by Frances Vick
‘Both! Shut up, it’s on, it’s on!’
They’d recorded a countdown show, the kind that cable TV channels use as fillers – The Hundred Most Shocking Soap Opera Moments! – and it lasted for two hours. Lorna had kicked off her shoes and socks and was staring, rapt, at the screen, as a series of half-known comedians on the up or on the slide trotted out their scripted puns. Lorna snorted, groaned and hid her eyes at the kissing. Marianne perched next to her on the edge of the sofa, so she could dash away when the girl hollered for more biscuits, Coke, a blanket.
‘Move up a little, Lauren.’ Claire poked at the girl’s foot. ‘I need to sit down too.’
Lorna glanced at Marianne. Her mouth twisted. Marianne kept her face immobile, though one eyebrow twitched.
‘You don’t like these kind of things. Countdowns,’ Lorna said flatly. ‘You say they’re rubbish.’
‘Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I want to try something new.’ Claire picked up Lorna’s legs and placed her feet firmly on the floor, then sat down. ‘Move further into the middle, won’t you? Then poor old Marianne can have a seat instead of sitting there looking like she’s about to topple over.’
Lorna’s body was rigid. She cut her eyes at Marianne, who leapt off the sofa as if she’d been scalded, heading back to the kitchen.
‘I’m making tea. Anyone want tea?’
‘That’d be lovely. Lorna? Tea?’
‘I want everyone to shut up. Can’t hear the programme,’ the girl hissed.
‘You can pause it, can’t you? Till everyone’s settled?’ Answering back filled Claire with anxiety and exhilaration. She nudged the girl’s feet again. ‘Seriously, move up a bit, Lauren. The sofa isn’t just for you, you know.’
Lorna gaped melodramatically, turned to the kitchen door, but Marianne wasn’t there. ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘Watching TV with my daughter,’ Claire answered complacently. Lorna dug her sharp toenails into Claire’s arm. Claire smiled, shifted her arm slightly. ‘We really ought to trim those nails, Lauren. Why don’t you start biting them instead of your fingers? Try something new too?’
The girl swung her body around to face Claire, and her eyes were shiny with tears. She hugged the blanket to herself, cold and pitiful. ‘Why’re you being so horrible? Mum? This isn’t like you.’
Claire struggled to keep her posture, her remote smile; struggled not to clutch the girl’s hand, be friends once more. ‘I don’t think I’m being horrible. I’m not being horrible at all.’
‘You’re not being like you.’ Lorna narrowed her suddenly dry eyes. ‘At all.’ She let the blanket drop and stared at Claire, her mouth a tight line.
‘Well, that’s not the same thing, is it? Besides, I think I am being like me. I feel more like myself, more than I have in, oh, ages, months.’ She watched Lorna’s eyes narrow again. Her thoughts were scudding across her face like rain-filled clouds. ‘And, you really shouldn’t frown like that, you know. What is it Auntie May says? Frowns are the mother of wrinkles? Or something like that. You don’t want to be the oldest-looking girl in drama school, do you?’
Now Lorna was crying for real, in confusion, in rage. Her face contorted. ‘You shut up about that, you don’t know anything, you don’t know anything about it.’
‘I know that you’re not going to drama school.’ Claire dropped her head conspiratorially. ‘I know that much.’
‘I am!’
‘How?’
‘Marianne’s taking me to London.’
‘Really. How?’
‘Here we go, here we go. Oh, poppet, you paused it, thank you!’ Marianne bustled back in. Claire wondered how much she’d heard from the kitchen, how much she knew already. ‘I brought the rest of the Jammie Dodgers and a little whisky for Claire; just a little one.’
‘Oh, I really don’t want it.’
‘Well, you look like you need it. God knows you do, doesn’t she Lauren?’
‘She looks awful,’ Lorna said flatly.
‘No, really, I’m fine. Let’s watch this thing.’
‘I’m leaving it here, just here by your foot, so don’t knock it over. OK, OK, Lauren, press play.’
