The Doll's House

The seagulls that swooned and squawked overhead, seeking leftovers from the previous night, seemed to be waiting for their moment to pounce. Kate thought about what the area would have looked like the night before, after an international soccer match, with unhappy fans falling out of the bars and nightclubs nearby. The canal linked many of the inner suburbs of the city, so a few hours before the sighting by the young mother there could have been any number of people walking up and down it. The 999 call from Grace Power had come in after most of the crowd would have dispersed. Still, the killer had taken a chance in bringing his victim here. The thought was in the forefront of Kate’s mind as she watched O’Connor.

It had been nearly a year since she had worked with him, and it wasn’t a surprise that he hadn’t been in touch. Once an investigation was over, there was no reason for either party to make contact. Speaking to him earlier on the phone, she’d been surprised by her own reaction. Despite the nature of their conversation, she was pleased that they would work together again and had assumed that O’Connor would be too.





Clodagh


Damn Dominic. Not that I give a toss about his idiotic comments regarding rehab. It’s all the other stuff that riles me.

After Mum had become ill, I felt numb for a long time. Denial, they called it during therapy. We continued to play our shambles of a game, pretending everything was okay between us, as if we had a normal mother-and-daughter relationship. But all our talking was no more than surface banter, spreading out like candyfloss spun from nothing – and another reason to get that telephone number from Val.

During her last days, when I pressed her about Dad’s death, all she would say was ‘Not now, Clodagh, please not now.’ But it had been different with Dominic. Even at the end she had confided in him.

I clench my hands. They all think it was her death that drove me back to the bottle, but it wasn’t. It was her and Dominic’s closeness, especially in the weeks coming towards her death, and if Dominic lived for another two hundred years, he would never understand that. Sitting on her bed, my fingers loosen, my hands spreading out across the crisp white embroidered cover.

When I cross the landing and open the door of my old bedroom, the first thing I see is my doll’s house in the corner. I told Martin I wanted to take it before the house was cleared out. Like Dominic, Martin doesn’t understand my need for these things. I can’t remember the last time I opened it, but I know the tiny yellow flowers in the blue vase are still there, with the small china cups and plates. The furniture, the picture frames, the dolls, they’re still there too. Even Ben, the brown terrier with his bright red collar, will still be holding the black-and-white-spotted ball in his mouth.

I hear traffic speeding outside on the main road, dulling the sound of the tide breaking on the strand. Looking around my room, I’m relieved that none of the furniture has been removed. The pine wardrobe, the dressing table, my old bed, they are all as they should be. The bedcovers have been changed, of course, and the array of bits and pieces scattered across the top of the dressing table was cleared away a long time back.

I smile, thinking about the dressing table piled with notes from school, nail polish, hairspray, lipsticks, the small photos stuck into the silver clasps on the mirror. For the life of me, I can’t remember where the black-and-white photo strip of me and Orla has gone. We were sixteen, a right wild pair. But Orla had known when to stop.

She made contact before the funeral, telling me how sorry she was, and if I ever needed anything, even though she lived in Boston, she was only ever a phone call away. Perhaps in better circumstances our conversation would have felt less forced, but it was still kind of her to call. When you feel lonely, even the actions of someone from the past can relieve the isolation.

In the corner, I kneel down, touching the tiny white sash frames of my doll’s house windows, jumping this time when my mobile bleeps – a text from Martin: Where the hell are you? The whole world wants to know where I am today. I’d better answer him. If I don’t there’ll be no peace later. I text him in reply: I’ll be back soon. I’m getting papers from Mum’s. He won’t be happy, but I don’t care. I’m still angry after my conversation with Dominic. I’d thought about taking a drink earlier on, to say to hell with it, an alcoholic’s answer to everything. Drink when you’re happy, drink when you’re sad, when there’s a reason to celebrate, when there’s a reason to cry. But there’s Ruby. Because of her, until the day I die, I won’t forgive myself if I hit the bottle again, but that doesn’t mean I feel strong enough not to slip.

When Ruby was younger, she didn’t understand my drinking. I learned that in rehab too. Children develop trust issues, the alcohol messing with their parent’s emotions, ecstasy one moment, anger and desolation the next. The child never knows what to expect, changing their behaviour to gain your attention, not realising that none of your mood swings are connected to them. The bottle, the alcohol and the beautiful blur call all the shots.

Now it’s different. Ruby knows what’s going on. Her anger is palpable. I don’t blame her. I’ve let her down. I’ve let everyone down, but her most of all, and I damn well know that feeling better than anyone.





Mervin Road