Bad Little Girl(106)

43





The case dominated the headlines for a few weeks, until a natural disaster in Asia trumped it. Lorna – she was so young that her real name was never released by the press –- Child M, they called her – was brought to trial for the manslaughter of Marianne Cairns.

The true story of the fire never came out. The CPS didn’t have enough evidence, or even the will to link Lorna to the crime. There was a half-hearted attempt to implicate Marianne in it, but it couldn’t stand up. The fire remained, officially, unsolved.

The press loved the tale of the child being abused by a trusted saviour, hurt and hectored to the point of blind panic; a girl who finally lashed out, only in an attempt to escape, not kill. Although there were none of the inept, beaky court caricatures broadcast, Claire imagined them clearly, would close her eyes, and listen to the trial summary on the radio; a frail girl with brown hair skirting her brows, head down, voice shaky, recounting a level of abuse she had no business even understanding, let alone experiencing.

Child M was a painful reminder of the damage we as a society do to our youngsters with our lack of curiosity, care, our prudish sense of privacy. The papers briefly had a field day with it. Claire went down to the library in Truro and sat stiffly in a scratchy nylon chair, reading all the papers obsessively. She hesitantly booked internet time, carefully looking for any link anybody might have made between Marianne’s killing and the fire. But there was none. At home, Benji close by, the rolling TV news on, she made scratchy, coded notes that she destroyed afterwards. The notes were always the same. Either, A, Lorna hadn’t told the police about her, or B, she had, but they hadn’t believed her. There was no connection between Lorna and herself. Was there? Nobody – short of the woman in the beach café, the mother in the open farm and the taciturn barber – had seen them together in Cornwall. And there were no pictures of Lorna to jog their memories. Marianne and Lorna had always left Claire behind. It was Marianne and Lorna who were seen in Truro; at the doctor’s, the herbalist’s, the dance classes. Marianne had even let it slip that Lorna had mistakenly called her Mum, on a few occasions. Everything, everything pointed to Marianne.

But the relief was always short-lived, because Claire knew that if she was safe, she was only safe through the grace of Lorna.





44





She left Cornwall in August, and arrived back in her hometown a mere seven hours later, with sand still in her shoes. Mother’s house was clean, fresh-smelling; Pippa and Derek had kept their promise to look after the place. Benji pattered around the unfamiliar space, sniffing out Johnny’s favourite corners and exploring the garden, and Claire, taking a deep breath, phoned Derek. He answered on the first ring.

‘Claire! You’re back?’

‘I am. Just arrived.’

‘Well! We thought we’d lost you. Didn’t we, Pip? Pippa? It’s Claire on the phone. Yes! She’s back! Back to stay, Claire?’

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘Well, that’s good news. Good news. Although the market is tanking here. I poked around for you, about the house, put out some feelers, but there’s no market for big, detached places. Apparently. It’s all flats. But you’re still subletting your old place, no?’

‘I am, yes. How have you been?’

‘Good, good. Well, I say good, but Pippa’s had a bit of a shingles flare-up. Nerves. Johnny’s doing well, we got some of that weight off him.’

‘Good. Great.’

‘Claire, I’ve got to say’ – Derek’s voice lowered – ‘it’s good to know you’re back. Family. All that. Don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Well, you know how I feel.’

Claire smiled. ‘I feel the same way, Derek.’

‘You had us going! With the Cornwall thing! I said, didn’t I Pip? I said “She’s not coming back”, but Pip never lost faith. She knew you couldn’t keep away. Didn’t you, Pip? Oh, she’s gone.’

‘I came back with a pet, too. A dog.’ She looked down at Benji’s soft eyes, his delicate little paws.

‘Oh, that’s good Claire. Good news. They’re like children, aren’t they? Dogs? Less trouble though, I say to Pip.’

‘A lot less trouble.’ Claire closed her eyes.

‘Speaking of children, what are you going to do for a job, Claire?’

‘Oh, I haven't thought about that.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t worry too much. There can’t be too many people who want to work with those horrors. Can’t work out if you’re a saint or a masochist, Claire!’

Claire felt pinpricks of irritation, familiar annoyance, but this, too, was comforting. ‘I’m hardly a saint, Derek. Maybe a bit of a masochist.’

‘Pip! Pip? Claire, dinner? Yes? Claire, come over for dinner tomorrow night, hmmm? Homecoming?’

‘I’d love to, Derek. Thank Pippa for me.’

That night she slept better than she had done in weeks. Benji, on guard in an unfamiliar house, stayed on her bed, his ears twitching, trotting off officiously to investigate every noise. Towards dawn he slept, too.



* * *



A few days later she walked past the school, with Benji, towards the park. Through the railings she could see a shrieking Miss Peel struggling to pull apart a knot of fighting boys. James Clarke looked palely on from his office window, drinking coffee. When the bell rang, the familiar sound of charging, roaring children, pushing into line, made her smile, made her heart hurt a little. She tied Benji to the railings, and, as if in a dream, stepped through the familiar gate and into the reception, where she ran into James Clarke, striding irritably out of his office. His eyes widened.