by Frances Vick
Lorna was watching MTV videos and dancing. Claire peered round the kitchen door, an indulgent smile already on her lips, quickly fading.
On the screen, a gummy, emaciated woman in a bikini gurned and shook her behind at a shocked-looking bloodhound. Every now and again, the bloodhound’s eyes goggled cartoonishly as the woman bumped her rump against its nose. Lorna, only in her pants, was singing along tunelessly, aping the women’s movements. Her hips swung up, down and around, up, down and around. ‘Gimme gimme gimme what I a-ask forrrr,’ she sang. ‘Gimme gimme gimme all your pa-ha-shon.’ Her brow creased in concentration even as she twisted her mouth into a grimace of ecstasy. ‘Gimme, oh oh, gimme oh oh!’
Claire strode in the room, pale. Lorna stopped mid-grind, her eyes glassy, the trying-to-be-sexy smirk still on her face. Claire’s hands shook as she plucked the remote from the coffee table and turned off the TV.
‘That’s quite enough, Lorna,’ she managed.
‘Whu?’ The girl’s face was slack, uncomprehending.
‘It’s not . . . appropriate. That kind of dancing.’
‘What?’
‘That kind of dancing. All the wiggling about. It’s meant for older girls, women. Not little girls.’
‘I like dancing though!’
‘But, dancing like that. It’s just not—’
‘Not what?’ Lorna sank to the floor and pounded the carpet with her fists. ‘What?’
‘There’s no use having a tantrum about it!’ Claire hunkered down on her heels, looked into her furious little face. Lorna mouthed something.
‘What was that? Lorna?’
‘What was that? What was that?’ the girl mimicked softly.
Claire, taken aback, managed to maintain her teacher sternness. ‘And there’s no need to be cheeky either. I think, maybe, we’ll have to ration the TV—’
Lorna began to cry. Her fists opened and closed on the carpet, kneading it compulsively. A low moan escaped her, like an animal in pain.
‘Lorna, please. I’m not scolding you – I mean, this is probably my fault. For not looking at all the channels I mean.’ The girl looked up at Claire. She tried to smile. Oh it was heart-breaking! ‘Darling, please, I’m just thinking of you and what’s good for you, please.’ Lorna was putting her jeans back on now, choking back tears. Claire touched her arm, and said softly, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I really didn’t. I was just a bit shocked – that kind of dancing. I mean, you’re so little still, and there’s plenty of time to grow up, and dance, well, however you want, but—’ Lorna had said something, something difficult to understand amongst the sobs. ‘What’s that, darling?’
‘. . . used to make me dance. Like that.’ The words came out in a rush, like vomit.
‘What, darling?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!’ Lorna tried to turn away.
‘No, what were you just saying? Lorna?’
‘Nothing. Don’t want to,’ she whispered.
‘Lorna? Please?’
‘Pete! Pete. He used to make me dance like that, for friends of his. Mr Pryce.’ She shuddered all over.
‘Oh God.’ Claire’s face fell slack.
‘If I danced like that then he wouldn’t be mean, or go bad on me,’ Lorna managed through the sobs, gazing at Claire. ‘It’s true,’ she choked. ‘It’s true!’
‘Oh darling! I believe you, I do, and that’s just – horrid. Just . . .’ She pulled the girl towards her, cradling her newly shorn head, feeling the goose pimples on her arms and chest. And she hugged, hugged her fiercely tight. ‘It will never, ever happen again, Lorna. Nothing bad will ever happen again! You’re with me now. I promise.’
‘You promise you’ll always believe me? He told me that no-one would believe me—’
‘I absolutely guarantee that I’ll believe whatever you tell me,’ said Claire, feeling tears smart at the corners of her eyes. ‘You’re my girl.’
‘I’m sorry for being cheeky. I’m sorry for it. I-I can’t help it. But I won’t be bad again, I promise!’
‘Shhhh . . . shhhh darling!’ smiled Claire.
* * *
After Lorna had put her top back on, and dried her eyes, they walked, somewhat shakily, to the kitchen and made gingerbread together. Claire gazed fondly at the earnest, dark little head next to her, at the thin, bitten fingertips, fastidiously shaping the dough, adding hair and smiling faces with raisins. This was the sort of childhood she ought to have had, the sort of childhood everyone should have. Age-appropriate crafts with Mother. If we keep doing things like this, if I keep her safe and make her understand that she’s safe, I can put right the wrong, make up for the past. But it will take time, be prepared for that.
