Part One
The Dolls House
The Dolls House
The dreams returned the night following the visit to the car boot sale. I awoke with a start, my sweat dampened t-shirt clinging to my body, chilling me. I could still hear the voice from my dream, a whisper that seemed to rush from my mind and reverberate around the room. I lay still for a moment, fighting back a sense of panic, and then got up and headed downstairs, much to Bob’s delight. He didn’t often get company at this inauspicious hour. Rising stiffly from his basket, he tottered towards me, looking to be petted. Leaning down, I scratched him gently behind the ear and was rewarded with a rusty purr of appreciation.
Scooping him up, I rubbed my cheek against his craggy face for a moment. “How about you and I have a little nightcap together, Bob, huh, how does that sound?” His cloudy orange eyes gazed at me approvingly, and I gave a small laugh and set him back down on the floor.
Going to the fridge, I got out the milk, and poured some into a bowl, reasoning that, at his age, he was entitled to have a treat once in a while, and for that matter so was I. He greedily fell on the forbidden fruit, while I just as greedily helped myself to a large measure of cooking brandy, the only available alcohol in the house, downing it in one. It was rough and better suited to lighting a barbecue than quaffing neat, but still, needs must and all that. I had a short internal conversation with myself:
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Just as I refilled the glass, Bob let out a small mew of pleasure, alerting me to the fact our little party had been gate crashed by his favourite human. I didn’t echo the sentiment, especially not when said human smartly removed the glass from my hand and tossed the contents down the sink. I gave a mew of my own, one of indignation and protest.
“Thomas, I hadn’t finished with that!”
“I beg to differ.”
Oh, how I hated it when he said that.
After re-corking the bottle with firm efficiency, he put it back in the cupboard. “If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he tapped my rump, “the last thing you need is alcohol. It’s a stimulant.”
“Not if you drink enough, it isn’t.” I glowered at him resentfully. “What are you doing up anyway? You usually sleep like the dead. Has Halloween come early this year?”
Ignoring both the comments and the dirty look, he gripped my upper arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, switching off the light. “Back to bed, and by the way. If that cat is sick because of the milk you gave him, you’re cleaning it up.”
Upstairs in bed, he slipped a hand under my t-shirt, smoothing it over my chest and belly as we lay together.
“What’s on your mind, love? You were full of the joys of spring this morning, persuading me to go to that wretched car boot thing at the racecourse, and ever since you’ve been snapping and snarling like a dog with a tick in its tail. What’s bothering you?”
I rolled away from him, lying on my side. “Nothing, well,” I glanced over my shoulder, “apart from the fact, I fancied a little drink to help me sleep, and you act like an outraged Salvationist.”
He let out a psychoanalytical sigh, “listen, when you get out of bed at two in the morning to drink cooking brandy, then clearly something is bothering you. Either you voluntarily come clean and tell me what it is, or I don my Dom’s cap and make it a point of discipline until you do. I might start suggesting you go to bed straight after dinner each evening. How does that sound?”
“Huh,” I gave a contradictory grunt, “you can suggest all you like, but I won’t bloody go.”
He kissed my cheek, “oh, believe me, Andrew my honey, you’ll go, and if I catch you near that brandy bottle again, you’ll regret it. You know perfectly well that alcohol isn’t a problem solver.”
No, I thought sourly, but it’s a bloody good listener and it doesn’t nag. I kept my opinion to myself. Thomas was apt to be crabby if disagreed with on that particular point.
Almost a week later, while turning the car in to the road on my way home from work, a ray of spring sunshine hit the chrome bumper of a passing motor, momentarily dazzling me. I closed my eyes for a split second against the glare and when I opened them, there she was. She was standing by the side of the road. I’d been expecting her. All the same, it was a shock. My stomach gave a sickening lurch, and I hunched over the wheel, fearful lest she see me. I managed to park the car on the drive without mishap, though my hands were shaking and my heart pounding so hard I thought I was going to pass out.
Thomas came into the hall, his homely features shaping themselves into a frown of disapproval, when I slammed the front door hard behind me and hurled my bag aside.
“I take it you’ve had a bad day at work, Andrew, but is that really any reason...”
I didn’t give him chance to finish his sermon on the morality of door slamming and bag hurling. “I help pay the fucking bills, Thomas, so I reckon I’m entitled to slam a door when I feel like it. In fact.” I opened the door and childishly slammed it shut again. “I’m entitled to slam it as many damn times as I like.”
“I can’t say I care for your attitude. How about you go out and come back in again, preferably in a more civil manner.”
“Look, Tom, I’ve had a shit day and I just want to go for a bath.”
Turning the taps on, I sat on the loo seat, bunching my lower lip between a thumb and forefinger, chewing at the skin as the bath filled, ignoring the index finger tapping on the door.
“Andrew, open this door please.” The index tapping turned to a four-knuckle knock. “I want to talk to you.”
Standing up, I turned off the taps, leaning my hot forehead against the door’s cool grained wood. “I’m sorry for snapping your balls off, Thomas. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”
“Unlock this door at once, young man.”
Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door and opened it. He looked stern and I made haste to apologise again. “Sorry, Tom, really. I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a pig of a day at work. Alex has been on my back over bloody paperwork. I’m sick of her nagging. I just want to have a quiet soak in the bath and de-stress.”
His demeanour softened, and he rubbed my arm. “You’re forgiven. Take a couple of paracetamol, sweetheart, there’s some in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll make a start on dinner, don’t stay in there too long, okay?”
“Okay.” I managed to prevent my threatening tears from sounding an echo in my voice.
Closing the door, I locked it again, leaning my back against it. The tears overflowed and I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Closing my eyes, I began rocking slowly back and forth, as a scene insistently unfolded in my mind:
Mile upon mile they stretched out ahead of us, a great carpet of flowers, blue flowers reflecting the colour of the sky. It was breathtaking, like a painting. The whole scene was like a painting: the vivid blue wash of the sky, the brown-barked trees with their fresh green leaves, a cast of gold shed by the shimmering sun, and then, beneath the trees, the bluebells.
An Impressionist painting, that’s what she said. We’re inside an Impressionist painting. She enjoyed art and someone had given her a lush book about painters and their works for the Christmas that had just passed. She’d been enchanted with it, especially the section on Cubism, which for some reason fascinated her. She spent hours trying to draw and paint pictures and patterns in the same style, patiently explaining to mum and gran, what they were meant to represent. She got cross when gran totally failed to ‘get’ the concept of drawing something from a different perspective. If you want to draw a vase, then draw a vase, she would say, why try to make it into something else.
“Andrew!”
I jumped, when Thomas knocked sharply on the door. From the tone of his voice, it wasn’t the first time he’d called me.
“Coming.”
Scrambling to my feet, I pulled the plug in the bath, watching the unused water flow away. A small, absurdly sensible thought about waste of energy and resource inserted itself into my mind as I watched it drain away. Changing quickly out of my clothes, I then splashed my face with cold water and pulled on my bathrobe, before opening the bathroom door.
“I was fine, Thomas. Don’t fuss.” I marched towards our bedroom.
He followed me. “Dinner’s ready, so don’t bother getting changed. You can eat like that. The pasta will spoil if you dawdle much longer.”
I felt a flash of irritation. “Actually, I’m not hungry. I’m going to get dressed and go out for a walk.”
“If by walk you mean a walk to the pub to get plastered, like you did the other evening, then you can forget it. You’re staying in and you’re having dinner. I don’t expect you had anything at lunchtime. Hunger always makes you snappy and bad tempered, as the saying goes: a hungry man is an angry man, but not as angry as the cook whose offering is rejected. Resign yourself. I’ve made it now and it would be a crime to waste it.”
Slipping the robe off, I walked across to the chest of drawers to get out fresh underwear and socks. My hands were trembling slightly, and I hoped Thomas wouldn’t notice as I fumbled among the chaotic mess of the drawer, looking for a pair of matching socks. My clumsy fingers brushed a small object, which was usually taped to the very back of the drawer. It had come loose. I stared at it, my stomach tightening.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Whirling around, I snarled, “of course I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. It seems to me you’re the one with the hearing problem. I told you, I’m not fucking hungry and I’m going out for a walk.” I savagely rammed the drawer home, dislodging a book that was resting on top of the chest.
“Would you like to tell me what this paddy is in aid of?” Thomas picked the book up from the floor, smoothed its pages and replaced it on the chest.
“No.” After tucking my attributes into clean briefs, I sat on the bed to pull on a pair of odd socks.
Striding across to the window, Thomas began to pull the heavy curtains closed, blocking out the evening light.
“What are you doing?” I halted sock pulling and scowled at him. I had a fair inkling of what he was doing, but still felt compelled to ask. I was masochistic like that.
“Drawing the curtains,” he said, stating the obvious in that infuriatingly calm way of his.
“Why?”
“Because, Andrew, you’re behaving like a fractious toddler. I can only draw the conclusion it’s because you haven’t been sleeping well lately, and act accordingly. It seems to me, you’d benefit more from an early night than a walk, and if you don’t, then at least I will, because I won’t get mauled every time I open my mouth. I’m tired of being snapped at. I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can settle down.”
He briefly ruffled my hair, as if I were indeed a tired toddler, and then walked out of the room, leaving me seething. As soon as I heard his footsteps begin to descend the stairs, I defiantly flung the curtains back open. I then dragged on jeans and a heavy knit jumper. It might be spring according to the calendar, but as yet there was still a hint of winter’s breath in the air.
We met on the stairs. He was halfway up carrying a tray, while I was halfway down carrying nothing. He played the Grand old Duke Of York to my man at arms, marching me straight back up to the top of the hill. Well, not so much marching me back up, as forcing me to retreat, as he had no intention of halting his intended journey and I couldn’t get past him on the narrow staircase. Like the staircase, the upper landing was narrow, and he positioned himself dead centre, elbows out, so I couldn’t squeeze past him, not without upsetting the contents of the tray.
