Bad Little Girl(32)

‘I really have to go, Lorna. Really. I have to get back for . . .’ But, of course, there was nothing to get back to.

‘Mervyn! Found your dog?’ Pete yelled at a small, gnome-like man in shorts and a muscle top who was leaning over the fence, smiling.

‘Did he get out?’

‘He’s always out. Beer?’

‘All right. Lorna, Lorna my love, how are you?’ Mervyn stroked the top of her head with one quivering palm. His arms were long, simian-like, and roped with thin muscle. He wore his hair in a balding flat top. ‘How’s my darling?’

Lorna flinched, and Claire thought, the neighbour. Mervyn. Do a little dance. He asked her to do a little dance. She felt sick. Lorna’s eyes grew large and moist.

‘Lorna, come inside with me.’ Claire got up shakily and grasped the girl’s hand. ‘You can show me your room.’

‘How’s my girl?’ Mervyn called at her back. A few of the men laughed at this.

Lorna broke into a trot and she led Claire up the uncarpeted stairs.

‘Lorna, that man—’ gasped Claire.

‘Here’s my room.’

‘Is that the man who—’

‘Look! Here’s my room!’

‘Is that the man who asked you to dance? Did he hurt you?’ Lorna gazed at Claire, and pursed her lips. ‘Lorna?’

‘Come and sit down,’ Lorna said, with finality.

She must share the room, and the bed with her brother. It was a riot of filth.

‘It’s Carl,’ she apologised. ‘I’m a lot neater than him. There’s his side, look – see what it’s like? But my half is better. Here, sit down.’ She moved some rubble off the bed – doll heads and scraps of paper, a doubled-up pillow with dark stains on it. ‘You comfy now?’

Claire sank into the broken springs of the mattress. ‘Yes, fine.’

‘You didn’t get bit?’

‘No. Just had a bit of a shock.’

‘Aha!’ The girl produced the whisky once more. Claire took an obliging sip.

‘Lorna, that man . . .’

‘Mr Pryce?’

Claire took a deep breath. ‘Is he the man who . . . who asked you to do a dance?’

‘I want to talk about nice things. Like friends talk about? Can we, please?’ The girl turned tearful eyes on Claire, and grasped her hand tightly.

‘All right,’ Claire managed, trembling. ‘How have you been getting on, Lorna?’

‘Oh, well. Very well. I’ve been getting ready for my big debut!’ She pronounced it ‘debbutt’.

‘Oh really? And where is that?’

‘I’m starring in a West End musical!’

‘Starring?’

She nodded. ‘They picked me because I can dance.’

‘Well, make sure I get a ticket, because I wouldn’t want to miss it!’

‘I’m not really,’ said the girl soberly. ‘Really I’m just practising for when it will happen.’

‘It’s always best to practise.’ Claire smiled.

‘Yes.’ Lorna sighed and picked at the hem of her skirt. ‘But practising is so boring.’

The whisky on an empty stomach, mingling with the remnants of shock, made everything feel both surreal and entirely natural. Of course she’d just been sitting in a deckchair amongst strangers in a housing estate miles from home. Naturally she was chatting, slightly drunkenly, to a child after being attacked by a dog. And there was probably a paedophile in the front yard. This was everyday stuff. She realised that this was the first conversation she’d had in a week.

Lorna shuffled closer. ‘I’m writing stories.’

‘Oh that’s wonderful. What about?’

‘About the seaside, and living under the sea.’

‘And what’s it like under the sea?’

‘It’s’ – the girl shut her eyes tightly and smiled – ‘it’s like all the best people in the world you’ve ever met, dancing and singing. And there are friendly fish. But we have to be careful of fishermen because they can catch us and if we go out of the sea, we die.’

‘Well, I’d love to read it.’ Claire took the girl’s hand and pressed it.

‘You will. I’m writing it for you. You don’t believe me!’

‘If you say you’re writing it for me, then I believe you. And it makes me very happy.’

‘Good. ’Cause it’s true. I really am.’

They sat chatting in the darkening room, while the men outside grew drunker, more boisterous, and started moving inside. They shouted hoarsely over house music. Lorna shut the door, but the thud thud thud pulsed through the thin floor. ‘TUNE!’ shouted someone. ‘TUNE!’

‘It’s loud, isn’t it?’ Lorna had shuffled so close that she was practically on Claire’s lap. Her fruity breath tickled Claire’s ear. ‘It gets so loud sometimes the council comes round. Police. That happened – oh, last year.’

‘It must be hard to sleep.’ Claire thought about the times she’d seen Lorna at school, all red-rimmed eyes and passivity.

‘Well, then I sleep at my auntie’s. Round the corner. She has a big house with a spare room just for me. And no dogs.’