Lorna went to take a nice, relaxing bubble bath while Claire tried to find a film they could watch together. Something old, something gentle. Something with Judy Garland maybe. Or Singin’ in the Rain? Lorna liked dancing, well, that had dancing, wholesome dancing at that, and a decent moral, too.
She took the gingerbread out of the oven and arranged it nicely on a plate on the coffee table. When she was sure that Lorna couldn’t hear, Claire put on the news, keeping the volume low. All the channels seemed to have something about that house fire, nothing about a missing girl. Surely there must be more important things happening in the world than one little fire. I mean, it was a terrible thing, of course it was, but still . . . Claire winced at the teddies and flowers laid on the pavement in front of the police tape. Dignity always gives way to maudlin sentimentality when disaster strikes. And now, here, a neighbour was being interviewed; jowls wobbling, tattoos showing on pitted arms. Really, if you’re that keen on being on the TV, at least put a bra on. Then the camera turned to a wizened man in a buttoned-up cardigan. Claire turned up the volume.
‘. . . bad lot,’ the man was saying. ‘Bad family in that house.’
‘And did you see much of them?’ the journalist pressed.
‘Only in the shop. Sometimes they’d come in, drunk, you know. And with the kids. But, it’s terrible, fire . . .’ He trailed off, leaving the journalist to fill in the time reiterating the story. A fire, thought at first to be accidental, now seemed to be something more sinister. A woman and two children were believed to have been killed, with the investigation centring around a man – Peter Marshall – who was said to have a significant criminal history.
Claire groped for the sofa behind her and sat down hard. Her chest froze, her breathing stopped.
Turning to the man in the cardigan again, the journalist asked:
‘Do you know Peter Marshall, or know anyone who has dealings with him?’
‘Bad lot. All I can say. Bad man.’
Claire closed her eyes and gripped the arm of the sofa. She curled up her toes painfully; her open mouth was dry. Shock. This is shock. God! Lorna could have been in that fire! Lorna, her Lorna! Breathe, Claire, breathe!
She didn’t immediately notice the girl standing behind her, still ruddy from the bath, standing frozen. Her hair was dripping onto the carpet, onto the plate of gingerbread, down the neck of her pyjama top. She gave a little cry. Claire tried to turn off the TV, but pressed mute instead. The silent screen showed broken bricks, a charred mattress, the blackened, hellish hole that had been the front room. Neighbourhood children stayed oh-so-casually in range of the camera, one risking a wave over the reporter’s shoulder. Another picked up a doll, half charred, with one melted arm.
‘That’s Tilly Doll,’ whispered Lorna.
And now, again, the close-ups of the teddies, the flowers, the cards, in the rain – Sleep Tight; Taken from us too soon; Two more angels in heaven! Lorna took the remote control from Claire, and, without looking, found the volume.
‘. . . have to say that at the moment, the police have been very careful to stress that there is an ongoing investigation, and of course, we’re still waiting for the post-mortem results on the very badly burnt bodies recovered from the house.’
‘How many?’
mouthed Lorna. ‘How many?’
‘While Peter Marshall remains alive, he is unconscious and in a critical condition in hospital. Mother Nicola Bell and her two children, as yet unnamed, are thought to have died in the fire that took hold on Boxing Day. A source from the local fire brigade tells the BBC that the bodies are so badly burnt that it may not be possible to identify them for some time, if at all. The cause isn’t yet known, but as we say, the police aren’t ruling out the possibility that this fire was started deliberately, but of course we will know more definitely in the coming few days . . .’
Claire thought as quickly as her palsied mind would let her... It will all come out now. Pete will tell the police that Lorna wasn’t at home when the fire began, and they’ll come searching for her. He mustn’t have started the fire. He couldn’t have done, if he was badly hurt himself. But then he wasn’t in any state to tell the police that Lorna hadn’t been in the house . . . Perhaps, oh god, a terrible thought, a shameful idea, but perhaps, if he died without regaining consciousness, the police wouldn't know that Lorna wasn’t in the house. She’d be presumed dead. They’d be free.
