Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  Claire felt the dog being lifted, and heard its angry chokes as it resisted. The smaller dog, finally seeing sense, had run away.

  ‘Carl!’

  There was a whistle and a series of sharp claps. The dog froze, still choking. Then it twisted towards the sound.

  ‘Carl, come and get him!’ someone shouted.

  The small boy loped across the road, touched the dog’s collar as if activating a hidden release switch; the dog sat down placidly on the floor, facing away from Claire, blinking at its master for more instruction. The boy pointed at the house and it bounded away.

  Hands helped Claire to her feet. All the men in the yard were silent. She was ushered across the road, put in a deckchair and given water. An umbra of slack faces haloed the TV, staring at her. She stared back. Lorna’s house; although she’d only seen it in the dark.

  ‘You should keep your dog on a lead,’ a man said shakily. Pete?

  ‘It’s not my dog. It just followed me,’ she said

  ‘It’s Mervyn Pryce’s dog, from up the road,’ said an older man in a baseball cap.

  ‘Oh, that thing. Needs training.’ The slim man - Pete, it had to be Pete - shook his head at the ground. ‘Needs training, or tying up.’

  Claire’s hands began to shake with delayed shock, and the sides of her empty stomach seemed to meet in a series of claps. She put her head down onto her knees and prayed she wasn’t sick.

  ‘You all right?’ The man crouched down. He smelled of cigarettes. ‘You get bit?’

  ‘No. No. I’m just a bit . . . shaky.’

  ‘You want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lorna! Lorna, get out here and bring her a drink! Whisky? Vodka?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Pete, more than you give us,’ said one of the men, laughing.

  ‘When you get bit, I might. Lorna!’

  ‘I’m not bit. I didn’t get bitten. I feel a lot better now.’ Claire tried to get up, but Pete put a firm hand on her shoulder and pressed her back down, hard.

  ‘Stay there. Get a drink inside you. Carl, find Lorna.’

  Claire thought quickly. This was an opportunity, strangely fortuitous, to find out more about the family. Gather evidence. Something more concrete, as PC Jones had said.

  ‘I’m here,’ said a small, familiar voice from behind. ‘I brought a beer.’

  ‘She wants a brandy or something. What do we have?’

  ‘The beer’s for you.’ Lorna squatted down and peered at Claire. ‘Did you get bit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s Miss Penny!’ The girl’s eyes widened. ‘It’s Miss Penny from school!’

  ‘See you in court, Pete,’ laughed one of the men, and turned on the TV again.

  Pete turned a worried face to Claire. ‘You’re her teacher?’

  ‘No. No. Not hers. I’m a teacher at the school, though.’

  ‘Well, look, it wasn’t my fault, the dog. Or Carl’s. I mean we did all we could and you didn’t get bit—’

  ‘Do you want a whisky?’ asked Lorna.

  ‘I mean, it wasn’t our fault. I’m sorry and everything, but you can’t say it’s our fault.’ Pete shifted uneasily. One of his friends laughed, while another shook his head. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Carl’s. I mean, more your fault, but the dogs belong to him – he let them out—’

  ‘I don’t think it’s your fault. Don’t worry,’ said Claire, carefully. He didn’t seem drunk, but he was drinking. People were unpredictable when they drank.

  Pete’s face relaxed. ‘You live round here?’

  ‘No,’ Lorna murmured. ‘She lives in Western Bridge, near the school.’ And then she shimmied away like a shadow.

  ‘What you doing out here?’

  ‘I got lost.’ Claire tried to smile. ‘I went for a walk and got lost.’

  ‘Better walks to be had than this one.’ He stared at her meditatively. ‘School send you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Did the school send you here? Check up on us?’

  Claire was honestly bewildered. ‘What? No.’

  ‘’Cause it’s not our fault if she doesn’t want to go in. Can’t make her go in, can I? They said we’d get some help with her but we never have. Said they’d do some assessment and they never did.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Said they’d assess her. She’s not right, Lorna.’

  ‘She’s all right,’ said one of the men nearby. ‘She’s all right. Just daft.’

  Lorna appeared at that moment, holding a glass of whisky, filled to the brim. She curtseyed as she gave it to Claire.

