Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  She scanned the court notices as far as they went back, but Mervyn hadn’t been arrested or convicted of anything. Or not caught. A UK address search gave her over a hundred Mervyn Pryces, and, yes! There he was, living under the right postcode, aged 50–54. She smiled triumphantly, her heart quickened, and then she realised that that was hardly new information. It was no mystery where the man lived, after all.

  One of the local papers made a mention of an M Pryce raising money for a children’s heart charity. That could be him. Shuddering, she typed the words ‘M Pryce children’. There. A picture in the local free sheet, an article from ten years before. A younger Mervyn Pryce, but apparently wearing the same muscle top, in the midst of a gaggle of children, mostly boys, but some girls. And the story: Kids Boxing and Fitness Gym Gets Go-Ahead.

  Ex-serviceman Mervyn Pryce hopes his new venture will pack a powerful punch – by promoting fitness and training future local champions. The former army captain, who served in Northern Ireland, wants to share his life-long love of fitness with the local community. Mr Pryce, a former amateur boxer, credits the sport with helping him recover from bypass surgery five years ago.

  ‘Boxing isn’t all about knocking out your opponent,’ he says. ‘It’s a game of strategy and skill, and is great for all-round exercise.’ Mr Pryce hopes to open the as-yet-unnamed gym by March next year. In the meantime he is available for private fitness sessions and continues his volunteer work in the community.

  Claire noted down the premises address, and looked it up, but there had never been a boxing club there. Perhaps the council had rescinded the licence. Why?

  She made a note to phone the council later to find out about the club premises certificate, and why it wasn’t granted. She tried to find out what schools he’d volunteered in, but had no success. Finally, wincingly, she visited a self-proclaimed ‘Paedo Catcher’ website – all British flags, exclamation marks and insistent pop-ups. She typed in his name, waited for over a minute, but nothing came back bar an advert for some Ancestry website.

  Feeling tired and grubby, Claire walked stiffly out of the library. OK. She had some information. Not enough to call PC Jones about, or social services, but it was a start. A man like that, running a club for kiddies . . . she shuddered. She’d keep digging, that’s all, keep digging and something was bound to come up. Men like that – so contemptuous of children, so sickly sure of their superiority – they always fall in the face of vigilance. And Claire intended to be vigilant, yes, and try her hardest to get the girl to totally trust her, to tell her everything.

  * * *

  ‘Why’re you still here anyway? What’s wrong with your old flat, Claire? Nice enough place, for one.’ Derek had come over to ‘help sort out the furniture’. He’d already offered to take a couple of lamps and the nearly new TV off her.

  ‘Oh, he’d hate my little flat, this is his home. Anyway, I’m staying here for a while. He’s good company.’

  ‘Well, if there’s a break-in, he’s not going to be much use to you, is he? Practically toothless.’ Derek squatted down and rubbed Johnny under the chin. His knees cracked.

  ‘Why would anyone break in?’

  Derek stayed crouched down, but looked up at her with amused irritation. ‘I don’t know what it’s like in your fantasy world, Claire, but here on planet earth there are bad people; people who know that Norma’s passed and know that you’re on your own. In this big house, with all these valuables—’

  ‘Oh Derek—’

  ‘“Oh Derek” nothing. You don’t know how the world works. And you putting the death announcement in the paper like that. You might as well have left the door wide open with a welcome mat for all the burglars in town.’ Claire closed her eyes. The conversation was back on familiar tracks. Derek was convinced of the depravity of his fellow man.

  ‘I’ll stay in the house, Derek, until I work out what to do with it.’

  ‘Sell it! That’s what you’re going to do with it!’ He rubbed his hands on the seat of his trousers and went off to see what he could liberate from the shed.

  And Claire thought of the house, the shining woodwork, the mellow gold of the polished floors. The silver-framed pictures, the quiet tick of the grandfather clock and thought, no, sell? No! Johnny whined at the door. Claire wandered into the garden.

  ‘It’s time for Johnny’s walk. I have to go now.’