Lorna wavered, stumbled into the coffee table, and the gingerbread man fell on the floor: head and feet rolled under the sofa; hair and fingers crumbled into the carpet. The plate itself landed on one edge, twisted lazily, and cracked against the coffee table. Lorna staggered forward and stood on the broken plate. Blood oozed from between her toes, and sank into the gingerbread mashed into the carpet. Claire dashed for cold water and a tea towel. Lorna stood silently, staring impassively at the blood.
The cut was deep, extending down the sole. Claire dabbed at it, smudging the thickening blood into the hoops and whorls of Lorna’s toes, pressing down hard until the flow lessened and she was able to bind it with gauze and tape. She crooned semi-intelligible comfort, while her mind revolved shakily around a new axis: Lorna hadn’t been reported missing because Lorna was presumed dead. Nobody suspected they’d run off together. That meant that if Pete did die, and the bodies in the house were beyond being identified – oh God, it was a horrible thing to think, a terrible thing! But, maybe, the best thing – then she and Lorna were safe. But what if Pete recovered and told them that Lorna hadn’t been in the house when the fire began?
Well, he had a police record, a history of violence. The police wouldn’t trust anything he told them; they were sure to think he started the fire, and he’d go to prison for sure. Anyway, he must have started it – some botched insurance claim or something. And if he hadn’t done it, it must have been one of his enemies, because he was bound to have enemies, his ex-girlfriend for one.
But what if the bodies were eventually recovered and identified, and it transpired that Lorna wasn’t one of them . . . Oh God. God!
‘I didn’t do it,’ the girl intoned blankly, her eyes on the dark TV screen. She turned to Claire, and tried to smile, but the effect was ghastly – she was as pale as milk and shaking with shock. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Of course not!’ Claire touched her arm. ‘Of course you didn’t!’
‘I didn’t even want them to be— I only wanted to be with you.’
‘But Lorna, your family. I’m so, so sorry my love. I—’
‘Don’t worry.’ The girl was taking whistling gasps, her shaking fingers scratched spasmodically at her wrists. ‘Don’t worry. They can’t . . .’
‘Hurt you any more,’ Claire finished for her.
‘No. But, I mean . . .’ she began crying now, ‘but, if they . . . I mean, what if it hurt them? What if it—’
‘No, listen Lorna, it’s just like going to sleep. Really, smoke just puts you to sleep. And if they were all asleep anyway—’
‘Oh, they were! I’m sure . . .’
‘Well then, it wouldn’t be so . . . I mean, it’s best not to think about it. Just imagine that it’s like going to sleep, like a lovely sleep.’
‘Even the dogs?’ Lorna gave a hopeful smile, through her tears.
‘Even the dogs. They wouldn’t have known a thing. Honestly.’
Lorna nodded, and stayed silent. She lay awkwardly in the folds of the lumpy sofa – one foot red and extended, the other folded under her. Her short hair had begun to dry, and stood up in spikes at the crown. She breathed rapidly, shallowly, like an animal.
‘He said he’d do it,’ she whispered. ‘Burn things. He said he’d burn me. Remember? I told you?’
‘I remember.’
‘He must’ve done it after all. Burned them up.’
‘Try not to think about it, my love.’
Lorna smiled weakly. ‘I broke the gingerbread.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘It was going to be nice.’ She closed her eyes, squeezed out two tears and her breath began to hitch again, but she caught herself in time, took a few deep breaths and opened her eyes again. ‘It’s a New Year, nearly.’
‘It is.’
‘If they think I’m dead . . .’ She took a deep breath and said again, all in a rush, ‘If they think I’m dead, then I can stay with you for ever. No-one will look for me.’ Lorna’s eyes narrowed. She put her head in her hands. ‘But maybe you don’t want me either. I’m a lot of trouble. I mean, you didn’t want the TV, and I made you get it.’ The girl was working herself up again, her thin chest constricting. She looked up, her mouth a tragedy mask. ‘And maybe you want to go back and go to work again and everything?’ She dug her bitten fingernails into her wrists. ‘And then they’ll take me into care! And you might get into trouble! For taking me!’
