‘Oh they’re sweet enough when they’re small, I’ll give you that. But before you know it you’ve got a great hulking adolescent mucking up the bathroom—’
‘—She’s ten now. And she’s taken a bit of a shine to me. And, yes she is one of those children from a bad family. You know, what you were saying, with the dogs and everything. And she tells me, not really tells me, but hints, you know, that things aren’t good at home. Not safe. And, and, well I’ve seen things myself. And the problem is Derek, that, well, I feel like I’m in over my head a little—’
‘Pippa? Any more wine in there?’
‘—And because she’s told me things in confidence, you know, I don’t know how I can go about telling the police or anyone without her losing confidence in me—’
‘Lots of girls have confidence issues. Until they turn into teenagers, and then it’s all miniskirts and sex.’
‘Not that kind of confidence, Derek. I mean trust. In me.’
Derek turned his clouded eyes to her. ‘But I do trust you, Claire. What a thing to say! Pip! Wine?’
* * *
After a disappointingly small whisky and a confusing game of Pictionary, Claire snuck upstairs to use the phone on the landing. She really ought to have a mobile. Lorna had told her to get one just a few weeks ago and she should have listened to her, then she could have gone outside and had a private chat without worrying about Derek blundering in and overhearing. The passive-aggressive sound of Christmas carols filtered out of the kitchen, as Pippa banged pans into the dishwasher and grumbled at the mess. Claire sat down on the floor and took a few deep breaths before she dialled Lorna’s number on Derek and Pip’s old rotary phone. Her nails dug into the deep pile of the carpet; adrenaline flooded her chest and stomach. An answer. Carl. Claire pictured his empty, pugnacious face, wondered if he’d think it odd that an unknown adult was calling his ten-year-old sister on Christmas Day, decided it was unlikely.
‘Is Lorna there?’ Claire spoke with a local accent.
‘Who?’
‘Is Lorna there?’ There was a silence. One of her nails snagged painfully in the carpet, broke, and she breathed quickly, shallowly, like a cornered animal, waiting for questions.
But Carl asked no questions. He’d dropped the phone on the floor. A curious dog, sniffing at the receiver, gave one, piercing, bark. And then, Lorna was there.
Relief made Claire’s head swim. It didn’t matter that she’d run a risk calling. It didn’t matter that Lorna sounded cold, hurt and distant. All that mattered was that she was there, at the other end of the line. She was there.
‘Happy Christmas, Lorna!’
‘Miss! Happy Christmas!’
‘Is everything all right?’
The girl made an evasive noise. Claire’s hand tightened on the receiver.
‘I’ve been reading,’ Lorna whispered. ‘Some of those books you gave me – Famous Five? I’ve been reading about the sea.’
There was a long silence. ‘We’ll go one day,’ Claire found herself saying.
‘We will? Mean it?’ The trembling eagerness in the girl’s voice was so welcome. ‘We’ll go? And swim in the sea? And have a picnic in a cave carpeted with pure white sand?’ She was back to her old self; whimsical, confiding. ‘And hire a sailboat. And ride bikes and have picnic lunches?’
‘Yes,’ Claire said again, the words out of her mouth before she could check them. ‘Yes. And, and – ice creams?’
‘Oooooh! Ice creams!’ Lorna giggled. ‘And ginger beer?’
‘Yes!’
‘What actually is ginger beer?’
‘It’s not like real beer. It’s pop, fizzy pop.’
‘Good. I don’t like real beer.’
There was another silence.
‘Lorna? Are you OK? What I said before, about the police—’
‘I can’t go to them. They’ll tell them I’m lying. Mum, and Pete, they always tell people I’m lying. And Pete’s in trouble with someone. With his ex-girlfriend. He says she wants to stop him seeing his kids. And if I tell anyone about what’s happening here, he’ll lose the court case and then he’ll kill me, I’m sure.’ All this was said in a breathless little rush.
‘What is happening there?’ Silence. ‘Lorna?’
‘He has pills,’ the girl whispered. ‘He puts them in Mum’s tea, and Carl’s sometimes, and they go to sleep. And then he can get to me. Are you OK, Miss?’
Claire closed her eyes and thought feverishly. This, THIS was concrete. This was something she could take to the police! And then she thought of PC Jones, friends – probably best friends – with Mervyn Pryce. Her report would mysteriously disappear, and Lorna would be made to suffer even more. She felt sick. ‘Yes, I mean no. But, I’m just so . . .’
‘Sorry for me? I know. That’s why I’ve always trusted you. That’s why I know you’ll look after me. I feel it. I speak to you in my head, like you’re meant to do with God. But I do it with you.’
‘Lorna—’
But the phone went suddenly dead. Claire frantically dialled again, but the line was engaged.
Cousin Derek took her pallor and long absence from the front room as proof of too much Christmas spirit. ‘Praying to the porcelain God, eh? Ask Pippa for some of her herbal tea. Camomile? Worked wonders for her when she had stomach flu. While you’re in there, can you have a scout about for the TV guide?’
* * *