by Frances Vick
‘It might not work. It’s been ages since it was used.’
‘Oh it will, though. I bet. Plug it in.’
And it did work, well. The machine hummed along while Lorna untangled knotweed from trunks, dragging the pile onto the patio. Chatting in the garden, with the warm autumn sun on their backs, brushing away the lazy flies, the sleepy bees – it was lovely, just lovely. Lorna hummed tunelessly, happily.
When their work was done for that afternoon, they retired to the bright kitchen, where Claire enjoyed watching the girl eat in that delicate and sparing way she had; nibbling the chocolate off the sides of biscuits before snapping them into four identically sized pieces, peeling away crusts and dunking them in the remains of her juice. And all the time she chattered away – today she’d seen fifteen woodlice in the garden and a crow on the shed roof. Maybe they could dig a moat around the base of the cherry tree? And make a drawbridge?
‘I thought it would make you feel better, tidying up a bit. And it has, hasn’t it?’ Lorna was pink-cheeked and proud.
‘It really has, thank you,’ Claire said. ‘And now we’ve tidied, we can do some baking. But listen, I really have to take poor old Johnny out now, it’s very late for his walk.’
‘Can’t you just open the door and let him out? That’s what Carl does. And then I can stay a bit longer?’
‘We have to get you back home, Lorna, we really do.’
‘He’ll be alright by himself outside,’ the girl muttered
‘Oh no, he’s a member of this family. He needs to know that he’s loved, doesn’t he? And we enjoy our walk together, don’t we old man?’ Claire stroked him gently
‘Can I really cook things?’ Lorna looked suddenly doubtful.
‘Of course you can! You’re a very capable girl!’
Lorna squeaked with happiness. Her sallow cheeks coloured and she leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we could do this sort of stuff all the time? Gardening. And cooking. And going to the seaside. All that stuff. It’d be fun. Wouldn’t it? I mean . . .’
‘Well, certainly it’d be fun, but—’
‘I’m just being cccccrazy. CRAY-ZEE. Like the dog on the Cartoon Network advert? That one?’
‘I don’t have Cartoon Network I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, you should,’ Lorna said seriously. ‘You really should.’
* * *
That night, after dropping Lorna off at home, Claire found a note stuck to her bathroom mirror with sticky tape.
I know I’m truble for you and if you dont want me to come I wont but I want to.
I can clean yor house and cook and garden I dont mind becuz I like to look after things and can I stay with you becuz I love you. My mum wont mind you can ask her.
Claire folded the note and kept it in her cardigan pocket, taking it out and reading it again and again. The next day, Johnny was tired and didn’t seem to want his walk, so Claire used the time to bake a chocolate cake instead, decorating it with sugar roses. Sure enough, Lorna was lingering at the end of the road, and when Claire told her that she was more than welcome to carry on coming over, she threw her arms around her.
‘And, I made a cake!’
‘Ooooh! A CAKE?’
15
That night, Lorna fell asleep in front of the fire, and no amount of hair stroking or gentle shakes would wake her. At ten Claire called Lorna’s home, and again at ten thirty, but there was no answer, and so she picked the girl up, still sleeping, put her in the spare room, and tucked her in. Lorna’s eyelids flickered and her lips moved in a tiny smile as Claire whispered goodnight.
Claire spent the next few hours alternating between excitement and anger. There was something of the sleepover about this situation – as if Lorna were a friend, or a young relation, here for a visit. That was the sweetly exciting part. But she was angry too – angry with Lorna’s feckless parents, their lack of care, their disregard. Lorna was safe, but that wasn’t the point. How would her mother know that? Didn’t she care at all? When there was so much on the news at the moment about vulnerable young girls being groomed by these terrible gangs? Horrible things happen to innocent children; children who just want to do some sport or other, and end up with someone like Mervyn Pryce taking advantage of them . . . Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children . . .
