That night, Lorna fell asleep in front of the fire, and no amount of hair stroking or gentle shakes would wake her. At ten Claire called Lorna’s home, and again at ten thirty, but there was no answer, and so she picked the girl up, still sleeping, put her in the spare room, and tucked her in. Lorna’s eyelids flickered and her lips moved in a tiny smile as Claire whispered goodnight.
Claire spent the next few hours alternating between excitement and anger. There was something of the sleepover about this situation – as if Lorna were a friend, or a young relation, here for a visit. That was the sweetly exciting part. But she was angry too – angry with Lorna’s feckless parents, their lack of care, their disregard. Lorna was safe, but that wasn’t the point. How would her mother know that? Didn’t she care at all? When there was so much on the news at the moment about vulnerable young girls being groomed by these terrible gangs? Horrible things happen to innocent children; children who just want to do some sport or other, and end up with someone like Mervyn Pryce taking advantage of them . . . Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children . . .
Johnny stuck close to her legs as she paced, before heaving himself up onto the sofa to sleep. Claire never normally let him sleep on the furniture, but he did look peaky. It might not be a bad idea to get him to the vets.
Claire tiptoed upstairs to check on the girl. Light sweat sheened her forehead, and her breathing was shallow, her eyelids flickering. She must be having a nightmare. Claire smoothed her brow, held her hand, and whispered comfort to her until she calmed. And Claire calmed too, looking at Lorna, wrapped up safe and warm. The way she should be.
Early the next morning, Claire called Lorna’s house three times. No answer. She piled Lorna into the car and drove to her home, but it was locked and empty.
‘Do you have your key?’
‘Uh.’
‘OK, well let yourself in and clean your teeth and everything, or we’ll be late for school. I’ll write a quick note to your mum.’
And so Claire followed the girl into the house, waited while she cleaned her teeth, and was wiping the smear of toothpaste from Lorna’s cheek when she noticed the bag.
‘In case I need it. Got my pyjamas in here. And a toothbrush, and Tilly Doll’ – a battered plastic baby was displayed – ‘and some books—’
‘Lorna—’
‘And socks—’
‘Lorna, sweetheart. You can’t stay with me. I mean, you have your own home here, and your mum, and your brother.’
Lorna’s face darkened.
‘Your mum will be worried—’ Claire said weakly.
‘No she won’t. You know she won’t.’
Claire stared helplessly at the defiant little face. ‘Do you want me to talk to her? If you’re not happy, I mean? Is it – I mean, is it anything to do with . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember what we talked about in Mr Clarke’s office that time?’
Still that dewy, absent gaze. Her teeth sawed away at her bottom lip. Two tears made a parallel course down her cheeks and hung onto her jawline. Claire reached out with her Handy Hanky and wiped them away. ‘Lorna?’
The girl sighed, shivered, and released her bottom lip. ‘We’ll be late for school.’
‘Lorna? Mr Pryce?’
‘Don’t want to be late.’
‘Lorna.’ Claire was shaking, her heart pulsed painfully. ‘If anything is happening. Anything bad, with Pete. I – I understand. I – know what it’s like when you’re little and someone you’re meant to trust . . .’ Breathing was difficult. Her chest was so tight.
The girl looked at her solemnly. ‘It happened to you?’
‘I don’t know if it’s the same kind of thing . . .’ her chest blazed with pain, suddenly. Am I having a heart attack? Take deep breaths. Lorna gazed at her in concern. One little hand stroked Claire’s knee. It gave her the strength to go on. ‘But I do know that none of this is your fault. And you can trust me. You can tell me anything.’
‘I love you,’ the girl murmured.
It knocked the breath out of Claire. Had anyone ever said that to her before? Aside from Mother? It was overwhelming; the emotion dwarfed the pain. It was true. This little girl loved her. She knew it was true. Lorna was crying now, her head close to her knees, her fingers clutching her doll by the foot. Claire patted her thin shoulder. ‘I love you too, Lorna,’ she wobbled, ‘and I really want to help you. I really do.’
‘I’m all right.’ Lorna dropped the doll and clutched at Claire’s hand. She smiled bravely.
‘You’re not all right.’ Now Claire was crying.
‘I’m all right with you. I’m safe with you. But I won’t come over any more if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s not what I want. Not at all.’
‘I’m trouble for you.’ The girl smiled sadly.
‘You’re in trouble, yes, but you’re not trouble. And, I can help. Call someone.’
‘NO!’
‘Lorna—’
‘It’ll get worse if you do. He told me. If I tell it’ll get much worse!’ She sobbed, her face in her hands, and ran back to the car. She cried all the way to school, and ran off without saying goodbye, disappearing into the dense crowd in the playground.
When Claire got home, rattling the keys to let Johnny know she was back, she knew something was wrong right away. There wasn’t the familiar scamper of claws and huffing, excited breath. No peremptory little barks. Instead he was lying on the kitchen floor, a neat pile of vomit next to his food bowl. His paws were stiff, his whiskers flecked with foam. He wasn’t breathing.
He’s old. He was old, she thought as she dug the grave for him under the cherry tree, but she couldn’t stop crying. Death was all about her. Death, and fear and loneliness. Poor sweet old thing. Poor, troubling little girl.
But Lorna had left her bag on the back seat of the car. That means she’ll come back, Claire thought.
But weeks went by, and she didn’t come back.
* * *