Over the next few days, she tried to relax, calm down, put things into a less horrifying context. She drove to rarely visited villages and drank weak coffee in tea rooms. She picked through sale items in out-of-town shopping centres. She undertook moderate hikes in the scrubby hills to the north of the city. And she always, always returned the same way, through the estate where Lorna lived. Sometimes she didn’t even know she was doing it; she just found herself meandering around the circular, dark streets until common sense forced her to go home. Sometimes – increasingly – she drove past Lorna’s home, as slowly as she dared, looking for signs of life, and when she decided to drive home, instead she’d find herself turning back into the concentric streets, spiralling once again towards the girl.
Once she saw Rabbit Girl hurrying back from the corner shop, opening the door to a barrage of shouting. She saw Carl in silhouette, casting martial arts shadows, a dog jumping at his clumsy kicks. She saw and heard Pete bellowing at the TV, mock-fighting with the dogs. But she never saw Lorna. Was she even there? Was she safe?
Then, the night before Christmas Eve, driving slowly past the house for the last time before drifting back home, Claire heard a child’s shriek, and angry adult shouts. She couldn’t make out the words, if there were any. She parked on the corner, turned off the engine, and peered at the illuminated oblong of the glass door, wide-eyed and waiting.
Suddenly, something heavy was slammed viciously against the door, then was pulled back, and slammed again, harder, until glass cracked.
Claire stiffened in the car and opened her door, letting in frigid air. Someone roared again from inside the house, and the dogs barked madly.
‘No!’ It was a high voice, cracking with fear – Lorna? And now that sound again – a loaded smash; a flattened mass of hair against the splintering glass.
Claire felt herself moving, moving quickly, running. She got to the door, just as Lorna’s head – it must be, it must be! – was drawn back yet again, and everything else seemed to freeze and all sound stopped.
Claire hammered on the door, kicked it, until it opened with a rush of warm air; a small dog leaped, yelping into the night, and there was Lorna standing, pale, by the kitchen cabinets. Pete, breathing hard, was behind a chair, his hands braced on the back of it. He looked, absurdly, like a sweaty lion-tamer.
‘The fuck are you?’ he shouted.
‘Miss!’ Lorna began.
‘Fuck are YOU?’
‘Lorna, what’s happened?’ Claire looked wildly at the door. Was there a crack in the glass? There was, there must be. ‘Are you all right?’
‘You’re here,’ murmured Lorna.
‘Your head!’ Claire went to the girl, to check if she was bleeding. Lorna backed away.
‘You’re here,’ she said again.
‘I remember you, you’re the teacher! That teacher who came around a bit back. What the fuck are you doing here?’ Pete was walking towards her now, angry, red-faced. ‘What are you doing? Fucking spying on us?’
‘Lorna, is your head all right?’ Claire managed to push past Pete, grabbed Lorna by the shoulders, and gently checked her head. No blood. No cut. She seemed dazed though, she must be.
‘Her head?’ Pete laughed now, shakily. ‘How about you fuck off home and mind your own business?’
‘It is my business, if a child is being hurt.’ Claire veered towards a shriek. ‘It is my business . . .’
‘Miss, don’t. Please, don’t.’ Lorna was standing close now, holding her hand, tugging it, eyes pleading.
It IS my business! Claire tried to keep the fear and hysteria inside.
Pete strode to the doorway now, shouting for Nikki, and Lorna tugged, tugged, tugged at Claire’s arm. ‘Please, really. Just go. Nothing happened, really, nothing happened. I’m all right. Honest I am, I’m OK.’ The girl was leading her back to the door now, pushing her outside. ‘I’ll call you. I’ll be OK, really.’
‘Lorna, I have to call—’ said Claire shakily, and stopped. Call who? Who could she call?
Lorna looked over her shoulder to make sure no-one could hear her: ‘You’ll make it worse. It will get worse if you do that. Tell anyone.’
Pete was back now. ‘What’re you doing, hanging about? Spying on us? Live around here, do you? You’ve got something about the kid, have you? Fucking teachers. Why’re you so into Lorna anyway? I’ll report you.’
‘Miss, go. Get in your car,’ Lorna pleaded.
‘You don’t know what she’s like!’ Pete screamed.
‘Please, Miss! Go!’
‘Lorna!’ Claire cried, as she was being shoved into her car.
‘I’ll fucking tell you what she’s like!’ Pete was framed by the door, Nikki’s face, a pale moon, bobbed behind him. Lorna dashed past them both, and Pete slammed the door so hard that the cracked glass shuddered.
Claire sat, stunned, for long minutes. There was no sound from the house. No shouting, no screaming. No signs of violence. After half an hour, she was able to start the car. The sour taste of adrenaline stayed with her all the way home.
* * *
She sat up most of the night, thinking about what she’d witnessed. It was a miracle that the girl wasn’t cut, wasn’t concussed. It really was. But had it definitely been Lorna’s head smashed against the door? Well, of course it had. Who else’s?
She wrote a list of reasons for and against calling the police. But always, always, Lorna’s fear trumped action. It will get worse if I tell. It will get worse. And Claire, imagining what could be worse, didn’t pick up the phone, didn’t tell.