Bad Little Girl(55)

‘. . . used to make me dance. Like that.’ The words came out in a rush, like vomit.

‘What, darling?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’ Lorna tried to turn away.

‘No, what were you just saying? Lorna?’

‘Nothing. Don’t want to,’ she whispered.

‘Lorna? Please?’

‘Pete! Pete. He used to make me dance like that, for friends of his. Mr Pryce.’ She shuddered all over.

‘Oh God.’ Claire’s face fell slack.

‘If I danced like that then he wouldn’t be mean, or go bad on me,’ Lorna managed through the sobs, gazing at Claire. ‘It’s true,’ she choked. ‘It’s true!’

‘Oh darling! I believe you, I do, and that’s just – horrid. Just . . .’ She pulled the girl towards her, cradling her newly shorn head, feeling the goose pimples on her arms and chest. And she hugged, hugged her fiercely tight. ‘It will never, ever happen again, Lorna. Nothing bad will ever happen again! You’re with me now. I promise.’

‘You promise you’ll always believe me? He told me that no-one would believe me—’

‘I absolutely guarantee that I’ll believe whatever you tell me,’ said Claire, feeling tears smart at the corners of her eyes. ‘You’re my girl.’

‘I’m sorry for being cheeky. I’m sorry for it. I-I can’t help it. But I won’t be bad again, I promise!’

‘Shhhh . . . shhhh darling!’ smiled Claire.



* * *



After Lorna had put her top back on, and dried her eyes, they walked, somewhat shakily, to the kitchen and made gingerbread together. Claire gazed fondly at the earnest, dark little head next to her, at the thin, bitten fingertips, fastidiously shaping the dough, adding hair and smiling faces with raisins. This was the sort of childhood she ought to have had, the sort of childhood everyone should have. Age-appropriate crafts with Mother. If we keep doing things like this, if I keep her safe and make her understand that she’s safe, I can put right the wrong, make up for the past. But it will take time, be prepared for that.

Lorna went to take a nice, relaxing bubble bath while Claire tried to find a film they could watch together. Something old, something gentle. Something with Judy Garland maybe. Or Singin’ in the Rain? Lorna liked dancing, well, that had dancing, wholesome dancing at that, and a decent moral, too.

She took the gingerbread out of the oven and arranged it nicely on a plate on the coffee table. When she was sure that Lorna couldn’t hear, Claire put on the news, keeping the volume low. All the channels seemed to have something about that house fire, nothing about a missing girl. Surely there must be more important things happening in the world than one little fire. I mean, it was a terrible thing, of course it was, but still . . . Claire winced at the teddies and flowers laid on the pavement in front of the police tape. Dignity always gives way to maudlin sentimentality when disaster strikes. And now, here, a neighbour was being interviewed; jowls wobbling, tattoos showing on pitted arms. Really, if you’re that keen on being on the TV, at least put a bra on. Then the camera turned to a wizened man in a buttoned-up cardigan. Claire turned up the volume.

‘. . . bad lot,’ the man was saying. ‘Bad family in that house.’

‘And did you see much of them?’ the journalist pressed.

‘Only in the shop. Sometimes they’d come in, drunk, you know. And with the kids. But, it’s terrible, fire . . .’ He trailed off, leaving the journalist to fill in the time reiterating the story. A fire, thought at first to be accidental, now seemed to be something more sinister. A woman and two children were believed to have been killed, with the investigation centring around a man – Peter Marshall – who was said to have a significant criminal history.

Claire groped for the sofa behind her and sat down hard. Her chest froze, her breathing stopped.

Turning to the man in the cardigan again, the journalist asked:

‘Do you know Peter Marshall, or know anyone who has dealings with him?’

‘Bad lot. All I can say. Bad man.’

Claire closed her eyes and gripped the arm of the sofa. She curled up her toes painfully; her open mouth was dry. Shock. This is shock. God! Lorna could have been in that fire! Lorna, her Lorna! Breathe, Claire, breathe!

She didn’t immediately notice the girl standing behind her, still ruddy from the bath, standing frozen. Her hair was dripping onto the carpet, onto the plate of gingerbread, down the neck of her pyjama top. She gave a little cry. Claire tried to turn off the TV, but pressed mute instead. The silent screen showed broken bricks, a charred mattress, the blackened, hellish hole that had been the front room. Neighbourhood children stayed oh-so-casually in range of the camera, one risking a wave over the reporter’s shoulder. Another picked up a doll, half charred, with one melted arm.

‘That’s Tilly Doll,’ whispered Lorna.

And now, again, the close-ups of the teddies, the flowers, the cards, in the rain – Sleep Tight; Taken from us too soon; Two more angels in heaven! Lorna took the remote control from Claire, and, without looking, found the volume.

‘. . . have to say that at the moment, the police have been very careful to stress that there is an ongoing investigation, and of course, we’re still waiting for the post-mortem results on the very badly burnt bodies recovered from the house.’