  ‘Claire, listen, I know what I’m talking about. And I have a lot of contacts through the Rotary Club – estate agents, financial advisors. What I’m saying is, you’re not on your own.’ Derek was wearing one of Claire’s father’s fishing hats. The hooks attached to it wiggled with every solemn incline of his head.

  ‘I’ll be sure to ask your advice, Derek, but I really have to take Johnny out now.’

  ‘You’re a sitting duck in this house, Claire, I’m telling you.’

  * * *

  Derek stayed for lunch and didn’t leave until she promised to talk to an estate agent about putting the house up for sale. ‘Pronto, Claire! Pronto! The market’s teetering on a knife edge, and if you don’t do it now . . .’

  The council offices had closed by the time he left; she’d missed her chance to call about Mervyn Pryce, but the library was open late tonight, so she could still do some more internet research. Struggling to edge her car out from between two needlessly large four-by-fours, she heard a tap on the window, and there was Lorna, in a spectacularly dirty pink anorak, waving and smiling.

  ‘Lorna!’ Claire exclaimed as the car stalled.

  ‘Miss.’ She curtseyed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m getting a bit better. How are you? Did you get home all right?’ Claire re-parked the car and got out.

  ‘Yeah. Look. I brought you this. The present?’ She dug into her rucksack and came out with a small box, wrapped in trembling paper. ‘Sorry, I didn’t have any Sellotape.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it! Open it and see!’ Lorna was skipping with excitement.

  Claire carefully opened the paper and prised open the box. It contained a snowglobe with an impossibly beautiful plastic princess, dressed in blue, poised to whisk off into a waltz. Lorna flicked a switch on the bottom, and the princess moved in soft circles to tinny music, the snow drifting down like magic dust.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’ Lorna asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s a lovely thing, Lorna. Beautiful.’ Claire smiled. She could feel tears building.

  ‘I got it for you,’ the child beamed,.

  ‘It’s really so lovely. So thoughtful of you.’

  The girl hopped a little on one leg bashfully. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to the library, and then I’ll go home – well, back to my flat to pick up some things.’

  ‘I thought you lived here though?’

  ‘No. Well, I do, I suppose. Now. But I officially live somewhere else.’

  ‘What’s “officially” mean?’

  ‘It means properly.’

  ‘Can I come? To your officially place?’

  ‘What? No. No, it’s long after hometime, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m good with ill people.’

  ‘Lorna, it’s so sweet of you, but I’m not ill. I’m . . . it’s complicated.’

  ‘Your house is really nice.’ Lorna turned to take it in. Claire imagined what it must seem like to the girl – so large, so neat, so incredibly middle-class. ‘I like the flowers over the door. They’re really pretty.’

  ‘Thank you. They’re called forsythia. My mother loved them.’

  ‘Did you grow up here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucky. I hope you get better soon.’

  ‘I – I shall. It’s more of a – I’m more sad than ill. It’s difficult to explain. My mother just died, and there are a lot of things to sort out, and it’s all been a bit . . . tough. But I’m OK. I am. I might even take a little break. To the seaside.’ She spoke without thinking.

  ‘The seaside?’ The
girl cocked her head to the side and squinted through her fringe.

  ‘Yes. My aunt – she’s died now – my mother’s sister, she had a cottage. In Cornwall. And, well, it’s mine now, I suppose. So I thought I might have a little holiday. Maybe that will sort me out.’ Never in her life had Claire shared anything personal with a child. But there was something about Lorna, about the way she gazed at her with such sympathy, with such understanding . . .

  ‘I bet the seaside would be nice,’ said Lorna, sitting down on the wall of the front garden. She threw her bag behind her onto the flagstones. ‘Will you go with someone?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘You’re lonely.’ The girl’s eyes widened with sorrow. ‘You’re crying.’ Claire flapped a hand at her, dabbed at her eyes, but that just made it worse. Lorna peered at her with concern. ‘I get lonely, too.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Don’t pay any attention to me, really.’

  The child shuffled, stared at the ground, and suddenly leaped up, and hugged Claire tightly, fiercely, around the waist. ‘There there,’ she said. ‘There there.’

