The Doll's House

As they drag Johnny Keegan off the set, Keith Jenkins kneels beside the now distraught Suzanne Clarke, putting his arms around her shoulders for a number of seconds, before standing up again. Turning to the television camera, he fixes his tie back neatly into the collar of his shirt, saying, ‘We’ll take an interval here, folks, but don’t go anywhere – Keith Jenkins, Real People, Real Lives.’


Kate watched the final ten minutes of the recording, covering an interview with a woman who had had numerous extra-marital affairs, an interaction that reaffirmed some solid views that were forming in her mind about Keith Jenkins. He was no shrinking violet, and if he lived aspects of his life in a similar manner to his screen persona, then he must have picked up a lot of enemies along the way. If the rumours about him and women were true, then judging by how he’d attacked the last victim on the show, vis-à-vis her extra-marital affairs, then the old adage that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones was not a concept the late celebrity had lived by.

The media would be jumping all over his family soon enough, not initially to dish any dirt – it was still a little early for that – but to empathise with the wife and kids left without their model husband and father. When it came to dissecting these stories for entertainment value, it was to be expected that the media would operate like a circus, one act following another. But one thing was for certain. Once the initial hype and sadness were over, the media would ultimately turn, and every single negative aspect of Keith Jenkins’s life would be there for the taking.





Clodagh


Yesterday I had decided against taking a taxi home. It was a long walk, but I reached the strand faster than I expected. With the tide out, the beach stretched for miles. Instead of turning away from the strand and heading home, I kept walking towards the red-and-white chimneys of Sandymount. The calmness I’d felt with Gerard Hayden was gone. I knew something had changed inside me. There were questions to be answered.

In Mum’s final hours she was delirious with morphine, but she still had moments of lucidity. ‘Don’t blame your dad,’ she’d whispered to Dominic.

He’d thought I couldn’t hear her, but I had grown accustomed to the low voice. ‘I don’t,’ he whispered, the two of them holding hands like lovers.

To hell with them both, fuck them and their little secrets. Dominic shut me out, like he’s always done, telling me it wasn’t important. I felt like the outsider, and I hated her more than him for that.

Under the hypnosis, I’d talked about my old doll, Sandy. I have a fleeting memory of holding her in my arms, sitting with my back against my bedroom door, trying to keep it shut. Since Mum’s death, other memories have seeped through. Images, smells and feelings I had forgotten. The smell of nicotine in my bedroom when my father came in to say goodnight; sitting at the top of the stairs with Dominic, his arms wrapped around me, telling me everything will be okay. I can’t place the time, or work out why I’m crying, but for some reason I keep seeing my mother fixing her face in the hall mirror, lifting her right hand up to settle her hair, a turn, an extra-long glance towards can me, then walking away without saying goodbye, as if she hated me. I want to catch her image before the mirror wipes it clear, before the woman who used to smile disappears all over again.

For the briefest moment, I wonder should I tell Martin about Gerard Hayden. I haven’t told him about the row between Dominic and me either. The one after Mum died. Or how during my time in rehab I became more and more convinced that there was some darkness in my past, something I needed to face up to. He’ll think I’m making excuses for being an alcoholic, dismiss me as nuts, or both. And maybe he’d be right.

Gerard Hayden told me my subconscious mind would protect me. It wouldn’t bring me to a place of harm. I’ve made another appointment for tomorrow. Next time the regression will be different. Next time I’ll be going back to that gaping hole in my memory. Gerard says all memory is kept intact by our subconscious. I hope he’s right, and that my years of drinking haven’t messed the whole bloody thing up.

While on the strand, I’d wondered why Dominic and I had both chosen to live in houses only a stone’s throw from Seacrest. Martin wouldn’t hear of living anywhere but Sandymount. ‘Better an area you know than one you don’t.’ Maybe fucked-up familiar was strangely safe for us all.





Mervin Road


Mark Lynch phoned Kate after the Sunday-afternoon briefing. Morrison wouldn’t have any test results from the lab until Monday at the earliest, but it was something he said about the blood deposits on the canal ledge that caused Kate to pause.

‘Hold on a second, Mark. I want to take another look at the photographs in my study.’

‘Okay.’

She looked at the images from the wider viewpoint. ‘Mark, the low concrete wall running the length of the canal on either side, it links the two bridges together. You say Sarah Walsh picked up the blood deposits on the inner ledge. From here it looks about six foot long.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Long enough to rest a body.’