by Frances Vick
Drink. Tea? Yes, tea. Nothing bad could happen to you with a cup of tea in your hand. The noise of the kettle, that was real; the chip in the sugar bowl, that was real. Watch some TV, Claire, calm down. She carefully shut the door to the stairs to avoid waking Lorna, fumbled with the remote controls and on came the muted news. She flicked channels. ‘Where is it? Where is it?’ she whispered without hearing herself, until she found what she was looking for.
It had rained a lot since the last footage she’d seen; the familiar teddies and flowers tied to the police tape were sodden. Here was a photo, of the ex-girlfriend, released without charge. Here was the same grave and exhausted-looking detective inspector appealing for information. The fire had been started with petrol, so much petrol that it was unlikely to have been ill-advised insurance fraud. There was only one identifiable body – Nikki’s. The remains of the two children had not been recovered yet, though neighbours reported seeing both of them return from a shopping trip and hearing loud music from the property, so it can be assumed that they were all there when the blaze began. It was now, officially, a murder inquiry. And here were close-ups of a years younger Lorna and Carl, grinning together with their arms around a puppy. Lorna’s hair was long then, and hung over her eyes – she bore no resemblance to the cropped pre-teen of today. Here was a hazy passport portrait of Rabbit Girl, and footage of Pete being wheeled into an ambulance by grim-faced paramedics.
Neighbours were interviewed. The bra-less lady with the tattoos and jowls put in an appearance, and here, too, was Mervyn Pryce, ‘a friend of the family’, greyer, thinner, and seemingly genuinely upset.
‘And you knew the family for a long time?’
‘I did. Lovely family, lovely kids. This is a close-knit community, yeah? We look out for each other, everyone looks out for each other. Something like this . . .’ He trailed off, distraught.
‘And as far as you knew, the family had no enemies, nothing . . .?’
‘No! No. Not at all!’ Mervyn was vehement, his voice breaking. ‘You’d have to be mad to do something like this. To kids. Little kids, you know?’
James Clarke appeared on the screen, in front of the school sign, to give a statement – something about Lorna being a popular student, always willing to work hard. His eyes shone with sincerity. He said that there would be a memorial assembly and counselling made available for any students who needed it. And then the police number, appealing for any information, call in confidence.
There was a creak on the stairs.
Claire jumped, heart clattering. The tea spilled on the carpet, but she didn’t want to turn round. Lorna? Well, she’s seen me watching the news now. She’s seen me. I’m caught. Trapped. She took a deep breath and turned slowly.
‘Lorna? I had a bad dream. So I got up and made some tea. I didn’t mean to watch—’
But there was no-one there. The door was slightly open; that accounted for the creak. Lorna must still be upstairs, tucked up, safe and sound. Better check her, though. It won’t do if she saw you, she’ll be so upset if she saw what you were watching. Claire crept up the stairs in the dark and crawled into the girl’s bedroom on her hands and knees, leaning in to stare at her face, grave and sallow on the pillow. Oh, look at her! Sleeping like an angel. No, she didn’t see you. Everything’s all right. She didn’t see you.
Creeping downstairs to clean up the mess, the second to bottom stair squeaked. A loose board, right at the edge near the wall, just where someone would have to walk if they didn’t want to be seen by someone in the living room. Lorna had been there. Lorna had been there?
Later, Claire checked on her again. She’d turned on her side, and her shoulders rose and fell, rose and fell. Sound asleep. It’s your imagination. After that dream. You’re so jumpy, Claire! Still, she stayed sitting by the bed for an hour to make sure the girl was really sleeping.
23
The next day Lorna was grumpy. She refused all Claire’s ideas for lunch. She hated all the things she’d liked yesterday. Today, she would only eat chips, Nutella and tinned spaghetti, and the chips had to be oven chips, not the kind you make yourself and fry. They were shit.
‘Don’t use that word, Lorna.’ Claire sat down tiredly and tried to put some steel in her voice.
‘What? Shit? Shit!’ The girl, fiddling with a fork, took the seat opposite.
‘Don’t Lorna! Please!’
‘You should be calling me Lauren.’ She poked the fork prongs into the tabletop.
‘What’s happened? Why are you in such a bad mood?’
‘I slept bad. You woke me up.’
‘What? No I didn’t.’
‘You did. You kept coming in my room and stroking me and whispering.’ She jabbed the fork forcefully into a crack on the tabletop, and began working it out. The old wood splintered.
‘I didn’t! Stop that now.’ Lorna scowled and let the fork drop. ‘I came in to check on you a couple of times, but—’
‘Well what were you doing awake anyway?’ The girl’s eyes were small, angry coals. ‘What were you doing?’
‘I-I had a bad dream and I went downstairs for a cup of tea.’
‘And what did you do downstairs?’ Lorna almost sang the sentence. Her lips twitched.
‘I had a cup of tea.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, yes. Lorna—’
‘Lauren.’
‘Darling, what’s bothering you?’
‘Told you. Couldn’t sleep ’cause of you. Fiddling with my hair and stuff.’
