Bad Little Girl(99)

When she came to, she was in a sitting position, and her ankles were bound together with electrical tape. They ached in the cold. Marianne squatted uncomfortably before her, holding a teacup. Wordlessly, she extended the cup, letting Claire sip a few drops. Even now she was posing, like a gone-to-seed Honor Blackman in those high-heeled boots. There was a bread knife in her belt; old, but sharp. Her hatred for Claire flowed from her in waves. She’ll hit me, Claire thought, unless she stabs me first; and she closed her eyes again, bracing herself.

‘I’ve got her. She’s safe now,’ Marianne whispered. And then her face was suddenly close. Her mottled complexion shone through thick swathes of make-up in the dim light. Her lips pulled back from yellowing teeth. ‘You can’t hurt her any more!’

Claire swallowed, opened her eyes. ‘What’s she told you?’

‘She’s where she wants to be. She’s safe.’

‘Marianne. She’s not, she’s not what you think she is. She’s manipulating you. Look, I won’t say anything, or tell anyone anything. If you let me go.’

Marianne threw her mohair wrap theatrically over one shoulder. ‘Nobody manipulates me!’

‘Marianne. Listen. She’s not . . . right. She’s lying to you, Marianne, she’s dangerous.’

‘Oh! She told me you’d say that.’

‘It’s true! In a few months you’ll be in the same position as me. She’ll find someone else. Marianne, listen, I’m trying to help you!’

Marianne rolled her eyes. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

Oh God, this is like the cheap dialogue in a police show, thought Claire. Now Lorna has someone that plays the same silly hackneyed games as her. In their minds this must be the thrilling denouement of a mini-series; or The Beginning Of An Exciting New Chapter.

Marianne’s eyes were clouded and circled with badly applied mascara. Her childish mouth settled primly in folds, and she bounced distractedly on her heels. Outside, Benji barked wildly at the wind. Lorna called to him, ‘Benji! BEN-JII!’ and Marianne smiled, softened.

‘She loves that dog. You can always tell the heart of a person, by how they treat animals.’

Claire thought about the dogs that had roasted in the other house; fur on fire, choking on the smoke. She thought about the white forensic tent covering the yard; the teddies, flowers, and cards laid, tied and shoved between the railings. Bodies too badly burned to identify; bones too crushed to mark as human. And she thought of Lorna’s little smile, as she’d trotted back from the toilets at the service station and seen the TV screen. Perhaps, just perhaps, Marianne didn’t know anything about that. Perhaps she knew nothing about the fire and Lorna had spun her the same yarn she’d spun for Claire – an abused girl, a tortured girl, a diamond all but hidden in filth. But not the girl who disappeared after an infamous house fire. Perhaps . . .

‘Marianne? What has Lauren told you about me?’

Marianne turned dreamy eyes her way. ‘She told me how you stopped her seeing her father, and those vile accusations you made against him to keep her with you. She told me about how you took her out of school, wouldn’t let her have friends, how you even killed her hamster. How you kept her locked in her room at night. And don’t give me that look, I know all about it. You’re a dried-up old bitch with no life of your own, trying to smother hers! But she’s resisted it! She’s resisted you, and she’s demanding her freedom!’ Her voice rang with evangelical fervour. It was as if she’d rehearsed the whole thing. She probably had.

Claire tried to keep her voice steady. ‘And you believed all this?’

‘She didn’t want to tell me. Oh, you’ve done a number on her! Talk about manipulation! It took me months to get the whole story out of her.’ Marianne laughed grimly.

‘Where does she say her father is?’

‘She doesn’t know! She’s still too traumatised to tell me the whole story.’

‘And so, you’ll take her to social services, I suppose? Expose the whole thing?’

‘What? After what they did to her?’

Claire’s head was spinning. ‘What did they do to her?’

Marianne snorted. ‘As if you didn’t know.’

Claire took a ragged breath, opened her eyes. ‘Marianne. Has she ever mentioned Pete to you? Or Carl?’

‘What? Who?’

‘Nothing. No-one. It doesn’t matter.’

‘She needs a mother. An advocate. And Christ knows you haven’t been either.’

‘And what will you do with me?’ The dog barked again. ‘Ben-JI!’ was carried on the wind. Marianne stood up with an effort, her knees creaking, and walked to the cellar door. ‘Marianne?’

‘We haven’t decided,’ she muttered. When she left, she bolted the door.





38





Claire had never experienced real darkness, until now.

There was no way to mark the time, and the cold seeped into her bones. Her fingers were numb.

Sometimes she heard things. Once, singing, faint, slow. A sudden, shrill laugh, a door slamming. Her thoughts leaned into one another, whispering. Would they keep her here for much longer? Did they mean to kill her? What were they waiting for? There must be something here, something sharp, or rough at least. Something to cut through the plastic around her wrists. But it was so dark, her hands were so cold, her fingers useless, and after crawling around for a while, she gave up and curled, crying, on the freezing floor.