Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  She really ought to put Mother’s house on the market. Ask Derek for advice? Leave it a week, she bargained with herself, leave it a week or so and then call him. She shouldn’t have told him she was coming to Cornwall; that had been stupid, stupid. What if he took it into his head to visit? Check up on her? She should have said she was going on holiday or something. A long cruise. But then he would have expected postcards . . . What time is it? I’ve missed the news anyway . . . try to relax, Claire. You’re no use to anyone in this state. And she found a classical-music station, sat down and took some deep breaths. It was syrupy Italian opera, the kind that she had always, secretly, enjoyed. She turned it up, flicked her tea towel and sang along, until a bellow of annoyance from Lorna in the living room made her remember herself and turn it down again. ‘Sorry!’ she called through the doorway, and sang under her breath. ‘Tutto e follia, follia nel mondo, Cio che non e piacere . . .’ Weak sunlight filtered through the dirty windows. She closed her eyes and smiled at the tiny warmth. Today I will think good thoughts . . . the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. They would make jam tarts. And how about a roast for lunch?

  Lorna was steadily and impassively scanning through the channels now, Claire could hear little snatches of music, gardening shows, old sitcoms and Westerns.

  ‘Can’t you settle, Lorna?’

  ‘It’s all boring.’

  ‘I thought I’d make a roast dinner today, what do you think? With roast potatoes?’

  ‘Are they the ones like big chips?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t like them.’

  ‘But you’ll try them, though?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Click click click through the channels and now the news. Halfway through the headlines: ‘A twenty-nine-year-old woman has been arrested in connection with the fire. Local people have named the woman as Paulette Coulson, mother of Peter Marshall’s two children, though we have had no statement as yet from the local police.’ Lorna turned up the volume. Her expression didn’t change. ‘Further doubt has been cast on the source of the blaze. A fire brigade source told Sky News that it was looking increasingly unlikely that the upright storage heaters were to blame, and that petrol has been found in the drains and hallways of this small terraced house—’

  ‘Lorna.’ Claire hovered by the door.

  ‘Watching.’

  ‘Lorna, is this good for you, though?’

  ‘Watching.’

  ‘All right.’ But she stayed in the doorway, watching the light from the TV on the girl’s face. The same close-ups of flowers, that same charred door. And now a photo of a young woman hugging two children, their faces pixelated out.

  ‘That’s her. That’s his ex, the one who said she’d stop him seeing his kids,’ Lorna said tonelessly, staring at the screen. ‘They’ll find out she did it, I bet you.’

  Claire sat down beside her on the sofa and took her slack hand. ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘No. But Pete talked about her all the time. Said she was a psycho. She once smacked Mum in the town.’ She wiggled her feet. ‘Cold.’

  ‘I’ll get you some socks in a minute.’

  ‘I’m cold though! Please?’

  Up in the girl’s room, Claire took socks and a duvet. On the floor was a Famous Five book, one of the ones that Claire had given her. The cover was folded in half, and Anne’s head had been ripped off. Lorna really ought to be more careful about things, but then, one had to learn to be careful, and nobody had taught her. But now, look at that . . . George’s eyes all gouged out and the face coloured over with black . . . that was just, well, not destructive exactly, but . . . Claire had had that book since she herself was a child, and it had survived forty odd years with no damage, not even the spine had been cracked. And now, in the space of a few weeks, Anne was headless and George had fangs. She needs, what does she need? Boundaries? Yes. But she mustn’t be made to feel as if she is being told off. Gentle guidance, that was the way forward. But harming books, wilful destruction, it made Claire’s heart hurt. She folded the cover back on itself to make the crease even out and hunted around for Anne’s head, but it was nowhere. She sighed, walked down the stairs, and paused just at the bottom, looking at Lorna’s back.

