Читать книгу The Doll House: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist! - Phoebe Morgan, Phoebe Morgan - Страница 17

9

Kent

Ashley

Ashley’s mouth feels dry, fogged with wine. Holly has been surprisingly quiet in the night; she was up at two and again at four, but apart from that she has slept. The silence feels dreamlike, unreal. Ashley reaches across the bed for her mobile. Seven a.m. The numbers stare back at her. There are no missed calls and she feels something inside her loosen, relax a little. She dials the Barnes house. The phone rings and rings.

James doesn’t pick up; she ends the call, lies staring at the blank face of her mobile. Yuck. She needs to brush her teeth.

The bedroom door creaks open and she lifts her head. Her sister enters the room and Ashley immediately scoots over, bunching up the covers under her chin, making room for Corinne. She looks worried, as though she hasn’t slept much.

‘Budge over, will you?’ She glances into the cot. ‘Hol asleep?’

Ashley nods, moves further along the bed, pulling back the duvet to let Corinne in. Her hair tickles Ashley’s shoulder as she wriggles in next to her and they turn towards each other, lying face to face like they used to when they were girls.

‘You all right? It’s really early. I thought you were Benji wanting juice.’

Corinne frowns. ‘It’s the hormones. My schedule’s messed up; I can’t sleep, and when I do, I have nightmares. And I can never get comfortable.’ She sighs, shifts so that her back is to Ashley.

‘Oh, poor you.’ Ashley reaches out and rubs her sister’s back, feeling the proximity of the bones through the skin. When they were small she used to run her palm up and down Corinne’s little spine, count the humps as her sister slept beside her. It was fun sleeping in the same bed, cuddling up like sardines in a tin and drifting off to the sound of their parents chatting downstairs.

‘How’s the gallery going now? Did you get that new commission?’

Corinne rolls over, spreading her arms out until she is flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. She reminds Ashley of a snow angel, the type they used to make in the Hampstead garden when they were children. Their dad had shown them how to throw themselves backwards, spread their arms wide, enjoy the cold thud of the ground beneath them.

‘No. Not yet, anyway. I mean, I hope I do.’

‘Has Marjorie mentioned it?’

Corinne shrugs. ‘On and off. She’s not my biggest fan at the moment. I need to pull my socks up.’ She says the last phrase in a forced matronly voice and they both laugh.

‘There’s a new woman moved into our building,’ Corinne says. ‘Gilly something. Quite young, younger than me. She’s got a little boy, a toddler, she’s on her own.’

Ashley waits.

‘I’m going to try to be friendly to her,’ Corinne says. ‘I have to, don’t I? I can’t be rude to people just because they’ve got what I haven’t.’ She looks as Ashley as though for approval, and Ashley feels a rush of love for her sister.

‘Oh, Cor. Yes, of course you need to try. But don’t beat yourself up. It’s normal that you feel this way, really, it is.’

Corinne nods. ‘I know. But I can’t give into it, I’ve got to keep trying.’

‘You can do it,’ Ashley says. ‘You always were a determined person. Remember when we were little? You wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ She smiles. ‘Dad used to call you his little dictator.’

Corinne laughs. ‘God, I’d forgotten that.’

The alcohol from the night before is making Ashley’s heartbeat fast and irregular.

‘I can’t get hold of James,’ she tells Corinne. ‘I tried him just now and he’s not answering.’ She tries to keep her voice light.

‘Probably asleep. Or already on the way? I thought you said he was coming down anyway?’

‘I did. He’s meant to be. Said he had to work.’

‘Well, then, he’s working! Don’t worry, silly billy.’

Ashley feels a bite of irritation. She swallows down her feelings, picks up her mobile and dials again. The line takes a while to connect and when it does it clicks on to their automatic answering machine.

‘James, Ashley and the children are unavailable to take your call right now. Please leave a message and we’ll call you straight back!’ Her own voice shrills out at her. God, she’s chirpy. She pulls back the covers, swings her legs out of the bed.

‘I should go and check on Benji. Want some tea?’

‘Just hot water, please.’

Ashley stands up. She is gasping for a cup of Earl Grey. At thirty-nine, she can’t drink wine like she used to in her twenties. Not without consequences, anyway. As she leaves the room, Corinne says her name.

‘Ashley?’

Corinne’s voice is high, as though she is unsure of what she is about to say.

‘What’s the matter?’

She turns back towards the bed. Corinne sits up, pulls the quilt tight across her knees. There are bags under her eyes, purple in the dimmed light of the bedroom.

Corinne stares at her for a few seconds as though about to say something, then seems to change her mind.

