The Doll's House (5 page)

‘
O
K?'

Marina Esposito turned, barely able to make out the other person's voice over the din in the restaurant. It seemed to be one large Christmas party, the diners mostly drunk or on the way, the waiting staff stretching their smiles. Joy Henry was sitting on Marina's left, glass of wine halfway to her lips, a smile of concern on her slightly flushed face.

‘Yeah,' said Marina, looking at her own glass of wine in front of her, wondering whether it was half full or half empty. ‘Fine.'

‘They're a good bunch, aren't they?' said Joy, continuing before Marina could answer. ‘Friendly.' She leaned in closer, the wine taking her balance away slightly. ‘Not stuck up like some of them lecturers can get. Especially psychologists.' She took another mouthful of wine. ‘Not you, obviously.'

Marina didn't take offence, just sipped her own wine. San Marco was an upscale Italian restaurant in Birmingham's city centre. Mostly popular with – if the photos on the walls were any indication – footballers and their WAGs plus visiting actors, it was tonight playing host to the Birmingham University psychology department's Christmas party.

Noise levels were rising as people graduated from cocktails to first, or even second, glasses of wine. School was out for everyone in the restaurant, and the coming of Christmas just heightened the feeling of escape as the alcohol reddened faces and dissolved inhibitions.

The end of Marina's first term working in Birmingham. She had enjoyed it more than she thought she would. The city was still familiar enough for her to know her way around but different enough to give her the frisson of being somewhere new. Ghosts had been laid. Time had healed. For the most part.

Occasionally she would find herself walking along a street, admiring the new buildings, getting lost in the architecture, then turn a corner and be punched by a memory from her past that had been waiting to ambush her. The feeling would soon go but leave ripples, echoes within her. Reminders that she would never fully be rid of her past.

But the work had engrossed her. She hadn't realised how much she had missed it. Teaching, meeting students, chatting with fellow academics. And all in a safe, controlled environment. Part of her missed the thrill of police work, but doing this her life wasn't in danger, she didn't work every day and she got home at night to see her husband and daughter. She found it a trade-off worth making.

And she enjoyed the company of her colleagues, had even made friends with one or two. Joy, the departmental administrator, had steered her well. Given her the lowdown on who to talk to and who to avoid. Marina had thought at first that she would feel, to borrow a phrase Phil often used, like Jimi Hendrix in the Beatles, but they all seemed fine.

As if on cue, her phone trilled. A text. She checked it:

She texted back:

A murder case. And there it was, that familiar thrill. Get in there, find out what had happened, who had done what and why. She took another sip of wine.
Let it go
, she thought.
Not my concern any more
.

‘That your husband?' asked Joy, turning away from a young, handsome PhD student she had been chatting to.

Marina nodded. ‘On a case. Be home late.'

Joy's eyes widened. ‘Exciting.'

Marina shrugged, trying to play it down. ‘Not really. Just work.'

Joy was still looking at her. Marina knew the look, had expected something like this. Everyone in the department knew her background but no one had asked about it.
This must be it
, she thought.
The night the inhibitions come down and I'm expected to fill them all in on what they read in the papers and saw on the news.

Suddenly she wasn't enjoying herself so much.

At that moment, the empty seat the other side of her was abruptly filled. Marina turned.

‘This seat taken? Thought not.'

The man's voice was deep, resonant. Trace of an accent she couldn't immediately place. She took him in. Tall, his hair longer than was fashionable, but he managed to pull it off, sweeping it back and letting it hang down. His chin and cheeks had matching stubble. He was one step short of medallion man, his shirt open at least one button too many, his jacket expensive and designer but creased. Like he was used to the best but didn't have to make an effort with it. As she opened her mouth, he smiled at her. And that was when she noticed how beautiful his eyes were. Deep green, like sparkling wooded pools on a summer's day. Even without Joy's introduction, she knew who he was.

‘Don't think we've met,' he said, extending a hand. ‘Hugo Gwilym.' His voice was commanding, authoritative. The hint of accent she hadn't been able to identify she now spotted as Welsh. He was used to being listened to, like a politician or a mesmerist.

She found herself taking his hand. ‘Marina Esposito.'

‘Oh, I know who you are,' he said, shaking her hand lightly. The gesture was a very sensual one. ‘I know all about you.' Another smile. His eyes crinkled appealingly at the edges. She saw the shots of grey hair in amongst the black. It gave him a rakish, piratical air.

Marina felt herself reddening. She was aware of Joy's eyes on her. ‘Oh,' she said, then mentally chastised herself because she couldn't come up with anything better than that.

Hugo Gwilym. Marina had heard of him but not met him until now. The star of the department, of the university even, a psychologist who had parlayed an academic career into a media one. He had started writing articles for specialist journals, then hopped up to the broadsheets. Courted by publishers, he had brought out a couple of pop cultural psychology books. They in turn opened the door to TV interviews, which he finessed into regular appearances as a talking head on news and cultural programmes. He had even been a guest panellist on
Have I Got News For You
. He was ambitious, controversial and famous. And if the campus rumours were true, enjoying everything that fame brought.

