The Doll's House

‘I would probably go to her old house. The one she grew up in. It’s on Sandymount Strand somewhere.’


‘Thanks, Gerard. That may be useful.’

‘There’s an attic room. I think you can access it through one of the upstairs bedrooms. Clodagh went there a couple of days ago, with her brother, I understand.’ Gerard Hayden’s expression was both puzzled and concerned now. ‘Clodagh said she felt frightened.’

Kate stood up. ‘Okay. You’ve been most helpful.’ She put her hand out to shake his, and he responded more firmly than she had expected. ‘I’ll let myself out, Gerard. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.’

‘Dr Pearson?’ He stood up.

‘Yes?’

‘You will let me know if anything is …’

‘I will, Gerard, and thanks again.’





Clodagh


Alister Becon doesn’t answer my question straight away. But, despite my fear, his silence doesn’t unnerve me. It’s as if, within this strange and somewhat surreal communication between us, my need to listen far outweighs everything else.

He moves away from the door, walking easily in the attic space, his short height an advantage, with the low ceiling. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it but as he contemplates answering me he keeps looking back to the door, as if he’s expecting someone. His hands are again clenched into tight fists. My mind is torn between wanting him to tell me about the baby, wondering about Dominic, and my need to know who, if anyone, he is waiting for.

‘Your mother came to me after the child died. She was distraught, angry, frightened out of her wits.’

‘Why you?’ I try to keep my voice steady.

‘For once in her life, she needed me.’

‘Do you know how the baby died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know who. Was it my father?’ It sounds crazy. I can’t trust this man, and I have no confidence in my own memory. A part of me wants him to say yes to my second question, because if it wasn’t my father, I’m not sure I can take the reply that I’m frightened he will give.

Alister Becon looks down at me, huddled in the corner, with hatred. And, for the first time, I wonder if perhaps he had been Emmaline’s father.

‘Your mother was in shock. At one point she even considered telling the authorities what had happened.’

‘So it’s true?’ I sit upright, with my back against the attic wall, the large brown eagle with his soulful black eyes above me. ‘Why didn’t she go to the authorities? Who was she protecting?’

‘She knew your father was weak,’ Alister Becon says, as if it gives him some form of pleasure and inner satisfaction. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to survive prison, but she also knew it was partly her own fault for screwing around with pretty-boy Keith.’

He isn’t Emmaline’s father, and a part of me feels relieved. ‘Was Emmaline Keith Jenkins’s baby?’

‘Who can tell? Your mother treated your father like an idiot.’ He’s enjoying himself.

‘I still don’t understand what happened.’ My sentence is a mix of statement and question. I look away from him to the boxes on the low shelves. I see my rusty spinning top on top of a torn cardboard box with ‘Blow Football’ printed on the side. Dominic used to play that game all the time. Then I notice her, and I can’t fathom why I didn’t see her before. Now her blue eyes are looking straight at me. It’s as if Sandy is telling me everything will be fine. Her hair is cropped short. I remember cutting her and Debbie’s hair. I look back at Alister Becon, knowing the madness in seeking answers from a man I fear and despise.

‘Let me spell it out for you, Clodagh, since we’re getting on so well together.’

I’m silent, hoping he will keep talking.

‘After the baby died, your mother had no choice but to come to me. She knew I had the connections to get it hushed up, brushed under the carpet as another mysterious cot death. No great issue there. These things happen all the time. All you need is some medical expertise. That, like everything else in life, can be bought.’

‘Go on.’ My voice is crackly, unsure.

‘Afterwards I figured it would be a matter of time before your mother dumped your father, leaving the way open for me. But that wasn’t her style. She liked to keep up appearances, no matter what. She had no intention of leaving your father, or their sham of a marriage.’ I can hear the hate rising in his voice. ‘I’m a man who expects to get what he wants.’

‘She didn’t love you,’ I say quietly. He doesn’t hear me, hell bent on continuing with his rant.

‘I like to control outcomes, Clodagh. With control you gain success. I needed to adjust my tactics. Apply more pressure on the weakest link, convince your father that he couldn’t live with himself after what he’d done. He didn’t need much persuasion. Alcohol can deepen the darkest mood, don’t you agree, Clodagh?’