06.04.2008 / EP. 15
Guys and Dolls
When Milly climbed up out of her dark well, she was famished. On the other hand, she didn’t want to risk meeting Fred. Her mind drifted as she wandered among the dolls.
The room automatically controlled light, temperature, humidity, dust and static electricity. Piped music further tempered Milly’s mood. There wasn’t much the room didn’t do. The rule was two people at a time, so as not to overburden the system. Milly hadn’t permitted anyone except herself to see the collection. She told herself this reduced water vapour and ensured no mould or other micro-organism would take hold.
The colour of the room was, despite the lighting controls, as gray as dust, the air tasteless and vapid. No breeze stirred. The temperature was neither cold nor warm. The combination elicited torpor. Milly looked at the rows of dolls she had acquired through the years. A few specimens were as tall as herself. These were wooden mannequins of centuries ago, designed to sell Paris fashions in London. Others, the more usual height, stood or sat in bell jars. These were tiny women rendered in plaster or carved from wood or assembled from bisque prefab. Most had articulated arms and legs. A few had eyes that shut. Milly allowed herself a fantasy she often had: the dolls would one day break their cages and march on the world, an army of women endowed with Milly’s intelligence and courage, tenacious, bold, implacable. These dolls had never served tea at parties or changed clothes every two hours as fashion required. They didn’t modulate their voices or cater to others. They refused to conform. They confronted Milly’s enemies and defeated them in silence and fury. They also commanded a commercial empire that governed the souls who didn’t oppose her. In this way, Milly ruled the indifferent and the hostile by diverse means, one through persuasion, the other force.
It was a fond dream and, accommodating it, Milly had drifted off to sleep. She often did in this room. It was a place, after all, where her dreams were fulfilled, or if not fulfilled, then formed. Milly shook off the wisps of slumber that clung to her and made her way again to the Triste Bebe. The pedestal was empty. It hadn’t been a nightmare. She examined the base and glass. There wasn’t a mark. The doll might have picked herself up and vanished on a sunbeam. Obviously an inside job, Milly said to herself. Or a team with the most advanced technical skills. Which made things simple. There weren’t many people who qualified. And the killer was somehow connected with her missing doll. Chances that they weren’t related were remote. Or the same person was trying to frame her for both. It was a sobering prospect. Based on the skill shown so far, Milly didn’t have a prayer. In gloom and with foreboding, Milly found clothes she could wear without entering her bedroom. She quickly made her way to work. She had to be on time. Appearances were crucial. Food could wait. Carrie would be watching for any departure from the norm.
On the way to her office, Milly saw the same thin, gnarled shadows again and again. Men in their raincoats looked like wretched monks, and young girls looked like etchings which she almost recognized. The residual influence of Carrie’s drug, she thought.
