Bad Little Girl(56)

‘How many?’ mouthed Lorna. ‘How many?’

‘While Peter Marshall remains alive, he is unconscious and in a critical condition in hospital. Mother Nicola Bell and her two children, as yet unnamed, are thought to have died in the fire that took hold on Boxing Day. A source from the local fire brigade tells the BBC that the bodies are so badly burnt that it may not be possible to identify them for some time, if at all. The cause isn’t yet known, but as we say, the police aren’t ruling out the possibility that this fire was started deliberately, but of course we will know more definitely in the coming few days . . .’

Claire thought as quickly as her palsied mind would let her... It will all come out now. Pete will tell the police that Lorna wasn’t at home when the fire began, and they’ll come searching for her. He mustn’t have started the fire. He couldn’t have done, if he was badly hurt himself. But then he wasn’t in any state to tell the police that Lorna hadn’t been in the house . . . Perhaps, oh god, a terrible thought, a shameful idea, but perhaps, if he died without regaining consciousness, the police wouldn't know that Lorna wasn’t in the house. She’d be presumed dead. They’d be free.

Lorna wavered, stumbled into the coffee table, and the gingerbread man fell on the floor: head and feet rolled under the sofa; hair and fingers crumbled into the carpet. The plate itself landed on one edge, twisted lazily, and cracked against the coffee table. Lorna staggered forward and stood on the broken plate. Blood oozed from between her toes, and sank into the gingerbread mashed into the carpet. Claire dashed for cold water and a tea towel. Lorna stood silently, staring impassively at the blood.

The cut was deep, extending down the sole. Claire dabbed at it, smudging the thickening blood into the hoops and whorls of Lorna’s toes, pressing down hard until the flow lessened and she was able to bind it with gauze and tape. She crooned semi-intelligible comfort, while her mind revolved shakily around a new axis: Lorna hadn’t been reported missing because Lorna was presumed dead. Nobody suspected they’d run off together. That meant that if Pete did die, and the bodies in the house were beyond being identified – oh God, it was a horrible thing to think, a terrible thing! But, maybe, the best thing – then she and Lorna were safe. But what if Pete recovered and told them that Lorna hadn’t been in the house when the fire began?

Well, he had a police record, a history of violence. The police wouldn’t trust anything he told them; they were sure to think he started the fire, and he’d go to prison for sure. Anyway, he must have started it – some botched insurance claim or something. And if he hadn’t done it, it must have been one of his enemies, because he was bound to have enemies, his ex-girlfriend for one.

But what if the bodies were eventually recovered and identified, and it transpired that Lorna wasn’t one of them . . . Oh God. God!

‘I didn’t do it,’ the girl intoned blankly, her eyes on the dark TV screen. She turned to Claire, and tried to smile, but the effect was ghastly – she was as pale as milk and shaking with shock. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Of course not!’ Claire touched her arm. ‘Of course you didn’t!’

‘I didn’t even want them to be— I only wanted to be with you.’

‘But Lorna, your family. I’m so, so sorry my love. I—’

‘Don’t worry.’ The girl was taking whistling gasps, her shaking fingers scratched spasmodically at her wrists. ‘Don’t worry. They can’t . . .’

‘Hurt you any more,’ Claire finished for her.

‘No. But, I mean . . .’ she began crying now, ‘but, if they . . . I mean, what if it hurt them? What if it—’

‘No, listen Lorna, it’s just like going to sleep. Really, smoke just puts you to sleep. And if they were all asleep anyway—’

‘Oh, they were! I’m sure . . .’

‘Well then, it wouldn’t be so . . . I mean, it’s best not to think about it. Just imagine that it’s like going to sleep, like a lovely sleep.’

‘Even the dogs?’ Lorna gave a hopeful smile, through her tears.

‘Even the dogs. They wouldn’t have known a thing. Honestly.’

Lorna nodded, and stayed silent. She lay awkwardly in the folds of the lumpy sofa – one foot red and extended, the other folded under her. Her short hair had begun to dry, and stood up in spikes at the crown. She breathed rapidly, shallowly, like an animal.

‘He said he’d do it,’ she whispered. ‘Burn things. He said he’d burn me. Remember? I told you?’

‘I remember.’

‘He must’ve done it after all. Burned them up.’

‘Try not to think about it, my love.’

Lorna smiled weakly. ‘I broke the gingerbread.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘It was going to be nice.’ She closed her eyes, squeezed out two tears and her breath began to hitch again, but she caught herself in time, took a few deep breaths and opened her eyes again. ‘It’s a New Year, nearly.’

‘It is.’

‘If they think I’m dead . . .’ She took a deep breath and said again, all in a rush, ‘If they think I’m dead, then I can stay with you for ever. No-one will look for me.’ Lorna’s eyes narrowed. She put her head in her hands. ‘But maybe you don’t want me either. I’m a lot of trouble. I mean, you didn’t want the TV, and I made you get it.’ The girl was working herself up again, her thin chest constricting. She looked up, her mouth a tragedy mask. ‘And maybe you want to go back and go to work again and everything?’ She dug her bitten fingernails into her wrists. ‘And then they’ll take me into care! And you might get into trouble! For taking me!’