Johnny stuck close to her legs as she paced, before heaving himself up onto the sofa to sleep. Claire never normally let him sleep on the furniture, but he did look peaky. It might not be a bad idea to get him to the vets.
Claire tiptoed upstairs to check on the girl. Light sweat sheened her forehead, and her breathing was shallow, her eyelids flickering. She must be having a nightmare. Claire smoothed her brow, held her hand, and whispered comfort to her until she calmed. And Claire calmed too, looking at Lorna, wrapped up safe and warm. The way she should be.
Early the next morning, Claire called Lorna’s house three times. No answer. She piled Lorna into the car and drove to her home, but it was locked and empty.
‘Do you have your key?’
‘Uh.’
‘OK, well let yourself in and clean your teeth and everything, or we’ll be late for school. I’ll write a quick note to your mum.’
And so Claire followed the girl into the house, waited while she cleaned her teeth, and was wiping the smear of toothpaste from Lorna’s cheek when she noticed the bag.
‘In case I need it. Got my pyjamas in here. And a toothbrush, and Tilly Doll’ – a battered plastic baby was displayed – ‘and some books—’
‘Lorna—’
‘And socks—’
‘Lorna, sweetheart. You can’t stay with me. I mean, you have your own home here, and your mum, and your brother.’
Lorna’s face darkened.
‘Your mum will be worried—’ Claire said weakly.
‘No she won’t. You know she won’t.’
Claire stared helplessly at the defiant little face. ‘Do you want me to talk to her? If you’re not happy, I mean? Is it – I mean, is it anything to do with . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember what we talked about in Mr Clarke’s office that time?’
Still that dewy, absent gaze. Her teeth sawed away at her bottom lip. Two tears made a parallel course down her cheeks and hung onto her jawline. Claire reached out with her Handy Hanky and wiped them away. ‘Lorna?’
The girl sighed, shivered, and released her bottom lip. ‘We’ll be late for school.’
‘Lorna? Mr Pryce?’
‘Don’t want to be late.’
‘Lorna.’ Claire was shaking, her heart pulsed painfully. ‘If anything is happening. Anything bad, with Pete. I – I understand. I – know what it’s like when you’re little and someone you’re meant to trust . . .’ Breathing was difficult. Her chest was so tight.
The girl looked at her solemnly. ‘It happened to you?’
‘I don’t know if it’s the same kind of thing . . .’ her chest blazed with pain, suddenly. Am I having a heart attack? Take deep breaths. Lorna gazed at her in concern. One little hand stroked Claire’s knee. It gave her the strength to go on. ‘But I do know that none of this is your fault. And you can trust me. You can tell me anything.’
‘I love you,’ the girl murmured.
It knocked the breath out of Claire. Had anyone ever said that to her before? Aside from Mother? It was overwhelming; the emotion dwarfed the pain. It was true. This little girl loved her. She knew it was true. Lorna was crying now, her head close to her knees, her fingers clutching her doll by the foot. Claire patted her thin shoulder. ‘I love you too, Lorna,’ she wobbled, ‘and I really want to help you. I really do.’
‘I’m all right.’ Lorna dropped the doll and clutched at Claire’s hand. She smiled bravely.
‘You’re not all right.’ Now Claire was crying.
‘I’m all right with you. I’m safe with you. But I won’t come over any more if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s not what I want. Not
at all.’
‘I’m trouble for you.’ The girl smiled sadly.
‘You’re in trouble, yes, but you’re not trouble. And, I can help. Call someone.’
‘NO!’
‘Lorna—’
‘It’ll get worse if you do. He told me. If I tell it’ll get much worse!’ She sobbed, her face in her hands, and ran back to the car. She cried all the way to school, and ran off without saying goodbye, disappearing into the dense crowd in the playground.
When Claire got home, rattling the keys to let Johnny know she was back, she knew something was wrong right away. There wasn’t the familiar scamper of claws and huffing, excited breath. No peremptory little barks. Instead he was lying on the kitchen floor, a neat pile of vomit next to his food bowl. His paws were stiff, his whiskers flecked with foam. He wasn’t breathing.
