The Doll's House (24 page)

T
he Arcadian hated this time of day. That crepuscular transition between the dying day and the not-yet-born night. It was the heavy trudge home, the missed opportunities of the day, the optimism that had arrived with the morning now transformed into failure and sadness. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe everyone else liked it. Thought it contained the possibility of fun, adventure. Looked forward to seeing what the night brought.

Maybe.

He looked at the doll's house once again. The figure of the doll, his beautiful firstborn, still looked lonely. Her smile more painted on than ever, her hair sticking out and unkempt from where he had repeatedly stroked it. She looked worn from being carried. The grinning idiot with the cut-off legs beside her did nothing to help either. The Arcadian had added the blonde bimbo doll to the scene. But it still wasn't right. He had tried to make her fit in, taken a knife to her features, carved and cut away. Stabbing her in the face at the end. But it still wasn't right. He looked again. And felt nothing but sadness at the house, sinking down into depression.

The phone call hadn't helped. He had thought he had done the right thing. Disguising his tracks by making it look like a burglary. He had thought he was being clever. Apparently not.

He had run from the Bullring Centre, back home, where he had pulled down the hatches, locked them behind him and just sat on the floor, giving himself over to despair. He had cried and screamed and sobbed. Once he was all cried out, once he was empty, despair had eventually given way to anger.

He had stood up then, begun to pace. How dare he talk like that, say what he had said. To him.
To me
.
Who the fuck
…
who the fuck
…
I'll show
them
, he thought
. Teach them a lesson. Go in there, confront them. Tell them what's what
. Eventually his anger had subsided too and he had slumped to the floor once more. Drifted off, staring. He didn't know how long for.

No butterfly. That was the thing that upset him the most about his work at the big house. No butterfly from either of them. He hadn't been surprised at the man. Wouldn't have expected it. But the woman… He had thought he would have seen hers leave her body. After all, he had spent a long time on her. Worked her up into the kind of state where the butterfly should have appeared. But it hadn't. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he had never heard from the voice. He had been happy enough before. In his own way.

The club had been everything to him. He had loved it. Lived for it. Before that… nothing.
He
was nothing. His
life
was nothing.
Nothing
. Just a mass of directionless energy. Uncontrollable. And that lack of control got him into trouble. With others, with himself. And worst of all, with the law.

Prison. He had hated prison. Especially the wing they had put him on. The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing. That was the official name. But everyone called it something else. Something more accurate. The Weirdos and Paedos. Nonces and Ponces. That was where they had put him. Where he had to stay.

The rest of the prison hated them. Hated
him
. He knew that. It was an open secret even amongst the screws that they were the lowest of the low. And they all hated each other too.

He was stuck with some right head cases. Real nut jobs. One man had taken a machete to his five-year-old daughter after she threatened to tell her mother what he was doing to her. Another told everyone he was in love with his fourteen-year-old niece, saved up all his phone time to call her, tell her what kind of love he was going to give her when he got out. Another was a screw who'd gone bad. The Arcadian heard the other screws talking about what he had done to his son. He reckoned he was the worst of all.

All fuck-ups. But not him. He was too clever for them. He wouldn't be coming back. Not that he was rehabilitated. No. He hated that word. He just knew how to be clever. Not get caught. He had spent a long time thinking about what had got him in there in the first place. And it wasn't what he was doing. No. Plenty of people did what he had done and got away with it. It was how he was doing it. No control. That was it. What he had to do. Learn control. Do that, and he would be unstoppable. Untouchable.

Because prison, the Arcadian knew from first-hand experience, didn't rehabilitate. It didn't correct, wasn't correctional, like they said in America. It incarcerated. It
hid
. Took the most damaged and dangerous and put them in the shadows. Hiding. Waiting. Biding. The shadows provided nourishment, kept them away from the light, toughened them with hatred, strengthened them with anger. Then released them. Hiding no more. Out of the shadows and into the light.

He took as many courses as he could, used the prison library all the time. Power. That was what he wanted. And knowledge was the best power of all.

When he was released, he kept himself to himself. Didn't meet up with any of his previous or known associates, as the coppers called them. He knew they would be watching him. Waiting for him to step out of line. One wrong move… He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

But what to do instead? He needed release. An outlet. He came to Birmingham, hit the gay scene. He sold his body to rich old perverts. That kept him going for a while, even bought him somewhere to live. He didn't enjoy it but he did all right. Then one of those rich old perverts told him about the club. Not just any club,
the
club.

And his life changed. For the better. For ever.

He was scared at first. Didn't know what to expect. But he soon got the hang of it. Soon fitted in. Because he understood the ethos. Knew what it was about. It wasn't just a place for deviants to go and get off and have the strength to go about their boring nine-to-fives once more. You could find that anywhere. No. It was more than that. It was about honesty and desire. It was about admitting who you really were. To others, to yourself. And acting out those urges.

He loved it. It felt like coming home.

He could be as uncontrolled as he liked in there. Nobody minded. Even encouraged him. So he was. And he loved it. He also discovered that it was enough. He didn't let his activities at the club spill over into the rest of his life. Didn't need to. He had balance. He knew who he was.

