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M. J. Arlidge

The Doll's House

The third book in the Helen Grace series, 2015

1

Ruby tossed fitfully in her bed after a disturbed night’s sleep. She seemed to have been in and out of consciousness for hours – not fully awake, but not truly asleep either. Wild anxiety dreams collided uneasily with the odd sensation of her mother carrying her to bed. That had felt nice but was impossible of course. Ruby lived alone and it had been fifteen years or more since her parents had had to do that.

Ruby regretted her session at Revolution last night. Angry with life, she had been in self-destructive mood, unable or unwilling to turn down the free drinks offered by hopeful lads. There had been pills and cocaine too – the whole thing had been a blur. But had she really drunk so much, taken so much, that she should feel this bad?

She turned over again, burying her throbbing head in the sheets. She had important stuff to do today – her mum was coming round soon – but suddenly Ruby couldn’t face any of it. She just wanted to hide away from the world, cocooned in her hangover, safe from the intrusion of family, responsibility, betrayal and tears. She wanted her life to go away – for a couple of hours at least.

Putting her head under the pillow, she groaned quietly. It was surprisingly cool underneath – cooler than usual – and for a moment she felt refreshed and soothed. This would be a good hidey-hole for a litt-

Something wasn’t right. The smell. What was it about the smell of the sheets? They smelt… wrong.

Alarm started to burrow through her hangover. Her sheets always smelt citrusy. She used the same fabric softener her mum did. So why did they now smell of lavender?

Ruby kept her eyes closed, the pillow clamped over her head.

Her brain ached fiercely as it spooled back over last night’s events. She had snogged a guy, flirted with a few more… but she hadn’t gone home with anyone, had she? No, she had made it back to her flat alone. She remembered dropping her keys on the table, drinking water straight from the kitchen tap, taking some Nurofen before flopping into bed. That was last night, wasn’t it?

She could feel her breathing becoming shallow now, her chest tightening. She needed her asthma inhaler. Stretching out her arm, she groped for the bedside table – drunk or not, she always left her inhaler within easy reach. But it wasn’t there. She reached out further. Nothing. The table wasn’t bloody there. Her hand collided with the wall. Rough brick. Her wall wasn’t like th-

Ruby pulled off the pillow and sat up. Her mouth fell open, but only a weak gasp came out – her body frozen in breathless panic. She had gone to sleep in her nice, cosy bed. But had woken up in a cold, dark cellar.

2

The sun was high in the sky and Carsholt beach looked magnificent, a long swathe of golden sand merging effortlessly with the gentle waters of the Solent. Andy Baker patted himself on the back – Carsholt was literally at the end of the road, so even though the beach was beautiful, there was hardly ever anybody down here. Cathy, him and the kids had the place to themselves and were set fair for a perfect Saturday by the sea. Picnic, bit of frisbee, a few beers – already the stresses of the working week were melting away.