Bad Little Girl(53)

Again, that little inner voice piped up, a jeering voice – And then what? What are you going to do, Claire? Live happily ever after? Pass her off as your daughter? What are you going to do? You can’t keep this up for ever. All someone has to do is link the missing girl with the teacher who didn’t come back to work – the worryingly obsessive teacher, the lonely, grief-stricken teacher, who’d gone a bit potty – and it’s all over, Claire. And that’s the best option; what if Pete finds you first?

Outside, the rain lashed the windows and rattled the sign outside.

‘Not fit for dogs,’ murmured the waitress.

The blonde woman shut her book with a snap and shoved it into a large patchwork shoulder bag. The dog, sighing, clambered up and trotted to the door with her, hesitated, and then stoically walked out into the rain before it was dragged out.

‘Hope she’s got a car,’ the waitress said as she collected Lorna’s smeared plate. ‘Not a day for walking.’

‘No.’

‘You just here for the day, then?’ The waitress wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Up from Truro,’ Claire answered with reasonable truth.

‘Lonely here, in the off season. We don’t get many people this time of year, especially not little ones. I keep the place open just to give people a bit of shelter on days like this. You two and that lady were the only people here in days.’

‘Christmas is slow I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ the woman answered vaguely, looking out at the rain. ‘It’s getting slower each year. Should sell up, my son tells me. You in the market for a café? No? Well, it’s not like I gave you the hard sell, eh? Stay here until the rain eases. No point in you getting soaked.’

She went back to the kitchen. They heard her singing tunelessly along to the radio.

‘It’ll get worse you know, the questions,’ Lorna muttered. ‘We have to think about what we’ll tell people.’

Claire bowed her head. ‘I know.’

Lorna leaned conspiratorially across the table. ‘I mean, I should change how I look. Suppose I cut my hair really short . . . d’you think I’d look like a boy?’

‘Oh Lorna–’

‘I could. George from the Famous Five did it. Can you cut hair?’

‘Not really.’

‘Let’s go to a town then and get my hair cut. And if I only wear jeans and stuff—’

‘Lorna, oh Lord, I don’t know. I don’t know how, but maybe we should go back?’ She took a deep breath, kept her eyes on the table. ‘Tell the police?’

Lorna was silent for a long time. ‘We can’t,’ she said flatly, finally. She was drawing spirals on a paper napkin, her mouth set in a firm line. ‘We can’t. I won’t let you.’

Claire tried to smile. ‘We can explain, about the things that have been happening to you. We can keep you safe. Lorna, I’ll do my very best – I want to keep you with me,

Maybe—’

‘NO!’

‘Keep your voice down, Lorna!’ Claire whispered.

‘Or what?’

‘Or we’ll attract attention.’

‘Well, that’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Ooooh, let’s go to the police.’ Lorna’s voice was a falsetto facsimile of Claire’s. Her face was twisted.

‘Lorna, love, I know this is . . .a strange time, and it’s hard for you, but I will not be spoken to like that.’ Claire, shaken, remembered her teacher voice, and she watched Lorna’s face flush red with fury. The spirals became darker, pressed into the thin paper with more force.

‘We’ll get my hair cut,’ she hissed. ‘And we’ll get a telly.’

‘I want you to remember your manners.’ Claire’s voice cracked a little.

The spirals became loops, which turned into a series of jittery lines. A tear splashed onto the tabletop. ‘Don’t shout at me!’ Lorna whispered.

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘Just don’t shout. Please?’ She let the pencil drop. The lines had just begun to turn into loose hearts. ‘I can’t . . . you being mad with me. Shouting.’

Claire took her hand, guiltily, and pressed her little knuckles. ‘I’m sorry, poppet. Let’s not argue. It’s silly to argue, but—’

‘I hate arguing. I really do.’ Lorna snuffled. ‘I won’t get my hair cut, not if you won’t like it. I won’t. And the telly doesn’t matter either. I was just being stupid again.’

‘You’re not stupid, darling. You’re not, but we have to work together—’

‘Can I have a Coke now?’

‘We’re just leaving.’

‘My throat’s sore. With the crying. Can I have a Coke?’

And Claire felt suddenly tired, so tired that when she went to pay at the till, the waitress offered her paracetamol, and called, ‘You look after your mummy!’ to Lorna as they left.



* * *



The next day, New Year’s Eve, they drove to Truro, and Lorna got her hair cut in a barber’s shop called, incongruously, Daphne Charles. The barber was mercifully taciturn, and Lorna’s severe short back and sides did make her look like a small-boned boy.