The Turn of the Key

I was gripping it hard—as if the force of my grip could stop it exploding or escaping from my grasp. It did neither. But as I stood, gingerly, I felt something twinge in my index finger, a shard of glass, so sharp I had barely felt it go in. It had pierced the bag itself and driven into my finger, drawing blood, which now dripped with a steady rhythm onto the wooden floor. The head was not china, I realized, but painted glass.

At the sink I pulled the glass out of my finger and then wound my hand in a piece of kitchen paper before wrapping the head in a tea towel, and then another bin bag. I tied the top and stuffed it deep, deep into the rubbish bin, feeling like I was burying a corpse. My finger throbbed as I pressed down on it, making myself wince.

“What happened to Ellie?”

The voice made me jump, as if I’d been caught hiding the evidence of something guilty, and swinging round I saw Maddie standing in the doorway. Her expression was slightly less truculent than usual, and with her hair standing on end she looked like what she was—just a little girl with a comical case of bed head, woken up too early.

“Oh . . . it’s my fault,” I said ruefully. “I’m afraid I shouted at her. She was about to touch some broken glass and I scared her, trying to stop her. I think she thought I was angry . . . I just didn’t want her to hurt herself.”

“She said you found a doll and you wouldn’t let her play with it?”

“Just a head.” I didn’t want to go into the whys and wherefores with Maddie. “But it was made of glass, and sharp where it had got cracked. I cut myself clearing it up.”

I held out my hand like evidence, and she nodded, somberly, seemingly satisfied with my incomplete explanation.

“Okay. Can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

“Maybe. But, Maddie—” I stopped, not quite sure how to phrase what I wanted to ask. Our rapprochement felt so fragile that I was scared of endangering it, but there were too many questions buzzing in my head to abandon the topic completely. “Maddie, have you ever . . . do you know where the doll came from?”

“What do you mean?” Her face was puzzled, guileless. “We’ve got lots of dolls.”

“I know, but this is a special, old-fashioned doll.”

I couldn’t bring myself to fish the nightmarish broken head out of the bin, so instead I pulled out my phone and searched on Google Images for “Victorian doll,” scrolling down until I found one that was a slightly less malevolent version of the doll from the attic. Maddie stared at it, frowning.

“There was one like that on TV one time. It was a program about selling ankeets.”

“Ankeets?” I blinked.

“Yes, old things that are worth a lot of money. A lady wanted to sell an old doll for money but the person in charge of the show told her it wasn’t worth anything.”

“Oh . . . antiques. I know the show you mean. But you’ve never seen one in real life?”

“I don’t think so,” Maddie said. She turned away, and I tried to read her expression. Was she being too casual? Wouldn’t a normal child ask more questions than this? But then I shook myself. This second-guessing of everything was starting to border on paranoia. Children were self-absorbed. I knew that well enough from the nursery. Hell, there were plenty of adults who were incurious enough not to question something like this.

I was just trying to formulate a way of bringing the conversation back to the writing on the wall and Maddie’s Alphabetti Spaghetti, when she changed the subject abruptly, bringing it back to her original question with the single-mindedness typical of young children.

“So, can I have Coco Pops for breakfast?”

“Well . . .” I bit my lip. Sandra’s list of “occasional” foods were being consumed more and more frequently by the day. But then again, she shouldn’t have it in the house if she didn’t want the children to eat it, should she? “Yes, I guess so, just for today. But it’s the last time this week, okay? Back to Weetabix tomorrow. Go up and get your school uniform on, and I’ll have it ready by the time you get down. Oh, and will you tell Ellie there’s a bowl for her too, if she wants it?”

She nodded, and as she disappeared upstairs I reached for the kettle.

*

I was spooning some porridge into Petra’s mouth with my uninjured hand when a little face appeared at the kitchen door and then just as quickly slipped away, leaving a piece of paper scudding across the floor.

“Ellie?” I called, but there was no answer, only the sound of feet disappearing. Sighing, I made sure that Petra’s straps were secure and went to pick up the piece of paper.

To my surprise it was a typed letter, formatted like an email, though with no subject, and nothing in the “To” field. Under the Gmail header was a single line of text with no punctuation.

Dave Owen I am very sorry for scratching and waning away from you and saying that I hate you please don’t be angry and don’t go away like the others I am sorry love Ellie p. S. I got dressed by myself

Dave Owen? The words made my brow furrow, but there was no mistaking the intent of the rest of the message, and I unclipped Petra, put her in the playpen in the corner, and picked up the letter again.

“Ellie?”

Silence.

“Ellie, I got your letter, I’m really sorry for shouting. Can I say sorry to you too?”