He’s old. He was old, she thought as she dug the grave for him under the cherry tree, but she couldn’t stop crying. Death was all about her. Death, and fear and loneliness. Poor sweet old thing. Poor, troubling little girl.
But Lorna had left her bag on the back seat of the car. That means she’ll come back, Claire thought.
But weeks went by, and she didn’t come back.
* * *
Now, finally, Claire wanted to go back to work; it would give her a chance to keep an eye on Lorna, but James explained in his irascible manner that they had cover booked for the rest of the term – ‘We just went on your sick note, Claire’ – and she’d have to come back in January. She stopped herself from asking about Lorna. She’d stopped calling PC Jones too. When she’d finally got through, he’d explained there was nothing he could do or tell her about Mr Pryce, his patient, friendliness now clipped. ‘In fact,’ he’d said, ‘if it’s the Mervyn Pryce I’m thinking of, he actually does a lot of community work.’
She’d pushed it too far with Lorna, she knew that now. Talking about calling the police! Stupid. And not even accurate; even if she did call the police properly, what would she have to tell them? Nothing concrete. And Lorna was too scared and confused to tell them anything herself. No. Do what you said you were going to do, stay vigilant, try to win her trust back. And so Claire kept an eye on the court notices, re-read her notes on Mervyn Pryce and Pete, searching them for something, anything, she might have missed. Something that could make PC Jones take her seriously. Something that could save Lorna. And then, one day, she found something:
This Weekend 1.5km Children’s Christmas Fun Run!
With a route around the Arboretum Park, the 1.5km fun run is a great way to get the kids active, and for a good cause too! Children aged nine and over can run it alone, but those eight years and under must run with an adult. Our marshals will cheer you on and entertain you with their fancy dress the whole way round, and there’s even a free ice lolly waiting for you at the finish line! All proceeds will go directly to Grove House Hospice.
And there was a picture of Mervyn Pryce dressed as Santa, proudly wearing a marshal sash, giving the thumbs up to the camera. Children were clustered around him. One ape-like arm was draped over a girl’s shoulders.
Claire shuddered, printed out the page and folded it neatly into her notebook.
* * *
Claire arrived at the Arboretum the next morning, and made her way through the swathe of seedy-looking Santas, decked out in cheap polyester costumes and itchy beards. A turbulent sky threatened rain, but the local radio station was there, broadcasting Christmas songs, and everyone seemed of good cheer. Quite a good turnout, too, for this town. Merry-looking elves and overweight fairies carried collection buckets, and the whoops and cheers of the radio DJ and the overexcited children lent it a carnival atmosphere. Everyone was happy, it seemed. Except for Claire, scanning the crowd anxiously for Mervyn Pryce.
She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for – just, something. Something that looked strange. Something disturbing. Something that perhaps only Claire, with her honed instincts and practised gaze, would be able to see for what it was. A child held too tight, perhaps a wandering hand. A marshal, he was a marshal. That meant that he’d be along the race route, or at the finish line. Start at the end of the route, Claire, where it’s less crowded. Walk slowly, and you’ll see him. You’re bound to.
She stalked around the perimeter of the track, feeling foolish and exposed. She should have brought Johnny with her, then she would at least look as if she belonged in the park. Children ambled past her; some of them she recognised, and she hung her head so as not to catch their eyes. Go home Claire. This is stupid, go home. But there was that nagging feeling, she would see something, something useful, something concrete . . . just a little longer, just until she saw Mervyn Pryce.
And then she did see him, dressed as Santa, but with the beard pulled down, holding a can of energy drink and laughing, joking with someone. Who? I know that person. Mervyn laughed loudly, and the man with him put his hand on his shoulder. He said . . . what was he saying? He said: ‘I know! She’s—’
And then a shambling mass of children and sweaty dads jogged by, and she couldn't hear anything else, but she could see them, both of the men, very clearly. Mervyn Pryce was with PC Jones. They knew each other. They were friends.
