The Doll's House (14 page)

T
he Arcadian had the plans of the house in his head, memorised. All he had to do was get inside without being seen or recognised.

No problem.

He had spent his life hiding in plain sight. Going about his business without anyone aware he was actually there. He knew that the best way to not be noticed was to just be ignored. He didn't dress flashily, behave outrageously. He had made a study of ordinary people and knew how to behave like one. Still, after tonight his work was going to receive more recognition, so he had to be prepared for that. But he couldn't draw attention to himself. No matter how much he wanted to. How much he wanted to shout from the rooftops about what he was doing, how brilliant he was. He had the dolls. He would tell them about it. They would have to do.

For now.

The street was full of big houses. All hidden from view by huge hedges and fences, all made unreachable by electronic gates, sensors, motion lights and alarms. Physical dividing lines between the haves and the never-will-haves. The Arcadian could smell the money. It even made the air feel different. Richer, more rarefied. And something else: fear. Like he had no right to be there, breathing it in.

He smiled. He had every right to be there.

He placed a gloved hand on the gate. It swung soundlessly open. Giving one more look around, checking he hadn't been seen – he hadn't, the street was deserted – he stepped over the threshold.

A thrill of anticipation ran through his body. Almost sexual. He loved it, that rush before the job. Even a relatively quick one such as this. It was still the same, the expectation then the commission. Then reliving it afterwards. The perfect cycle.

But he had to concentrate now. Focus on the job in hand. Because if this went wrong, there might be no afterwards.

He walked slowly up the gravel driveway, trying to stay out of the pools of light cast by the ornate faux-Victorian lampposts that lined the sides. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that the driveway wasn't well kept, weeds reclaiming the stones.

He reached the house. Looked round, listened. Nothing. There had been barely any vehicle or pedestrian activity on the street; back here it seemed like he was out in the country. There was no sound from inside the house either. Just a dim light coming from behind the curtains in the huge bay window on the left. He stood before the front door. Large and imposing, old, heavy wood. He placed a gloved hand on it. It opened.

Just as he had been told.

He stepped inside. The hallway was in darkness, but he could make out shiny, glittering features. A huge chandelier overhead, gold sconces and gilt frames on the walls. Black and white tiled floor covered by a faux-leopardskin runner. Money but no style, he thought.

Not like the doll's house. She had real style. Real class. Or the part she had decorated did.

Light framed a doorway to the left. He put his hand on the handle, turned. Entered.

The room had the same type of decoration as the hall. Opulent but tasteless. And the same lax attention to upkeep as the driveway. It had been turned into a downstairs den: a bed ran along one wall, oxygen cylinder next to it, an easy chair over to one side by the huge TV. Shelves of DVDs behind it, the spines brightly coloured and football- or car-related.

And in the centre of the room sat what was left of a man in a wheelchair.

The man looked up. No surprise on his face, just exhaustion. ‘You're here, then,' he said, looking him over. ‘Thought you'd be… I don't know. Taller, something.'

The Arcadian stopped moving, took the man in. His lack of legs was the first thing he noticed, the remaining stumps clothed in filthy tracksuit bottoms, folded under, stained at the crotch. A similarly discoloured T-shirt covered his shrunken torso. From the contours of his body he looked like a large man who had lost weight but forgot to tell his body. Rolls of stretched, useless skin lay around him like creases in a baggy sweatshirt. He was unshaven, his hair unwashed, his skin the colour of a rotten egg yolk. He smelled of death, even though he wasn't yet dead.

The Arcadian thought back to the doll, the hours of fun they had had together, the consummation, the execution… then looked at the pathetic, stinking figure before him. This wasn't going to be fun at all.

‘Come on, then,' the lump before him said, ‘get it over with. Haven't got all night.' He laughed at his own joke, which caused him to cough, which caused him to retch blood into a filthy handkerchief.

The Arcadian's first response was to turn round, walk out. This wasn't what he wanted. Wasn't what would make him happy, give him fulfilment. Then he remembered what he had agreed to. Be professional. Put his skills and training into practice. Even if the thought of touching the lump revolted him.

He moved closer, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell.