Claire thought hard, and was sure she hadn’t touched her hair, just watched her sleep. Perhaps she’d stroked her hair? It was possible. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry. I really didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘I pretended to be asleep, didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’ She gave a grave smile.
‘Oh, well. Thank you,’ Claire murmured, confused.
‘Now I’m tired though. Can you get me my duvet? I’ll lie down and watch telly.’
Lorna strode to the living room, and turned on the TV. News channel. She walked back, stiffly, and stared at Claire accusingly.
‘I wanted to see the weather forecast,’ Claire lied.
‘Huh.’
‘I wanted to see if it was going to brighten up soon.’
The girl looked hard at her, then went back to the living room. ‘Duvet,’ she called.
‘Oh, yes, sorry!’
The atmosphere in the house didn’t brighten, despite Claire’s efforts. Eventually Claire asked permission to leave her alone while she went out to buy nice things for dinner. Fish fingers? And those chips you like? She thought Lorna smiled a little at that. When she started the car and saw the cottage recede in the rear-view mirror, relief spread over her tense shoulders and eased the frown lines around her eyes. She would have an hour to herself. Two if she was lucky. And when she got back, well, maybe Lorna would be in a better mood.
* * *
She stayed out longer than she’d intended to. After shopping, she drove back to the beach, and wandered slowly around the shore, picking up stones and telling herself she’d leave in a few more minutes. There was no-one else around, except for another woman, tall, willowy, and thickening just a little around the hips. A knitted hat covered her yellow curls. She was trying to play ducks and drakes at the shore, while a dog leaped around in the foamy spill, snapping at the air. The last of the hardy walkers were leaving by the cliff path by the time the woman turned round and walked towards the headland, and she didn’t look at Claire as she passed, although Claire got a good look at her; it was the woman they’d seen in the café that time. It felt nice to see someone almost familiar, after all those weeks of just Lorna. Still, she mustn’t linger. She couldn’t leave Lorna for too long. But a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt, just to keep the cold out, would it? Not if she drank it quickly? She walked to the Tiffin Bar and smiled at the thought of a toasted teacake to herself. Lorna always wanted to share but insisted that she take out the raisins. They weren’t as
nice without the raisins.
By the time she left the café, two teacakes and one pot of tea later, Claire saw the woman again, on the darkening beach path, struggling with her dog. They looked like Lowry figures, jerky and ill-judged; the woman was especially comical, all careful poise gone, dragging the dog on its stiff limbs through the wet sand and mud. Stumbling at a curve in the path, she must have accidently dropped the lead, because the dog suddenly bounded off joyfully and charged full pelt back to the sea. It ran straight at Claire.
She fell, heavily, onto the wet sand; her ankle buckled and all the breath left her body. While her lungs squeakily tried to inflate, she heard the dog splashing about in the surf, jumping over her prone figure, yapping mindlessly. She tried to get up, couldn’t. She heard the woman’s scuffed knee-high boots running towards them, her mouth moving, but the wind carried her words away, and there was just that maddening, monotonous bark from the circling dog. Claire tried to get up again, but her foot slipped in the sand, and the dog lurched at her, all laughing jaws and manic eyes. The woman was nearly there now, shouting at the dog, leaning in to pick up the dripping lead, jerking its head viciously to the side, making it choke. Claire felt herself pulled up awkwardly. Pain flashed up her calf and settled in the smoky hollowness of her stomach again. One of her boots was missing and water clogged her sock.
‘God, I’m so sorry!’ the woman moaned. ‘He never normally gets away from me like that. The wind, it sends him mad. Negative ions in the air or something. It affects dogs and lunatics the same way. Are you hurt? How’s your poor coat?’ The woman pursed her lips, and swiped at Claire’s coat, brushing wet sand into the wool.
Claire leaned heavily on the woman’s shoulder, put all the weight onto her left leg and tried to breathe normally; embarrassed, angry, still shocked. Up close the woman was a good ten years older than Claire had first thought, with thick leathery skin covered with heavy foundation. Her mascara had begun to flake into the spidery wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. It was a strong face, raw boned. Not pretty, but square, firm, almost masculine. And it looked genuinely distraught.
‘Oh Christ, you lost your shoe. Let me— wait here’ – she dragged Claire’s boot from the dog’s mouth – ‘got it. Can you put it on? Too swollen? Can you hop? Here, lean on me, all the weight, I can take it. And hop! Hop!’ They lurched together towards the sea wall. The woman’s mirth grew with each hop.
‘It really does hurt,’ muttered Claire.
‘Oh Christ I’m sorry! Hop! We’re like a couple of old bunnies! What a spectacle. Last hop!’ and they made it to the clammy stone steps, where Claire was able to catch her breath.
The dog careered around the empty beach, barking at the waves. It was dark now, and chilly.
‘Do you have a car or something?’ said the woman.
‘Yes.’ Claire felt weak. She closed her eyes and tried to summon up a bit more strength. If I can drive, she thought, if I can just get away, then I’ll be safe. I can’t let this woman remember me, remember seeing me with Lorna. Oh, but she felt faint. Shock. That’s all it is. I’ll be fine in a minute or two. She shook her head, and willed her eyes open, tried to smile.