Marina had read his work. She hated it. Disagreed with every point he made. A controversialist, a populist, a cynic.

But, close up, with lovely eyes.

He smiled again, reached for the wine bottle, filled up her empty glass.

She put her hand out to cover it. ‘No, I'm —'

‘We're here to enjoy ourselves. Don't worry.' He leaned forward. ‘Mind, out with this lot you need to drink as much as you can.' He sat back. Looked at her. ‘The famous Marina Esposito. Been looking forward to meeting you.'

‘Famous?' She felt herself reddening again. ‘I'm not the one with the media career.'

‘True.' He took a mouthful of wine, closing his eyes as he swallowed, making even that gesture seem sensual. The wine gone, he opened his eyes once more, fixed them on Marina. ‘But you've got the experiences. First hand. You've
lived
what I just write.'

‘Believe me,' she said, taking a drink without realising, ‘I would have been happier to have just written about it.'

He waved his hand, dismissively. ‘Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and all those old clichés.'

‘I don't believe that,' she said.

‘No?'

‘No. Whatever doesn't kill you might not make you stronger. It might harden you. But it's more likely to weaken you. And probably kill you eventually. Slowly.'

He gave her another crinkly-eyed smile. ‘I'm glad I made the effort to turn up now. I like a woman with spirit.'

Oh fuck off
, she thought, and turned away from him. She felt a restraining hand on her forearm. She turned back.

‘Everyone has the right to die. Everyone has the right to choose their own death, to determine it, don't you agree?'

‘That's the shittest chat-up line I've ever heard.'

He put back his head and laughed. Then looked at her, green eyes alive. ‘My new book. I'm researching it at the moment. Voluntary euthanasia. I believe it's morally wrong to punish those who want to die. And those who assist them shouldn't be found guilty of murder. I'm sure you agree.'

‘Are you?'

He leaned in closer. ‘My research has thrown up some fascinating stuff. Really fascinating. Stuff you wouldn't believe. I didn't.' His eyes locked with hers. ‘I'd really like your opinion on it.
Really
.'

Marina was dark-haired and olive-skinned, her Italian roots showing in her features. She dressed well and, in her late thirties, had a good figure. She had seen off more than her fair share of unwelcome attention over the years, and was about to do the same to Hugo Gwilym. But something in the intensity of his words, his gaze, made her stop.

‘Why me?'

He frowned as if the answer was obvious. ‘Because you've been there. You've
seen
it. You've stared into the abyss.'

‘Oh please.' Marina had had enough of him. She made to move away once more. Again she felt a restraining hand on her arm.

‘You're the only reason I came here tonight. I want to spend some time with you. Get to know you. I think we could… hit it off.' He kept his hand where it was, made no effort to move it.

‘I've read your work,' Marina said, staring at his hand like it was a spider.

Hugo Gwilym smiled, gave a mock bow of his head. ‘I'm flattered. Thank you.'

‘I didn't agree with a single word of it.'

He froze. For a second or two something dark passed behind his eyes. Quickly – but Marina caught it. He soon replaced it with his smile. ‘We really are going to get on, you and I. I can tell.'

His hand fell from her arm. Slowly, trailing as it went.

Marina stared at him. ‘I'm married, you know.'

‘Absolutely,' he said, taking a mouthful of wine.

‘Talk to my husband. He's done more abyss-staring than I have.'

‘Perhaps. Eventually.' He put his glass down, stared at her. ‘But it's you I'm interested in. You I want to talk to.'

Clearly
, she thought
. I should go. Talk to someone else, even
. But she stayed where she was.

Hugo Gwilym refilled her wine glass. Marina allowed him to. He raised his, toasted her, staring at her all the while like a hypnotist. She returned the toast.

‘Now the night has become interesting,' he said.

K
eith knew. As soon as he saw the house on the news, he knew. Even with the white tent in front of it, the blue sheet at the side, the glimpses of police going in and out, it was unmistakable.

It was the death house.

He sighed, causing pain to stab at his chest. He closed his eyes, rode it out. Waited until it had subsided, then returned to watching the TV. The reporter was standing in front of the house, heavily made up and bundled up against the cold. Fighting the urge to be somewhere warm in order to deliver a story that she hoped could make her nationally famous.

‘Details are still emerging at this point,' she was saying in reply to a studio-bound anchor, the wind taking away her breath, ‘but it's understood that the house had been rented over the Christmas holidays to a single man. It's still not been disclosed whether the body found inside is him or not.'

That was all he needed to see, to hear. It set his pulse racing, pushing the blood round his body quicker. Hastening his death by a few seconds.

Seeing this on the news, with police and reporters, made it all real. Brought it home to him. What he had done, what he was going to do, what he had
agreed
to do. And of course, what was going to be done to him. No. It wasn't a game any more, an abstract idea. It was real. Deadly and real.