The soap opera clips provided a meta narrative to the drama in the living room. At the start, both Claire and Marianne would exclaim when they saw something that they recognised from their youth: who shot JR, or the catfight between Crystal and Alexis in Dynasty. Claire took a drink after all; all her nerves were quivering and the alcohol dampened things down just enough that she could act naturally. And the more natural she was, the more annoyed Lorna became. She sat wrapped in the blanket, eating crisps, ignoring the women, but, by groaning loudly when they spoke and skipping past bits they were commenting on, she succeeded in freezing the atmosphere in the room.
Number five on the countdown was a recent plotline from EastEnders. A terrible fire in the house next door had almost taken out the Queen Vic. Petrol had been poured down the drains, through the letterbox, down the stairs. There were clips of a crying teenager, bruised, in the shadow of a threatening man.
‘. . . and when Tracey took matters into her own hands, all hell broke loose . . . ,’ intoned the narrator, over a clip of the threatening man swamped in smoke, trapped under burning wreckage, ‘. . . and while Tracey said she wasn’t to blame, PC Palmer thought otherwise . . .’
The teenager screamed her confession at her co-star. Abuse. Going on for years. Couldn’t put up with it any more. And then it started happening to her little sister!
‘Oooh, that’s juicy!’ said Marianne, taking another biscuit.
‘. . . nationwide protest when Tracey was sentenced for murder . . . even the Prime Minister had an opinion.’
‘Oh my God. Doesn’t he have enough to do, without commenting on silly soap operas?’
‘Shhhhhhhhh!’ hissed Lorna.
‘. . . and the sentence was lifted, the Walford One was released, and Tracey will return to the show, after the actress who plays her – Lauren Sharpe – finishes her stint as Roxy Hart in the West End production of Chicago.’
‘Oh my God, how far-fetched can you get?’ Marianne spoke through crumbs.
‘What’s far-fetched mean?’ asked Lorna slowly.
‘It means really, really unlikely. Never going to happen in real life.’
‘Why not?’ Claire tried to sound idle.
‘Oh God, Claire. Because in real life, I mean, you can’t go around killing people, even if you think they deserve it.’
‘People do, though,’ said Claire.
‘And they get caught, don’t they?’ replied Marianne.
Claire’s mouth was dry. Neither she nor Lorna looked at each other. The TV blared on. ‘Sometimes they do. I suppose. It depends on how clever they are,’ she murmured.
‘They’d have to be supernaturally clever to get away with something like that.’
‘It’s just a story though,’ said Lorna. ‘It’s not like it’s real.’
Claire stood up suddenly. ‘I’m going into town.’
‘What for?’ Lorna asked now. Claire could feel her eyes on her, but she didn’t meet them.
‘I noticed that you’re running out of your special shampoo. You said you needed the one in the blue bottle, didn’t you?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Well, there’s hardly any left.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
‘I won’t be long. And really, this isn’t my cup of tea after all; Auntie May will watch the rest of the countdown with you, won’t she?’
34
Claire’s heart pulsed in her throat and her hands clenched the steering wheel. After a few miles she realised that she was driving too quickly, that her jaw was painfully clenched. Adrenaline was sour at the back of her mouth. I should pull over, she thought, get some air, but a new, less sensible, alien instinct kept her going, pushing down her foot on the accelerator, raising a chuckle in her throat. Happy. She felt happy, but not just happy, no. S
he was victorious, and giddy with it, like a boxer trapped on the ropes who suddenly, inexplicably, wiggles free and, energised, dances away to the amazement of the crowd. She had duelled with Lorna, and she had won. Won!
The countryside whizzed by, and the sea, a shining blue, peered from between cliffs. ‘I could go to the beach,’ thought Claire. ‘I don’t even have to get that shampoo like I told them. I could go shopping! I could – I could read a newspaper and have a cup of tea!’ And she laughed, a full-throated, joyful laugh, the first laugh like it since Mother had died. She opened the window and shook her hair in the breeze. She’d won! But what will it be like when you go back, Claire? What then? You’re going to get punished for this, you know it. ‘Well, if I’m getting punished, may as well get punished for a good time,’ she said out loud, and made the turn into the outskirts of Truro.