  She was jiggling one foot up and down on her knee and picking her nose. Sky News had a helicopter's view of the house; a white forensic tent covered where the kitchen and living room had been – ‘. . . possibly asleep when the fire took hold, and fire services say . . .’ – Lorna began to hum tunelessly – ‘. . . feared three dead, as we said earlier, but not all of the bodies have yet been accounted for.’ Lorna, sighing, dug a thumb up one nostril. ‘Police have another forty-eight hours to question the twenty-nine-year-old woman arrested in the early hours of this morning.’ Lorna sang, ‘Gimme gimme gimme what I a-a-sk for,’ as a police chief made a statement: ‘. . . early stages of our inquiry, which is complex, and will be going on for some time to come. But please don’t see the arrest we have made as being the end of our inquiry, and I ask anyone out there in the community who may have any further information to contact us, bearing in mind that three people, a mother and two children, lost their lives in this fire. Peter Marshall remains in a critical condition, but police are hopeful that he will be able to help us with our inquiries when he recovers enough to do so.’ Lorna stiffened. A reporter asked, ‘Is Peter Marshall a suspect of this crime, or a victim?’ The police chief hesitated. ‘That is something that we are trying to ascertain.’ Lorna turned the TV off and Claire handed her the duvet and socks.

  ‘What’s “ascertain” mean?’ The girl was still staring at the blank TV screen.

  ‘It means to make sure.’

  ‘They’re not sure he’ll die?’ Lorna was snuffling into a piece of kitchen roll, she turned around and tears were starting.

  ‘It means they’re not sure if he started the fire or if someone else did,’ Claire answered gently.

  When Lorna saw that Claire was still holding the Famous Five book, she began to sob. ‘I haven’t had much nice stuff, but I promise I’ll take more care of things, I promise. I won’t do anything like that again.’

  ‘Well, it did make me a bit sad, because books are very precious.’ The girl stared at her silently for a few seconds, and then began to wail, hunching into a quivering ball on the sofa. ‘But, Lorna, look, it’s only a book. Come on now, try to calm down, it’s not the end of the world!’ It took a long time to uncurl her, to pat and soothe her into a semblance of quiet.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Claire said seriously. ‘I think that watching the news about the fire has upset you, and now you’re taking everything much too seriously. No more news for you today. I shouldn’t have let you watch it.’

  ‘I’m sorry about the book, though.’ Lorna gazed up at her, face blotchy, trying to smile.

  ‘Darling, it’s only a book, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t be so precious about things. Come on! Let’s get out in the fresh air!’

  ‘Can we play whatever I want?’

  ‘Of course we can!’

  And so they played games; childish ones like hide and seek. Lorna designed a misspelt treasure hunt that led Claire through the house, and out into the wild garden, making her crawl, painfully, under the car, wiggle through brambles and pick up heavy, mossy stones, before taking her back to the kitchen, to the biscuit barrel, behind which was a home-made card, sticky with glitter glue, with a crooked pop-up heart inside saying Thankyou! For Everything! As a reward, Lorna begged for, and was given, five biscuits. They stopped her from being able to finish the roast dinner, though she made some kind of an effort with the roast potatoes.

  Claire managed to keep Pete from her mind all day, until night came, and she was alone. Pete might well recover. The policeman on the TV had almost sounded certain of it. And if he recovered, and if he spoke, how long did Claire and Lorna have before the precious new life they’d built crumbled?

  * * *

  From then on, there was an unspoken ban on the
news, even on the radio. Only once did Claire slip, putting the Today programme on in the morning. Lorna frowned at her during ‘Thought for the Day’ and Claire turned it off. On the one night Claire dared to watch the TV news, positive that Lorna was asleep, and all the doors were firmly closed, the girl had a bad dream just as the headlines started. Claire quickly turned it off and bolted upstairs to comfort her. Now they lived suspended in a cloudless, context-less zone of beach visits, baking and games – board games, consequences, jigsaws, hopscotch, blind man's buff – each progressively more juvenile, wordless, reliant only on gesture, laughter, pointing, nods and grunts. A few times, Claire tried to introduce some elements of education into the games – simple anagrams, multiplication, spelling – but Lorna would become subdued and fretful, and so Claire backed off. After all, it had been only a few weeks since she found out about the fire, and the girl needed time to heal. Perhaps Claire should buy a couple of books on counselling grief-stricken children? It was terrible that she hadn’t thought of that before, really.

  * * *

  So far, they were surviving on Claire’s savings and the rent from her little flat, but they were going to need money. More money. The confused, insistent idea that somehow, soon, she and Lorna would find a way to escape, properly, and for ever, ran tiredly around her brain. Change their identities . . . live abroad. There must be a way of doing these things? People have done these things. It was possible. Was it possible?

