The Doll's House (28 page)

T
he rain had started up again, turning the night even darker, murkier. The Arcadian and his new friend walked through the Mailbox, not stopping to window-shop in Harvey Nichols or for a drink or something to eat at one of the many chain restaurants at the far end. They went out the other side, down the ramp on to the towpath at the side of the canal at Gasworks Basin.

Neither had spoken much. Neither needed to. They both knew what they wanted. And it wasn't conversation.

This would be an experiment, thought the Arcadian. Taking someone back to his while the doll's house was set up. Wondering if they would notice it, what they would make of it. It was his way of showing off, he thought. Letting the world – or one person in the world – see what he had done. He had to tell someone but he couldn't be obvious. So he would regard it as a puzzle for them to read. And if they did manage to work it out and, even worse, want to do something about it… Well, the doll's house might have another tenant.

‘Wonder what the police wanted,' said the bear, stooping to avoid the low bridge they were walking under.

‘Druggie, probably,' said the Arcadian. ‘Pickpocket. Nothing important. No one important.'

The bear smiled. ‘Best not to get involved.'

They had both seen the police chasing a man with his cock out down Hurst Street. They hadn't hung around to find out what would happen next.

‘Is it much further?' asked the bear. ‘I need to warm up.'

‘Not much further,' the Arcadian said. ‘Just round this bend.'

‘And then we warm up?' Another smile, his eyes glittering from more than the rain.

‘Yeah,' said the Arcadian. ‘That's right.'

He needed it. The contact, the friction. The force. The high. It was the next best thing and he needed it. And the guy with him, big, strong-looking, muscular, seemed like just the man to supply it.

The bear stopped walking, pulled the Arcadian's arm, made him stop too.

‘What?'

The bear looked around, saw that they were alone, made a grab for the Arcadian's cock.

‘Not here,' said the Arcadian, angry at not being in control. ‘We're nearly there.' He walked on. The bear, not disappointed in the slightest, followed.

The towpath curved round. New buildings – the Symphony Hall, the Sea Life Centre, the National Indoor Arena – replaced the older, brick-built ones. Canalside apartment blocks towered all around. Houseboats and narrow boats were moored along the banks. It looked like the future and past had collided.

The Arcadian walked up a ramp, crossed a bridge, down the other side. It brought them down by another towpath. A sign on the block of flats nearby said
King Edward's Wharf.

‘Nice,' said the bear.

Several houseboats painted in traditional primary colours were moored alongside, their chimneys smoking, steam rising from their roofs as the heat inside evaporated against the cold night air.

The Arcadian walked past the moored craft. At the corner of the wharf was an ancient, run-down boat, the kind of thing a family might have taken a holiday in on the Norfolk Broads in the seventies. Mildewed and rusting, it was badly maintained and inexpertly repaired. It looked like it was barely watertight. The Arcadian stopped in front of it.

‘You live here?'

The Arcadian turned to him, angry again. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘Nothing…'

The Arcadian took out a key, fitted it in the padlock on the door, opened it, went in. The bear followed.

Inside was cramped and dark. It smelled of damp and various kinds of uncleanliness. He put the light on. The squalid surroundings matched the smell.

The bear was wrinkling his nose. The Arcadian turned to him. ‘You don't like it?'

The bear looked round the tiny space, back to the Arcadian. Found a smile. ‘It's fine. It'll do.' And then he noticed the doll's house. ‘What's that?'

The Arcadian smiled. ‘A hobby.'

The bear nodded, laughed. ‘Right.' He turned to the Arcadian, the doll's house forgotten. ‘But this is more important.'

He grabbed hold of the Arcadian, kissed him roughly on the mouth. The Arcadian responded. He felt the bear's hands digging into him. His face pulled away. The bear looked at him.

‘D'you like it rough?' Almost a whisper.

‘Yeah,' the Arcadian nodded, ‘I do.'

He didn't see the punch coming. It connected with the side of his face, spun him round, sent him reeling into the side of the cabin.

He staggered, put his hand to his mouth. Winced from the pain. It felt like his jaw had been dislocated.

‘What the fuck's wrong with you?' he shouted. He noticed the bear was wearing latex gloves. He hadn't seen him put them on.

‘I like it rough too,' said the bear, and swung at him again.

The Arcadian ducked, but the blow still connected with his ribs. The air went out of him and he fell to one knee, spilling old pizza cartons and plastic bottles off the table as he did so.

‘I'm… supposed to be in charge…' said the Arcadian, getting to his feet. ‘Me…'

The bear was no longer smiling. He said nothing. Just punched the Arcadian again in the face. His head snapped back and he was down. The bear didn't let him get up this time. He was on him again, punching him repeatedly. The Arcadian tried to fight back but the blows were too fast, too strong to respond to.

