Bad Little Girl(45)

After her shower, Claire went to the corner shop to buy nice things for breakfast, some of those sweet bagels that Lorna liked so much, and some chocolate milk too. She sauntered home, calm, content. It was as if, in her sleep, something had formed into a whole, fitted into place. She felt, very strongly, that everything was going to be all right. It was the first time she’d felt like that in months. Years, maybe.

Back in the kitchen, she put the radio on, and toasted bagels while half-listening to some consumer programme about ISAs. Lorna was still sleeping. She must need it. But at the same time, if they wanted to have that walk . . . Claire took the bagels upstairs to the spare room.

‘Knock knock!’ The door squeaked as she pushed it open a few inches. ‘Knock knock, Lorna! Breakfast!’

But there was no-one there.

The bed was made little-girl nicely, the top sheet smooth over the rumpled bottom. A tiny indentation on the pillow, and in it a piece of paper. A note? No. A picture.

Two figures, one big and one small, holding hands under a rainbow. In the background there was a house with roses around the door, cheerful smoke coming from the chimney; and, behind that, a hint of a beach, of sea.

‘Lorna?’ Claire rushed to the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. Neither was she in the living room, the garden; she’d gone. Where? Not home, surely? Not there? Oh God. Oh Christ! And I can’t call the police, I can’t. She said not to! And if I could, what would I say? Oh, I had a ten-year-old girl stay over at my house several times. No, her parents didn’t know she was there. She told me she was being abused and I didn’t tell anyone about it. Yes, I saw bruises, yes I saw bite marks, and no, I didn’t do a thing about it! She told me not to, you see.

All day, Claire didn’t dare leave the house in case Lorna came back, and all day she berated herself for sleeping, for going to the shop, forever letting the girl out of her sight. God alone knew what was happening to her. TV was unable to calm Claire down; the daytime listings all seemed to be about murder.

Lorna came back that evening. She waved off Claire’s questions, limped silently to the front room and knelt, trembling, in front of the fire. She took a roll of banknotes from her pocket, and dropped it on the rug.

‘Took it from Pete. I suppose I could have got a taxi. But I didn’t want to get you into trouble. He found out about you, that you’ve been taking care of me. Found out I’d told you things, that he’d done. To me, I mean.’ She blushed. ‘And then he went bad again . . .’ Her face crumpled. Her voice began to hitch. ‘And he said – he said this time I was fucking dead!’ She sobbed, gasped, in Claire’s arms. Her hair and skin gave off a strange odour, faint but familiar. ‘He said that now his ex would get the kids and it was my fault!’

‘Where’s your mum?’

‘There! And Carl.’ She raised her head, tearful eyes staring wildly. Her fingers tightened painfully on Claire’s arms. ‘You have to help me!’

‘The police,’ Claire said weakly. ‘I’ll call them now, and I’ll tell them about Pete, and Mr Pryce too—’

‘Mr Pryce? What?’ Lorna turned dull eyes on her. ‘What about him?’

‘I know! I know what he’s like, and that he’s been, you know.’

Irritation passed over Lorna’s face. ‘Don’t call anyone,’ she commanded. ‘He’ll get you. He’ll . . . he’ll come round here and get you.’

‘But he doesn’t know where I live?’

The girl hesitated. ‘He’ll find out,’ she said finally.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. But he will.’ Lorna stood and wiped her face. The tears were beginning to stop. ‘We should go to that house. The one you told me about. The one near the sea.’

‘But—’

‘I brought clothes with me. I put them by your car. You can pack, and we can leave tonight.’

‘I can’t leave, though, I mean—’

‘WE CAN! We’ve GOT to! If it wasn’t for you!’ The girl began to cry again. ‘If it wasn’t for you . . .’ Her sobs became ragged.

‘If it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened, I know, I know!’ wailed Claire. ‘I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Lorna!’

‘I only have you now, I only have you! You’ve got to look after me now! You have to!’ She shook her head, and again, that smell, that chemical smell . . . it came off her hair, her fingers, everything. ‘He put lighter fuel on me and said he’d burn me! He held a match up and I ran!’

‘How did you get time to pack a bag?’

‘You don’t believe me.’ Lorna began to shake apart in front of her. ‘He said no-one would believe me and they don’t.’

Grim guilt hit Claire like a two-by-four, because Lorna was right. All her life she’d been crying out for help, and all her life people had told her she was lying. Even those who did believe her, Claire included, had pussyfooted around the issue, worried about their own reputation, gone with their head and not their heart. Now though, she had a chance to put it right. She took a deep breath. She stood up straight.

‘Lorna, I want you to put on some warm clothes. I’m going to pack the car.’

‘You believe me?’ the girl whispered.