Bad Little Girl(40)

She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for – just, something. Something that looked strange. Something disturbing. Something that perhaps only Claire, with her honed instincts and practised gaze, would be able to see for what it was. A child held too tight, perhaps a wandering hand. A marshal, he was a marshal. That meant that he’d be along the race route, or at the finish line. Start at the end of the route, Claire, where it’s less crowded. Walk slowly, and you’ll see him. You’re bound to.

She stalked around the perimeter of the track, feeling foolish and exposed. She should have brought Johnny with her, then she would at least look as if she belonged in the park. Children ambled past her; some of them she recognised, and she hung her head so as not to catch their eyes. Go home Claire. This is stupid, go home. But there was that nagging feeling, she would see something, something useful, something concrete . . . just a little longer, just until she saw Mervyn Pryce.

And then she did see him, dressed as Santa, but with the beard pulled down, holding a can of energy drink and laughing, joking with someone. Who? I know that person. Mervyn laughed loudly, and the man with him put his hand on his shoulder. He said . . . what was he saying? He said: ‘I know! She’s—’

And then a shambling mass of children and sweaty dads jogged by, and she couldn't hear anything else, but she could see them, both of the men, very clearly. Mervyn Pryce was with PC Jones. They knew each other. They were friends.

Claire’s chest contracted, she turned away, and walked swiftly back to the finish line. Maybe they weren’t friends. Maybe, maybe they were acquaintances, or they’d just met. But no, no, they seemed close, pally. They were joking with each other. Joking about a woman. Some silly, annoying woman who wouldn’t go away . . .

She broke into an awkward run and arrived, panting, at her car; fumbling with the keys, she slumped breathlessly into the driver’s seat. They’d been talking about her. Don’t be paranoid, Claire! You don’t know . . . No. I don’t know. I feel it though. It all makes sense! How unhelpful PC Jones had been, how uninterested in her concerns, and how cold and officious he’d become when she’d mentioned Mervyn’s name. At the time, she’d thought it was because she was asking him to breach protocol, give her privileged information, but now she realised that, no. No, it wasn’t that. He’d been protecting Mervyn Pryce. And if he was protecting him, there had to be a reason why.

All those news reports of children being groomed, being abused. All the intimations and accusations that those in authority knew, that they did nothing, that they were even complicit. You couldn’t turn on the TV or listen to the radio without coming across yet another terrible tale, historical abuse, the appalling lapses of social services, a generation of children broken, abandoned.

You’re being silly, Claire. You’re getting carried away.

I don’t know. I don’t think I am.

Well what can you do, Claire?

I don’t know! I don’t know. Something. I have to do something.



* * *



Over the next few days, she tried to relax, calm down, put things into a less horrifying context. She drove to rarely visited villages and drank weak coffee in tea rooms. She picked through sale items in out-of-town shopping centres. She undertook moderate hikes in the scrubby hills to the north of the city. And she always, always returned the same way, through the estate where Lorna lived. Sometimes she didn’t even know she was doing it; she just found herself meandering around the circular, dark streets until common sense forced her to go home. Sometimes – increasingly – she drove past Lorna’s home, as slowly as she dared, looking for signs of life, and when she decided to drive home, instead she’d find herself turning back into the concentric streets, spiralling once again towards the girl.

Once she saw Rabbit Girl hurrying back from the corner shop, opening the door to a barrage of shouting. She saw Carl in silhouette, casting martial arts shadows, a dog jumping at his clumsy kicks. She saw and heard Pete bellowing at the TV, mock-fighting with the dogs. But she never saw Lorna. Was she even there? Was she safe?

Then, the night before Christmas Eve, driving slowly past the house for the last time before drifting back home, Claire heard a child’s shriek, and angry adult shouts. She couldn’t make out the words, if there were any. She parked on the corner, turned off the engine, and peered at the illuminated oblong of the glass door, wide-eyed and waiting.

Suddenly, something heavy was slammed viciously against the door, then was pulled back, and slammed again, harder, until glass cracked.

Claire stiffened in the car and opened her door, letting in frigid air. Someone roared again from inside the house, and the dogs barked madly.

‘No!’ It was a high voice, cracking with fear – Lorna? And now that sound again – a loaded smash; a flattened mass of hair against the splintering glass.

Claire felt herself moving, moving quickly, running. She got to the door, just as Lorna’s head – it must be, it must be! – was drawn back yet again, and everything else seemed to freeze and all sound stopped.

Claire hammered on the door, kicked it, until it opened with a rush of warm air; a small dog leaped, yelping into the night, and there was Lorna standing, pale, by the kitchen cabinets. Pete, breathing hard, was behind a chair, his hands braced on the back of it. He looked, absurdly, like a sweaty lion-tamer.

‘The fuck are you?’ he shouted.