Bad Little Girl(61)

Her own ragged breathing woke her up, rigid and sweat-soaked in the cold room. It took her a few long seconds to realise where she was. She heard herself panting. I’m panicking, I’m having a panic attack; the blood roared in her ears; pain pressed her chest and abdomen; either panic or a heart attack. Stay calm, Claire, stay calm. Call for Mother, but no, no, I can’t do that. And the panic clutched that little bit closer. Take deep breaths – in through the mouth and out through the nose; is that the right way to do it? Or the other way round? Lungs filling, nausea hitting, she lurched suddenly out of bed, barked her ankle against the door and sank down on the top step, looking down into the living room, dark except for a tiny red light, blinking. Her stomach cramped again – deep breaths deep breaths. Wink wink went the light, distant. Insistent. Head towards that, Claire thought incoherently. If you reach that light in one piece you’ll be all right. And she shuffled on her bottom from one draughty stair to the next, her fingers feeling the bumps on the old wallpaper, the nails in the carpet. A couple more, deep breaths now; she snagged her nightie on a nail and the material gave with a small, wistful sigh. Moving down, and here was the light, and others, green and flashing, a number, a time. The TV. The dizzying nausea relented, and while her hands still shook, she was able to feel her way along to the light switch between the living room and the kitchen. And here we are, near the sink; get some water, splash some water on your face, on your hands. The unforgiving strip light in the kitchen reassuringly exposed the flaws about the place that were real: the cracked lino, the grimy grouting, the limescaled tap, and it was all wonderful, joyfully real. More real than the dream, she told herself. Much more real.

Drink. Tea? Yes, tea. Nothing bad could happen to you with a cup of tea in your hand. The noise of the kettle, that was real; the chip in the sugar bowl, that was real. Watch some TV, Claire, calm down. She carefully shut the door to the stairs to avoid waking Lorna, fumbled with the remote controls and on came the muted news. She flicked channels. ‘Where is it? Where is it?’ she whispered without hearing herself, until she found what she was looking for.

It had rained a lot since the last footage she’d seen; the familiar teddies and flowers tied to the police tape were sodden. Here was a photo, of the ex-girlfriend, released without charge. Here was the same grave and exhausted-looking detective inspector appealing for information. The fire had been started with petrol, so much petrol that it was unlikely to have been ill-advised insurance fraud. There was only one identifiable body – Nikki’s. The remains of the two children had not been recovered yet, though neighbours reported seeing both of them return from a shopping trip and hearing loud music from the property, so it can be assumed that they were all there when the blaze began. It was now, officially, a murder inquiry. And here were close-ups of a years younger Lorna and Carl, grinning together with their arms around a puppy. Lorna’s hair was long then, and hung over her eyes – she bore no resemblance to the cropped pre-teen of today. Here was a hazy passport portrait of Rabbit Girl, and footage of Pete being wheeled into an ambulance by grim-faced paramedics.

Neighbours were interviewed. The bra-less lady with the tattoos and jowls put in an appearance, and here, too, was Mervyn Pryce, ‘a friend of the family’, greyer, thinner, and seemingly genuinely upset.

‘And you knew the family for a long time?’

‘I did. Lovely family, lovely kids. This is a close-knit community, yeah? We look out for each other, everyone looks out for each other. Something like this . . .’ He trailed off, distraught.

‘And as far as you knew, the family had no enemies, nothing . . .?’

‘No! No. Not at all!’ Mervyn was vehement, his voice breaking. ‘You’d have to be mad to do something like this. To kids. Little kids, you know?’

James Clarke appeared on the screen, in front of the school sign, to give a statement – something about Lorna being a popular student, always willing to work hard. His eyes shone with sincerity. He said that there would be a memorial assembly and counselling made available for any students who needed it. And then the police number, appealing for any information, call in confidence.

There was a creak on the stairs.

Claire jumped, heart clattering. The tea spilled on the carpet, but she didn’t want to turn round. Lorna? Well, she’s seen me watching the news now. She’s seen me. I’m caught. Trapped. She took a deep breath and turned slowly.

‘Lorna? I had a bad dream. So I got up and made some tea. I didn’t mean to watch—’

But there was no-one there. The door was slightly open; that accounted for the creak. Lorna must still be upstairs, tucked up, safe and sound. Better check her, though. It won’t do if she saw you, she’ll be so upset if she saw what you were watching. Claire crept up the stairs in the dark and crawled into the girl’s bedroom on her hands and knees, leaning in to stare at her face, grave and sallow on the pillow. Oh, look at her! Sleeping like an angel. No, she didn’t see you. Everything’s all right. She didn’t see you.

Creeping downstairs to clean up the mess, the second to bottom stair squeaked. A loose board, right at the edge near the wall, just where someone would have to walk if they didn’t want to be seen by someone in the living room. Lorna had been there. Lorna had been there?

Later, Claire checked on her again. She’d turned on her side, and her shoulders rose and fell, rose and fell. Sound asleep. It’s your imagination. After that dream. You’re so jumpy, Claire! Still, she stayed sitting by the bed for an hour to make sure the girl was really sleeping.