‘Yes once you do that, we’ll both go straight to bed so she won’t have to be frightened.’
Claire advanced up the stairs slowly, unwillingly. Lorna’s room was a mess. The bed in the corner heaved with toys and clothes, and the painted chest of drawers was stained with lipsticks, and scored with felt tip pen. The whole place smelt sweet, buttery, slightly fetid. Claire edged fearfully through the door, towards the bundled-up shape on the bed, and stood on a battery-powered hamster; it squeaked and clucked, and scuttled off under the bed.
‘I was nearly asleep,’ intoned Lorna from the depths of her pillow.
‘I wanted to come and see if you were all right.’ Claire sat on the bed, hesitantly patting the girl's shoulder. ‘Are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Did you hurt yourself?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Lorna—’
‘Lauren.’
‘Lauren—’
‘You were about to tell.’
‘About to tell who, what?’ Claire laughed weakly.
‘You were about to tell her! You know!’ The girl sat up suddenly. ‘About the fire! About us! You were going to tell!’
‘I—’
‘Yes you were!’ she hissed, and hit Claire’s arm with one small fist. The pain bloomed. ‘You were!’
‘I’m sorry! Look, I wasn’t really, I – silly – I thought, just for a moment, that she might be able to help us or something, but I wasn’t really—’
The girl clenched her fists on the faux patchwork duvet cover. Her mouth was a thin, contemptuous line. ‘If you tell anyone, you’ll be sorry. You will be. I’m telling you now, you’ll be really, really sorry.’ It should have been funny, this little girl laying down the law, barking orders from her toy-strewn bed. But it wasn’t funny. Claire rubbed her arm, frightened. Lorna took her hand, and squeezed, hard. ‘If you tell, I’ll tell more. Do you get me?’
‘What? No, what?’
‘I. Will. Tell. More,’ the girl said through her teeth. ‘I’ll tell the police all about how you kept me at your house, overnight. How you took me away. I’ll tell about the fire.’
‘What do you mean?’ The child’s pale face seemed to fill the room; those hateful words hissed through tiny teeth. ‘What do you mean, tell about the fire?’ Claire managed.
‘I’ll say you did it.’ It was a whisper, full of venom.
‘You couldn’t. They’ll know that’s not true,’ Claire whispered back.
‘They won’t know anything until I tell them, will they? And I will, if you don’t shut up.’ She was squeezing Claire’s hand harder now, hard enough that in the morning she would be left with four small bruises on each knuckle, like fingerprints. ‘If you do shut up then everything stays the same.’
‘Oh my God—’
‘And I want ballet lessons.’
‘What?’
‘BALLET LESSONS.’
‘Lorna?’
‘Go to bed now.’ The girl lay down and turned her back. ‘Go away now.’
And Claire did go. She drifted downstairs, walking glaze-eyed into the kitchen where Marianne was waiting.
‘Did she ask you about ballet lessons? She’s so keen. And I’ve seen a decent-looking school in Truro.’
‘Yes, yes, she asked.’ Claire sat down, dazed, nearly missing the chair.
‘And?’
‘Yes. Yes, she can have ballet lessons.’
‘Oh, that’s grand! Brilliant! She has such ability, and I really think it will help her confidence.’
‘Marianne?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have any of those sleeping pills handy? I think I might take one tonight after all.’
29
The next day, Claire woke late, with a sleeping pill hangover. The TV was on downstairs but the house was empty. There was no milk in the fridge, no bread in the cupboard. A trail of jam and crumbs led from the table to the sofa, where Lorna had left a chewed crust on the arm next to the remote control. Claire hunted around for paracetamol, found none. Pills. Why had she taken the pills? Marianne’s craggy face as she handed them over, reproachful. She shuddered. Lorna’s anger and bunched-up fists, her threats. Claire sat down on the sofa, fingers tentatively tapping the remote control. Of course she’d been angry, overhearing her that way, about to tell Marianne something. Stupid. Stupid thing to do. Lorna had every right to be angry. Every right. But the rest of it . . . ‘I will tell,’ she’d said, as if she’d reached into Claire’s brain and plucked out its biggest fear with her dirty fingers. Claire, taking a child. But Claire, starting the fire? Surely not? The hatred in the girl’s face, the contempt.
Her tired brain swung from dread to dissonance; from fear of the girl to overwhelming protectiveness of her. She had learned viciousness from that terrible family; it was an animal-like defence mechanism, that was all. After a few more months of nurture and comfort, that inner armour would be finally, properly, cracked. Maybe it was Marianne that was throwing her off, delaying the healing process? It was a lot for a small child to take in, after all, first one then another adult playing Mother. No wonder she was confused, talking about moving away! This idea of performing, of dancing school, what was that but a pre-adolescent desire for escape and autonomy? It was a pipe dream, but a telling one. Perhaps Lorna didn’t feel worthy of the attention she was getting from Claire, and so, in some psychologically perverse way, was pushing her away? That seemed logical. And, all her drinking, all her pill-taking, it must have seemed to the poor girl that Claire was abandoning her, didn’t want to spend time with her, and so she was more or less forced to throw in her lot with Marianne. It made perfect sense when you thought about it. She made herself a cup of tea without milk and put on the radio, listening out for the girl’s return.
They clattered back to the house late in the afternoon, laughing, but stopped as soon as they saw Claire. Marianne coloured, looked down and grinned nervously at the floor.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Claire tried to keep her face humorous, kindly.
‘Nowhere,’ muttered Lorna.
‘Let’s get those boots off,’ said Claire, trying not to notice Lorna’s look of contempt as she kicked them off before she could help.