The last time she’d been to the town had been in the middle of winter, and her impression of the place then had been one of gloom and stillness. Today, the spring sun brightened the buildings, emphasised the whiteness of the stone. Narrow, dawdling roads suddenly widened out into quaint squares, and there were people; more people than Claire had seen in one place for months! Children too – why so many? Oh God, it must be school holidays! Easter, already! It must be, the shops have Easter eggs on display. She stopped, saw herself reflected in a window. Thin, so thin, with bags under her eyes and her unkempt hair more grey than brown. She gazed at herself for a long time, long enough so that a passer-by asked if she was all right. Pretty woman, with two small children tugging at her arms.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just trying to remember what I needed!’
‘Oh, OK. You look a bit pale, that’s all,’ the woman’s kind face creased. ‘Not being rude.’
‘I’ve been a little ill, but I’m getting over it now.’ Claire smiled. The woman’s little boy dropped his packet of sweets and it rolled towards the gutter. Claire stopped it with her foot and gave it back.
‘Say thank you to the lady.’
‘Sankoo,’ said the boy.
‘I was wondering, where is the library?’ Claire just wanted to prolong the encounter. She hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Lorna and Marianne for months. The woman had such a sweet face, open, and completely new.
‘If you go down there, and take the next right, you’ll see it, it’s on Union Place.’
Off the main drag, once the crowd thinned out, she became disoriented. Each creamy, stony street seemed the same: grand, angular homes; a vine-covered wall ran down the right-hand side of the road, casting shadow, muting noise. And now, suddenly, there was no-one, no-one at all. She could be the only person on earth.
The road widened suddenly, and large grey gates came into view. A park maybe? Claire eased through a small gap and, with unfocused eyes, walked down a gravel path, towards a bench. If I sit, get my bearings, I’ll be OK. There was something familiar about the place; not a park after all, but a series of low buildings with flat roofs on well-kept grass. And what was that? A sculpture? No, bars. Apparatus! She was in a school! A primary school it looked like. And immediately she began to relax. Schools are all the same, no matter how down at heel or brand new they are, and Claire looked with delight through the windows at the bright murals, the inevitable self-portraits of the infants, the Tudor projects of the Year Fives.
Tears started to form in her eyes as this connection, almost physical, with her old life established itself, made her feel rooted for the first time in months. Here, in this unknown school, she was at home. In what must be the nursery, children had cut around their own painted palm prints, and here they were, colourful bunting, strung across the walls – each with a name. Claire had done much the same with her Foundation classes, except along with the name, she had them dictate a dream, an ambition, a favourite sport, toy or colour. It gave the shyest children something to point at: see, there’s my name, I belong here. She’d done it when Lorna had been in the Christmas Crackers, but Lorna had painted the palm puce, mud coloured. Claire herself had written the girl’s name on it, she remembered, and at the end of term, when all the other children had taken theirs home to be pinned proudly on the fridge, Lorna’s stayed alone, unloved and ugly, staining the wall like a bruise.
Thinking about Lorna clouded things. She could imagine her, sitting with Marianne, concocting their bizarre and unlikely future. Only yesterday Marianne had been speaking confidently about London, about Lorna auditioning for West End musicals. London. Claire doubted sometimes if Marianne had ever been to London; she certainly didn’t seem to know it very well, and batted aside any questions about where and when she’d lived there. She spoke vaguely about Knightsbridge, about spending all her time in the V&A while she was studying fashion. How many things did she claim to have done? She was a singer, a fashion designer, an academic, a screenwriter, a model. And it was all rubbish! Something about being in a space she knew she belonged in gave Claire courage, made her sure of herself. Marianne was a liar, a fantasist, a fraud! God knows where she came from and why she’d attached herself to them, but both she and Lorna seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Both of them, in their unhealthy way, supported each other, propping themselves up on Claire, her money, her home, her goodwill. Her heart was beating quickly again, strongly, excitedly, spurring her on to grope towards the truth, the realisation that they were mad. Lorna was mad. And it had to end. She had to make sure. She had to read about the fire.
A voice from far deep inside her: Where do we go to grow our brains, Claire?
‘The library,’ she whispered to herself. And she began to retrace her steps.