  Claire finally called Derek in February. She waited until Lorna was asleep, fortified herself with two brandies, and shakily dialled the number. Derek answered on the first ring.

  ‘Derek. Claire.’ She wanted to be businesslike, but there was a wobble in her voice.

  ‘The wanderer! Pip! News from the front! Pip? Oh she’s gone up already.’

  He’s drunk, thought Claire. Is that good or bad? She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry to be such a stranger, Derek. I just needed to get away.’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ There was a clinking sound – definitely he was drunk. ‘What can I do you for?’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking about the house. And maybe this one too, the one in Cornwall I mean – I’m still here.’ Derek breathed loudly at the other end, but didn’t reply. ‘And, well, I think it’s about time I made some decisions about the place. And don’t you know some people in your Rotary Club? Estate agents? So I can get a bit of advice?’

  ‘If it’s advice you need, Claire, then you’ve come to the right place.’ Claire clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, and waited for the axe to fall. ‘Just what in hell are you playing at?’

  ‘I’m not playing—’

  ‘Oh yes you are! Oh, I beg to differ! All this swanning off to the seaside, at your age. We were happy to put it down to grief, Pippa and me, at first, but how long does grief take? Pippa was back at the bowls club a month after her mother’s funeral. But oh no, you have to go all Brontë on us and run wild in the country.’

  ‘Derek—’

  ‘And you have responsibilities, Claire. What about your job? All those kiddies you claim to care about? No, no, it’s not on. You can call it the change of life, or, or, a breakdown, or whatever you want, but I call it irresponsible. One of your kiddies died, Claire. Did you know that? Died.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you even watch the news? One of the kids from your school – Laura something – Pip? No, she’s in bed. Laura . . .? One of them anyway. Died. In a fire.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s my fault.’ Claire could barely move her lips to get the words out. ‘I’m only a teacher.’

  ‘Not the way you tell it. Oh no, the way you have it is that you’re a bloody madonna—’

  ‘Derek—’

  ‘—saving these kids. And that’s the thing. I just don’t understand how you can have abandoned it all, just thrown your arms to the wind—’

  ‘Derek—’

  ‘—And just –’ he made a whistling noise, that turned into a cough ‘ – throw it all away. You know? Mad.’ He was panting now. Claire heard the rattle of ice cubes and the gurgle of gin. She tried to relax her stiffened shoulders, took deep breaths, and waited.

  ‘I’m sorry, Claire. This fire, just down the road really. It’s knocked us. The whole town. And then finding out that the kids went to your school – well.’

  ‘Only one of them did—Claire said, and stopped, wishing she could cut her tongue off.

  ‘I thought you didn’t know about it? The fire?’

  ‘I-I saw a bit of it, on the news.’

  ‘And it didn’t make you come back?’

  ‘Well, no. I mean, what could I do to help?’

  ‘But you knew one of the kiddies?’

  Why in God’s name had she opened her mouth? ‘Not very well. She was an older child I think, wasn’t she? So she wouldn’t have been in my class anyway. But, yes. It’s a terrible thing.’

  ‘A terrible thing,’ Derek echoed. ‘A terrible, terrible thing. A whole family. Well, they weren’t married, but still.’

  ‘But haven’t they arrested the person who started the fire?’ She kept her voice low, peered anxiously at the door to the stairs, trying to sense if Lorna was behind it, listening. ‘Wasn’t it some ex-girlfriend or something?’

  ‘No. God, you are out of the loop, aren’t you? No. They arrested her all right, the girlfriend, but then released her. But someone did it. Petrol. All the way into the kiddies’ rooms, down the drains, down the stairs. Whoever it was wanted to kill these people, even the kiddies. Even the dogs! I know it sounds silly, but I think it was the dogs that got to me and Pip the most. The whole place went up like a rocket, nearly took the houses on either side with it too, but they managed to get out. Horrible, horrible business.’

  ‘So, nobody knows who started it?’ Claire managed through compressed lips.

  ‘No. Well, they say they’re pursuing different avenues, but someone at bowls yesterday said that he’d heard from the golf club that the chief inspector is stumped. And that’s not something they want to get out, is it? Terrible thing to happen. And just down the road, too. My worry is that it’ll affect house prices.’

