Bad Little Girl(100)

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Lorna was there. She stood straight-legged and laughing over Claire, a pink backpack hooked over one elbow.

‘Get up!’ And Claire, faltering, tried, but failed. Lorna tutted, got behind her and pulled her up in a bear hug with surprising strength – ‘Get up, lazy!’ – propping her up against the cool stone walls. Claire’s legs were numb with an edge of pain, and the light from the doorway hurt her eyes.

Lorna laughed now, careless, guileless. Claire noticed that her hair was arranged into fussy little buns, already shedding pins. Her mouth was slick with lipstick; a pinkish purple. Marianne’s. Lorna backed a little towards the door. She looked warily at Claire. One hand fiddled with the zip of her rucksack. It swung close to the floor.

‘You still angry with me?’ she asked.

Claire tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was too dry. She blinked slowly.

‘You are. You’re angry with me. I can tell.’ Lorna took another step into the room, swinging her hands, and sighing through puckered lips. ‘You’re angry with me and I should be angry with you. Really.’

Claire found her voice. ‘Why?’ she croaked.

‘’Cause you told Auntie May about me. You said I was bad.’ She simpered. ‘You didn’t tell her everything, though.’

‘No.’

‘That’s lucky.’ Lorna swung the rucksack girlishly. ‘Today we’re going on a trip. Me and Auntie May. I thought you might be bored, so I brought you something.’ She burrowed busily in the bag, her head ducked, and Claire thought, I could push her. Now. I could push her down and run. Even with my feet tied, I could probably make it up the stairs, dodge Marianne . . . Then the girl looked up slyly, smiled. ‘Nearly got it—’ Claire took a step forward, heard the click of Marianne’s heels outside – and something came out of the bag. ‘Oh look, look what I found! This.’

Something swung towards her, something hard and lethal in a knee sock – one of those warm socks Claire had bought for her, months ago, a timorous gift for the poor cold child waiting on the corner. Claire dodged, stumbled against the wall near the door, and the hook used to keep it open jabbed painfully into her side as Lorna’s weapon clipped her hip. A broken brick, jaggedly poking through the toe of the sock. Lorna pulled back and swung again. Claire lurched forward this time and the brick hit her buttock, scraped her thigh. She could hear Lorna wheezing behind her, frustrated, angry. Claire reached the door. The brick came down on her calf now, and pain shuddered through her leg, bringing her down, her head coming to rest near the scuffed toe of Marianne’s boot.

‘Marianne!’ Claire whimpered. ‘Marianne!’ and she had time to see the woman’s stricken face, the horror; had time to see her look fearfully at Lorna, before the brick came down again on her cheek, and Claire heard, rather than felt the thick, welty noise of it hitting bone.

Blood filled her ear, ran into her open mouth. Marianne, from far, far away, screamed.

Lorna was breathing heavily. ‘I think it’s done. I think so. Will you check?’

Marianne shook her head with an animal moan.

Lorna dropped the brick on the floor. ‘Let’s go then.’

Then there was nothing.

Later, much later it seemed, Claire heard the car start up, and rattle down the driveway.





39





Hours. Maybe hours. Maybe a day. Viscous blood pooled in her eye socket, in the fold of her neck. Whenever she tried to raise her head, pinwheels of bright pain prevented her.

It grew colder. I’ll freeze here if I don’t move.

She started with her legs. Move, Claire, move. Twisting her right ankle centimetre by centimetre, trying to stretch the tape, feeling the ripped skin on one calf pucker, bleed. That must be the leg Lorna got with the brick. Still, at least you’re feeling something. Try to bend your knees and swing sideways and up to a crouch. Her left foot scrabbled for some traction on the dusty floor, but her right leg stayed stubbornly still. Come on, Claire, come on. Grit dug into her knee as she tried, failed, tried again to swing her resistant body. It took a long time to brace herself into a crouch beside the wall, and then she was able, by tiny degrees, to raise her head, look at the door. Her ears buzzed, her head drooped again, and she felt her strength leaking out of her, wilting against the wall; closed eyes. That tinny ring in her ears. Sudden dizzy nausea. The rise of vomit.

It splashed against the wall, acidic and steaming, but being sick made her feel slightly better, stronger. More clear-headed. She moved forward, shuffling on her behind, slowly, slowly, towards the door. There was no sound from the house.

She tried twisting her wrists against the ties. They crackled and stretched, so they couldn’t be those sort of cable ties that serial killers used on TV shows. No. Probably just carrier bags twisted up. In which case they could be taken off; if she stretched them enough to thin out the plastic, maybe she’d be able to work one hand free at least. She could feel thin blood smearing against her wrist bone as she twisted, twisted, pulled and pressed it looser; her face furrowed in pain and effort. Starting to wriggle it over the back of her hand was excruciating; the skin wattled and dragged, and she thought with horrible clarity: I’m peeling my hand, the only way I can do this is to peel my hand! Sweat pooled in the hollows of her collarbone and tears started.