Bad Little Girl(46)

‘I do,’ said Claire firmly. Lorna rushed at her, buried her head in Claire’s midriff and wrapped her arms around her. ‘It’s all right. I’ll make it all right. I’ll pack.’

Lorna trotted up the stairs smiling through her tears. That was the smell, lighter fuel. Threatened to burn her alive? Dear God! Passport? Where’s my passport? Warm clothes, lots of them. Where are my welly-boots? Gardening things? No, no, this will take too long, and Lorna said we had to leave soon.

She threw clothes into two suitcases and quickly stripped two beds of bedclothes, putting them in a bin bag. Towels, towels. ‘Lorna? Can you get as many towels as you can out of the airing cupboard?’ What else? Kitchen things – food? Was there a shop nearby? Bound to be on the way. Plates? Yes! And cutlery. Turn the boiler off. Where are the keys to Tess’s house? The drawer in the sitting room. And here was Lorna, stumbling under a mound of towels. ‘Leave them there, darling. I’ll sort them out. Can you get dressed?’ And finally, books. Mother’s Dickens. Famous Five for Lorna.

They worked together quietly, quickly, and by nine were driving towards Derek’s house, the front door key in a lavender envelope, with a note:

Gone to Cornwall. Boiler off, but if you could keep an eye on the house that would be wonderful. Claire.





She could imagine his incredulity, his red face. ‘Pip!’ he’d shout over his shoulder. ‘Pippa. She’s gone to Cornwall after all! Ye gods!’

‘Ye gods!’ giggled Claire under her breath as they sped away from Derek’s cul-de-sac. ‘Look what she’s done! Ye gods!’





18





All night they drove, through ghostly villages and skirting dark towns. The girl eventually propped her head against the window with a blanket and slept, while Claire stared unseeingly out of the windscreen, driving by instinct. She thought of Derek pressing her to sell; she imagined calling James, telling him that Christmas had been hard, and she didn't feel strong enough to come back just yet after all, and him saying, ‘We have to unpack this a bit more; of course we want you back, Claire, but we can’t wait for ever.’ But she felt their grasp on her lessen the further she drove. It was as if she’d been impaled on a long needle all these years, and was finally wriggling herself free. It all crumbled against the implacable fact of Now. Now I am driving away. Now I am no longer a teacher. Now I have decided, and having done so, acted.

Lorna was asleep; it was safe to turn on the radio. Not the World Service – something less sleep-inducing, less familiar. Radio 2, that will do. The news. Someone arrested on terrorism charges in London. Something about climate change. Something about a fire. Lorna groaned, muttered in her sleep, and Claire quickly turned it off. Don’t disturb her, let her sleep. She would stop soon, and get a coffee, but not just yet. Only three hours to go, by the atlas. Only three hours and they’d be – there. She nearly thought ‘home’.

The actual house had merged in her mind with the image of it she’d constructed with Lorna. A friendly, cosy cottage, with climbing roses around the door. A garden filled with toys. A path to the beach. Perfect for a kiddy. And Lorna would be home-schooled; if they got an internet connection, it should be easy enough to follow the curriculum. She was such a bright girl after all, and, in the right environment, she would be so eager to learn. She could learn so much through doing – gardening, baking, poking around rock pools on the beach. They could write stories together, like a game of consequences. They could even have a pet. Something that Lorna could care for, something quiet, compliant and clean. A cat, maybe, or a guinea pig.

Soon, although her mind was racing, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. She pulled into a service station, closed her eyes – just to rest them for a minute – and slept like death.



* * *



It was a cold, drizzly dawn when she woke, her neck stiff and one leg numb. She wasn’t sure where she was, and then she heard Lorna snuffling, still asleep, and it all came back. She felt old, confused. She peered through the gloom at the service station entrance, but it wasn’t a name she recognised.

‘Where are we?’ Lorna sighed from the back seat. ‘Are we at the sea?’

‘No.’ Claire unstrapped herself. ‘No. Not yet. I’m not sure. I’m going to go in and freshen up a little bit.’

‘Can I have a bag of crisps?’

‘What?’

‘Crisps. I’m hungry.’

They trotted over to the bright, chip-smelling foyer.

‘I’m hungry,’ Lorna said again, so they sat down in the empty canteen and ordered bacon sandwiches.

While her body was battered by fatigue, Claire’s brain, fully awake now, turned on her. This was insane. What was she thinking, taking a child? Even if the child wanted to be taken? She gazed at Lorna’s bowed head, her round little cheeks, her furrowed brow. The girl had found some coloured pencils and was carefully drawing on a napkin – a car filled with happy people and hearts coming out of the exhaust pipe. Claire gathered up some courage, made herself smile. I’m doing what I had to do, she told herself. I’m doing what took courage, and we’re both going to have the life we deserve.

But still, the cold fingers of panic, of doubt, prodded at her. Rabbit Girl, despite her inadequacies, must soon realise that Lorna was missing – not just late coming home, but actually missing – and she was bound to be distraught, bound to try to find her, maybe even go to the police? On the other hand, the family must be scared of the police, considering what Pete had been doing to Lorna (it made Claire sick to think about that). In that case, Pete might take it on himself to find the girl, and wouldn’t Claire’s be the first place he’d look? After all, he’d met her, he’d even threatened to report her to the police for hanging around the house. To make matters worse, Claire herself had brought the police into it, not officially of course, but all those calls to PC Jones, all her high-profile worries at school, her very visible concern about Lorna . . .