Bad Little Girl

by Frances Vick

  ‘Sorry nothing! You shouldn’t be alone with her – I told you. Give me that, darling.’

  Claire heard Lorna sob as she gave her the spanner.

  ‘I took it for protection. ’Cause you said she might grab me,’ cried Lorna.

  ‘That was sensible—’ Claire heard a grunt as Marianne swung the spanner this time. It connected with her neck, and Claire collapsed like a felled ox.

  ‘Don’t be scared, poppet.’ Marianne threw the spanner into the corner of the doorway. She sounded shaky.

  ‘No, I’m all right, Auntie May. I’m just glad you got here in time!’

  ‘Let’s go now, darling.’

  ‘Can I have a minute with Mum? She can’t hurt me any more, if you wait behind the door?’

  ‘I’m not leaving you again—’

  ‘Auntie May? She’s fainted or something I think. She can’t hurt me, but give me the spanner, just in case. I-I need to see her? Like this? All floppy and, well . . .’

  ‘Powerless? Oh darling, listen, she doesn’t have any power over you at all any more. She can’t hurt you any more! You’re with me now.’

  ‘I know. I do know, but please. I just want a minute. It’ll really help me with what you were saying, what was it?’

  ‘Processing, darling. Dealing with the pain and coming through stronger.’ Marianne’s voice rang with quiet pomposity.

  ‘That. Yes. So, if you could kind of leave me alone?’ Lorna sounded just a tiny bit exasperated.

  ‘OK. All right. I’ll wait behind the door? All right, darling? Nothing can happen to you, not with me there.’

  ‘Can you, just – wait in the kitchen or something?’

  ‘I’ll wait at the top of the stairs. Don’t worry, I’ll be right there.’ Claire heard her trip-trapping across the stone floor and tottering up the stairs.

  Lorna waited until she was sure Marianne had gone. Claire heard a scrabbling sound, and a sob. Claire felt her hands being fondled, and small, sticky fingers intertwining with hers as Lorna lay on her, awkwardly. Tears soaked into her chest.

  ‘Don’t be angry at me. Don’t hate me!’

  Claire played dead. It was her only weapon. She kept her eyes screwed shut, her body limp in the girl’s embrace, and said nothing.

  ‘Don’t be angry with me! Please!’ Another sob. More scrabbling, and that distinctive lolloping trot across the cellar floor.

  Lorna’s footsteps died away upstairs. Claire passed out then.

  37

  When she came to, she was in a sitting position, and her ankles were bound together with electrical tape. They ached in the cold. Marianne squatted uncomfortably before her, holding a teacup. Wordlessly, she extended the cup, letting Claire sip a few drops. Even now she was posing, like a gone-to-seed Honor Blackman in those high-heeled boots. There was a bread knife in her belt; old, but sharp. Her hatred for Claire flowed from her in waves. She’ll hit me, Claire thought, unless she stabs me first; and she closed her eyes again, bracing herself.

  ‘I’ve got her. She’s safe now,’ Marianne whispered. And then her face was suddenly close. Her mottled complexion shone through thick swathes of make-up in the dim light. Her lips pulled back from yellowing teeth. ‘You can’t hurt her any more!’

  Claire swallowed, opened her eyes. ‘What’s she told you?’

  ‘She’s where she wants to be. She’s safe.’

  ‘Marianne. She’s not, she’s not what you think she is. She’s manipulating you. Look, I won’t say anything, or tell anyone anything. If you let me go.’

  Marianne threw her mohair wrap theatrically over one shoulder. ‘Nobody manipulates me!’

  ‘Marianne. Listen. She’s not . . . right. She’s lying to you, Marianne, she’s dangerous.’

  ‘Oh! She told me you’d say that.’

  ‘It’s true! In a few months you’ll be in the same position as me. She’ll find someone else. Marianne, listen, I’m trying to help you!’

  Marianne rolled her eyes. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

  Oh God, this is like the cheap dialogue in a police show, thought Claire. Now Lorna has someone that plays the same silly hackneyed games as her. In their minds this must be the thrilling denouement of a mini-series; or The Beginning Of An Exciting New Chapter.

  Marianne’s eyes were clouded and circled with badly applied mascara. Her childish mouth settled primly in folds, and she bounced distractedly on her heels. Outside, Benji barked wildly at the wind. Lorna called to him, ‘Benji! BEN-JII!’ and Marianne smiled, softened.

  ‘She loves that dog. You can always tell the heart of a person, by how they treat animals.’

  Claire thought about the dogs that had roasted in the other house; fur on fire, choking on the smoke. She thought about the white forensic tent covering the yard; the teddies, flowers, and cards laid, tied and shoved between the railings. Bodies too badly burned to identify; bones too crushed to mark as human. And she thought of Lorna’s little smile, as she’d trotted back from the toilets at the service station and seen the TV screen. Perhaps, just perhaps, Marianne didn’t know anything about that. Perhaps she knew nothing about the fire and Lorna had spun her the same yarn she’d spun for Claire – an abused girl, a tortured girl, a diamond all but hidden in filth. But not the girl who disappeared after an infamous house fire. Perhaps . . .

