Bad Little Girl(41)

‘Miss!’ Lorna began.

‘Fuck are YOU?’

‘Lorna, what’s happened?’ Claire looked wildly at the door. Was there a crack in the glass? There was, there must be. ‘Are you all right?’

‘You’re here,’ murmured Lorna.

‘Your head!’ Claire went to the girl, to check if she was bleeding. Lorna backed away.

‘You’re here,’ she said again.

‘I remember you, you’re the teacher! That teacher who came around a bit back. What the fuck are you doing here?’ Pete was walking towards her now, angry, red-faced. ‘What are you doing? Fucking spying on us?’

‘Lorna, is your head all right?’ Claire managed to push past Pete, grabbed Lorna by the shoulders, and gently checked her head. No blood. No cut. She seemed dazed though, she must be.

‘Her head?’ Pete laughed now, shakily. ‘How about you fuck off home and mind your own business?’

‘It is my business, if a child is being hurt.’ Claire veered towards a shriek. ‘It is my business . . .’

‘Miss, don’t. Please, don’t.’ Lorna was standing close now, holding her hand, tugging it, eyes pleading.

It IS my business! Claire tried to keep the fear and hysteria inside.

Pete strode to the doorway now, shouting for Nikki, and Lorna tugged, tugged, tugged at Claire’s arm. ‘Please, really. Just go. Nothing happened, really, nothing happened. I’m all right. Honest I am, I’m OK.’ The girl was leading her back to the door now, pushing her outside. ‘I’ll call you. I’ll be OK, really.’

‘Lorna, I have to call—’ said Claire shakily, and stopped. Call who? Who could she call?

Lorna looked over her shoulder to make sure no-one could hear her: ‘You’ll make it worse. It will get worse if you do that. Tell anyone.’

Pete was back now. ‘What’re you doing, hanging about? Spying on us? Live around here, do you? You’ve got something about the kid, have you? Fucking teachers. Why’re you so into Lorna anyway? I’ll report you.’

‘Miss, go. Get in your car,’ Lorna pleaded.

‘You don’t know what she’s like!’ Pete screamed.

‘Please, Miss! Go!’

‘Lorna!’ Claire cried, as she was being shoved into her car.

‘I’ll fucking tell you what she’s like!’ Pete was framed by the door, Nikki’s face, a pale moon, bobbed behind him. Lorna dashed past them both, and Pete slammed the door so hard that the cracked glass shuddered.

Claire sat, stunned, for long minutes. There was no sound from the house. No shouting, no screaming. No signs of violence. After half an hour, she was able to start the car. The sour taste of adrenaline stayed with her all the way home.



* * *



She sat up most of the night, thinking about what she’d witnessed. It was a miracle that the girl wasn’t cut, wasn’t concussed. It really was. But had it definitely been Lorna’s head smashed against the door? Well, of course it had. Who else’s?

She wrote a list of reasons for and against calling the police. But always, always, Lorna’s fear trumped action. It will get worse if I tell. It will get worse. And Claire, imagining what could be worse, didn’t pick up the phone, didn’t tell.

There was still some whisky in the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass and stalked through the house, clenching and unclenching her hands, loitering in Mother’s room, before dragging out the big suitcase from under the bed.

It was covered in a thin patina of dust. An airport tag was still tied to the handle, with Mother’s name written on it, and inside, it smelled of Chanel No. 5 and Imperial Leather soap. Claire brought her face close to the lining and inhaled, speaking to Mother in her mind. What should I do? What should I do? Help me! But Mother’s scent grew fainter and fainter, until it was indistinguishable from Claire’s own scent of fabric conditioner and herbal toothpaste and Mother wasn’t there. Mother couldn’t help.

The next day, when she drove by, she couldn’t see a crack in the door. Maybe it had been repaired already.





16





Christmas Day, and Claire was at Derek’s. Facing the ransacked carcass of the turkey, and the gaping mouth of Pippa’s mother, she reached for another glass of Liebfraumilch, or some other sweet, sticky wine that claimed to be good for the digestion. Pippa’s silent mother had already gone through most of the bottle. Gentle snores escaped her and her chin bobbed onto her gravy-stained chest. Throughout the lunch, Claire had managed to distract herself by following the conversation intently, showing excessive interest in Pippa’s aches and Derek’s prediction of a housing crash, but now that lunch was over, and there was relative quiet, her mind began to pace feverishly around the fixed point of Lorna. What sort of a Christmas would she be having? With that family?

Derek kept the whisky in the box room he pompously called his study. He might bring it out later; Claire hoped so. She was even willing to withstand his amused barbs. ‘Whisky? For the puritan? Better watch out, Claire, you’ll be having fun before you know it!’ If any evening needed spirits, it was this one.

‘Someone’s had her fill,’ chuckled Derek, nodding at his mother-in-law. ‘Pippa? Eh? Someone’s had her fill! Claire, top-up? Why not. Christmas. Give me your glass.’ Derek was slightly drunk. His shirt cuff trailed in gravy as he passed Claire her brimming glass. ‘Any more thoughts about work, Claire?’