‘If they think I’m dead . . .’ She took a deep breath and said again, all in a rush, ‘If they think I’m dead, then I can stay with you for ever. No-one will look for me.’ Lorna’s eyes narrowed. She put her head in her hands. ‘But maybe you don’t want me either. I’m a lot of trouble. I mean, you didn’t want the TV, and I made you get it.’ The girl was working herself up again, her thin chest constricting. She looked up, her mouth a tragedy mask. ‘And maybe you want to go back and go to work again and everything?’ She dug her bitten fingernails into her wrists. ‘And then they’ll take me into care! And you might get into trouble! For taking me!’
Claire leaned forward and plucked one wrist to safety. ‘I won’t leave you. I won’t.’ She put two fingers firmly on the girl’s chin and forced it up so she could see into her eyes. ‘I promise you.’ Lorna’s mouth tried to smile while her damp eyes pleaded. Claire said again, ‘I won’t leave you. We’re together now, Lorna. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again, I promise. I won’t let it happen.’ With each firm phrase, she felt her resolve harden further, her determined hope rise; she willed, and saw, trust fill the girl’s blank, shocked eyes. Each word Claire uttered seemed to bring her back from some terrible brink, and breathe life into her. And so she carried on talking, outlining their future together. She spoke of holidays, of pets, of the beach in the summer time; she spoke of music, of dancing, of talent and dreams, and soon the girl stopped shivering, uncurled like a flower in the sunshine, and began asking questions, giggling softly, clinging closer to Claire even as she relaxed.
When Claire thought about that evening, as she did so many times afterwards, she fell into confusion when she tried to remember how exactly it had all ended with them making gingerbread again, eating ice cream and watching Singin’ in the Rain. It seemed improbable; almost callous. But there it was, it happened that way. They stayed up until midnight and left the kitchen in a mess, and slept together in the big bedroom because Lorna didn’t want to be alone.
22
Claire woke up cold. All the windows were open, and Lorna was nowhere to be seen – not hunched in front of the TV, or up to her elbows in pancake batter, or drawing pictures with chalk outside on the badly tarmacked drive. It was strange.
‘Lorna?’ called Claire, as she put the kettle on. ‘Lorna? Have you had breakfast? Come in if you’re out, it’s too cold.’
She turned on the radio – the news would start in a few minutes. There was bound to be something about the fire . . .
‘Boo!’ Lorna was behind her. She had her head cocked to the side, her eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, Lorna! Where’ve you been? I was a bit worried!’
‘What’s strange?’ She smiled enigmatically.
‘Oh did I say that aloud?’
‘Only nutters talk to themselves. Mad people.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘What’s strange?’
‘Oh, I was thinking about . . . oh golly, I can’t even remember now.’ She turned the radio off.
The girl wobbled on one leg and scratched one bare, dirty sole. ‘Why did you open all the windows?’
‘What? I didn’t.’
Lorna gazed at her, stopped scratching and put both feet on the floor, wriggling her toes. ‘I’m cold. Why’d you do that?’
‘I didn’t. You must have . . .’ began Claire, but the sentence petered out. Perhaps Lorna got a little warm in the night, what with them sharing a bed, and had done it herself, half asleep. And now she was probably a bit embarrassed. ‘I might have done it in my sleep.’
‘Like a sleepwalker?’ Lorna grinned now, and put both arms stiff out in front of her, scrunched her eyes shut, and wandered about moaning, ‘I’m asssleeepp . . . I’m sssleeeeepingg!’
‘Maybe. Or you might have done it in your sleep?’
‘Oh no.’ The girl was grave again. ‘I sleep like a baby. I never wake up. It was you.’
Claire, smiling, agreed that it must have been. Just let her get away with this one, she needed to be right about little things. Making up a silly story and sticking to it, well, it must have been the only small power she had, growing up in that terrible environment. The circus story, and the fictional auntie with the spare room just for her; just whimsical lies that illustrated her need for certainty, and a sense of her own specialness. It was something she’d grow out of, once she felt genuinely protected, genuinely safe at last.