The Doll's House

‘Like me and Martin,’ I say. My next words are loaded with sarcasm: ‘They say you always hurt the ones you love.’


Dominic doesn’t respond. In the silence, something else comes hurtling back. More raised voices. I see bruises on Dominic’s face. I thought he’d got into a fight with someone outside. But what if he hadn’t? What if his injuries were caused by someone closer to home? I stare at him, remembering the whispers I’d heard in the attic on our last visit to the house – the whispers of young boys, as if they were scheming.

‘Dominic, how did Dad find out?’

‘He started looking for answers. Once that happened, it didn’t take him long.’

‘Do you remember the other day in the attic, when I found Emma?’

‘What about it?’

‘I thought I heard whispers, boys talking low. It must have been a memory. If it was a memory, it means I was part of it.’

‘Clodagh, this isn’t helping you.’

‘Mum hated me. There has to be a reason she stopped loving me. She always loved you more than me.’

‘She didn’t. She found it difficult to show her love to you.’

‘Why? What did I do wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

And, for a moment, I’m not sure if he’s going to touch me. I wonder if I’m doing exactly what Mum did for as long as I can remember: she’d loaded all her problems onto Dominic. But still I say, ‘How hard can it be to show a child you love them?’

He takes my left hand in both of his. If Martin was to come in now, we would look ridiculous, a man, a woman and a doll with a cracked face.

‘Dominic, there’s something else.’

‘What?’

‘This evening when I came home, I went into that bedroom.’ I point to the room Martin and I used to share.

‘It’s your house.’ He sounds more like his clinical self.

‘Martin had removed all traces of me, every single photograph.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know.’ I look down at Emma. ‘When I married him, Dominic, I think I needed love too much. I thought he loved me. I don’t think that now.’

‘People change.’

‘Dominic, do you ever see Stevie McDaid?’

‘Why?’

‘I was thinking about him today. When I went up to the attic, I remembered you all playing as boys, you, Stevie and Martin. The ropes are still there, you know, from your old hammocks.’

‘Well, that was a long time ago, Clodagh. Let’s mark it up as bad taste in friends.’

‘I thought I saw him last week. I thought he might have been following me.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘I can’t be sure of anything any more.’

He says nothing.

‘Dominic?’

‘What?’ He’s closing up now. I know it. I need to push him.

‘That photograph, the one with Dad, Jimmy and Keith Jenkins – the one from their college days.’

‘What about it?’

‘You know who the other man is, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Alister Becon.’

‘It sounds familiar. He’s that politician.’

‘He and Martin have some business dealings.’

‘What kind of business dealings?’

‘You’d have to ask Martin about that.’

‘He won’t tell me.’

‘Alister Becon has his fingers in any number of pies, including politics.’

I look around the room, as if searching for something.

‘What are you looking for, Clodagh?’

‘The photograph – Martin took it from my bag. He put it in his briefcase. I need to find it.’

‘It’s only a photograph.’

‘Only a photograph,’ I repeat my brother’s words, more as if they’re a question than an affirmation. Then I think of another question, one that unsettles me, realising my mind is still recovering from the sleeping pills. ‘Dominic?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you get inside the house without a key?’





38C Seville Place


As Stevie watched Wednesday’s nine o’clock news, he thought long and hard about his next move. Being one of Alister Becon’s minions wasn’t a role he liked or cared to turn into a full-time career. He had no problem with following people around but he didn’t take to being at someone else’s beck and call.

Still, he knew Becon from before. Well enough to understand that, once you were caught within the fucker’s circle, certain rules applied. He might have stumbled on some financially useful information regarding Ruby McKay, but Becon wanted his piece of flesh before he handed out any money – which was why Stevie had decided to do a little digging.

He’d been surprised to discover that Martin McKay was working with Becon. It brought a wry smile to Stevie’s face: whatever business dealings Becon and McKay shared, he doubted that good old Martin had any bleedin’ idea the old man had been screwing his daughter. That particular nugget might prove useful further down the line, but the first priority was getting the money out of Becon. All other nostalgic trips down Memory Lane had to wait.