The Doll's House

‘No problem.’ Hennessy walked over to take O’Connor’s place.

Before leaving the room, O’Connor leaned down and whispered in Steve McDaid’s ear, ‘Don’t go anywhere, Steve. I’m not finished with you yet.’

Outside the room, Lynch was the first to speak. ‘We have the search warrant.’

‘About time. Anything on Dominic Hamilton or Martin McKay?’

‘That’s the bad news, sir.’

‘What?’ O’Connor was waiting to hear that one of them had croaked it.

‘The unmarked car picked McKay up when he returned home. He didn’t stay long, but shortly after he left the house, they lost him again.’

‘Shit.’ O’Connor paced the corridor. ‘Right. I want you to take a team over to the McKay house. You’re in charge, Lynch. But keep me posted. I’ll need to set up another recon.’

‘Where?’

‘The Hamiltons’ old family home in Sandymount. It’s on the strand. No doubt it’s been lying empty since the mother’s death. I’ll need to talk to Robinson too, get some more house-to-house done and fast. Find out if the neighbours have seen anything out of place over the last while.’

‘Okay, sir. I’ll check back with you.’

‘And, Lynch …’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Make sure you have Hanley’s crew on standby too, should anything ugly raise its head at the McKay house, especially on that motor of his.’

‘Okay, will do.’





Clodagh


I have no idea where I am. It’s dark, and my body hurts from lying on a hard surface. I reach out, spreading my fingertips along what feels like a wooden floor. It’s dusty, and I sneeze.

My head hurts too. I reach up, touching the wall beside me. Parts of the plasterboard come away in my hands, half rotten. I use my eyes next, scanning the room from the floor upwards. I see boxes on shelves, and an old rope hanging from the roof beams, thick and dirty with age, the ends separated into loose strands. Twisting, I turn around, looking above me. I see the outer ring of the old dartboard, and above it, the dark feathered wings of an eagle. I’m in the attic at Seacrest.

I think I’m alone. There are no sounds other than those coming in from outside, the faint hint of the world beyond this attic room. I crawl towards the door. I listen for noises from downstairs, but I hear nothing. When I look through the gap under the door, I can see no movement. It’s still daylight, for there is light coming in from the landing.

I have no bag, coat or mobile phone. My shoes are in the corner. They must have fallen off my feet. I can’t remember how I got here. The last thing I remember is being in the car with Dominic. Where is he? The pain in my head is getting worse. I reach up again and tentatively touch the back of my head. I must have fallen, or was I knocked unconscious?

The only way out of here is through the door into Dominic’s old bedroom. The latch is off at the top, so I drag myself upright. I reach for the upper handle and hold it for a couple of seconds before I attempt to open the door, hoping I won’t make a sound. Even though I have no idea what is going on, I know something is wrong.

I turn the small handle as far as it can go and pull the door towards me. It doesn’t budge. The latch is closed over on the other side.

‘Hello,’ I call. ‘Hello! Is anybody there? Dominic, are you out there? What’s going on?’

I wait, not knowing what else to do, until I realise I’m banging the door hard. I need to think. I need to work out why the hell I’m here. Just for a moment I wonder if I’ve gone completely mad, if I’m imagining all of this. Until I hear a noise downstairs. It’s the sound of the front door opening, and then, seconds later, closing again.

I hold my breath and wait, looking around the room for something to defend myself with. I pick up an old baseball bat that belonged to Dominic, sitting on one of the boxes on the low shelves. I can hear the creaking of the floorboards on the hall staircase, and count them one at a time, the way I counted them with Gerard Hayden, each step bringing me closer to the unknown. At the top of the landing, the footsteps stop. I think about shouting again, but realise my only hope is that whoever is out there may think I’m still unconscious on the floor.

Then I hear the footsteps on the attic staircase, the person on the other side of the door getting closer to me all the time. When the door edges open, it hardly makes a sound. I can hear my own breathing, loud and deep. As the door opens further, I lunge forward with the baseball bat, hitting out as hard as I can, as the man, whose face I cannot see, sniggers in response, overcoming me and my futile attempts at defence.

‘Clodagh, dearest, gentle, delicate Clodagh. There’s no need for such melodrama, is there?’

I pull away from him but he keeps a firm grip on both my arms. His hands hurt, closing tight around me, hurting me like Martin does. Using his foot, he slams the door shut behind him, before shoving me to the floor. Then I look up and see his face.





Ocean House, the Quays