‘Lorna, do you know Pete’s name?’
‘It’s Pete, silly!’
‘No, I mean his last name.’
‘Marshall. Why?’
Peter Marshall. She’d definitely read that name somewhere, or heard it. ‘Oh, I just wondered, that’s all. Lorna, remember what I’ve said, really. Anything happens, anything at all, you must tell me, us, at the school. And, look, I’m going to write my phone number down, here. And this is my number at the weekends, just in case.’
‘You’ve got two houses?’
‘Sort of. Look, this number for the week, and this for the weekends, all right? Keep it safe. And, Lorna? Don’t show it to Pete, all right?’
The girl nodded solemnly, and then suddenly sped up, and ran the last few steps. She gave a brief wave, and was gone.
At hometime, Claire saw Nikki loitering in the playground. Was she limping? No. Maybe. Too difficult to tell. Claire couldn’t see her face too well, but it could be bruised. Had she been beaten for speaking about Lorna to Claire? But wouldn’t Lorna have said something, when they were alone, walking to the class together, she wouldn’t have just said she’d been in bed. Lorna trusted her, she knew it. Of course, in the meeting, Lorna had said that everything was fine, but then, that’s what abused children do so often, isn’t it? They pretend to themselves and others, they try to rationalise what happens to them. Peter Marshall. Peter Marshall. She watched Nikki and Lorna leave, and headed to the office.
She tucked herself away in the corner with a notebook and a red pen, tapping furtively at the keyboard, and making sure the screen was turned away from Ruth. Peter Marshall. Yes, he was the star of the magistrates’ court – benefits fraud, possession of a controlled substance . . . what’s this? Fined for having a dangerous dog. He’d spent some time in prison for Actual Bodily Harm – against who? His ex-girlfriend and mother of his twin boys. Claire noted all this down in her neat, quick handwriting, and put the notebook in her cardigan pocket. Best to stop there. If she stayed on the computer much longer, Ruth would begin to ask questions.
‘Ruth, that nice man, the school liaison officer—’
‘What?’
‘The policeman, the one who comes to talk about safety? He had to come in to talk to Feras once.’
‘Oh him. Yeah?’
‘Do we have his telephone number on file anywhere?’ Claire asked oh-so-casually. ‘I want to keep it with me just in case you’re not here to find it one day.’
This mustn’t be one of Ruth’s sharpest days, because she didn’t ask any questions, and didn’t seem to be interested, but waved vaguely at the crowded corkboard behind her. ‘It’s on there somewhere. Jeff Jones. Something like that.’
Claire copied the number carefully into her notebook and left the office before Ruth rediscovered her curiosity.
* * *
‘Well, make the call yourself, Claire, if that’s what you want to do.’ Norma was sunk into the sofa, a cushion behind her head, her eyes closed.
‘You don’t think I should.’
‘I think you need to do something before you lose your mind. Can you get me some paracetamol?’
Claire wandered into the kitchen, biting her lips. It simply wasn’t good enough. After hometime, James had called her into his office to tell her in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t take her concerns further. He’d even suggested that she needed a holiday.
‘. . . a proper break. Everything will seem a lot clearer with a few good nights’ sleep under your belt. Bit of sun.’
‘Bit of sun,’ she muttered to herself, rattling the paracetamol.
‘What was that?’ Norma sounded amused.
‘Nothing.’
‘Talking to yourself? Sign of madness.’
‘I think I’ll have a sherry. Or something. Do you want anything?’
‘Not for me, but there’s brandy in the parlour, and some horrible Spanish thing Derek brought round. You’re welcome to take that away with you.’
Claire stood blankly in the kitchen. If she did call it in to the police, or social services, and Pete got angry . . . what then? He has no problem hitting a woman, surely he would hit a child. She remembered Lorna’s thin frame running to class; that little girl would be made to pay for it. If there was anything happening at home – and there must be something, Claire could feel it – Lorna would suffer for talking . . .
‘Claire? Paracetamol?’
‘Coming. Sorry.’
10
Over the next few terms, Claire watched for Lorna shuffling round the edge of the playground, hurrying down the corridor, staring at the floor in the lunch queue. She was withdrawn, yes. Quiet too. But then, that wasn’t unusual, certainly nothing she could bother the police liaison officer with. Claire kept an eye on the court notices for mentions of a Peter Marshall, but he seemed to be staying out of trouble. No, there was nothing concrete to go on, no new evidence, and she hadn’t even had a conversation with Lorna in months, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging feeling that the girl was in trouble, she was unsafe. Claire was certain of it.
And over spring and into the summer months, Norma grew weaker. She kept on working, but her cough wouldn’t go away, along with the bouts of breathlessness, and the stealthy despair, the frightened irritation with her sudden disabilities.
‘It’s so stupid, Claire, I know, but I can’t get up the stairs, not to the top floor. I thought a bed on the sofa, but all the blankets are in the linen closet upstairs.’