  ‘Marianne? What has Lauren told you about me?’

  Marianne turned dreamy eyes her way. ‘She told me how you stopped her seeing her father, and those vile accusations you made against him to keep her with you. She told me about how you took her out of school, wouldn’t let her have friends, how you even killed her hamster. How you kept her locked in her room at night. And don’t give me that look, I know all about it. You’re a dried-up old bitch with no life of your own, trying to smother hers! But she’s resisted it! She’s resisted you, and she’s demanding her freedom!’ Her voice rang with evangelical fervour. It was as if she’d rehearsed the whole thing. She probably had.

  Claire tried to keep her voice steady. ‘And you believed all this?’

  ‘She didn’t want to tell me. Oh, you’ve done a number on her! Talk about manipulation! It took me months to get the whole story out of her.’ Marianne laughed grimly.

  ‘Where does she say her father is?’

  ‘She doesn’t know! She’s still too traumatised to tell me the whole story.’

  ‘And so, you’ll take her to social services, I suppose? Expose the whole thing?’

  ‘What? After what they did to her?’

  Claire’s head was spinning. ‘What did they do to her?’

  Marianne snorted. ‘As if you didn’t know.’

  Claire took a ragged breath, opened her eyes. ‘Marianne. Has she ever mentioned Pete to you? Or Carl?’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Nothing. No-one. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘She needs a mother. An advocate. And Christ knows you haven’t been either.’

  ‘And what will you do with me?’ The dog barked again. ‘Ben-JI!’ was carried on the wind. Marianne stood up with an effort, her knees creaking, and walked to the cellar door. ‘Marianne?’

  ‘We haven’t decided,’ she muttered. When she left, she bolted the door.

  38

  Claire had never experienced real darkness, until now.

  There was no way to mark the time, and the cold seeped into her bones. Her fingers were numb.

  Sometimes she heard things. Once, singing, faint, slow. A sudden, shrill laugh, a door slamming. Her thoughts leaned into one another, whispering. Would they keep her here for much longer? Did they mean to kill her? What were they waiting for? There must be something here, something sharp, or rough at least. Something to cut through the plastic around her wrists. But it was so dark, her hands were so cold, her fingers useless, and after crawling around for a while, she gave up and curled, crying, on the freezing floor.

  * * *

  Lorna was there. She stood straight-legged and laughing over Claire, a
pink backpack hooked over one elbow.

  ‘Get up!’ And Claire, faltering, tried, but failed. Lorna tutted, got behind her and pulled her up in a bear hug with surprising strength – ‘Get up, lazy!’ – propping her up against the cool stone walls. Claire’s legs were numb with an edge of pain, and the light from the doorway hurt her eyes.

  Lorna laughed now, careless, guileless. Claire noticed that her hair was arranged into fussy little buns, already shedding pins. Her mouth was slick with lipstick; a pinkish purple. Marianne’s. Lorna backed a little towards the door. She looked warily at Claire. One hand fiddled with the zip of her rucksack. It swung close to the floor.

  ‘You still angry with me?’ she asked.

  Claire tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue was too dry. She blinked slowly.

  ‘You are. You’re angry with me. I can tell.’ Lorna took another step into the room, swinging her hands, and sighing through puckered lips. ‘You’re angry with me and I should be angry with you. Really.’

  Claire found her voice. ‘Why?’ she croaked.

  ‘’Cause you told Auntie May about me. You said I was bad.’ She simpered. ‘You didn’t tell her everything, though.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s lucky.’ Lorna swung the rucksack girlishly. ‘Today we’re going on a trip. Me and Auntie May. I thought you might be bored, so I brought you something.’ She burrowed busily in the bag, her head ducked, and Claire thought, I could push her. Now. I could push her down and run. Even with my feet tied, I could probably make it up the stairs, dodge Marianne . . . Then the girl looked up slyly, smiled. ‘Nearly got it—’ Claire took a step forward, heard the click of Marianne’s heels outside – and something came out of the bag. ‘Oh look, look what I found! This.’

  Something swung towards her, something hard and lethal in a knee sock – one of those warm socks Claire had bought for her, months ago, a timorous gift for the poor cold child waiting on the corner. Claire dodged, stumbled against the wall near the door, and the hook used to keep it open jabbed painfully into her side as Lorna’s weapon clipped her hip. A broken brick, jaggedly poking through the toe of the sock. Lorna pulled back and swung again. Claire lurched forward this time and the brick hit her buttock, scraped her thigh. She could hear Lorna wheezing behind her, frustrated, angry. Claire reached the door. The brick came down on her calf now, and pain shuddered through her leg, bringing her down, her head coming to rest near the scuffed toe of Marianne’s boot.

