Bad Little Girl(93)

‘Oh God, Claire. Because in real life, I mean, you can’t go around killing people, even if you think they deserve it.’

‘People do, though,’ said Claire.

‘And they get caught, don’t they?’ replied Marianne.

Claire’s mouth was dry. Neither she nor Lorna looked at each other. The TV blared on. ‘Sometimes they do. I suppose. It depends on how clever they are,’ she murmured.

‘They’d have to be supernaturally clever to get away with something like that.’

‘It’s just a story though,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s not like it’s real.’

Claire stood up suddenly. ‘I’m going into town.’

‘What for?’ Lorna asked now. Claire could feel her eyes on her, but she didn’t meet them.

‘I noticed that you’re running out of your special shampoo. You said you needed the one in the blue bottle, didn’t you?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Well, there’s hardly any left.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘I won’t be long. And really, this isn’t my cup of tea after all; Auntie May will watch the rest of the countdown with you, won’t she?’





34





Claire’s heart pulsed in her throat and her hands clenched the steering wheel. After a few miles she realised that she was driving too quickly, that her jaw was painfully clenched. Adrenaline was sour at the back of her mouth. I should pull over, she thought, get some air, but a new, less sensible, alien instinct kept her going, pushing down her foot on the accelerator, raising a chuckle in her throat. Happy. She felt happy, but not just happy, no. She was victorious, and giddy with it, like a boxer trapped on the ropes who suddenly, inexplicably, wiggles free and, energised, dances away to the amazement of the crowd. She had duelled with Lorna, and she had won. Won!

The countryside whizzed by, and the sea, a shining blue, peered from between cliffs. ‘I could go to the beach,’ thought Claire. ‘I don’t even have to get that shampoo like I told them. I could go shopping! I could – I could read a newspaper and have a cup of tea!’ And she laughed, a full-throated, joyful laugh, the first laugh like it since Mother had died. She opened the window and shook her hair in the breeze. She’d won! But what will it be like when you go back, Claire? What then? You’re going to get punished for this, you know it. ‘Well, if I’m getting punished, may as well get punished for a good time,’ she said out loud, and made the turn into the outskirts of Truro.

The last time she’d been to the town had been in the middle of winter, and her impression of the place then had been one of gloom and stillness. Today, the spring sun brightened the buildings, emphasised the whiteness of the stone. Narrow, dawdling roads suddenly widened out into quaint squares, and there were people; more people than Claire had seen in one place for months! Children too – why so many? Oh God, it must be school holidays! Easter, already! It must be, the shops have Easter eggs on display. She stopped, saw herself reflected in a window. Thin, so thin, with bags under her eyes and her unkempt hair more grey than brown. She gazed at herself for a long time, long enough so that a passer-by asked if she was all right. Pretty woman, with two small children tugging at her arms.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just trying to remember what I needed!’

‘Oh, OK. You look a bit pale, that’s all,’ the woman’s kind face creased. ‘Not being rude.’

‘I’ve been a little ill, but I’m getting over it now.’ Claire smiled. The woman’s little boy dropped his packet of sweets and it rolled towards the gutter. Claire stopped it with her foot and gave it back.

‘Say thank you to the lady.’

‘Sankoo,’ said the boy.

‘I was wondering, where is the library?’ Claire just wanted to prolong the encounter. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Lorna and Marianne for months. The woman had such a sweet face, open, and completely new.

‘If you go down there, and take the next right, you’ll see it, it’s on Union Place.’

Off the main drag, once the crowd thinned out, she became disoriented. Each creamy, stony street seemed the same: grand, angular homes; a vine-covered wall ran down the right-hand side of the road, casting shadow, muting noise. And now, suddenly, there was no-one, no-one at all. She could be the only person on earth.

The road widened suddenly, and large grey gates came into view. A park maybe? Claire eased through a small gap and, with unfocused eyes, walked down a gravel path, towards a bench. If I sit, get my bearings, I’ll be OK. There was something familiar about the place; not a park after all, but a series of low buildings with flat roofs on well-kept grass. And what was that? A sculpture? No, bars. Apparatus! She was in a school! A primary school it looked like. And immediately she began to relax. Schools are all the same, no matter how down at heel or brand new they are, and Claire looked with delight through the windows at the bright murals, the inevitable self-portraits of the infants, the Tudor projects of the Year Fives.

Tears started to form in her eyes as this connection, almost physical, with her old life established itself, made her feel rooted for the first time in months. Here, in this unknown school, she was at home. In what must be the nursery, children had cut around their own painted palm prints, and here they were, colourful bunting, strung across the walls – each with a name. Claire had done much the same with her Foundation classes, except along with the name, she had them dictate a dream, an ambition, a favourite sport, toy or colour. It gave the shyest children something to point at: see, there’s my name, I belong here. She’d done it when Lorna had been in the Christmas Crackers, but Lorna had painted the palm puce, mud coloured. Claire herself had written the girl’s name on it, she remembered, and at the end of term, when all the other children had taken theirs home to be pinned proudly on the fridge, Lorna’s stayed alone, unloved and ugly, staining the wall like a bruise.