The girl scampered up the stairs, and Claire hobbled back to the sofa and propped her foot up on the coffee table, wincing at the little bolts of pain running up her leg. They didn’t have any painkillers. Not even any frozen peas to take the swelling down. No car. No way of getting out. It was a mile to the bus stop and getting there was impossible, let alone walking round the shop in town, and then walking back home, dragging that little trolley on wheels. And she couldn't send Lorna out on her own; it was term time now, and someone would surely notice her, ask her why she wasn’t in school. Even call the police. And then Lorna would panic and God knows what she’d say. No. No. She’d just have to heal, that’s all. Heal quickly. Rest, isn’t that what you do for a sprained ankle? And heat? Or massage and cold? But what if it was serious? Broken even? What then? Fear mixed with dizzy nausea, she felt like crying, but as Lorna came trotting down the stairs, she put on a neutral expression.
‘I found all these pretty bandages, and jewels! In the airing cupboard.’ Lorna was carrying a disintegrating plastic bag filled with chiffon scarves and costume jewellery. ‘You didn’t take your sock off.’ Claire painfully rolled it down over the horrible swelling, red and tight over pale, quivering toes. ‘Oh, I’ve seen worse,’ said the girl, setting to work. ‘If we tie this up nice and tight’ – the scarf bit into the red foot – ‘and fasten it’ – she pinned the ends together with a diamanté brooch in the shape of an owl – ‘you’ll be fine. I bet it already feels better, doesn't it?’
‘Very much. A lot better.’ Claire winced.
‘It has to get better.’ The girl was serious. ‘We don't have any bread or Nutella left.’
‘Oh God! I left the shopping in our car!’
‘Oh never mind,’ Lorna said generously. ‘Poor you with your poorly hoof! Poorly hoof! Poorly hoof!’ She drifted over to the kitchen and took up the business card again. ‘That lady . . .’
‘What about her?’
‘She was a bit weird.’
‘She was, a bit.’
‘She was ccccccrrraaazy. CccccccRrrraaaazy lady!’ Lorna must have been watching Cartoon Network.
‘Crazy how?’
‘Crazy like a cccccccccrazy lady!’ The child danced around, and Claire thanked God she was happy. Happy and not frightened. It would be easier to dampen Marianne’s interest in them if Lorna was just a normal little girl, on the shy side, perhaps, but normal, rather than a hidden, crop-haired recluse.
They found aspirin in the end, and Claire took four, biting her lips to keep in the pain while Lorna ate cereal and watched TV.
‘I think I’ll have to sleep down here tonight, Lorna. Can you get me my pillow and a duvet?’
‘Uh?’ The girl didn’t take her eyes off the screen.
‘I’ll need my bedclothes?’
‘In a bit. Let me watch this first.’
The fire banked down. Claire shuffled closer to the girl for warmth.
24
That night Claire lay on the sofa, but with no real hope of sleeping. She could hear Lorna upstairs, talking to herself and bandaging up toys with scarves. No matter how Claire shifted, she couldn’t lessen the throbbing pain, and by three a.m. the worry rolled back, crushingly. What if her ankle was broken after all? How could she get to a hospital? What if she had blood poisoning? What if she died? What would happen to Lorna then? Derek knew where she was, what if he came to see her, discovered Lorna? And more, even darker worries – what if Pete had woken up already? What if he was talking to the police right now, about the strange, shrill teacher who kept showing up at their door? He’d tell the police anything, anything at all, to shift suspicion about the fire onto someone else, and why not shift it to Claire? And she was trapped, literally housebound, unable to drive, to escape, to protect Lorna as she needed to be protected!
She closed her eyes and pictured the girl’s sleeping face; the half-inch of violet shadow beneath her eyes, the pale eyelashes, the delicate, pallid profile. She remembered how, only a few nights ago, she had packed her limbs into some kind of order beneath the duvet, and those brown eyes had flickered open, sleep-filled and unseeing, and she’d said, ‘Thanks Mum.’
She heard the wind, the clatter of twigs against windows, and, beneath that, the sound of the sea. Claire felt tears of panic. They were so isolated. They were so alone!
* * *
She woke up to a bright, windy morning. The scarf bandage had loosened in the night and now lay, shed, like a snakeskin around her still huge ankle. Somewhere a door was open and a vigorous draught ran through the house, cold but pleasant, and carrying voices. The radio? She shuffled up on the cushion, counted to five, and swung her legs over the side of the settee, clutching the arm for support as the blood rushed mercilessly to her ankle. Whimpering, she hopped her way into the kitchen. The front door stood wide open, the voices were louder here, coming from the outside. A dog barked.
‘He’s ccccccRAYzeee!’ Lorna laughed.
And there was Marianne Cairns, with her aviator sunglasses and her tarnished hair, laughing along with her.
Lorna held a rope with a ball on the end of it, swung it about her head like a shot putter and flung it into the bushes. The dog yapped joyfully and bounded after it.
‘You’re ccccRAYzeee! Benji!’
‘He is. He’s very little still. Just a pup. Like you. How old are you?’
‘Ten.’ Lorna was pert.
‘Ten!’ Marianne widened her eyes dramatically. ‘I thought you were just a baby of eight, but you’re a big girl of ten!’
That struck the wrong note with Lorna. She stood suddenly stiff, mouth pursed. ‘I’ve never been a baby. Even eight is big. And I’m ten.’
‘Oh. Well, I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re a very, very big girl.’
There was an awkward pause. Claire called from the doorway, ‘I think you’d better find Benji before he gets lost in the little woods.’
‘Oh my God, you look like Banquo’s ghost,’ cried Marianne. ‘Look at you! Sit down, sit down!’ She hustled Claire to the kitchen table and pressed her into a chair. ‘Thought I’d drop in and give you these.’ She crouched down and began dragging things out of her shoulder bag. ‘I went to the doctor’s this morning pretending to have a badly sprained ankle. Not a bad performance, if I say so myself, but that’s years of theatrical training for you! I got you, let’s see . . .’ She rummaged around. ‘Codeine, anti-inflammatories, some rub-on gel stuff. More painkillers – these are great – I use them with migraines, helps you sleep, and – ta dah! Brandy! I noticed you were nearly out, so I got a big bottle. All you need for a happy convalescence!’
‘That’s so kind of you,’ Claire murmured.
‘Ah’ – Marianne made large, dismissive movements with both hands – ‘not a problem.’ Her voice had a slight American twang to it. ‘No big deal. Let’s get inside and open up that brandy.’