Kelly chose that moment to enter the living room. He looked away from the TV, caught her by the doorway. The lurch in his stomach had nothing to do with his illness. She was beautiful, no doubting that. Beautiful but hard. Like a marble Rodin sculpture. She saw him watching, ditched the hardness from her features, expelled the hatred and distaste, turning on her sympathetic face before reaching him.

Good girl
, he thought.
What I'm paying you for.

Or what you think I'm paying you for
.

‘What you watching?' Her voice was as annoying as ever. With its doomed attempts at refinement, at forcing her West Midlands accent into shapes it wasn't naturally meant to be in, it sounded like she was mouthing elocution exercises while gargling coal.

‘The news,' he said, the words tiring him, his breath wheezing out.

‘Shouldn't watch that,' Kelly said, taking the remote from his lap and walking away, knowing he wouldn't be able to follow, and even if he did would be too weak to fight her for it. ‘Gets you all excited. And you don't want that. Remember what the doctor said.' Her voice sing-song and patronising.

Keith nodded. ‘Yeah.'
Bet
you
remember what the doctor said
. No sudden shocks. No excitement. With what his body had been through, it could be fatal. Surprised she hadn't given him more shocks. That was what he would have expected.

But he had a surprise for her. A real big shock. He just wished he could be there to see her face when she got it…

Kelly flicked the remote at the TV. The channel changed to a late-night quiz show. Smug comedians making snide remarks about everyone and everything, the audience laughing like it had been pumped full of nitrous oxide.

He hated it. She walked away, leaving it on.

Bitch
.

‘And put some lights on, Keith…' Before she left the room, she switched on the overhead chandelier. He winced from the sudden glare. He hated overhead lights, had done since childhood. And she knew that, had done it deliberately. He couldn't bear them to be on in any room he was in. He blamed his parents for that one.

He could remember one night when he was six years old, hearing noise from downstairs, a horrible wailing sound, and getting out of bed to investigate. He found his mother in the living room, the next-door neighbour with his arms wrapped round her, his wife by his side. His mother was screaming, breaking down before his eyes. She had always seemed like such a capable woman. He was terrified seeing her like that.

His mother saw him and grabbed him, clutching him to her. Then she told him.

Your dad's dead. Car crash.
 

And started wailing again. This time, he joined her.

The one thing he remembered, the one thing that stuck in his mind from that night, all the way into his adult life, was the overhead light. Shining down at full strength like an unforgiving, unrelenting desert sun. And he had hated them ever since.

Now here he was, sitting in his own living room, his chair wheeled in front of the TV, looking down at the tucked-under tracksuit bottoms, empty from the thighs down, where his legs used to be. The overhead light blazed down, reminding him that there was more than one way to die.

‘Can you turn the… the TV back… I was… was watching that…'

No reply. She could hear him. He was sure of it.

She came back into the room. He noticed that she was dressed up. Spike heels, short, clinging dress. Full hair and make-up. Her pulling gear. What she had been wearing when they first met. His heart sighed once more.

‘Where… where you going?'

‘Just out,' she said, putting her earring in place. ‘Broad Street with the girls. The Basin.'

‘It's… late…'

‘I know, but it's the only time I get to see them. It's just one night. For Christmas.'

He felt anger rise within him. Anger he was too impotent and weak to use. He knew where she was going, who she was meeting. If not the names, then the type. A younger man. A fitter man. A whole man. A man who wasn't about to die.

‘So you're leaving me… alone…'

A flicker passed over her features. It could have been read as guilt, but he knew better. Fear. Even now she couldn't make him unhappy.
Especially
now.

‘I won't be long. I promise. Just a Christmas drink with the girls. Honest.' She waited, breath held, while he made his mind up.

‘I can't stop you, can I?' he said eventually.

She smiled out of relief, then crossed to him and gave him the smallest and most careful of kisses on his cheek. Her perfume hit his lungs harder than mustard gas. He began coughing. She straightened up and left, fluttering her fingers, making promises not to be late. The coughing eventually slowed, then stopped altogether. He swallowed back blood. Felt it run down his throat.

He looked down between what remained of his legs. Saw the plastic rectangle in his crotch, mimicking his impotent penis.

At least she's left the remote
, he thought.
That's something
.

Keith flicked the channel over but the news had rolled on. Men were fighting in the Middle East now. He turned the TV off. Tried to relive what he had just seen.

The house. The body.
This is it
, he thought. It wasn't a game any longer
.
It was for real. And all because he'd talked to that university professor about his bloody stupid book. Funny how one thing could lead to another. From that to this. He tried to smile, but another bout of pain racked his chest, making him cough up more blood. He didn't swallow it down this time; instead he spat it on to the beige carpet. He looked down at it. Dark against light. Like blood on snow.

He managed to get himself back in control. Closed his eyes.

Not long now.

I just wish I could be there to see the bitch's face
, he thought.
When it happens.