Bad Little Girl(75)

‘Lorna, please try and concentrate. Please.’

‘Maybe we can go to the beach today. I’m bored of the beach though.’ Lorna sighed.

‘Well, we’ll find something else nice to do, I’m sure.’

‘I can’t think of anything to do. Nice. Can’t think of anything.’ She rolled out of the bed and stumped towards the door.

‘I really think we should stay here. It will be better in the summer time,’ pleaded Claire to the child’s back. ‘Honestly. There’ll be people to play with, and sunshine, and boat trips. I promise.’

‘Hope so,’ muttered the girl, and got back into bed.

Perhaps Marianne would be the novelty she needed? Perhaps, with two people . . .? But how can this go on, Claire? How can it? The girl’s breathing became more measured, deeper. One arm lolled out to the side, and her open mouth drooled slightly onto the pillow. And Claire thought, how can this go on? How can I make it go on? She took more codeine, but when the sudden, heavy blanket of fatigue settled around her shoulders, and her eyes drooped, still her mind rattled around its tired old orbit – what are you going to do, Claire? What can you do, Claire?

They both slept, heavily, unattractively, for the next few hours and were woken only by Benji’s wet snuffling and Marianne’s guffaws.

‘Dead to the world!’ she said. ‘Dead to the world!’





27





Over the next few weeks, Lorna’s boredom intensified. The weather didn’t help; it rained almost solidly, so they couldn’t visit the beach.

Claire tried to interest her in card games – solitaire, beggar-my-neighbour – and Lorna would enthusiastically comply, only to suddenly lose interest by the second game. Marianne had more success when she taught her the foxtrot. They swayed together like giggling drunks on the increasingly filthy kitchen floor: ‘Slow, slow, QUICK QUICK s-l-o-w.’ They practised clumsy turns and twirls. The linoleum became spotted with the impressions from Marianne’s worn-down kitten heels.

‘She really does have something.’ Marianne breathed out smoke as she brought Claire some codeine in bed. ‘She has that poise. It’s innate.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Honestly, Claire. Talent is talent. Trust me on this.’

Now Lorna spent most of her time with Marianne, even when they weren’t dancing. Claire would hear them chatting and laughing in the kitchen. They seemed to enjoy the same loud, confusing music, and spent hours watching MTV and analysing the female singers clothes, hair and make-up.

‘She’s had some work done!’ Lorna shrieked one morning, and she must have got that from Marianne. It was Marianne’s kind of phrase.

Claire knew that she wasn’t very exciting at the moment, laid up in bed, medicated and sleepy. But her ankle was so slow to heal, and without Marianne, well, she really didn’t know how she would have coped. It did grate a little though – hearing them giggling away together, on the same wavelength, and Claire wished she could join in, but knew that they wouldn’t really want her to, even if she was well.

Sometimes, when she was sure that Lorna wouldn’t hear her, she turned on the news to check on the murder inquiry. Pete was still hanging grimly on in hospital – not improving, not worsening, unconscious but, naggingly, still alive – and the story had dropped out of the headlines. It was maddening that she was forced to rely on TV news alone for information. If she could just get to the library and look on the internet, she could give her overwrought imagination something to work on, maybe give her some peace.

It bothered her that Lorna wasn’t worried, or didn’t seem to be. They were alone so rarely nowadays that Claire couldn’t tell for sure, but she seemed absolutely uninterested in the whole thing. Even after their conversation, even after Claire had baldly shared her fear that the police might track them down, Lorna seemed unperturbed; bored, skittish, petulant, but not scared. It was, well, it was unnatural, almost. But did Claire want her to be beside herself with fear? After all the terrible things that had already happened to the poor little mite, why should she want Lorna to be worried? She’d been through so much, perhaps she was impervious to fear, perhaps her experiences had rendered her completely stoical. Or maybe she was finally feeling secure, here with Claire, that the bad things were forever held at bay? Except, she had been frightened, hadn’t she? She’d been terrified. Of Pete, of Mervyn Pryce. Claire had seen it. No. Enough of this. Lorna had had a horrible life, and now she was luxuriating in her safety, her comfort. And if she didn’t want to think about the terrible past, well, who could blame her? She was ten years old for God’s sake, let her have this! Let her feel safe, happy, protected. Claire could – and should – worry for the both of them. That was her job now, after all, and in the meantime, keep her distracted, keep her entertained. Spoil her. Stave off the darkness.

Eventually though, all their gambits began to fail, and even MTV failed to enthuse the girl. So one day, during a break in the weather, they decided to take a day trip to an open farm.

‘Will you be OK, Claire? With your ankle? I mean, me and Lo can go on our own?’

‘No, I’d like to come with you, I really would.’

There was a pause. Marianne glanced at Lorna, who didn’t return it. ‘OK then. I passed it, oh, ages back, and thought it looked rather sweet,’ said Marianne. ‘Horses I think, and cows, pigs. Maybe some chickens and rabbits. Shall we go and see? Get some fresh air?’