Bad Little Girl(102)

40





Back in the kitchen, Benji was cowering under the table, his eyes shifting from her to the door, from her to the door. The sound of the car grew closer, and she could hear the familiar grind and whine of gears: Marianne’s car. Claire scurried back out of the kitchen, down the stairs and back into the cellar, easing the door closed. She shoved her hand and her ankle through the tattered loops of plastic again, and curled up in an approximation of where she’d fallen, thankful that she hadn’t washed the blood from her face.

Benji barked as they came in. Claire heard the tap tap of Marianne’s broken-down heels, Lorna’s signature slam of the door. Then only dulled murmurs. After being in the warmth outside, her aching body groaned against the cruel cold of the cellar floor.

The door to the stairs opened.

‘Go and see then,’ said Lorna. ‘Go and see if you’re worried.’

‘I didn’t say I was worried, Lauren.’ Marianne’s voice was wheedling, shaky. ‘I just asked if you were sure.’

‘Can we get the TV?’

‘I really don’t think we have room for it.’

‘We’ll need it for London though. Won’t we?’

‘Well, we won’t have a flat first thing, I mean, we’ll have to stay in a hotel or something first.’

‘What about that friend of yours?’

‘What friend?’ Marianne’s voice was closer now, as if she was already halfway down the steps.

‘Your friend. The one who’s the dancer. In Islington.’

‘I think it’s Edmonton,’ Marianne said absently. ‘Not Islington. Edmonton.’

‘Her, then.’

‘I’ll make some phone calls, Lauren.’

‘If we can’t take this TV, can we get one in London?’

‘Yes.’ Marianne was at the door now. Claire heard her nervous, quick breathing. She cleared her throat, as if to announce her presence. Funny thing to do, Claire thought, considering she thinks I’m dead.

The door opened, but Marianne didn’t approach her. Her breathing was ragged.

‘What are you doing?’ Lorna asked. She was close now, too. They were both at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’m . . . looking,’ murmured Marianne. She stepped forward. One heel crunched on the gritty dirt of the floor. Claire held her breath. Marianne came closer. The familiar smell of cigarettes and Angel perfume drifted down. She heard Marianne’s breath catch. She sensed a ringed hand reaching out to touch hers.

‘Auntie May.’ Lorna’s voice was childlike, now. ‘I’m a bit scared. Is she . . .?’

Marianne’s hand froze. Claire heard her straighten up, cough, try to get her voice level. ‘Yes. She’s dead. She’s gone. Don’t be scared, poppet. I’ll . . . I’m coming back up now. You just go back to the kitchen. I’ll be right behind you.’ Lorna scampered up the stairs, and Marianne backed away, heels tapping quicker now, and walked back to the kitchen, leaving the door open.

Claire stayed rigid on the ground, straining to hear.

‘. . . blame you . . .’ she heard Marianne cooing. ‘Not at all . . . been through . . . defending . . .’

Lorna was sobbing. ‘Horrible . . . safe . . .’

‘You are.’ Marianne’s voice was steadier now. ‘Are. I promise.’

The conversation went on for some time, but Claire couldn’t pick up any more distinct words.

They were upstairs for a long time it seemed. Claire heard kitchen cupboards being emptied, trips upstairs, the slamming and re-slamming of car doors.

‘. . . Benji . . .?’ Marianne said.

‘. . . leave . . . be OK . . . beach . . .’ replied Lorna.

‘. . . nice home?’

‘NO! You know why!’ Lorna’s voice was loud. Marianne’s reply was a low rumble of reassurance. ‘She made me . . .’ Lorna’s voice trailed off into sobs.

‘I know, I know poppet. We’ll leave him.’

‘Maybe we can get a kitten? A little ginger kitten?’ Claire could picture Lorna’s dewy eyes, her trembling mouth.

‘A kitten! And we’ll call him Carbonel!’ Marianne trilled.

‘What?’

‘The King of Cats! Haven’t you read Carbonel? Oh, we’ll get it as soon as. It’s all about a clever, talking cat who was taken by an evil witch. It was one of my very favourites!’

‘I want to call it Marmalade,’ Lorna said sullenly.

‘How about Carbonel Marmalade?’

‘That’s just silly.’

‘Well, anything you’d like, poppet, anything you’d like.’



* * *



An hour or so later, they seemed to be ready to leave. By now, Claire’s left side was completely numb, but she daren’t move in case one of them came back downstairs. The car door slammed again, the engine revved, the front door shut. Claire tried to stretch out one foot. It felt like dead meat. And then the front door opened again.

‘Benji!’ Lorna’s voice was syrup itself. ‘Benji, inside, inside now.’

The dog let out a gentle whine. Claire heard the jangle of the lead.

Lorna came down slowly, pulling Benji behind her, to the cellar door. Claire could smell bubblegum, the cloying remains of Marianne’s perfume, and fresh sweat, as Lorna came closer. She poked Claire in the ribs with one foot. Benji whined, and Lorna yanked viciously on his chain until he choked. Then she bent down and stroked one of Claire’s ears with infinite gentleness, scraped one bitten nail down her neck and then wiped her fingers on her jeans. Then she was quiet, so quiet she might not have been there at all. There was just the smell of her.