This time she strode purposefully, back straight, eyes forward, seemingly drawn to the library by an uncanny force. There it was, an imposing stone building, like an old-fashioned school house or temperance hall. Inside it was all bright sofas, kids’ collages and reading challenges. Computers could be hired by the hour.
‘Would you like to join the library?’ the sweet-faced girl on the help desk asked. ‘You’re a resident?’
‘No,’ Claire answered firmly. ‘I’m just a tourist missing the internet.’ The girl led her to the computer terminals, blocked together, hot and humming. Claire sat down, took a deep breath, and logged on. But what good would it do? A wheedling voice piped – You know what happened. It’s not as if you can change anything. You’re both trapped together, you and Lorna. She shook her head, silenced the voice. ‘Knowledge is power,’ she said to herself. The heavyset woman with the Zimmer frame, sitting opposite, stared at her. Claire blushed and clicked.
A new twist in the tale had re-excited public interest. There were definitely not three human bodies, but two. Someone – a child – hadn’t been in the house when the fire began. Neighbours said that they’d seen Carl playing with the dogs in the street outside, one of them had had to take him back home, talked to his mum about letting the animals run wild. Nobody could now be sure that they’d seen Lorna either in or outside the home after the shopping trip in the afternoon. The Sun ran a picture of Lorna on its front page, and offered a reward for information. The Guardian ran an op-ed piece in its ‘Comment Is Free’ section: ‘A Tale of Two Britains – Why Lorna Bell Will Never Be Another Madeleine McCann’. The Daily Mail had undertaken a forensic investigation into Rabbit Girl’s past: three other children adopted, a series of violent relationships, an anonymous source from the school – who Claire recognised immediately as James Clarke – claiming that the school cared deeply about Lorna and did its very best to support her, and that there had been concerns expressed.
Claire scrolled through the pictures of the police raking through ashes, their harried faces at press conferences. Only two bodies found. Lorna had not been seen in the house before the fire. Will not comment on media stories of her being missing. Being kidnapped.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Claire said out loud. The woman with the Zimmer frame glared again, and shifted her bulk disapprovingly, but this time Claire didn’t notice. Her brain raced ahead of he
r panting comprehension. Two bodies. No Lorna. They know Lorna’s not dead. They’re trying to find her.
Had anyone seen her with Lorna?
Think! Has anyone ever seen you together? Not here, anyway. Once at the café in winter. That time at the hairdresser’s, but the barber had barely looked at them, and Lorna looked so different now – so much taller, her hair longer again . . . Aside from that, Lorna had taken all her trips to town and the beach with Marianne; Claire had always stayed at home because of her ankle, or because she was still asleep. Just stay here, Mum, we’ll bring you your pills from town. Yes, Claire, you have a little rest. We won’t be long, will we poppet? The dance lessons, the shopping trips, the cinema, McDonald’s, that had all been Lorna and Marianne.
Cool sweat crawled down her sides. She shut her eyes, clenched her jaw. Think, Claire, think. What about at Mother’s house? Could anyone have seen you together then? Old Mrs Foster next door surely would have mentioned something to Claire if she’d seen a girl coming and going; if you left your bins out an hour longer than usual, she was at the door complaining. The house opposite was being renovated and the family had moved out while the building was going on, and the house next to that was vacant. No, nobody had seen her. Couldn’t have done.
She typed rapidly, ‘Lorna Bell kidnap woman’, and got no real information. Then, shaking, ‘Lorna Bell sightings’. A café in Bristol – Bristol? When had they been there? Claire frowned doubtfully. A girl who might have resembled Lorna, with a blonde woman, but the waitress couldn’t be sure, and there was no CCTV footage. The police were at a dead end with that one. And another – an Argos in Newquay. The blonde woman had bought luggage. A blonde woman. Marianne? Claire felt dizzy again, as her mind reached its destination and stood about it excitedly. Lots of links to Marianne, but none to me. I could be free.
But there’s something else, isn’t there? What? No, nothing. Oh there is, Claire, you know there is. A door in her mind opened, and behind it was crammed one big truth, tumbling out like a badly folded eiderdown.