‘We take them. I’ll photocopy it. Give it you back.’
She ambled off; Claire’s stomach turned over, hoping that she wouldn’t be checked on by another, more competent, assistant. At the photocopier, the woman stopped, frowned at the card, turned it over, frowned again. Claire stopped breathing. Then the woman, still frowning, pressed a button doubtfully, then another. A smile edged across her face when the paper churned through the machine and arrived, hot, in the tray below. She came back to Claire, smiling still, proudly. ‘Not done that before. Couldn’t work the buttons.’
‘You did very well.’
‘Here’s your card.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can carry on your session now, on the computers?’
‘No, thank you. In a hurry now.’
‘Bye Miss Cairns!’ bellowed the woman, suddenly, and turned around. Claire sped out of the library, into the sun.
35
She drove back, carefully, well below the speed limit.
She planned. Tried to plan.
Get your things and go, Claire. Just leave or get them to leave? How can I make them leave? She slowed down even more, annoying a tourist in a hire car behind, before pulling over onto a verge to think more clearly.
Tell them you’re sick, tell them that you went to see the doctor and you’re sick, and you have to go to hospital. But that won’t get them out of the house. No. Tell them that there’s a problem with the will – that some cousin’s come out of the woodwork and wants them out of the house. Would that work? Tell them, oh, what? Tell them you got a solicitor’s letter. But they’ll ask to see it. OK then, tell them that you had to take the letter to a lawyer today – that’s why you went out, you didn’t want to worry them – and the solicitor kept the letter, and they advised you to vacate the property immediately until it’s all sorted out.
Would that work? Claire looked at herself in the mirror, mimed explaining a letter. Oh God, she was a terrible liar! But it’d have to do. Yes, tell them that she’d been told that it would be the best thing to get out of the house while the will was being looked at again. Tell them to get as many of their possessions out as they could, take them to Marianne’s house, wherever that was, and, and then what? Then, they’d all meet up at a – some kind of cheap hotel – yes, the Premier Inn on the edge of the caravan park. Claire would go first and make the reservations. And then she’d drive away, leave them. Go back home to her flat and her job.
But this was absurd! Lorna wouldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let her go. Especially now, when she knew that Claire had a pretty good idea about the fire . . . Wherever Lorna went, Claire would have to follow. She was trapped.
She gave way to tears, great, racking sobs, her thin arms hugging her chest, and after the tears stopped, she still shook. Terror. This girl, this lovely little girl, her girl, had done something that terrible. The horror that everything was a lie – could that be true? That she’d made it all up from the start – No! Not all of it, surely! Yes, all of it. All the love she’d given and had felt flowing back to her in welcome waves was based on sickness, deceit.
I want to go home, Claire thought, like a child. I want to go home, back to Mother’s. I want my job. I want my eiderdown, my trinkets, my books and my pride back. I want to wake up. I want to go home.
It was an hour before she was able to stop shaking, and another by the time Mother’s voice was summoned, bringing something approaching clear-headedness, practicality. Pull yourself together, Claire, and don’t be such a milksop! You have a plan. Do I? Yes! The solicitor’s letter, the will! That’s your plan. But Marianne . . .? Marianne wouldn’t know the truth if she found it dead in her bathtub, she’s easily fooled. And as for Lorna, anything complicated or legal bores her to death. You can do this, Claire. You can. But, it couldn’t all be done today, no. It’ll have to be spread over a few days. Today, plant the seed of the will problem. Then go into town a few times to ‘see the solicitor’, then say we have to leave. A few days. A few days of breathing space, time to finesse . . .
Her hands were steady now, her tear-ruined face almost back to normal. Just get away from them – now. Just drive away now. No-one’s seen you with Lorna. You could be free. But, what if I leave, and Lorna tells? Tells people that the only reason she was in Claire’s house was that Claire took her there? She’d threatened that, after all. If you tell them, I’ll tell more. That’s what she’d said. God knows what she’s cooked up, God knows what contingency plans she’s already put in place. So tired, so tired, not pill-tired, not-used-to-using-my-brain tired. Bone-tired as Mother would have said.
No, Claire, no. She closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths, trying to get to the core of herself, where the courage lived. It was getting dark by the time she got back.
* * *
Turning down the lane to the house, she saw a scrap of material caught in the hedge. Then another; she slowed. Pink netting of a ballet skirt. The door to the house stood open and yellow light was pouring into the darkening driveway; Marianne was silhouetted against it, waving frantically.
‘. . . gone!’ she was yelling. ‘Gone! Did you see her on the way?’
‘What?’ Claire stopped the car with a jerk, and Marianne lurched towards the driver’s side and yanked open the door.
‘Lauren! She’s gone! Where’ve you been for such a long time? You didn’t take your phone—’
‘I was, I was at the solicitor’s—’ Claire brought out the lie like she was about to be sick. ‘I had a letter—’
‘Oh, God, Claire, who cares about that now? Lauren? She’s gone!’
‘Gone where?’
‘Oh my God, it’s all so crazy! You didn’t see her on the lane? No?’
‘No. What? Marianne—’
‘Come inside, come inside—’ She herded her out of the car and into the kitchen, where the strip light shone unforgivingly on what looked like the aftermath of a fight.