‘Just be quick,' said the lump. ‘Although to be honest, I doubt you could give me any more pain.' He held up a jar of pills. ‘Morphine. This is the stuff, this is. Do what you like. I won't feel it.'

The Arcadian said nothing, thought hard. He had toyed with methods of death over and over in his mind. Some flamboyant, some mundane. He hadn't allowed himself to settle on any particular one, telling himself he would be adaptable, fit whatever felt right into the situation at hand. But now, staring at the stinking cripple, he was at a loss.

‘You can throw some stuff around if you like,' the cripple said. ‘Make it look like a robbery.' He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Up to you.' He fell silent again, looking into his lap, then back up, straight at the Arcadian. ‘I'm scared. Please, I… I'm scared. I…' He sighed. ‘Just do it. Please.' He closed his eyes, braced himself, as if waiting for a punch.

The Arcadian looked round. Something to hand, he thought. Something in the room. Make it look less premeditated, more opportunistic. A statue, ornament to bring down on his head or face… no. Too much mess. Too much transfer of DNA. Something…

A cushion. A pillow. Yes.

He walked over to the bed, picked up the pillow, crossed back to the cripple, who opened his eyes.

‘Oh. Right. This is… this is it, is it? This is it…'

He placed the cushion over the cripple's face. The cripple struggled, coughed. The Arcadian pushed harder.

It didn't take long. The cripple had hardly any life left in him. The Arcadian dropped the cushion on the floor, looked at the cripple. Head back, eyes open, mouth wet with saliva and blood.

But no butterfly. No soul.

The Arcadian felt angry then. Cheated. This wasn't right. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. There was no euphoria, no catharsis. No release. Like building up to an orgasm but being denied it. Not right. Not right at all.

He let the anger build, then waited for it to explode. To manifest itself on the room. Ornaments were thrown at walls, pictures and photos torn down and hurled against cabinets, smashing. DVDs were pulled from shelves, furniture upended. The cripple was thrown from his wheelchair on to the floor.

Eventually the Arcadian's anger was spent. He stood in the centre of the room breathing heavily, surveying the damage. It looked like a break-in now.

He turned, ready to go. His disappointment like a stone in his stomach. As he reached the doorway, he stopped.

‘Keith? Keith? The front door's open, are you OK…?'

He looked round, tried to find a hiding place. No time. Just hid behind the door. Waited.

The door opened. In walked a blonde woman dressed like a footballer's wife. Her cloying perfume masked the stench of the cripple. His first response was to wait until she was well inside the room, then try to get past her, run out. But the plan didn't get that far. Because as soon as she entered, she turned, saw him. She opened her mouth to scream and he was on her. He held her tight, arm round her throat, gloved hand clamped tight over her mouth. There was no way he could just escape now.

As he held her, he smiled.

Perhaps he would have some fun tonight after all.

M
addy opened her eyes to find herself walking. She looked round, surprised and startled at where she was. A residential street in Selly Oak, not far from the university campus. Not far from her home. But it was dark. And the street was deserted. And freezing.

She checked herself. She was dressed, still wearing the same clothes as when she had left home earlier in the day. To go to the Custard Factory and confront Hugo.

Hugo. The name hit her brain like a flash of lightning.

That was where she had been, the last thing she could remember. At Hugo's house. Telling him about her problem. Trying to get him to understand. How upset she was. What she felt for him. Maddy tried to remember. To fill in the blanks, work out what had happened.

She had been sitting on the sofa alongside him. He had offered her a drink. Then… nothing. Until now.

She stopped walking, shocked. She checked her watch. Nearly midnight. God, that meant she had lost… hours. How many? She had no idea. She felt panic rising. What had happened to her? What had she been up to?

She tried to think it through chronologically. Keep calm and be methodical.

Sitting on the sofa at Hugo's place. A drink. Then… nothing. No, not nothing.
Think, think
… The drink was strong. It hit her head straight away. Made it spin, made the room blur in and out of focus. She had lain back against the sofa, her body heavy, her head too big to support. She tried to keep her eyes open but her eyelids refused to co-operate. Her arms, legs wouldn't move.

So she must have slept. That was it. Slept. But that wasn't right. If she had slept, why had she woken up walking along a street near her home?

So she hadn't slept. Then what had happened?