  ‘Milady!’

  ‘She’s not right,’ muttered Pete as the girl settled herself at Claire’s feet like a kitten.

  ‘It’s nice to see you, Miss.’

  ‘Said they’d do an assessment. Nik! Nikki! When’d they say they’d do the assessment on her?’ Pete yelled towards the house.

  ‘She’s not there. Sent her down the town – remember?’

  ‘Huh.’ Pete opened another beer, thoughtfully, mutinously. ‘One fucking time they send a teacher round, she’s not here and I’ve got to deal with it.’

  ‘What assessment?’ Claire asked softly. Were social services already involved?

  ‘I don’t know what assessment. Something. Behavioural something . . .’

  ‘Really, I wasn’t sent round. I-I’m not even working at the moment. At the school? I just got a bit lost in your area.’ Claire tried to put some steel in her voice but just came off as plaintive. Lorna poked her knee.

  ‘Nice to see you, Miss Penny.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you too, Lorna.’ She put the drink on the ground and tried to stand, but the deckchair was angled too far back and getting up was difficult. She put her hand on Lorna’s shoulder to try to boost herself up, but the girl flinched and jerked backwards.

  ‘Fuck’s sake Lorna – watch the fucking glass!’ And Lorna saved it. One of the dogs licked at the splashes on the paving stones.

  Someone turned the volume on the TV up further. Inside the house the dogs began to bark again. A neighbour told them to turn the telly down, a shouting match ensued which ended in the neighbour coming round for the end of the game and a beer. Every time Claire tried to get up, Lorna just smiled and patted her back down to her seat.

  ‘I really have to go, Lorna. Really. I have to get back for . . .’ But, of course, there was nothing to get back to.

  ‘Mervyn! Found your dog?’ Pete yelled at a small, gnome-like man in shorts and a muscle top who was leaning over the fence, smiling.

  ‘Did he get out?’

  ‘He’s always out. Beer?’

  ‘All right. Lorna, Lorna my love, how are you?’ Mervyn stroked the top of her head with one quivering palm. His arms were long, simian-like, and roped with thin muscle. He wore his hair in a balding flat top. ‘How’s my darling?’

  Lorna flinched, and Claire thought, the neighbour. Mervyn. Do a little dance. He asked her to do a little dance. She felt sick. Lorna’s eyes grew large and moist.

  ‘Lorna, come inside with me.’ Claire got up shakily and grasped the girl’s hand. ‘You can show me your room.’

  ‘How’s my girl?’ Mervyn called at her back. A few of the men laughed at this.

  Lorna broke into a trot and she led Claire up the uncarpeted stairs.

  ‘Lorna, that man—’ gasped Claire.

  ‘Here’s my room.’

  ‘Is that the man who—’

  ‘Look! Here’s my room!’

  ‘Is that the man who asked you to dance? Did he hurt you?’ Lorna gazed at Claire, and pursed her lips. ‘Lorna?’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Lorna said, with finality.

  She must share the room, and the bed with her brother. It was a riot of filth.

  ‘It’s Carl,’ she apologised. ‘I’m a lot neater than him. There’s his side, look – see what it’s li
ke? But my half is better. Here, sit down.’ She moved some rubble off the bed – doll heads and scraps of paper, a doubled-up pillow with dark stains on it. ‘You comfy now?’

  Claire sank into the broken springs of the mattress. ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘You didn’t get bit?’

  ‘No. Just had a bit of a shock.’

  ‘Aha!’ The girl produced the whisky once more. Claire took an obliging sip.

  ‘Lorna, that man . . .’

  ‘Mr Pryce?’

  Claire took a deep breath. ‘Is he the man who . . . who asked you to do a dance?’

  ‘I want to talk about nice things. Like friends talk about? Can we, please?’ The girl turned tearful eyes on Claire, and grasped her hand tightly.

  ‘All right,’ Claire managed, trembling. ‘How have you been getting on, Lorna?’

  ‘Oh, well. Very well. I’ve been getting ready for my big debut!’ She pronounced it ‘debbutt’.

  ‘Oh really? And where is that?’

  ‘I’m starring in a West End musical!’