‘Oh you look terrible,’ the woman moaned. ‘Sorry. But you do. Awful. Look, I’ll get my car and park it as close as I can and then all you have to do is hop up the stairs and I can drive you home. Is it far? I mean, it doesn’t matter how far it is, but . . .’
‘No! No, that’s kind, but I’m OK. It’s not far. You’ve been very kind, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine really!’
The woman pursed her dry lips. ‘You don’t look fine. And if you can’t walk, you can’t drive. Is there a hospital? I’m parked not far from here. A doctor’s surgery?’
Claire needed to get away from this woman. A weak but desperate shiver of energy made is possible for her to get up and try to walk up the steps, but she crumpled immediately.
‘I’m getting the car!’ said the woman. ‘Don’t try to move. Benji!’ The dog paid no attention. ‘Benji! Guard the lady!’
Faintly, very faintly, Claire heard her running away. The dog’s barks were close and far away all at the same time. The cold wet step pressed into the small of her back. She thought about Lorna. She thought about how to explain Lorna to the woman. Perhaps she could ask her to drop her off at the bottom of the hill? She could struggle up by herself. That way she wouldn’t see the house. But no. I can’t walk, I can’t, and it will seem stranger to insist on being dropped off. No, I’ll just have to get rid of her as soon as possible, and make sure we never see her again. Move! Hurry up Derek about the house, let it or something, so we can move somewhere else . . . But there was something insistent about this woman, she wouldn’t put it past her to search them out, sniff them out like a gun dog. And how could they ever go to the beach after this? They were bound to see her again. Lorna had to be explained, and it had to happen quickly, as soon as they got through the door. But the pain in her ankle was murderous, it spread over her like a cloud of drowsy insects and she felt herself passing out.
Claire lay, as if dead, neat and stiff on the steps, mouth closed, hands across her chest, greying hair blowing over her frozen face, and when she opened her eyes, her vision was filled with the woman’s tragic, kohl-rimmed eyes. Claire tried to smile, tried to say she was OK, before she was picked up in a bear hug and lugged clumsily up the steps. Her ankles banged against the road, and the woman grunted, shifted her weight to the side, and slung Claire’s knees over the crook of her arm. Claire was crushed up against scarves smelling of white musk, pinned like a baby to the Amazon’s chest.
* * *
The journey back, over the rough, potholed roads, took a long time. The woman had wound down the front seat to let Claire rest, but lying prone prevented her from being able to look out of the window, to recognise familiar landmarks and give accurate directions, and so she was reduced to odd, gnomic pronouncements: ‘Where the road bends towards the round house’, ‘As if you’re going to the sea, but pull back in time to see the white sign.’
The dog shifted mutinously around on the back seat, spreading muddy sand, while the woman pushed the radio dial, trying to find a usable channel.
‘I bought this car off a sweet man somewhere in Wales. He said it had been his wife’s, and she had just died. Couldn’t bear to have the thing around any more. Felt so awful for him, I think I paid too much for it. Didn’t even look in the boot or under the hood or anything. Then, about a week later the tyre went and I hunted around for the spare – did I find it? No! Instead I found a few dozen copies of Shaven Ravers and Fat and Fifty where it should be.’ She laughed, loudly and all on one note. ‘I was trying to get rid of them when the AA man arrived. Oh Lord! Things like that always happen to me. I bet the poor man never even had a wife.’ She made a sharp turn, Claire’s leg banged the dashboard and fresh pain welled. ‘Right, I think this is it. Is it? Oh Lord, you can’t even see down there. Let me describe it to you. Sort of grey – slate is it? – roof . . . Red door. Sweet. You left the lights on.’
Claire’s stomach turned over. Lorna, scared and alone in the bright kitchen. Lorna, about to be discovered. She raised herself up painfully.
‘Yes. My daughter will be waiting. I think I’ll be OK getting in myself, she’s a little nervous of strangers, so it’s best if I go alone. But thank you so much—’
‘No, no you can’t go alone. At least let me get you settled.’
‘Really, really, I’m fine. I am. I don’t want to inconvenience you any more—’
But she found herself heaved up again; leaning heavily on the woman’s arm, hopping to the door. Inside the car the dog began to bark hysterically, pressing its wet nose against the glass.
‘Shut UP, Benji,’ shrieked the woman, and at that, the kitchen light went off.
‘She’s very, very shy, my daughter. She really can’t – that’s why I have to –’ think quick think quick, Claire – ‘I’m home-schooling her. That’s why we moved here. A
nd I’m home-schooling her.’
The woman paused to alter her steps to Claire’s hops. Claire couldn’t see her face as she answered, ‘Home-schooling is fascinating. I did a research paper on that once upon a time.’
They reached the door and Claire fumbled for her key. How to dismiss the woman now? How to stop her from talking to Lorna? Oh God, please let her take the hint and go! Before she could open the door, she heard the latch, and there, out of the dark, Lorna’s cropped head shone. The kitchen had that sweet, intense odour that Lorna exuded, that filled a room if she was in it for any length of time: bubble gum and indifferently brushed teeth.