  She was a special creature. Truly special. After everything that had happened to her, to be this caring towards an adult, well, it was testament to her character. And Claire held back her own sobs, thinking desperately how much she wanted to help the girl, how much she could help, but only once Lorna fully opened up, trusted her just that little bit more.

  They swayed together to the music of the snowglobe. Then Lorna picked up her bag and, with a quick wave, she ran up the quiet, empty street.

  Claire walked, dazed, to her car, still seeping tears, but determined. At the library she went about her research with fresh vigour. It was a strange name, Mervyn Pryce. Easy to misspell. She tried other permutations, and here, yes. Three years ago, a Mervin Pryce, not here, but in a town not too far away (fifteen miles wasn’t that far, was it?) had been convicted of possessing and distributing indecent images, category B . . . a six-month custodial sentence suspended for two years. What did that mean precisely? Had he gone to prison? What constituted ‘indecent’? And what did category B mean? She didn’t want to search for that, not in the library. But it must be bad. Very bad. And it had to be the same man.

  * * *

  The next day she called the council, but their records didn’t go back far enough to check why the club licence wasn’t granted, and as for convictions, they weren’t able to give out that information. Claire put the phone down, took some deep breaths, got out her notebook and read what she’d read so many times already.

  A man with a history of working with children, a man who obviously terrifies the little girl (oh, the tears in her eyes, how she’d scurried away from him, the evil laughs of the men!) shares a name with a convicted paedophile! It was cut and dried, surely? Call, Claire. Make the call. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.

  ‘PC Jones? It’s Claire Penny. Again. Call me back, please. I might have important information for you.’

  14

  Claire spent the rest of the morning tidying the front garden, sweeping the path clean of leaves, and waiting, hoping for the phone call. A few times she thought she heard the familiar ring, and rushed in, but it was nothing. The temperature had plummeted, and her hands ached with the cold, but she had to stay occupied, and when there was nothing else to do, she drove into town and shopped aimlessly, hoping that if PC Jones did call, he’d leave a message.

  It was getting dark when she came back, and saw the girl shivering on the corner – the pink anorak gone but not replaced – hunched in her thin school jumper, standing on one leg and then the other as the cold seeped through the thin soles of her shoes. Lorna waved ecstatically at the car, capering around like a much younger child.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you! I’ve been waiting for ages!’

  ‘Lord, Lorna, you must be freezing!’

  ‘I am. But I wanted to see you. I wanted to see if you’re all right. Are you? Because you were sad, before.’ She peered at Claire closely. ‘You’re not still sad, are you?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you,’ smiled Claire gently. ‘Why don’t you have a coat?’

  Lorna smiled, embarrassed. ‘Forgot it.’

  ‘Well, look, how about I give you a lift home?’

  ‘Can I come to yours and warm up?’

  ‘Lorna—’

  ‘I mean, I really am freezing cold.’

  ‘Well. It is cold, isn’t it? Maybe you should have a hot drink. Hop in, and I’ll call home, just to tell your mum what’s happening.’

  ‘There won’t be anyone there. No-one’s ever there until The Simpsons or later.’ The girl climbed into the front seat, shivering extravagantly while Claire drove the last few metres home. ‘I was waiting for ages for you. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Claire apologised automatically, and parked. When she unlocked the front door, she noticed the answer machine light was winking. ‘Why don’t you sit by the fire in the sitting room, just there, and I’ll bring you some cocoa? And a biscuit?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just let me hear this message and then I’ll call your mummy, OK?’

  Claire took the phone with her to the kitchen and listened to the message while the kettle boiled. It was PC Jones, but he just said he was returning her call. What time is it? Oh Lord, he won’t be at work now. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. Does he even work on a Saturday? Why did I have to spend so much time in the shops, anyway? Poor old Johnny hadn’t even been walked today. She’d have to do it later, although he didn’t like the dark, bless him.

  Oddly, she’d bought juice, sticky buns and sugary biscuits; things she never normally even looked at, as well as mini sausage rolls and scotch eggs – she’d loved them when she was a child. Perhaps Lorna would too? She arranged them all on a tray.