  ‘Starring?’

  She nodded. ‘They picked me because I can dance.’

  ‘Well, make sure I get a ticket, because I wouldn’t want to miss it!’

  ‘I’m not really,’ said the girl soberly. ‘Really I’m just practising for when it will happen.’

  ‘It’s always best to practise.’ Claire smiled.

  ‘Yes.’ Lorna sighed and picked at the hem of her skirt. ‘But practising is so boring.’

  The whisky on an empty stomach, mingling with the remnants of shock, made everything feel both surreal and entirely natural. Of course she’d just been sitting in a deckchair amongst strangers in a housing estate miles from home. Naturally she was chatting, slightly drunkenly, to a child after being attacked by a dog. And there was probably a paedophile in the front yard. This was everyday stuff. She realised that this was the first conversation she’d had in a week.

  Lorna shuffled closer. ‘I’m writing stories.’

  ‘Oh that’s wonderful. What about?’

  ‘About the seaside, and living under the sea.’

  ‘And what’s it like under the sea?’

  ‘It’s’ – the girl shut her eyes tightly and smiled – ‘it’s like all the best people in the world you’ve ever met, dancing and singing. And there are friendly fish. But we have to be careful of fishermen because they can catch us and if we go out of the sea, we die.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to read it.’ Claire took the girl’s hand and pressed it.

  ‘You will. I’m writing it for you. You don’t believe me!’

  ‘If you say you’re writing it for me, then I believe you. And it makes me very happy.’

  ‘Good. ’Cause it’s true. I really am.’

  They sat chatting in the darkening room, while the men outside grew drunker, more boisterous, and started moving inside. They shouted hoarsely over house music. Lorna shut the door, but the thud thud thud pulsed through the thin floor. ‘TUNE!’ shouted someone. ‘TUNE!’

  ‘It’s loud, isn’t it?’ Lorna had shuffled so close that she was practically on Claire’s lap. Her fruity breath tickled Claire’s ear. ‘It gets so loud sometimes the council comes round. Police. That happened – oh, last year.’

  ‘It must be hard to sleep.’ Claire thought about the times she’d seen Lorna at school, all red-rimmed eyes and passivity.

  ‘Well, then I sleep at my auntie’s. Round the corner. She has a big house with a spare room just for me. And no dogs.’

  Claire smiled. There was no auntie. ‘That’s nice for you.’

  ‘Sometimes I need to. Get away. I mean.’ The girl’s knuckles were skinned, Claire suddenly noticed, and one nail had been ripped to the quick. She touched it, and Lorna pulled her hand away.

  ‘That looks nasty.’

  ‘It’s better than it was,’ whispered the girl.

  ‘Fucking TUNE!’ screamed a man downstairs.

  Carl put his head round the door. ‘Pete says to get her to the bus stop.’

  ‘She’s poorly.’

  Carl stared blankly at the wall. ‘Pete says get her out.’ Lorna scrambled up, her face angry, and pushed past her brother, still as stone in the doorway. From the top of the stairs, Claire could see the small hallway cluttered with men. The front door opened to let in someone carrying a crate of beer.

  ‘I got something for you, Miss, wait.’ The girl was edging back to her room. ‘But you can’t open it till you get home. Do you promise?’

  ‘Oh Lorna, you mustn’t give me anything that you want to keep.’

  ‘You don’t want my present,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Oh, I do! It’s so kind of you. I just meant that, well, I wouldn’t want you to give away one of your pretty things.’ The girl stood silent, and pouted at the floor.

  Raucous laughter came from the front room. ‘Mervyn, you dirty fucker!’ sniggered Pete. ‘Look at this! On his phone! You dirty old man!’

  Lorna smiled sadly. ‘It’s a silly present. I’m sorry. You don’t have to have it. I’ll take you to the bus stop now.’

  And Claire thought, I want to take you away from this house; I want to know what’s happened to you in this house. But she only said, ‘I’d love to take your present. Lorna? Really I would.’

  The child looked up through wet lashes. ‘I got it for you. But I won’t give it now. No, I want to wrap it up properly. With a bow.’

  ‘Well, that’s lovely. Very lovely of you.’

