The Doll's House

She had speculated many times about her own attacker. Kate had barely turned twelve at the time. She could remember so much about that afternoon, the sense that someone was watching her, his breathing when he grabbed her from behind, her ultimate escape – individual images flashing forward, but when pieced together, there was still one image lost to her. She could never see his face. She remembered, moments before the attack, noticing him in the corner of her eye. Knowing something wasn’t right.

She felt she must have seen him clearly at some point. She remembered turning back to look when she’d sensed him following her. But the face was a blank. It left another unanswered question: could she not remember his face because she already knew him? Had she blocked it out?

Picking up the photograph of herself, Declan and Charlie that stood on the desk, Kate saw her reflection in the glass. It caught only one side of her face. Even so, she saw enough to recognise anxiety. Whether she liked it or not, part of it involved the collapse of her relationship with Declan while another part involved her growing feelings for O’Connor.





Clodagh


Access to the attic is via a small staircase in Dominic’s bedroom. It feels strange going into a room that has been dominated by my brother for so many years, him waiting on the landing, as if he’s not connected with it any more, or doesn’t want to be. It’s stranger still when I open the door to a room that is empty but for a single bed in the corner. I smell fresh paint. There is freshly laid carpet, dark cream against the stark white walls. The wooden staircase to the attic is also white, as if the same colour makes the stairs almost invisible.

I close the bedroom door behind me, pulling across the old latch at the top. Again I visualise the room as it used to be, with a world map hanging on the wall beneath the attic staircase. I remember reaching up on tiptoe to touch Ireland. Russia was red, with orange Mongolia underneath, partly hidden by the underside of the attic stairs. In the same corner, Dominic had his drum kit, which he and Stevie McDaid loved to play, Martin sitting on the bed or lying on the floor, laughing and joking with the two of them. When was the last time I’d heard Martin laugh, really laugh, as if life was fun and worth living?

I don’t feel like a trespasser, as I would have done years before, fearing Dominic would catch me in his room and give me what-for. Walking up the stairs, I hold tight to the narrow rail fixed to the wall. I take one step at a time, just as my mind had done with Gerard Hayden, counting each one. I stop at the top, pulling across another latch. I am hesitant about putting the key in the lock, reluctant to open the room that part of me hopes will be full of memories, and another part wants to be as empty as Dominic’s bedroom.

I should expect the dark, but it jolts me. It’s colder too, and I shiver. The attic is in complete contrast to the bright white walls I’m leaving behind. The door creaks on opening. I need light. My hand reaches for the old light switch, hoping it will still be there, even though it has been years since I stood in this room. The attic is not unlike the one in my doll’s house, with its A-roof and slanted pitch at either end.

With the door closed, again I reach up, pulling over the latch on the opposite side, as if shutting out the rest of the world. I soak it all in, my eyes adjusting to the artificial light, a single bulb hanging from the centre at the highest point. It looks the worse for wear. I see the old rope ends where the boys hung hammocks from the wooden beams above. I’m sure they got up to plenty in this room, well away from adult supervision. There’s an old dartboard hanging on the gable wall. At first, I can barely make it out, until I get close enough to see the rusted darts and metal divisions. I smell dust and rotting wood, my eyes scanning the low roof walls on either side. There are shelves packed with boxes, old sweet tins, bits of rubbish and a large wooden crate with Christmas decorations bulging out.

I’m looking for Emma, my doll with the cracked face. The one Dominic told me to throw away. To the right of the dartboard, the tall shelves don’t look quite so tall any more. If I find her, I might start remembering more. I took her with me everywhere. I held her in the attic, that time I hid with the boys.

The shelves are full of dust. I have a sense of foreboding, running my fingers along the middle shelf, filled with open and closed boxes. I see my old spinning top and smile. It still has the blue plastic bottle-top stuck to the top. When the handle went missing, Dominic fixed it for me. There’s an old paint set too, with Mickey Mouse, Pluto and Donald Duck on the front. Inside there is a mess of colours, bits of paint, hard and chalky, the underside of the lid like a grubby rainbow. I remember painting it. I can’t understand why some memories are so clear and others not.