To my annoyance, I was pushed back faster than the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk, though unlike those brave souls, I had no opportunity to turn defeat into a glorious triumph of the human spirit over adversity. Using his right heel, he closed the bedroom door behind him and swiftly set the tray down on a chair. I was, metaphorically speaking, stranded, with the enemy to the fore and the unfriendly sea to the rear and not a rescue craft in sight. Oh, how I hated being outmanoeuvred.
“Get ready for bed, please, Andrew.”
I wasn’t surrendering without a fight. Forcing back an urge to leap up and down on the spot, I tried to make my voice sound reasonable and steady, like the adult I was and not the child I was beginning to feel like.
“I’m not going to bed, Thomas. I know you mean well, but I’m not tired and I’m not hungry. I simply want some fresh air, is that asking too much?”
“No,” he gave an eloquent shrug. “Fresh air is no problem at all, my darling. Open the window and you can have all the fresh air you need. Close the curtains while you’re over there, a dim light is more conducive to rest.”
“I’m not budging on this, Tom, I mean it.” Folding my arms, I stared at him stubbornly.
We faced each other off for a few moments, and then he gave a small shrug suggestive of regret, before moving across to his bedside cabinet. Pulling open the drawer, he brought forth a certain beastly little bat and laid it on the bed, making plain we were now in an official discipline situation and he had his Dominant’s hat on.
“As you know, Andrew, I’m a fair man.” He gave a cool smile. “I’ll give you a choice. Bed without further ado or a bare backside paddling and then bed.”
“In other words, no choice at all.”
“Exactly, so do as you’re told please, and do it quickly, or you’ll find yourself over my knee.”
I angrily dragged my jumper off over my head. “You always get your way, don’t you? You’re a bully and a damn dictator.”
Really, I had no grounds for such accusations. I knew the rules of the game well enough and I knew they applied whether or not I was in the mood for playing.
“Sticks and stones, my boy, sticks and stones.”
He started picking up my clothes from the four corners of the room, where I’d flung them in juvenile pique, neatly folding them and putting them on top of the chest of drawers.
“The end justifies the means. You’ve displayed nothing but ill temper for days now. I warned you the other evening that I wouldn’t put up with much more of it. Eat. Rest. You can call me as many names as you like, as long as you wake up in a better mood tomorrow. Eat your pasta before it goes completely cold. I’ll be up presently to get the tray.”
He placed the paddle on top of his bedside cabinet where I could clearly see it. “Just to remind you that the sting is in the tail,” he wagged his index finger, “or it will be in yours, if you attempt to defy the limitations just set.”
I pulled a face and stuck a hearty two fingers up, as Mr Proverb man, exited the room. “Bossy, bloody impossible, arrogant, overbearing...” I gave up muttering and opened the drawer of my own bedside table, tipping the tagliatelle inside and closing it again. My copy of The Da Vinci Code would never be the same again, but then maybe that was a plus. It wasn’t my cup of tea at all. I couldn’t understand why it was so popular.
Thomas smiled, when he came back up for the tray and saw the empty plate.
“See, you were hungry.”
I felt a spasm of guilt at deceiving him. He cared about me and I really didn’t deserve him to. He compounded the guilty feeling by balancing the tray on his left hip, so as to free his right hand to tenderly caress my face.
“You’ll feel so much better after a rest, love.” He struggled heroically for a second, his untidy brows bristling slightly with the effort, but gave into temptation, quoting another of his beloved proverbs. “One hour’s sleep before midnight is worth two after.”
“The darkest hour is before the dawn.” I countered sarcastically, “and there will be sleeping enough in the grave.”
“Much more mockery from you and we’ll be putting that last one into practice.” He sternly peered at me over the top of his half moon glasses, though the effect was endearing rather than intimidating. “The trouble with you, Andrew, is you always have to try and have the last word, and as you know, in this house, the last word belongs exclusively to me, so heed it and sleep.”
“I’m not a baby to be fussed over. I’m fine. I don’t need a rest.”
“You’re my baby, and I love you. Try to sleep, to please me if not yourself.” He made a kiss at me, before leaving the room closing the door behind him.
The last thing in the world I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep opened the gateway to nightmares. I wanted to keep it firmly shut. Even without closing my eyes, I could see the dolls house standing on that rickety bric-a-brac stall at the car boot sale. It was the same, the very same. I knew exactly what it would look like, if I removed the curved claw hook from the eye, and allowed the front of the house to swing open, revealing the rooms within. My skin prickled, and I tried desperately to blink the vision away.
Getting out of bed, I wandered across to the window, pulling aside the curtains to stare outside, watching as a kid cycled down the opposite side of the street pedalling for all he was worth, keeping time with whatever music was blasting into his eardrums courtesy of iPod. The lowering sun caught the whirling spokes, flashing spears of silver. I blinked and then felt my heart leap violently in my chest as she came into view again, standing on the edge of the curb, with her arms wrapped tight about her thin body. Swishing the curtains shut, I thrust myself back from the window, turning and fleeing the room.
Available at Smashwords
Contains mild sexual eferences.