Bad Little Girl(68)

‘I said I wanted to be famous instead. And she laughed and said, “Don’t we all.” But she did say she’d teach me ballet. But I don’t really want to. But I will if you want me to. Mummy.’ She smiled winningly.

‘I just want you to be happy. But don’t tell her where we came from or anything like that, OK?’

The smile blinked off like a faulty light. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No, but you might forget.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ said the girl again, huffily.

‘Lorna—’

‘Lauren you mean. Who’s being stupid now?’ She was working herself up into a rage. Claire closed her eyes so as not to see the child’s contorted face, see that inner animal, confront how young she still was. Younger than ten in a lot of ways. She remembered seeing her once in the playground, not too long ago, spinning a skipping rope in a fury, hitting knees, elbows and faces around her. No teacher could get near to stop her. Claire had watched from the staffroom as the caretaker snuck up behind her in a crouch and grabbed her by the knees, bringing her down in one deft movement.

‘I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me.’ She kept her eyes closed, her voice calm.

‘. . . way you’re speeaaaking to meee.’ Lorna kicked the table leg. Claire heard cutlery hitting the floor. There was a pause, and another kick. A chair fell. Claire kept her eyes closed. ‘You think I’m fucking stupid.’

‘I don’t. You know I don’t. Don’t swear.’ Keep calm, Claire. Keep calm, and she will calm down too. The stress the girl was under, her background . . .

‘FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!’ chanted the girl.

There was a pause. Claire tried not to move. She heard the girl shuffle, heard her pick up the chair.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

Now Claire opened her eyes, and saw faint red welts on the girl’s forearm, carved with those bitten-down nails. She had the same expression on her face as she had when the caretaker had grabbed her: like she was waking up from a furious coma.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘I’m sorry’, and her voice rose to a wail as she collapsed onto Claire’s lap. Her knees jabbed into Claire’s midriff as she climbed up her, straddling her awkwardly, hooking her chin over her shoulder; a big, sprawling girl. Her thin chest caught with choking breath, her fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of Claire’s neck. And then the sobs came, huge and juddering.

Claire held on tight, forced herself to open her eyes to stay awake, wishing she hadn’t taken four of those pills. It might take Lorna an hour to calm down; one whole hour of patient cajoling, stroking, feeble jokes and bribery. A fresh wave of drugged torpor came over her and she groaned.

Lorna/Lauren hiccupped, shifted. The sobs lessened. ‘You’re hurting,’ she said. ‘You’re hurting.’

‘I just need a rest, my love.’

The child scrambled down. ‘You’re hurt, I said.’

‘I am. And I’m tired.’

‘Go to bed then,’ she said coldly.

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘I’m not. Go to bed. If you’re tired.’

‘Are we friends again?’ Claire tried to open her eyes, smile.

‘You’re my mum,’ said the girl flatly. ‘Go to bed. I’ll bring you some more pills in a bit.’

‘I don’t think I can get up the stairs.’

‘I’ll tuck you up, nice and cosy. On the sofa?’ She was solicitous again. The turnaround was dizzying.

‘Yes.’

They struggled to the sofa together.

‘I’ll get a blanket. And a book!’ Lorna bounced up the stairs. From outside, the dog yapped and leaped at the door, which opened with a rush of frigid air.

Lorna put on the thuds and bangs she called music. She must have forgotten about the blanket. But nothing, the pounding music, panting dog, the cold draught – nothing could keep Claire awake. She slept, scissored up and frozen on the sofa, wrapped in codeine.





25





When Claire woke up it was still light. She remembered taking more pills with tea, too sweet with honey, and then it had been dark, but that must have been a dream because she woke up on the sofa in exactly the same position she’d fallen asleep in. The side of her head felt tender, bruised under its own weight on the cushion, and her tongue was dry and cumbersome. Her ankle throbbed dully when she carefully swung it over the side, but it seemed a little better than it had been – yesterday? The weather had calmed down too. Cheerful sunshine filled the kitchen and edged into the living room, along with an odd collection of smells, individually pleasant but mixed, faintly sickening.

Limping sleepily to the kitchen, she called out to Lorna, ‘Oh I’ve been asleep for hours. You should have woken me up! Have you had your lunch?’

But Lorna wasn’t there, Marianne was. There was a CD player on the table – she must have brought it over – pouring out big band music from the forties. And that smell . . . baking, coffee, cigarettes, and something else impossibly sweet: flowery, and too much of it.

Lorna and Marianne had been busy. The table was covered with goodies. Muddy-coloured gingerbread coated in gelatinous blue icing and enormous cinnamon rolls; half an apple pie and some melting ice cream; and a two-litre bottle of ginger beer.