Bad Little Girl(88)

‘I love you, Auntie May!’

Claire’s skin shivered. The mumbling continued but she couldn’t make out anything else. She heard them going down the stairs together. She heard Lorna’s muted giggle and they left the house. The car door slammed.

It took her half an hour to get out of bed, and another fifteen minutes to shuffle down the stairs into the kitchen. There, she rested her head on the table for a minute, and woke up an hour later with a headache and a jumping muscle in her neck.

The cache of pills – Marianne's knock-out drops – wasn’t in the cupboard any more. Nor was the codeine. Claire, in tiny increments, searched for them before exhaustion took over.





31





The next morning, Claire planned to dump her cooling tea down the drain before Lorna could notice, but the girl had stayed with her to make sure she drained every last drop, her lashless, rabbity eyes circled in black kohl, her forehead lined. Claire felt the effects almost immediately, that now familiar wave of tingling numbness, and then, the black wings of exhaustion folding themselves around the edges of her vision.

‘Mum, go to bed,’ Lorna muttered. ‘Just go to bed.’

And Claire did, but managed to stay awake by digging her nails into her forearms and clenching her feet painfully. When she heard the front door slam, she lurched untidily into the bathroom to make herself sick. She stayed on the floor for a while, until she felt stronger, and then dragged herself down the stairs.

There were definitely no pills anywhere in the kitchen. Marianne’s room? It took her some minutes to work up the energy to go back up the stairs, and when she did, she fainted halfway, which, oddly, seemed to help; when she came round her vision was clearer, and she was able to hold her head upright. Marianne’s room, fragrant, chaotic, was a dumping ground of clothes, scarves, books and cheap moisturisers, but no pills.

Lorna’s room was darker, with the secretive scent of an animal. There were piles of clothes, some still in carrier bags with the tags attached, presents from Marianne, she assumed. A semi-melted pile of lipsticks stained the dressing table, and inside the drawers there were even more clothes, cheap jewellery, false nails and – no pills. Knees creaking, Claire peered under the bed; more dirty clothes were hidden here, along with a couple of broken, headless dolls. She stepped on the squeaking guinea pig. It didn’t squeak, and felt strangely solid underfoot. Claire picked it up. It was heavy, it didn’t rattle, there was a solid whump of sound when she upended it . . . something was packed inside, where the batteries should be. Her weak fingers pried open the plastic casing, and here they were – some of them anyway. The knock-out drops.

A hidden musical box held more, and codeine had been shoved into a doll’s knickers. It lolled on its uneven behind, one eye shut, the other staring at Claire, frozen, shocked.

Three piles of pills. All hidden, but all to hand. Claire felt suddenly sick, made it to the bathroom just in time. Her throat, and lips, were numb with the sourness of the pills. Her arms, braced against the toilet, shook.

How long had Lorna been putting pills in her food, in her drinks? How long had it been since Claire had felt normal? It was so difficult to think, to remember. She sat, splay-legged on the bathroom floor, trying to work it out. Weeks, it must be. At least. And before then, she’d been taking them voluntarily, so she’d built up some resistance. In that case, how much was Lorna giving her, that she was so incapacitated most of the time?

‘No! Benji, NO!’ The dog had one of the packets in his mouth, and was slinking over to Claire in the bathroom. ‘You mustn’t eat that! Or even go near them.’

And she walked, more steadily now she’d vomited, back to Lorna’s room to put them back where she found them. I can’t let her know I’ve been in her room, snooping. She’ll be so angry if she finds out . . .

And then she stopped, sat on the bed. A colder, tougher part of her brain muscled in, took control. What would happen if I didn’t put them back? Really. What would happen? She can hardly accuse me of stealing them, can she? That would be tantamount to admitting she was hiding them. Hiding them and grinding them up, putting them in the soup, in the cocoa and God knows where else. No, she won’t be able to say anything. But, she’ll know. She’ll know that I know.

‘And where will that get me?’ whispered Claire to herself.

It will keep you safe. Safer anyway. You’ll have something over her.

I’m thinking as if she’s evil. Some kind of psychopath. Absurd! I’ve known this girl for years! She’s my daughter, to all intents and purposes, and I love her! She loves me!

Take a look at the pills and think again. Think about what’s been happening, and ask that question again. The question you really want to ask.

The fire?

Yes, the fire. Why doesn’t she want you to watch the news?

It’s too upsetting for her—

Oh Claire. Wake up.

‘I am waking up,’ she muttered, picking up the pills. ‘I’m trying to.’





32





In the kitchen she found a sealed pot of instant coffee, and some plastic pots of milk Lorna always swiped from McDonald’s. Four cups of strong coffee transformed her into a wired zombie, still dazed, but compelled to move. She walked as briskly as she could around the garden, coatless and with her face turned to the rain, gradually waking up, gradually becoming stronger. Eventually, she was able to sit down on the grass without feeling like she was about to pass out. It was time to think. Time to plan.