  When Lorna smiled, Claire’s anxiety ebbed. Together they walked down the stairs, past the crowded, smoky front room, and once they were outside, Lorna slipped her arm through Claire’s.

  ‘I’m glad you came. I’m glad you weren’t bit.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Claire.

  ‘I knew you’d come.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing. The bus stop is ages away.’

  ‘Listen, Lorna, will you be careful getting home?’ The child ignored her. She hummed and skipped. ‘Will you be, Lorna? It’ll be dark in a while and you really must promise me to be careful on the way home.’

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  ‘I have a bit of money, not enough to get me a taxi home, but enough for you. If I give it to you, maybe you can find a phone box or something and call for one?’ Claire scanned the empty, uniform streets – miles of them. They didn’t build estates with phone boxes – they’d get smashed. ‘Or ask to use a phone in a . . . shop? Or something?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘OK.’

  They ambled along together in the twilight, the streets so quiet that they walked in the road. They talked about books, about films. They talked about Claire when she was a little girl.

  ‘And we would have been best friends,’ Lorna declared. ‘What were you like when you were little?’

  ‘Oh. I was quite shy I suppose. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, or a big family like you. I loved animals. Cats.’

  ‘What games did you play?’

  ‘Netball? But I wasn’t very good at it, I’m afraid.’ Lorna seemed unimpressed. ‘But I liked reading mostly. The Famous Five. Have you ever read any of them?’ Lorna shook her head. ‘They’re all about a group of children – cousins – who have adventures and solve mysteries. And they have a very clever dog called Timmy who helps them.’

  ‘What kind of mysteries?’

  ‘Oh, they find hidden treasure in caves by the sea. And underground stores of gold. And they cycle everywhere and help people. You should read some.’

  Lorna picked some leaves off a bush and ripped them up as she walked, saying nothing, and Claire felt embarrassed, felt that she’d disappointed the girl. The Famous Five must seem impossibly boring to a child raised with the internet. That happy connection with another human being began to shrivel and die, and in its place came fatigue, grief, all the old, familiar feelings, swelling forward to greet her.

  ‘There’s the bus stop.’r />
  ‘Thank you, Lorna.’ The girl turned to leave. ‘Oh, listen, here’s the money for a taxi.’

  ‘All right.’ She already had her hand out, her face a blank. Claire gave her all she had bar the bus fare, about three pounds. ‘Promise me, Lorna?’

  ‘All right. What’s the name of those books?’

  ‘The Famous Five.’

  ‘I like adventures. Here’s the bus. It takes you into town.’

  ‘Lorna, listen to me. I know you don’t want to talk about it . . .’ – the girl twisted her face and hunched her shoulders – ‘but please listen, and remember. I want to help you, I really do. But I can’t unless you tell me, well, some of the things that have been happening to you. I can help, Lorna, I can, I promise, but you have to trust me? Yes?’

  ‘I do trust you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Mr Pryce? Lorna? What about Mr Pryce?’ The child looked down and took some deep breaths, but didn’t answer. Claire bent down to see her face, but she kept it stubbornly averted. ‘Please, if there’s anything happening, please call me. You have my number, still, don’t you? I’ll do anything I can to help—’

  ‘You should get on the bus now.’

  And Claire stood up again, helpless. Lorna stood impassively by the bus until Claire was seated, and then ran alongside, like a puppy, waving and laughing and Claire, fighting tears, waved back, until the bus rounded the crest of a hill and the tiny figure disappeared from view.

  13

  That night, Claire couldn’t settle. She sat on Mother’s special chair, sipping brandy. Mervyn Pryce. At least I have his full name now, she thought. If I can do some proper research on him, get hold of something concrete, PC Jones wouldn’t be able to dismiss me so easily. She searched the desk for the library opening times. And why on earth hadn’t she got a computer of her own? She could be doing some digging right now, instead of wasting time drinking and making futile notes in her nearly full notebook.

  By nine the next morning, she was waiting at the library doors, foot-tappingly awake. She headed straight for the computers at the back, next to the children’s section, where a brightly painted banner proclaimed: ‘Where do we go to grow our brains? The library!’