Bad Little Girl(39)

‘Lorna? Mr Pryce?’

‘Don’t want to be late.’

‘Lorna.’ Claire was shaking, her heart pulsed painfully. ‘If anything is happening. Anything bad, with Pete. I – I understand. I – know what it’s like when you’re little and someone you’re meant to trust . . .’ Breathing was difficult. Her chest was so tight.

The girl looked at her solemnly. ‘It happened to you?’

‘I don’t know if it’s the same kind of thing . . .’ her chest blazed with pain, suddenly. Am I having a heart attack? Take deep breaths. Lorna gazed at her in concern. One little hand stroked Claire’s knee. It gave her the strength to go on. ‘But I do know that none of this is your fault. And you can trust me. You can tell me anything.’

‘I love you,’ the girl murmured.

It knocked the breath out of Claire. Had anyone ever said that to her before? Aside from Mother? It was overwhelming; the emotion dwarfed the pain. It was true. This little girl loved her. She knew it was true. Lorna was crying now, her head close to her knees, her fingers clutching her doll by the foot. Claire patted her thin shoulder. ‘I love you too, Lorna,’ she wobbled, ‘and I really want to help you. I really do.’

‘I’m all right.’ Lorna dropped the doll and clutched at Claire’s hand. She smiled bravely.

‘You’re not all right.’ Now Claire was crying.

‘I’m all right with you. I’m safe with you. But I won’t come over any more if that’s what you want.’

‘That’s not what I want. Not at all.’

‘I’m trouble for you.’ The girl smiled sadly.

‘You’re in trouble, yes, but you’re not trouble. And, I can help. Call someone.’

‘NO!’

‘Lorna—’

‘It’ll get worse if you do. He told me. If I tell it’ll get much worse!’ She sobbed, her face in her hands, and ran back to the car. She cried all the way to school, and ran off without saying goodbye, disappearing into the dense crowd in the playground.

When Claire got home, rattling the keys to let Johnny know she was back, she knew something was wrong right away. There wasn’t the familiar scamper of claws and huffing, excited breath. No peremptory little barks. Instead he was lying on the kitchen floor, a neat pile of vomit next to his food bowl. His paws were stiff, his whiskers flecked with foam. He wasn’t breathing.

He’s old. He was old, she thought as she dug the grave for him under the cherry tree, but she couldn’t stop crying. Death was all about her. Death, and fear and loneliness. Poor sweet old thing. Poor, troubling little girl.

But Lorna had left her bag on the back seat of the car. That means she’ll come back, Claire thought.

But weeks went by, and she didn’t come back.



* * *



Now, finally, Claire wanted to go back to work; it would give her a chance to keep an eye on Lorna, but James explained in his irascible manner that they had cover booked for the rest of the term – ‘We just went on your sick note, Claire’ – and she’d have to come back in January. She stopped herself from asking about Lorna. She’d stopped calling PC Jones too. When she’d finally got through, he’d explained there was nothing he could do or tell her about Mr Pryce, his patient, friendliness now clipped. ‘In fact,’ he’d said, ‘if it’s the Mervyn Pryce I’m thinking of, he actually does a lot of community work.’

She’d pushed it too far with Lorna, she knew that now. Talking about calling the police! Stupid. And not even accurate; even if she did call the police properly, what would she have to tell them? Nothing concrete. And Lorna was too scared and confused to tell them anything herself. No. Do what you said you were going to do, stay vigilant, try to win her trust back. And so Claire kept an eye on the court notices, re-read her notes on Mervyn Pryce and Pete, searching them for something, anything, she might have missed. Something that could make PC Jones take her seriously. Something that could save Lorna. And then, one day, she found something:

This Weekend 1.5km Children’s Christmas Fun Run!

With a route around the Arboretum Park, the 1.5km fun run is a great way to get the kids active, and for a good cause too! Children aged nine and over can run it alone, but those eight years and under must run with an adult. Our marshals will cheer you on and entertain you with their fancy dress the whole way round, and there’s even a free ice lolly waiting for you at the finish line! All proceeds will go directly to Grove House Hospice.





And there was a picture of Mervyn Pryce dressed as Santa, proudly wearing a marshal sash, giving the thumbs up to the camera. Children were clustered around him. One ape-like arm was draped over a girl’s shoulders.

Claire shuddered, printed out the page and folded it neatly into her notebook.



* * *



Claire arrived at the Arboretum the next morning, and made her way through the swathe of seedy-looking Santas, decked out in cheap polyester costumes and itchy beards. A turbulent sky threatened rain, but the local radio station was there, broadcasting Christmas songs, and everyone seemed of good cheer. Quite a good turnout, too, for this town. Merry-looking elves and overweight fairies carried collection buckets, and the whoops and cheers of the radio DJ and the overexcited children lent it a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was happy, it seemed. Except for Claire, scanning the crowd anxiously for Mervyn Pryce.