Maddy stopped walking, closed her eyes. Replayed what memories she could. The last thing she remembered seeing was Hugo's face. Right next to hers, smiling. And… something more. His hands.
Yes
. His hands… on her thighs…

Her eyes opened again with another jolt.
Oh God.
Hugo's hands on her thighs. What had happened?
He wouldn't have
…
No. Not Hugo
.

Her legs were shaking as she hurried along. She tried to remember more details, but her memory wouldn't work. The blackness wouldn't shift, allow her access.

She had to get home. As fast as she could. While she was walking, she took out her phone. Punched in Hugo's number, put the phone to her ear. It rang. Her blood pounded, her heart skipped in double time, twice for each ring of the phone.

Come on
…

The phone kept ringing. Maddy was holding her breath.

Answer
…
please
…
 

Ringing and ringing. Then a voice telling her that the mobile she was calling had been switched off and to try again later. She called again. Got the same thing. And again. The same. She put her phone away. Kept walking. Shaking from more than just the cold. Anxiety eating through to her bones.

‘Oi! Oi!'

Oh God
…

The voice was behind her. Her heart, already trip-hammering, went even faster. That was all she needed. Some drunken nutter on the street. She felt in her handbag for the rape alarm that the university had supplied. She usually carried it when she was out at night, but it wasn't there. Left at home because she hadn't expected to be out this long.

Shit
…
 

She kept going.

‘Oi! Wait!'

The voice was getting nearer. Maddy had almost broken into a run.

‘Maddy! Wait!'

She stopped. Turned. A young man was hurrying towards her. About her age, tall, dark-haired. Smiling. Dressed like a student. Did she know him? He knew her, apparently.

She moved into the beam of the nearest street light, making sure she was well lit, and waited for him to approach her. Still unsure of him, her hand inside her handbag. Her fingers curled round her door keys, making sure the jagged edges were sticking through her knuckles. Just in case.

He reached her. Stood next to her. Out of breath but smiling.

‘Hi, Maddy. Thought it was you…'

She just stared at him. He frowned.

‘Ben,' he said. ‘Remember? Mike's friend? Who's seeing Abby? American studies Abby?'

‘Oh,' she said, ‘Ben. Yes…' He obviously knew her, but she still couldn't place him. And it was impolite to say so, so she would just have to pretend until it came to her and hope he didn't notice. ‘Hi. What are you… Where're you off to?'

He shrugged. ‘Just going home. Been down the Bristol Pair with the others. They were heading off into town to Snobs but I didn't fancy it. What about you? You been out?'

‘Yeah,' she said, not wanting to tell him anything until she had worked it out for herself at least. ‘Yeah.'

‘You live round here, don't you?'

Oh God
, she thought,
he's probably been to a party at our house and I still can't remember him.
‘Yeah, that's right. Just off Coronation Road.'

‘Right,' he said, nodding. ‘Thought so.'

They stood in silence beneath the street light, their breath fogging the night air.

‘Listen,' he said, looking round. ‘Bit dodgy being out here on your own. Never know who you'll bump into. Shall I walk you home?'

She flinched as he said the words. He caught it.

‘Oh no,' he said, ‘I just meant…' He shrugged, his voice dropping. ‘It's safer with somebody with you, that's all.'

‘I… I don't want to put you out. Out of your way.'

He gestured behind him, the way he had come. ‘I'm only ten minutes back that way. Not putting me out at all. Plus I'm making sure you get home safe. That's all.'

Her fingers began to uncurl from the key ring, her hand slipped out of her handbag. ‘OK, then. But I'm very tired.'

He frowned.

‘I'm… just going to go straight to bed.'

He laughed. ‘Do what you like. As long as you get home safely.'

She looked at him again under the street light. Maybe there was something familiar about him. Maybe she could remember him after all. Mike's friend. Abby. Right. She'd just had a bad day, that was all. A bad few days. Didn't mean everyone was a nutter. Or out to hurt her.

She thought of Hugo. Sighed. Felt that familiar sink of depression in her stomach.

‘You OK?' he asked, concern in his eyes.

She looked up. ‘Fine,' she said. Hugo could wait until tomorrow. He would have to. ‘Let's go home.'

They walked off down the street together.