‘This what you want?' the bear asked, pulling open the Arcadian's belt, yanking down his jeans and underpants so that he was exposed. ‘This better?'

Another punch. The Arcadian could no longer see out of one eye.

He made another attempt to get to his feet, fighting the pain that had taken up sudden sharp residence in his body. The bear slapped him down. As he fell, he made a grab for the doll's house, brought it down with him.

The bear pulled the Arcadian's belt from his jeans, looped it round his neck. Pulled hard.

‘You fucked up,' he whispered in the Arcadian's ear. ‘Badly. Terminally.'

He pulled the belt tighter.

‘Should have left it to the professionals. Not some sad little wannabe like you. You shouldn't have been anywhere near this.'

The Arcadian processed the words as quickly as he could, realised what was happening. He tried to talk, to argue. It was no good.

The belt was pulled tighter.

This couldn't be happening, he thought. Not now. Not to him. He was the Arcadian. He was better than this. It was him who should be doing this, not receiving it. It made him so angry. So impotently angry.

The belt was pulled as tight as it could go.

The Arcadian gave up struggling.

Through his one working eye he saw the doll lying on the floor next to him. She was smiling. He smiled back.

Beyond that, in his mind's eye, he saw a little red fire engine.

And beyond that, nothing.

No butterfly.

W
hen his iPhone rang, Phil felt as though he had hardly been asleep. He checked the clock on the phone. He was right.

‘Phil Brennan…' His words were slurred. He rolled over on his side, away from Marina, who had jumped when the phone rang but seemed to be drifting back off now.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Constable Pierce here. City Neighbourhood. We've got a suspect in custody in connection with the case you're working on.'

‘That's nice,' Phil said, still barely awake.

Pierce continued, patiently, ‘He has the tattoo you were looking for.'

That opened Phil's eyes. He sat up. ‘Really? The tattoo? Is he…'

‘He's in custody, as I said, sir. The two detectives who brought him in are a little shaken up. And it looks like you're the best bet for the interview.'

‘Shaken up? How?'

‘He didn't want to come quietly, sir. DCs Oliver and Khan, they're a bit the worse for wear.'

‘Don't suppose this'll keep till the morning? Clear head and all that.'

‘He's been booked, sir. The custody clock's ticking.'

Phil rubbed his eyes with his free hand. ‘Right. I'll be along as soon as I can get there.'

He hung up, put the phone back on the bedside table. Looked at Marina. She opened her eyes.

‘What's up?'

‘Got a suspect. The murder I'm working. Need me to do the interview.'

Marina nodded. ‘OK. Good luck.'

‘Thanks.'

He paused, kept looking at her. Wondering if she was going to say anything more. Wondering if he should say anything more. Her eyes closed again. The moment, if it had ever been there, passed.

Phil threw the duvet back, felt the cold immediately. Put his feet to the floor, stumbled off to the shower. He checked his phone again. Nearly five o'clock. He wondered how much sleep he had actually had.

 

Marina waited until she heard the shower running before sitting up. She checked the time. Jesus.

She hadn't slept much either. Every time she had drifted off, Gwilym had been waiting in the darkness, that sneering smile in place, hands outstretched ready to touch her. She had jumped awake every time those dream fingers made contact. They made contact a lot.

She heard Phil coming back into the bedroom, lay down, closed her eyes once more. She stayed that way until he dressed and left. Once she heard the front door go, she sat upright again. Grabbed her phone.

Time had barely moved. Damn.

She was relieved. Or at least she thought she was. Relieved that Phil had to go out, that circumstances had spared her once again from having the conversation. The confrontation.

She sighed. No. She wasn't relieved. She hadn't been spared, it had just been postponed. Yet again. She still had to talk to him. And the longer she left it, the harder it became.

After she'd spoken to Anni. Yes, that was when she'd talk to him. Once Anni came back to her with the results, she could talk to Phil. Tell him everything. Let the whole lot tumble out. Await his reaction. Take it from there.

Anni. She checked the time again. Too early to call. And she doubted that Anni would have had time to make any progress. Or to get her friend to make progress for her.

She lay back down again. Knew she would be lying there staring at the wall until the sun came up. Just waiting for the results to come back. A dark, unpleasant ripple ran through her.
Waiting to get the results back
. That was exactly what it felt like. A pregnancy test. An STD or HIV test. Cancer screening. Something that would have a potentially life-changing impact on her.

Oh God
, she thought. STDs, HIV. She would have to be tested for them too…

No. She wasn't going to just lie there and wait. She had to do something.

She grabbed her phone again. Too early to call, yes. But not too early to text.

She found Anni's name. Left her a message.

‘
H
ow do I look?'

