The Doll's House

‘I never felt like one.’


‘Didn’t you? All those wild nights out as a teenager, hitting the bottle hard. You became quite the handful for Martin. You tested his intelligence in the early days, and even now. He never liked that. A man doesn’t like to be undermined.’

‘How do you know so much about me? I haven’t seen you since I was a child.’

‘I like to keep track of people. It makes it less likely that they can do you any harm. It’s always good to be more educated about others than they are about you.’

‘You still haven’t told me why you have me here.’ I tell myself that the longer I can keep him talking, the better chance I have of working out how to get out of there.

‘Clodagh, Clodagh,’ he smiles, ‘if you keep asking the wrong questions, you will keep getting the wrong answers.’

‘What do you want with me?’

‘You look a bit like her at times.’

‘Who?’

‘Lavinia, of course.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, your mother. You do know I loved her? Some might say I was obsessed with her.’

I stare back at him, seeing little in the dark, feeling the dusty wooden floor beneath me.

‘Don’t be shocked, Clodagh. I may be an old goat now, but inside I’m still the man who remembers falling for an exciting woman, the kind who comes into your life and never leaves you, at least, not completely. It was meeting Ruby that rekindled the memory.’

‘Ruby? My daughter?’ I can hear the panic in my voice. ‘What has she to do with all this?’

‘A carbon copy of your mother looks-wise, you must agree.’ Despite the near blackness, I see him smile in reflective admiration. ‘Yes, Clodagh, your lovely daughter. We met recently. Martin introduced us.’

‘When?’

‘I was the main speaker at a function. Some drivel about supporting suicide victims. Funny now, all things considered.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters, Clodagh, is that your beautiful, intelligent mind has managed to get you into a whole lot of trouble.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you?’ He pauses, as if wondering whether he should confide in me. ‘I went to see your mother a couple of months before she died. It was meeting Ruby that spurred the whole thing on. I guess I realised I’d never stopped loving her, your mother, that is.’

‘When she was dying? You went to see her when she was sick.’

‘Yes.’ He kicks the baseball bat to the other corner of the room, the noise vibrating long after it lands on the floor. My body tenses. His voice lowers. ‘I could still see her beauty. I’m not a fool. I knew she didn’t have long left, which made it all the more poignant for us to reconcile.’ He let out a low, malicious laugh. ‘But she didn’t want me around. She was having none of it.’ He moves closer, the tips of his fingers touching my hair again, his voice bitter. ‘Even though I helped her more than any other man in her life.’

‘How did you help her?’ I’m sputtering my words.

He pulls back his hand, clenching his fist, the way I had remembered him doing from before. ‘I covered up for your pathetic father and the baby, that’s how.’

‘You know about the baby?’





51 Tycon Avenue


Kate drove along Tycon Avenue twice, all potential parking spots on either side of the narrow street taken. She found a space in a side-street, turned off the engine and phoned Ocean House, checking they had successfully rearranged her next two appointments. Her next call was to Sophie.

‘Hi, Sophie, I’m glad I caught you.’

‘Is everything all right, Kate?’

‘Something’s come up and I’ve had to reschedule some of my afternoon appointments. I may not get back until after six.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve no plans for this evening.’

‘There’s mince in the fridge, Bolognese sauce and pasta, if either you or Charlie gets peckish.’

‘No bother.’

‘You’re a star. Tell Charlie I’ll be there before seven at the latest.’

Kate disconnected and put her mobile in her briefcase, wondering again about her visit to Gerard Hayden. Turning into Tycon Avenue, she took in the small red-brick cottages with tiny front gardens. She soon found number fifty-one and stopped at the low gate. It gave ample notice of her visit, creaking noisily when she opened it. A brass plaque with Gerard Hayden’s qualifications hung beside a panelled black front door. Kate coughed before she pressed the brass bell button, then waited for a response. She could hear carpeted footsteps before the door opened and a small, middle-aged man, with short dishevelled grey hair, looked at her in mild surprise.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so.’ Kate was endeavouring to sound encouraging. ‘I understand Clodagh McKay is a client of yours.’

‘May I ask who you are?’

‘Sorry, of course. My name is Dr Kate Pearson. I’m a psychologist. I work with the police.’