Bad Little Girl(80)

‘Painkillers Auntie May.’ And Marianne skipped back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Lorna took Claire’s hand and led her to her room. They sat on her unmade bed. Lorna took her hand carefully, gently. ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

‘Pete . . .’ – she looked at the girl for some kind of reaction, but there was nothing save for a little eye widening of impatience – ‘Pete, he died. Today.’

The girl let out all of her breath, slumped until her chin was practically on her knees. Claire squeezed her hand, and got a tiny echo squeeze back. There was a pause. ‘That means,’ Lorna said, in a tiny voice, ‘that we can leave here. That’s what it means, isn’t it?’

‘Well, what it means is that we’re safe, in a way, I mean, the police won’t know about me. But still, Lorna . . .’ Claire looked at the door, paused delicately, ‘they still haven’t found a third body.’

‘My body you mean?’ Lorna’s voice was still tiny, toneless.

‘Well, yes, I . . . Oh, it’s so awful, and I was in two minds about telling you—’

Lorna cut through. ‘And if they haven’t got a third body, then they’re not sure if I’m alive or dead?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Please, keep your voice down though, Marianne—’

‘But maybe we could do that thing?’ Lorna asked. ‘That thing I was on about, about the babies and the birth certificates and all that? And then we could live anywhere. London even.’

‘London? Oh, Lorna, I really don’t know if that’s possible.’

‘In London I could go to school – like a stage school? Learn dancing and acting and stuff,’ Lorna said urgently.

‘London though—’ Claire began.

‘Knock knock!’ Marianne was at the door with pills, whisky and a Coke for Lorna. ‘What’s this about London?’

‘I was telling Mum about being a dancer in London.’ Lorna was sitting fully upright now, pert and smiling. ‘Because, Mum, Marianne used to be a dancer, I told you, didn’t I? And she still knows people too.’

Marianne blushed slightly, laughed. ‘Well, that was many moons ago, but—’

‘Wouldn’t it be great, to learn dancing, and all that stuff? Mum?’

‘I tell you Claire, it’s been London, London, London with this one lately. And, yes, I might still have some contacts. But, listen, let’s talk about this another time. We have to get our sleepover started. Claire, shut your ears!’ And Marianne continued in a stage whisper, ‘I have lots of sweeties too. We can have a midnight feast!’

And Lorna stamped her feet with glee.

They hustled Claire out of the room, after making sure she took her pills. She could still hear them both, giggling, while she waited for the pills to work, and she imagined herself being questioned. ‘How was it that this stranger moved in with you? How was it that this odd family went from pair to trio?’ And her inadequate, true reply: ‘It just happened that way, that was all’; she had no control over it. Marianne came, and never really went away; she did all the shopping, all the cooking, devised Lorna’s amusements, while Claire, supposedly recuperating – ‘ankles are tricky . . . take some painkillers and rest up’ – grew weaker, and more passive.



* * *



Somewhere along the line, Lorna had abandoned her allegiance to George from the Famous Five, and now wanted to be a princess. She muttered darkly about hair extensions and pretty dresses.

‘I have to ask, Claire, why did you cut her hair off in the first place?’ Marianne asked. ‘You can tell that naturally she has the most beautiful hair. Such a shame.’ And Claire, thinking about Lorna’s lank, mouse-coloured tresses, had no answer except for the truth.

‘She thought it would be a good idea.’

Marianne pulled her mouth down into a tragedy mask grimace. ‘Such a pity.’

Lorna drifted about the house in Marianne’s various robes, jangling with jewellery and smeared with lipstick. She spent a lot of time practising dance steps outside on the cracked tarmac of the drive, singing snatches of lyrics and posing.

‘Of course I am a natural dancer,’ Claire overheard her saying to herself one day, ‘but I had to train myself. And my life only really began once I moved to London—’

London. Now that Pete was dead, now that the threat of him talking to the police about Claire was gone, they could move. In theory. But what would they do for money? Claire would have to work, and she’d have to sell both houses . . . But Lorna, well, what to do about her? No birth certificate. A recognisable face. A city of nine million people who might recognise her. It was impossible. It was impossible to go anywhere. But she didn’t dare tell Lorna that.

On the rare occasions that Marianne stayed away, Lorna drifted about, bereft. She took to kicking at a little stone wall at the end of the garden. It must have stood there for two hundred years. Within three weeks Lorna had reduced it to rubble. She was bored. She was so bored! And with boredom came anger. She didn’t want to learn anything. No! No lessons. No maths, no writing, no science. It was all boring, it was all silly. When she knew that she was going to be a dancer.

‘Marianne – about this dance idea she has . . .’

‘Mmmmm?’