‘Wait till you see the other fella.'

Imani smiled politely at the joke. And winced. Smiling made her face ache.

Mike Pierce was sitting next to her. Once the suspect had been pulled to his feet after his Tasering, had had his rights read to him and been bundled away in the back of a van, Pierce hadn't left her side. He was there when the paramedics turned up, gave them an account of the injuries sustained by both herself and Nadish Khan, waited while she received treatment.

‘Back to base?' he had said then. ‘You really should go home.'

‘And let the paperwork fairies take over from here? I'd love to.'

He had made sure she and Khan got safely back to Steelhouse Lane. Being in the MIU office in the middle of the night gave it an eerie, half-haunted, time-out-of-joint feel. The right place at the wrong time. As if being there at that hour was disturbing the ghosts.

He brought her a cup of what passed for tea, sat down next to her.

‘Thanks,' she said, putting down the ice pack the paramedic had given her, bringing the cup to her lips.

‘Don't thank me yet. You haven't drunk it.'

She smiled. It hurt. ‘Not just for the tea. You and the boys, tonight… thanks.'

He shrugged. ‘No problem. That's what we do in Community.'

Imani put the cup to her mouth once more, felt the steam warm her face. She looked at Pierce. He had a strong jaw, good profile. Rugged features, but kind eyes.

‘Listen,' she said, putting the tea down, ‘I was wondering. You've been really great tonight and everything, but… I mean, you don't have to… but I just wondered if you fancied maybe having a drink one night…'

Pierce smiled, eyes momentarily downcast.

He's married
, she thought.
Shit. Or he doesn't date black girls. Racist.

He turned to her. ‘That would be lovely, thank you, but…'

She waited.

‘There's… a reason I work where I do. Southside. Hurst Street.'

Imani frowned. Then got it. ‘Oh. Right.'

He made a helpless, what-can-you-do gesture, gave a weak smile. ‘Sorry.'

‘No problem. Sorry for asking.'

He laughed. ‘Don't mind at all. Shy kids get nothing, as my mother used to say.'

‘What have they brought you back here for?'

Imani looked up when she heard the voice. DI Phil Brennan was walking towards them. He stopped when he saw her face.

‘Jesus Christ…'

She tried to smile. ‘That bad, eh?' She looked up at him.

There was nothing but concern in his eyes. He knelt down beside her, studied her injuries. ‘Who did that to you? Our suspect?'

‘Yeah. I put my face in the way of his fist. He won't do it again.'

‘You're damn right.' He nodded, still studying the damage. Then noticed that there was someone else there. Looked at him. ‘Phil Brennan.'

‘Mike Pierce. We spoke on the phone.'

They shook. Pierce got Phil up to speed. Phil thanked him, looked again at Imani. ‘What did the paramedics say?'

‘That I was lucky. Nothing broken. Least my nose won't have to be reset. But I'm going to have a pair of gorgeous black eyes in the morning. We got him. That's the main thing.'

Phil straightened up, looked round. Nadish Khan was sitting along from her, holding his side. Imani watched as Phil walked over to Khan, sat by him. ‘Same guy?'

‘Came at me with a bar or something in the car park.' Khan moved, flinched. Screwed his eyes closed in sudden pain. ‘Paramedic reckons I've broken a couple of ribs.'

‘Jesus.' Phil straightened up, looked between the pair of them.

‘I'm sorry,' he said to them both. ‘I had no idea this would happen.'

He means it, thought Imani; he really is anxious about us. ‘Might have been a lot worse if Mike hadn't been there,' she said.

‘And the response team,' said Pierce. ‘Can't take all the credit.'

‘Thank you anyway. All of you.' He looked again at Imani and Khan. ‘I'm really proud of you both.'

They thanked him. Imani glanced at Khan. He seemed to be genuinely thrilled by the praise.

Phil was about to speak again when Khan's phone rang. He looked at the display. Whatever he had been feeling after Phil's praise quickly drained from his face.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I've got to get this.' He turned away so the rest of them couldn't hear the conversation.

Imani threw a quizzical glance at Phil, whose features remained impassive.

Khan finished the call, turned back to the group. From the look on his face he had been given some bad, or worryingly unpleasant, news.

‘Everything OK?' asked Phil.

‘Yeah,' said Khan, unconvincingly. ‘Fine. I've, er… got to go. For a bit. That OK?'

‘Sure,' said Phil, still concerned. ‘I think the pair of you should go home. You've done enough for one night.'

‘Thanks, yeah. Cheers.'

Khan turned, left them. His walk was contradictory, thought Imani. Brisk yet reluctant. Like he had to be somewhere he didn't want to go.

Phil turned back to her and Pierce. ‘So,' he said, ‘where's this guy I've got to question?'