  In the sitting room, Lorna was standing on her toes, squinting at the row of photographs above the fireplace. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Oh golly, no. That’s my mother. That’s me, can you see? The little baby in the pram?’

  ‘That’s you?’ The girl laughed. ‘You look all scrunched up.’

  ‘Well, babies are a bit scrunchy. Here, sit down and have a biscuit. Or a sausage roll.’

  ‘I love sausage rolls! And what are these?’

  ‘Scotch eggs. Try them.’

  The girl took a cautious bite, chewed painfully. ‘It’s nice,’ she said.

  ‘It’s fine if they’re not your cup of tea, really. Have a sausage roll instead. Or a biscuit.’

  Lorna swallowed with a humorous gulp, stuck her tongue out, making an ugh sound, and reached for a biscuit. ‘Is that you?’ she asked, through a mouthful of crumbs, pointing at another photo.

  ‘Yes. That’s the day I graduated from teacher training college.’

  ‘You look happy.’

  ‘I was. I was very happy.’

  Lorna chewed meditatively, reached for a sausage roll. ‘I want to go to university.’

  ‘What would you like to study?’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘Me? Well, it wasn’t really university in those days. I trained to be a home economics teacher.’

  ‘I’d like to do that, then. What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, cooking, and making sure food is safe, and things like that.’

  ‘One time, in Oak class, you took over when Miss Pickin was ill and we made flapjacks with you.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘Mmmm. Is that your mum too?’ Norma, surrounded by beaming colleagues.

  ‘Yes. She was a teacher, too.’

  Lorna turned her dark eyes to the fire, and then to Claire. ‘Do you miss your mum?’

  Claire blinked. ‘I do.’

  Lorna awkwardly ringed Claire’s fingers with thumb and forefinger and stretched her feet towards the flames. A sweet, slightly fetid smell came off them. They looked at the fire, while outside the wind blew.

  ‘Lorna,’ Claire said finally. ‘About M
r Pryce—’

  ‘Oh. Look how pretty the fire is.’

  ‘You can tell me, you know. And about Pete too? Lorna? You can trust me.’

  And the girl turned to her, a gentle smile on her face, and held out one warm little hand, but said nothing.

  When Claire drove Lorna home, she saw her let herself in with her own key.

  * * *

  The next day Lorna was waiting, smiling, on the corner again after school. She skipped up, and said, ‘Can I have some cocoa?’

  ‘Shall we call your mum to make sure that’s OK?’

  ‘Oh she’s not there. No-one’s in till The Simpsons.’

  ‘Well, let’s call and find out.’

  But the girl was right, nobody was in.

  And so they settled into the less formal living room, the one nearest the kitchen. Claire sat on the chesterfield, while Lorna curled on the rug at her feet like a kitten. They munched sausage rolls and chatted.

  ‘It’s so nice – that, what do you call it? For Cynthia?’ Lorna said, her mouth full of pastry.

  ‘Forsythia. Yes. It needs trimming back really. And I need to tackle the back garden – it’s much bigger, so it’ll take some time. Perhaps you’d like to help me?’

  The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t know how to,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh, it’s quite easy. And good exercise too. There are lots of apples that need picking, too.’

  ‘Oooh! I like apples.’

  ‘Well, maybe we can pick them and make a pie?’

  And Lorna’s joy was so touching. That’s all it took; a little bit of care, a little bit of attention, and the girl could bloom.

  And so they went out to take stock. Tangles of creepers and weeds had spread across the paths and around the base of the cherry tree at the end of the lawn, and Claire hadn’t had the energy to do anything about it. But, with Lorna here, somehow it seemed possible, and something in her settled and calmed. They hauled rakes and dusty trowels out of the shed, Claire shooed Johnny away from an old tin of rat pellets and some cans of weedkiller. She really must put them on the top shelf; they were dangerous for a kiddy. And for Johnny, come to that. Lorna located gardening gloves, and Claire peered mistrustfully at the Flymo.