He had been noted. Spotted. Because of that, he was asked if he'd like to take things further…

And look where he was now.

The Arcadian opened his eyes. The doll's house was still in front of him. He studied the dolls once more. Maybe they didn't look so bad, he thought. Maybe it would all work out.

Maybe.

He felt something like a shaft of sunlight pierce his body. That was the only way he could describe it. Like the windows had been opened and everything was much warmer, brighter. The clouds had gone. He didn't know where this sudden burst of optimism had come from, but he was pleased to feel it. He smiled, stood up.

He would go out. Yes, that was what he would do. Get dressed up, go down to Hurst Street, see what – or who – he could find. Take his mind off things. Get a workout. Sport sex, someone had once called it. Yeah. That was it. Just what he wanted.

And fuck the voice. Fuck the lot of them.

Feeling almost happy, his burden temporarily lifted, he began to plan his evening out.

Looking forward to seeing what the night brought.

M
addy was impressed. Very impressed. She had eaten in Indian restaurants and balti houses before, what student hadn't? But this one seemed different. A bit more upmarket. A bit flash. No, not flash. Sophisticated.

She looked round the place, tried to see it more rationally. It wasn't that upmarket, not fine dining, but it was certainly a lot higher up the scale than the normal student eateries she went to with her friends. Chain pizza restaurants in town and cheap baltis in Selly Oak and Ladypool Road.

This place had understated decor. Tables decorated with Indian fabrics. Comfortable contemporary leather dining chairs. Traditional wall hangings and shelved metal antiques sat alongside suffused modernist lighting panels. It was, to her, a lot more than just a local eatery in Moseley village.

And they were drinking cocktails.
Cocktails
. She had had cocktails before, of course. But that was on party nights with the girls, celebrating end of term or Christmas or exams or something. But never as a prelude to dinner. And never with someone else buying. No, correct that: a handsome young man buying.

Ben sat opposite her, smiling. He had scrubbed up well. Good hair. Nice shirt. Eyes locked on hers. Unflinching, unmoving. A long red drink in front of him. She stifled a giggle. He looked like an elegant vampire.

He held up his glass. Cranberry chiller, that was what he had asked for. He waited. She realised she was supposed to raise hers too. She did so.

‘Here's to…' He lifted an eyebrow. ‘What?'

She gave a small shrug and immediately regretted it. She felt so silly and girlie doing it. But that was how he was making her feel. She was trying to be cool and distant, sophisticated and grown up, but it wasn't working.

‘Don't know,' she said. ‘Friends?'
Us
. That was what she wanted to say.
Us
. But she didn't want to sound presumptuous. Forward.

‘Us?' he said.

She giggled again. ‘You read my mind.'

They clinked glasses. Drank. The French martini, all pineapple and raspberry and vanilla, was very sweet. Deceptively sweet, in fact. She realised her glass was nearly empty.

‘Another?'

She didn't have time to answer. Ben was already calling the waiter over, asking for another drink for her. She noticed his was barely touched.

He leaned forward. Still looking at her. Took her hand in his. It was warm, there was strength in it. Smiling all the time.

‘Thank you for the flowers,' she said.

He looked away as if shy or embarrassed, but turned quickly back to her. ‘Were they OK? Did you like them?'

She nodded. ‘They were… lovely.' She felt his grip on her hand tighten. His smile increase in wattage. ‘They were the first… No one's ever bought me flowers before. Not like that.'

‘I can't believe that.'

‘It's true, honestly. They were…' she felt a thrill of pleasure run through her at the thought, ‘lovely.'

Her drink arrived. She took a sip. Then a longer one. Just as good as the first. She blinked. ‘I'll have to be careful,' she said. Wouldn't want to end up drunk.'

Another raised eyebrow. ‘Why not?'

She opened her mouth to answer, but no words, no argument came. She smiled to herself. Why not indeed?

The food arrived. Ben had ordered for her. She wasn't confident in working her way round an Indian menu. She told him what strength she liked things to be – not too spicy – what she liked to eat, and left the rest up to him. They – or rather Ben – had decided to share a starter. ‘It's all so good here,' he had said. ‘You should try a bit of everything.' Maddy had agreed.

A big plate of lamb, chicken, kebabs and other things she didn't know the names of was placed on the table between them.

‘Use your fingers,' said Ben. ‘I won't mind.' She did so. They both did. The meat was some of the finest she had ever tasted.

‘OK?' he asked.

She nodded. Definitely OK. He smiled once more. His taste, his opinion validated.

Maddy took another mouthful of martini. She felt happy. Properly happy, for the first time in ages. She couldn't believe how quickly her life had changed. She felt giddy, almost, like she was walking on a cloud.

She reached over for her napkin and caught sight of her wrist. She had worn a long-sleeved top to cover up the damage, and as it rode up slightly she became aware of it for the first time that evening. Ben had made her forget. Wow, she thought. She couldn't believe she was the same girl. In the space of twenty-four hours her life had been transformed.

They finished the starters. Her glass was empty once more.

‘No, I'd better…'

Too late. Ben had already called for another refill.

‘So,' he said, once the drink had arrived and Maddy had started on it, ‘how are you?'

