‘Lorna, you have to learn other things too, like maths? Science? We have to catch up on all of that before we start thinking of anything else.’
The girl let all the breath go out of her body and stayed very still. Sleep stole over Claire again, until she heard the whisper: ‘I’ll never be able to do anything.’
Claire forced her eyes open. ‘Don’t say that, Lorna.’
‘Lauren.’
‘Lauren.’
‘I won’t though. How can I? You need, like, a birth certificate or something to go to stage school, and I don’t have anything.’ The girl was speaking Claire’s thoughts back to her. ‘Can you change your name? Be someone else?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claire said carefully.
‘Who would know?’
‘I’m not sure. You can’t ask people those sorts of questions though. I mean, you can ask me, but no-one else. Not Marianne.’
‘She might know though. She knows lots of things.’
‘Yes, but, what you’re talking about is illegal. I mean, it’s against the law. To take another identity.’
‘Well, lots of things are against the law but you do them anyway—’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I mean, taking me here, that was against the law, wasn’t it? I bet?’
‘Lorna—’
‘So what’s another thing matter?’
‘I don’t know what to say, my love. I suppose, there might be a way—’
‘There must be!’ She raised herself up on one elbow. Her shorn hair stood up in little spikes. ‘I saw something on a film once? And they found a dead baby that died at the same time as the person was born? And they took the certificate, and they became that person. The dead baby.’
‘Well, that sounds horrible.’
‘It worked though. In the film.’ She sighed, and thrust one foot out into the cold air, wiggling her toes.
Claire took a breath. ‘Lorna, there’s also Pete.’ Lorna’s foot stiffened, the toes curled and the leg was retracted. Claire patted her shoulder; not so thin now. All those Pop-Tarts and cans of Coke. ‘If he wakes up, gets better, then there’s a chance he’ll talk to the police. About me? About me coming over to the house when I was worried about you? About you staying over at my house even. What I mean to say is—’
‘I’m bored,’ Lorna said flatly.
‘I know you are, but please listen to me, if he talks about me, and the police find me here, well, you can hide. In the cellar—’
‘I’m not going down there!’ Lorna whispered.
‘I only mean if anyone comes here to talk to me about you. You could hide for a little bit and then you’d be safe, no-one would find you. But if we went somewhere else, and tried to have different names and all the things you were talking about, we’d be more visible. Do you see what I mean?’
‘You said you’d make it into a playroom. The cellar. You said that, and it never happened.’
‘Lorna, please try and concentrate. Please.’
‘Maybe we can go to the beach today. I’m bored of the beach though.’ Lorna sighed.
‘Well, we’ll find something else nice to do, I’m sure.’
‘I can’t think of anything to do. Nice. Can’t think of anything.’ She rolled out of the bed and stumped towards the door.
‘I really think we should stay here. It will be better in the summer time,’ pleaded Claire to the child’s back. ‘Honestly. There’ll be people to play with, and sunshine, and boat trips. I promise.’
‘Hope so,’ muttered the girl, and got back into bed.
Perhaps Marianne would be the novelty she needed? Perhaps, with two people . . .? But how can this go on, Claire? How can it? The girl’s breathing became more measured, deeper. One arm lolled out to the side, and her open mouth drooled slightly onto the pillow. And Claire thought, how can this go on? How can I make it go on? She took more codeine, but when the sudden, heavy blanket of fatigue settled around her shoulders, and her eyes drooped, still her mind rattled around its tired old orbit – what are you going to do, Claire? What can you do, Claire?
They both slept, heavily, unattractively, for the next few hours and were woken only by Benji’s wet snuffling and Marianne’s guffaws.
‘Dead to the world!’ she said. ‘Dead to the world!’
27
Over the next few weeks, Lorna’s boredom intensified. The weather didn’t help; it rained almost solidly, so they couldn’t visit the beach.
Claire tried to interest her in card games – solitaire, beggar-my-neighbour – and Lorna would enthusiastically comply, only to suddenly lose interest by the second game. Marianne had more success when she taught her the foxtrot. They swayed together like giggling drunks on the increasingly filthy kitchen floor: ‘Slow, slow, QUICK QUICK s-l-o-w.’ They practised clumsy turns and twirls. The linoleum became spotted with the impressions from Marianne’s worn-down kitten heels.
‘She really does have something.’ Marianne breathed out smoke as she brought Claire some codeine in bed. ‘She has that poise. It’s innate.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Honestly, Claire. Talent is talent. Trust me on this.’
Now Lorna spent most of her time with Marianne, even when they weren’t dancing. Claire would hear them chatting and laughing in the kitchen. They seemed to enjoy the same loud, confusing music, and spent hours watching MTV and analysing the female singers clothes, hair and make-up.
‘She’s had some work done!’ Lorna shrieked one morning, and she must have got that from Marianne. It was Marianne’s kind of phrase.