Claire knew that she wasn’t very exciting at the moment, laid up in bed, medicated and sleepy. But her ankle was so slow to heal, and without Marianne, well, she really didn’t know how she would have coped. It did grate a little though – hearing them giggling away together, on the same wavelength, and Claire wished she could join in, but knew that they wouldn’t really want her to, even if she was well.
Sometimes, when she was sure that Lorna wouldn’t hear her, she turned on the news to check on the murder inquiry. Pete was still hanging grimly on in hospital – not improving, not worsening, unconscious but, naggingly, still alive – and the story had dropped out of the headlines. It was maddening that she was forced to rely on TV news alone for information. If she could just get to the library and look on the internet, she could give her overwrought imagination something to work on, maybe give her some peace.
It bothered her that Lorna wasn’t worried, or didn’t seem to be. They were alone so rarely nowadays that Claire couldn’t tell for sure, but she seemed absolutely uninterested in the whole thing. Even after their conversation, even after Claire had baldly shared her fear that the police might track them down, Lorna seemed unperturbed; bored, skittish, petulant, but not scared. It was, well, it was unnatural, almost. But did Claire want her to be beside herself with fear? After all the terrible things that had already happened to the poor little mite, why should she want Lorna to be worried? She’d been through so much, perhaps she was impervious to fear, perhaps her experiences had rendered her completely stoical. Or maybe she was finally feeling secure, here with Claire, that the bad things were forever held at bay? Except, she had been frightened, hadn’t she? She’d been terrified. Of Pete, of Mervyn Pryce. Claire had seen it. No. Enough of this. Lorna had had a horrible life, and now she was luxuriating in her safety, her comfort. And if she didn’t want to think about the terrible past, well, who could blame her? She was ten years old for God’s sake, let her have this! Let her feel safe, happy, protected. Claire could – and should – worry for the both of them. That was her job now, after all, and in the meantime, keep her distracted, keep her entertained. Spoil her. Stave off the darkness.
Eventually though, all their gambits began to fail, and even MTV failed to enthuse the girl. So one day, during a break in the weather, they decided to take a day trip to an open farm.
‘Will you be OK, Claire? With your ankle? I mean, me and Lo can go on our own?’
‘No, I’d like to come with you, I really would.’
There was a pause. Marianne glanced at Lorna, who didn’t return it. ‘OK then. I passed it, oh, ages back, and thought it looked rather sweet,’ said Marianne. ‘Horses I think, and cows, pigs. Maybe some chickens and rabbits. Shall we go and see? Get some fresh air?’
And so they piled into Marianne’s little car, Claire alone on the back seat because Lorna wanted to sit in the front, Marianne blowing smoke out of the window into the frigid air.
‘Claire, you take the map – it’s somewhere near, there.’ She passed a hand vaguely to the north. ‘See if there’s a sign, but I think if we just head in that direction I’ll be able to remember where it is. Now, ready?’
‘Ready Teddy!’ Lorna drummed her feet on the floor, her face flushed and happy.
‘Weddy Wabbit!’ Marianne swung the car around in a lurching loop, the gears protesting. ‘Shit. Fourth. OK, now, here we are. Let’s go!’
The dank countryside slid past, a palette of brown, grey and khaki. Every now and again the sun would filter through the clouds, and Marianne would shriek, point and swerve. There were absolutely no other cars on the road, and Claire realised that she hadn’t seen another face except Lorna’s and Marianne’s for . . . how long? She hadn’t left the house in weeks. Her ankle was so slow to heal. She must rest. Rest, Mum, or you won’t get better. She’s right, Claire, these things can take months. Take some pills. She found herself straining her eyes to see cars on the horizon, or coming up from behind, just to see someone else, but there was nothing. The road stretched behind and beyond them, narrow, mean and empty under the huge grey sky. The car, smoke-filled and cold, swung in rowdy curves, Lorna and Marianne sang show tunes and they never seemed to get close to anything resembling a farm.
‘Claire, the map? What’s it say on the map? Where are we?’ and Claire would nervously point at a random location.
‘Here I think. The A40 still? Or one of the little roads off it.’
And that would satisfy Marianne for the next twenty minutes or so, until Lorna would begin to sigh and Marianne would turn irritably to Claire again.
‘We can’t still be on the same road. We must have gone wrong somewhere. Claire?’
‘A bit further?’
And the car descended into mutinous silence.
‘If you had a smart phone we’d have a map that worked,’ Lorna complained.
‘But it couldn’t work in a car. I mean, there’s no signal or whatever it is in the car, is there?’
Lorna rolled her eyes at Marianne and smirked at Claire in the mirror. ‘Oh Mum.’
‘We’ll have to educate you Claire. Twenty-first century, you know. Oh God, we must be close now. Claire? Map?’ Marianne turned around. The car slowed and swerved.
‘Well, you don’t have a phone with a map either,’ Claire muttered.
‘Oh Lord, Claire, really? OK, I’ll get a smart phone. I will. At least one of us will be . . . Hang on, we’re near now, we’re close. I’m sure I recognise it. I can smell the pigs – can you smell the pigs, Lauren?’
Lorna wrinkled her nose and flapped her hand under it. ‘Phew, I can!’
Marianne read the rusty sign out loud. ‘Huppledown Farm – animals, play park, funfair rides, children’s shows, falconry displays and tractor rides.’
Lorna peered, mistrustfully, out of the window. ‘There’s no-one here.’
‘Well, there will be inside.’ Marianne was brisk, positive. ‘And if not, we’ll have the whole place to ourselves, and that would be an adventure, wouldn’t it?’
The girl, half out of the door, shuffled her feet in the mud. ‘Don’t want to.’