Claire leaned forward and plucked one wrist to safety. ‘I won’t leave you. I won’t.’ She put two fingers firmly on the girl’s chin and forced it up so she could see into her eyes. ‘I promise you.’ Lorna’s mouth tried to smile while her damp eyes pleaded. Claire said again, ‘I won’t leave you. We’re together now, Lorna. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again, I promise. I won’t let it happen.’ With each firm phrase, she felt her resolve harden further, her determined hope rise; she willed, and saw, trust fill the girl’s blank, shocked eyes. Each word Claire uttered seemed to bring her back from some terrible brink, and breathe life into her. And so she carried on talking, outlining their future together. She spoke of holidays, of pets, of the beach in the summer time; she spoke of music, of dancing, of talent and dreams, and soon the girl stopped shivering, uncurled like a flower in the sunshine, and began asking questions, giggling softly, clinging closer to Claire even as she relaxed.
When Claire thought about that evening, as she did so many times afterwards, she fell into confusion when she tried to remember how exactly it had all ended with them making gingerbread again, eating ice cream and watching Singin’ in the Rain. It seemed improbable; almost callous. But there it was, it happened that way. They stayed up until midnight and left the kitchen in a mess, and slept together in the big bedroom because Lorna didn’t want to be alone.
22
Claire woke up cold. All the windows were open, and Lorna was nowhere to be seen – not hunched in front of the TV, or up to her elbows in pancake batter, or drawing pictures with chalk outside on the badly tarmacked drive. It was strange.
‘Lorna?’ called Claire, as she put the kettle on. ‘Lorna? Have you had breakfast? Come in if you’re out, it’s too cold.’
She turned on the radio – the news would start in a few minutes. There was bound to be something about the fire . . .
‘Boo!’ Lorna was behind her. She had her head cocked to the side, her eyebrows raised.
‘Oh, Lorna! Where’ve you been? I was a bit worried!’
‘What’s strange?’ She smiled enigmatically.
‘Oh did I say that aloud?’
‘Only nutters talk to themselves. Mad people.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘What’s strange?’
‘Oh, I was thinking about . . . oh golly, I can’t even remember now.’ She turned the radio off.
The girl wobbled on one leg and scratched on
e bare, dirty sole. ‘Why did you open all the windows?’
‘What? I didn’t.’
Lorna gazed at her, stopped scratching and put both feet on the floor, wriggling her toes. ‘I’m cold. Why’d you do that?’
‘I didn’t. You must have . . .’ began Claire, but the sentence petered out. Perhaps Lorna got a little warm in the night, what with them sharing a bed, and had done it herself, half asleep. And now she was probably a bit embarrassed. ‘I might have done it in my sleep.’
‘Like a sleepwalker?’ Lorna grinned now, and put both arms stiff out in front of her, scrunched her eyes shut, and wandered about moaning, ‘I’m asssleeepp . . . I’m sssleeeeepingg!’
‘Maybe. Or you might have done it in your sleep?’
‘Oh no.’ The girl was grave again. ‘I sleep like a baby. I never wake up. It was you.’
Claire, smiling, agreed that it must have been. Just let her get away with this one, she needed to be right about little things. Making up a silly story and sticking to it, well, it must have been the only small power she had, growing up in that terrible environment. The circus story, and the fictional auntie with the spare room just for her; just whimsical lies that illustrated her need for certainty, and a sense of her own specialness. It was something she’d grow out of, once she felt genuinely protected, genuinely safe at last.
The frigid air promised sleet, and Lorna announced her intention of watching TV all day. She plopped herself down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, and spooned ice cream out of the tub while flicking through the cartoon channels. Claire cleaned the kitchen, turned the radio back on, but not too loudly, so as not to perturb Lorna. The kitchen was badly in need of work. The grouting around the tiles was black, and she saw silverfish around the bottom of the sink. Still, it was a cheerful, sunny room, at least when the sun was shining. Claire rubbed the tiles around the sink with bleach, tutted at the ingrained dirt around the taps, and dabbed, sceptically, at the worn lino. Perhaps they could go to Ikea; get one of those new, white kitchens that Mother had sneered at – ‘They always look good in the shop, but modern kitchens are so flimsy.’ White, and something bright for the tiles. Blue maybe, or a nice, cheerful yellow. The oven would do, she supposed, but wouldn’t an Aga be nice? And again, Norma’s voice piped up – ‘An Aga she says? Getting a bit Jilly Cooper in your old age, aren’t you?’ – but surely it’s important to look at some things and feel happy, not because they’re practical, but because they’re beautiful. These things matter. And if we stay here, it has to be lovely for Lorna . . .