‘Fine,' she said, aware that she was beaming like an idiot. She didn't care. Ben, the restaurant, the drink was all making her feel lightheaded. Pleasantly so.

‘I'm glad it's me you're here with,' he said.

‘So am I.'

‘And not Hugo Gwilym.'

And suddenly, at the mention of his name, she didn't feel lightheaded any more.

P
hil and Imani hadn't been back in the office more than twenty minutes when Sperring and Khan turned up. Phil felt rather than saw Sperring's arrival. He was sitting at his desk, writing up his visit to Ron Parsons, when he felt eyes on him. He looked up. Sperring was sitting at his own desk, staring straight over.

Phil returned the look. Showed he wasn't scared or cowed by his junior officer.

‘How did it go?' he said.

Sperring leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, affecting nonchalance. His features were implacable, giving nothing away. ‘B and E that went wrong. Made a right mess. Some chavvy scrote off his tits, probably. He'll give himself away. Sooner or later. We'll have him.'

‘Glad to hear you've got it covered,' said a voice from behind them. They both turned. DCI Cotter had come out of her office. She looked as happy as the rest of them to have been called in on her day off. ‘You can handle the paperwork, Ian, and that means I can redeploy DC Khan.'

Sperring's hands came down as he turned in his chair to face her. ‘What?'

‘I'm sure a bit of overtime wouldn't go amiss, would it, Nadish?'

‘Definitely not, ma'am,' said Khan, standing up from his desk.

‘No plans for Saturday night?' she asked, crossing over to where he stood.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing that can't be changed, ma'am.' He smiled. ‘Work comes first. You know me.'

Phil caught Sperring shaking his head slightly. He agreed: Khan was ladling it on a bit thick.

Cotter smiled. ‘Good. I want you and DC Oliver to get down to Hurst Street.'

Khan's expression changed. ‘What? What for?'

‘To distribute pictures of the tattoo or mark we saw in that video. There's a good chance that someone who frequents the bars down there might know the owner.'

Khan's face reddened. He looked round the room to gauge everyone else's reaction. No one was making eye contact with him. ‘That's…' He shook his head.

Cotter stepped up close to him. ‘Problem, DC Khan?'

‘Down there with the benders and shirtlifters? On a Saturday night?'

Cotter moved right into his face. Her voice dropped, her eyes didn't. ‘Do you have a problem with people of different sexual orientation? A prejudice that might impair your ability to do your job?'

Khan wisely curtailed his first reaction. He closed his mouth, shook his head. ‘No, ma'am.'

‘Good. I've already informed the City Neighbourhood policing team who work down there that you'll be coming to join them. They've been doing what they can and they'll be able to give you a heads-up on the best places to go and who to talk to.'

Khan gave an abrupt nod, said nothing. Imani Oliver had risen from her desk, come to join them.

‘We need to find the owner of that tattoo, or someone who knows the owner. And that's the best place to start.' Cotter looked between the pair of them. ‘Casual clothes too. Look like you're on a night out together.'

Khan and Imani shared a look. Phil, watching, almost smiled. A night out together was obviously the last thing either of them wanted.

‘Good,' said DCI Cotter. ‘Any questions?'

They both shook their heads.

‘Then off you go.'

They turned and, with Khan walking like a condemned man off to the gallows, left the office. But not before he had given Phil the kind of stare he usually got from some criminal who had been found guilty as a result of his evidence given in court. The kind that was usually accompanied by a threat of vengeance.

Cotter watched them go, then looked at Phil and Sperring. ‘You two may as well get off home. Get some sleep.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' said Sperring. ‘Just finish this report.'

‘Of course,' said Cotter. ‘But I want you both back in tomorrow. You'll have to give up the Lord's day.'

‘No problem,' said Phil. ‘Never was much of a churchgoer.'

She returned to her office, closing the door behind her.

Sperring waited until there was silence from behind her door, then leaned across to Phil. ‘Well played,' he said.

Phil looked at him. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘You know fine well what I mean.'

‘Pretend I don't,' said Phil, turning away from his screen towards Sperring. He could already feel his hands bunching into fists. ‘Enlighten me.'

‘It was a bastard trick you just pulled.'

Phil raised his eyebrow, inviting Sperring to continue.

‘Getting the DCI to choose Khan to get down with the benders.'

‘Nothing to do with me.'

‘Like fuck it isn't. You threatened the boy with that already. You know somebody else could have done it. You didn't have to make it him.'

Phil leaned in close and low. ‘I had nothing to do with it. The DCI chose. I haven't even spoken to her.'

Sperring stared at him.

‘Maybe,' said Phil, ‘it's only you who rates the kid. Maybe you only think you run this place.'

Sperring struggled to keep his fists down at his sides. Phil kept staring at him, not backing down.

‘Problem?'

Neither of them had heard the door open behind them. But they recognised Cotter's voice straight away.

Phil sat back in his place. ‘No, ma'am.'

‘Good. Keep it that way. Get those reports done, then go home. Both of you.'

The door was closed once more.

Phil finished his report, then left the building. Feeling Sperring's eyes on him as he went.