The Doll's House - [51]

Many were the times since then that he had lain in this bed and imagined himself back there. When he thought of that space – their small attic room with the ill-fitting floorboards and rotting joists – he always pictured himself as being horizontal. Lying on his tummy, spying through the floorboards at the goings on below, or lying on his back with Summer, staring at the ceiling, imagining themselves anywhere but there.

There was so much junk in that small room – left by the previous occupants – and he and Summer had made a little sanctuary for themselves out of the discarded objects. A roll of musty carpet, an old tea chest, an old-fashioned doll’s house, a saggy beanbag – they made a little circle of them and hid in the middle, safe from the world, cocooned in secrecy and love. They had read of fairy circles and lucky charms. They had liked the idea so much they had stolen a well-thumbed book from the library – laughing like idiots as they outran the fat librarian – and then, plucking nonsense fantasy words from it, they had cast spells over their little circle, hoping to render it secure and impregnable.

Once safe, they had turned their attention to the toys within the magic circle. They stole valuable items from Dixons – Gameboys – as well as books, dolls and Top Trumps from other children – but oddly the thing they kept coming back to was the doll’s house. They had inherited it in poor condition. The plastic windowpanes were long gone and there were childish scribblings in biro on the roof that wouldn’t come off however hard they scrubbed. But for all that they loved it, not least because inside were two small figures. One dressed in pink, one dressed in blue.

They adopted one each, naming them appropriately, and began to play with reality, imagining themselves in faraway places, living unfamiliar, glamorous lives. King and queen of all they surveyed. It was an arresting fantasy and they played it every day, until other interests took over. It was their world – their special world – and he still felt a deep pang of shame whenever he pictured the doll’s house’s sad end – smashed into a hundred pieces by his hand. He had destroyed those four walls with venom – his only regret at the time was that he didn’t have any matches to turn it to ash. What a fool he’d been. There was nothing in this mouldering house – above ground at least – which was precious to him. He would have coveted that doll’s house had he still possessed it.

The alarm clock snapped into action, forcing him out of his daydreaming. He hadn’t slept much but oddly had enjoyed the strange half-sleep that often conjured up strange memories. But there was no time to indulge himself. He was due in at work soon and he was determined not to do anything that would attract attention. The police focus was so intense now that he would have to be scrupulous not to arouse suspicion. He must be on time and on the button – just another day at the coalface as far as the wider world were concerned.

However, if he was quick, he could just sneak in a quick visit downstairs. He hated the idea of her being lonely so, dressing quickly, he put a comb through his hair and hurried out of the bedroom. He had a spring in his step, a lightness in his heart – today was going to be a good day.

86

It’s hard to watch someone implode. But the worst thing you can do is look away. There’s no point pretending it isn’t happening – you have to front up to it, take them by the hand and lead them to a better place. Aided by DC McAndrew, Helen Grace was doing just that.

Sinead Murphy was crumbling in front of them, broken by the final confirmation of her daughter’s death. Helen was glad she hadn’t broken the news last night. This had been her first instinct on leaving the mortuary, but she always shied away from doing these things late in the day. Best to give people the awful news early so that your FLO has a shot at creating some kind of order, to give friends and family time to assemble, before the unforgiving night sets in. Then at least you have a chance of leaving the bereaved relatives on an even keel.

Looking at Sinead, who was drawing hard on her third cigarette of their visit, Helen wondered if that was stupidly optimistic. Roisin had been conceived in difficult circumstances and her father was long gone before her first birthday. History had repeated itself with Roisin. Her ex-boyfriend, Bryan, had split with Roisin before their baby boy – Kenton – was walking. Bryan now sat awkwardly on the sofa, flanking the combustible mother-in-law he had never got on with. They made a strange couple – overweight Sinead crying into her cup of tea as the scrawny Bryan stared at his feet. He clearly didn’t know what to feel about the mother of his child, who had booted him out, but was now dead. Despite his looks, appearance and emotional deadness, Helen felt some sympathy for him. It was a horrible situation for everyone.

None more so than for Kenton – the toddler now playing with Kinekt bricks on the mud-brown carpet. His whole life had been topsy-turvy and things would only get worse now. His mother was no longer missing, she was a murder victim. Helen knew well how that fact would haunt him as he grew up. Helen had hated her parents most of the time, but their death at the hands of her sister had ensured that they frequently appeared in her daydreams and nightmares, silently accusing