Alister Becon. That bastard had got under his skin too, with his larger-than-life self-belief. He had treated O’Connor’s warning about potential danger with the kind of disdain that only his kind of self-opinionated, egotistical, rich bastard could perfect. O’Connor had been left in no doubt about the man’s character. All that fine talk and good education didn’t fool a seasoned detective like him. Maybe this was the drink talking. He didn’t really care. In his eyes the man was capable of murder, but whenever the shit hit the fan, Alister Becon would be well protected.