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing. I’ll see you downstairs.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. Sorry.’

‘OK. Let me know if Hol wakes up, will you? Watch her for me.’

Ashley pulls the door to and goes down the corridor, pausing at the doorway to Benji’s room. She has done this ever since he was born: stop outside his door and listen to the rise and fall of his breathing. She holds her own breath as she listens. God knows what would happen if she couldn’t actually hear him.

Ashley retrieves the tea bags from her mother’s cupboard. She hopes Corinne is all right; her sister is prone to getting things out of proportion, seeing significance in everything even when there is none. She panics easily, always has. The doll house is a typical example. Their dad’s death hit Corinne particularly hard, Ashley knows it did. Perhaps the fertility treatment has brought the feelings to the surface.

She goes over to her mother’s landline and dials her husband again. The phone rings and she is about to give up when James answers, his voice sounding gruff.

‘James? Are you OK?’ A spurt of worry grips her heart and she presses the phone to her ear, listening for another voice in the background. Is there someone there, is there somebody with him?

She waits, counts to three. Perhaps she is imagining it. The phone can distort. She takes a big gulp of tea.

‘Are you coming down today? Everyone wants to see you. We’ll probably go for lunch.’ Ashley can feel herself holding her breath.

James clears his throat and when he speaks his voice sounds more like himself. The energy leaves her suddenly and she has to lean against the counter. What is the matter with her?

‘I’ll be on the next train.’

Ashley remains in the kitchen after they hang up, holding the phone to her chest. Her friend Megan’s voice filters through her ears, Are you worried, Ashley? Ashley, are you worried?

Then

I don’t tell anyone what we do any more. I did once, when I was younger, when I was just little, I wrote about it for my school project. The title was ‘What I Did at the Weekend’. It was in art and design class and the teacher asked us to draw a picture of what we did on our Saturday and Sunday. But it wasn’t just a normal drawing, we were allowed to use all different materials. That means paint and glue and felt tip pen. Mrs Sanderson said I could do whatever I liked and so I picked up all the shoeboxes from the corner of the classroom, the spare ones from when we made bug boxes, and I started to build a house.

I used Sellotape and Pritt Stick (although that didn’t work very well) and I put the boxes one on top of the other, because the house we go to is quite big. Then I added in windows for us to look through and a door, although we aren’t allowed to go through that yet but Mummy says we will one day.

It looked really good, everyone said so, even that boy Toby who is mean to me. So that means it really was good. The teacher asked me if that was my house and I said yes, yes, it is my house, and then I had to go to the toilet and I felt a bit sick because I knew I had told a lie. Mummy says lies are what adults say and I felt scared then because I thought I must be becoming an adult. I don’t think I want to be an adult. They’re not very nice to each other. I wrote down a story to go with the picture, but then when the teacher saw it, she crossed it all out with a big red pen, she said I had to learn the difference between making something up and telling the truth. I was telling the truth though. It’s just that no one believed me.

I told Mummy what had happened and she was cross, she told me that what we do is our special secret and that I haven’t to tell anyone ever again. She didn’t hit me or anything, she never does that, but she looked at me like what I had done was really serious and so I felt frightened. I turned my face against the wall but she spun me round, her hands digging into my shoulders, and she put her face all close to mine and she said that I must never tell anybody because if I do we will get into big trouble, both of us, and especially her and if she is taken away then nobody will look after me at all, because she’s sure as hell the only one doing it now.

‘Sure as hell’ is what she said. I’ve never heard anyone say that before but I don’t like the sound of it. I kept my mouth zipped shut the rest of the night, zip zip zip. Nothing came out of my mouth at all. Next time at school I’m going to say we went to the beach, because that’s what Natasha next to me always does. The teacher will think we’re friends, which is another lie. But at least that won’t make Mummy cross.

Sometimes I think it is all my fault, that I’m not a good enough child for Mummy. That she wants a different one, a better one, a daughter with longer hair or a nicer face. I feel all sad when I think that, and I try extra hard to be good. I don’t complain when we visit the house three nights running, I don’t cry when she forgets to sign my reading book, I don’t make a fuss when the dinner is cold fish fingers again. But none of it makes a difference, she still talks about it all the time, about how badly her life has turned out. She asks the air sometimes, she says, what did I do to deserve this?

Once I asked her if she meant me, deserve me, and then she looked a bit sorry and she gave me a cuddle. She smelled a bit funny but for once I didn’t mind.

‘No,’ she said, ‘That’s not what I mean. I just wanted better for you, that’s all. For both of us. I still do.

I want that too, but I don’t know how we’re going to get it.