  Claire almost laughed at that, and sucked at the insides of her cheeks so he wouldn’t hear the smile in her voice. ‘You do seem shaken by this, Derek.’

  ‘We are. We all are. Shaken. That’s the word for it. That’s why maybe I’m a little – anxious – at the moment. Harsh. Didn’t mean to be harsh with you, Claire. It’s just that, when something like this happens so close to you, it makes you think about family. And about safety, you know? I’ve been worried about you, Claire.’ And he did sound worried, he really did. Claire moistened her lips.

  ‘Terrible things happen, Derek. Even to people just around the corner. And, who knows what kind of lives those children had?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve always said that estate was a disaster waiting to happen. Never thought I’d hear you being cold-blooded though, Claire. About something like this.’

  ‘It’s not cold-bloodedness. It’s more of a wake-up call, I suppose. Lots of children have really terrible lives, and if we don’t intervene early enough, or at all—’

  ‘That’s the Claire we know and love!’ Derek snorted.

  ‘Look, Derek, I don’t want to cause you any more worry, I really don’t. Maybe, maybe I’ll just park the idea of selling for now, OK?’

  ‘What about the furniture? You want to keep that?’

  Claire’s heart clenched. All Mother’s furniture: the dressing table from Great-Grandmother, the deep, jewel-coloured rugs, the family silver, the unforgiving mattresses and heavy wood bedsteads. They couldn’t be sold, no.

  ‘I’ll think about that when I’m more settled.’

  ‘Pip’s always had her eye on that sideboard in the hall . . .’

  ‘I tell you what, Derek, she can have it. A gift for all the worry I’ve caused you.’

  ‘Horrible thing, I always thought, myself,’ he replied, though he did sound pleased
. ‘But she likes it. Says it’s elegant. But what’s wrong with Ikea, eh?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Derek chuckled, all animosity gone now that he was head of a project and already in possession of a reward. ‘All right. I can get you on this number then, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any time I shouldn’t call? Any time you might have company?’

  ‘What?’ Her heart stuttered again.

  ‘Oh relax Claire, I’m joking. The idea of you, off with a man in the wilds of Cornwall!’ And he laughed heartily and insultingly long.

  And so they parted friends and Claire, exhausted, relieved, went to bed. She dreamed.

  * * *

  She was lying on a sofa coated with dog hair. It was dark, save for winking Christmas lights on a white tinsel tree, and warm, cosy, despite the smell of something over-cooking seeping out from under the door. She felt her hair crackle and sat up dazedly, put her fingers to her temple, drew them back covered with soot. She watched her fingernails curl, blacken and crumble while from somewhere a dog howled, and that smell got closer, denser. The smell of burning meat. And there was no point in trying to escape. There was no way out.

  Her own ragged breathing woke her up, rigid and sweat-soaked in the cold room. It took her a few long seconds to realise where she was. She heard herself panting. I’m panicking, I’m having a panic attack; the blood roared in her ears; pain pressed her chest and abdomen; either panic or a heart attack. Stay calm, Claire, stay calm. Call for Mother, but no, no, I can’t do that. And the panic clutched that little bit closer. Take deep breaths – in through the mouth and out through the nose; is that the right way to do it? Or the other way round? Lungs filling, nausea hitting, she lurched suddenly out of bed, barked her ankle against the door and sank down on the top step, looking down into the living room, dark except for a tiny red light, blinking. Her stomach cramped again – deep breaths deep breaths. Wink wink went the light, distant. Insistent. Head towards that, Claire thought incoherently. If you reach that light in one piece you’ll be all right. And she shuffled on her bottom from one draughty stair to the next, her fingers feeling the bumps on the old wallpaper, the nails in the carpet. A couple more, deep breaths now; she snagged her nightie on a nail and the material gave with a small, wistful sigh. Moving down, and here was the light, and others, green and flashing, a number, a time. The TV. The dizzying nausea relented, and while her hands still shook, she was able to feel her way along to the light switch between the living room and the kitchen. And here we are, near the sink; get some water, splash some water on your face, on your hands. The unforgiving strip light in the kitchen reassuringly exposed the flaws about the place that were real: the cracked lino, the grimy grouting, the limescaled tap, and it was all wonderful, joyfully real. More real than the dream, she told herself. Much more real.