Claire’s chest contracted, she turned away, and walked swiftly back to the finish line. Maybe they weren’t friends. Maybe, maybe they were acquaintances, or they’d just met. But no, no, they seemed close, pally. They were joking with each other. Joking about a woman. Some silly, annoying woman who wouldn’t go away . . .
She broke into an awkward run and arrived, panting, at her car; fumbling with the keys, she slumped breathlessly into the driver’s seat. They’d been talking about her. Don’t be paranoid, Claire! You don’t know . . . No. I don’t know. I feel it though. It all makes sense! How unhelpful PC Jones had been, how uninterested in her concerns, and how cold and officious he’d become when she’d mentioned Mervyn’s name. At the time, she’d thought it was because she was asking him to breach protocol, give her privileged information, but now she realised that, no. No, it wasn’t that. He’d been protecting Mervyn Pryce. And if he was protecting him, there had to be a reason why.
All those news reports of children being groomed, being abused. All the intimations and accusations that those in authority knew, that they did nothing, that they were even complicit. You couldn’t turn on the TV or listen to the radio without coming across yet another terrible tale, historical abuse, the appalling lapses of social services, a generation of children broken, abandoned.
You’re being silly, Claire. You’re getting carried away.
I don’t know. I don’t think I am.
Well what can you do, Claire?
I don’t know! I don’t know. Something. I have to do something.
* * *
Over the next few days, she tried to relax, calm down, put things into a less horrifying context. She drove to rarely visited villages and drank weak coffee in tea rooms. She picked through sale items in out-of-town shopping centres. She undertook moderate hikes in the scrubby hills to the north of the city. And she always, always returned the same way, through the estate where Lorna lived. Sometimes she didn’t even know she was doing it; she just found herself meandering around the circular, dark streets until common sense forced her to go home. Sometimes – increasingly – she drove past Lorna’s home, as slowly as she dared, looking for signs of life, and when she decided to drive home, instead she’d find herself turning back into the concentric streets, spiralling once again towards the girl.
Once she saw Rabbit Girl hurrying back from the corner shop, opening the door to a barrage of shouting. She saw Carl in silhouette, casting martial arts shadows, a dog jumping at his clumsy kicks. She saw and heard Pete bellowing at the TV, mock-fighting with the dogs. But she never saw Lorna. Was she even there? Was she safe?
Then, the night before Christmas Eve, driving slowly past the house for the last time before drifting back home, Claire heard a child’s shriek, and angry adult s
houts. She couldn’t make out the words, if there were any. She parked on the corner, turned off the engine, and peered at the illuminated oblong of the glass door, wide-eyed and waiting.
Suddenly, something heavy was slammed viciously against the door, then was pulled back, and slammed again, harder, until glass cracked.
Claire stiffened in the car and opened her door, letting in frigid air. Someone roared again from inside the house, and the dogs barked madly.
‘No!’ It was a high voice, cracking with fear – Lorna? And now that sound again – a loaded smash; a flattened mass of hair against the splintering glass.
Claire felt herself moving, moving quickly, running. She got to the door, just as Lorna’s head – it must be, it must be! – was drawn back yet again, and everything else seemed to freeze and all sound stopped.
Claire hammered on the door, kicked it, until it opened with a rush of warm air; a small dog leaped, yelping into the night, and there was Lorna standing, pale, by the kitchen cabinets. Pete, breathing hard, was behind a chair, his hands braced on the back of it. He looked, absurdly, like a sweaty lion-tamer.
‘The fuck are you?’ he shouted.
‘Miss!’ Lorna began.
‘Fuck are YOU?’
‘Lorna, what’s happened?’ Claire looked wildly at the door. Was there a crack in the glass? There was, there must be. ‘Are you all right?’
‘You’re here,’ murmured Lorna.
‘Your head!’ Claire went to the girl, to check if she was bleeding. Lorna backed away.