  ‘Marianne!’ Claire whimpered. ‘Marianne!’ and she had time to see the woman’s stricken face, the horror; had time to see her look fearfully at Lorna, before the brick came down again on her cheek, and Claire heard, rather than felt the thick, welty noise of it hitting bone.

  Blood filled her ear, ran into her open mouth. Marianne, from far, far away, screamed.

  Lorna was breathing heavily. ‘I think it’s done. I think so. Will you check?’

  Marianne shook her head with an animal moan.

  Lorna dropped the brick on the floor. ‘Let’s go then.’

  Then there was nothing.

  Later, much later it seemed, Claire heard the car start up, and rattle down the driveway.

  39

  Hours. Maybe hours. Maybe a day. Viscous blood pooled in her eye socket, in the fold of her neck. Whenever she tried to raise her head, pinwheels of bright pain prevented her.

  It grew colder. I’ll freeze here if I don’t move.

  She started with her legs. Move, Claire, move. Twisting her right ankle centimetre by centimetre, trying to stretch the tape, feeling the ripped skin on one calf pucker, bleed. That must be the leg Lorna got with the brick. Still, at least you’re feeling something. Try to bend your knees and swing sideways and up to a crouch. Her left foot scrabbled for some traction on the dusty floor, but her right leg stayed stubbornly still. Come on, Claire, come on. Grit dug into her knee as she tried, failed, tried again to swing her resistant body. It took a long time to brace herself into a crouch beside the wall, and then she was able, by tiny degrees, to raise her head, look at the door. Her ears buzzed, her head drooped again, and she felt her strength leaking out of her, wilting against the wall; closed eyes. That tinny ring in her ears. Sudden dizzy nausea. The rise of vomit.

  It splashed against the wall, acidic and steaming, but being sick made her feel slightly better, stronger. More clear-headed. She moved forward, shuffling on her behind, slowly, slowly, towards the door. There was no sound from the house.

  She tried twisting her wrists against the ties. They crackled and stretched, so they couldn’t be those sort of cable ties that serial killers used on TV shows. No. Probably just carrier bags twisted up. In which case they could be taken off; if she stretched them enough to thin out the plastic, maybe she’d be able to work one hand free at least. She could feel thin blood smearing against her wrist bone as she twisted, twisted, pulled and pressed it looser; her face furrowed in pain and effort. Starting to wriggle it over the back of her hand was excruciating; the skin wattled and dragged, and she thought with horrible clarity: I’m peeling my hand, the only way I can do this is to peel my hand! Sweat pooled in the hollows of her collarbone and tears started.

  Wait, the hook! The hook near the door! Her fingers crawled towards it. If I can get over there and turn, snag the plastic on it . . . Claire spent the next hour undulating painfully against the hook, perforating the plastic in tiny, tiny increments, until she was able to pull one hand painfully through a shredded loop. When the circulation returned she picked at the tape around her ankles, managing to free one, and leaving the tattered coil around the other. Now. The door.

  Her fingers touched the ancient, smooth wood, fumbled for the handle, pulled herself up and inched it towards her, her arms weak and exhausted, hopping backwards on her good leg.

  The cellar stairs were dark, but she could just see that the kitchen door at the top of the cellar steps was opened; the kitchen was bright with sunlight. They could still be in the house; asleep, maybe. Or waiting for her. She stopped at the second step up, eked out her breath, waiting for any shift in the shadows, any noise from the house above. She stood there for an hour, dizzy, sick, but conscious, and getting stronger.

  They had gone. They must have gone. She’d heard the car leaving, and there was no way that Lorna could keep this quiet for this long, or Marianne either. She put one foot on the next step. Then the other.

  The outline of the kitchen window faded. Outside now it was twilight. They must have left, they wouldn’t have gone to bed, not this early. She grasped the shaky bannister, climbed up, slowly, grimly, into the kitchen.

  And then something moved, quick and close. Claire stumbled, caught her foot on the top of the stair, and nearly fell backwards. She clung to the bannister; it creaked alarmingly under her weight. That’s it, that’s it, now. They have me now. A soft moan escaped her.

  But whoever it was hung back. Claire saw its shadow move so, so slightly. Then it sneezed.

  ‘Benji?’ she whispered. The dog wiggled into view – all laughing jaws and pricked ears. He placed a ball at the top of the stairs, and gazed at her. Claire, frozen, waited. He barked, a sharp, impatient command, and poked at the ball with his nose. Claire leaned forward painfully, and pushed it with one finger. Benji leapt joyfully, clattering through the kitchen, bumping against chair legs. The ball eluded him, and his frustrated, excited whimpers echoed through the house. He sent one chair crashing to the floor before retrieving the ball, and laying it, with quivering respect, at Claire’s feet again.

  Surely, surely if they were in, they would have come down by now! Unless they were waiting, standing just out of the way, waiting for her to gather up the courage to make the final step out of the cellar, into the house.

  She stayed still for a long time, feet cramping, head throbbing. The dizziness had gone though, that was something. Benji nosed the ball towards her a few more times, and then, sighing disappointedly, collapsed into a heap at the top of the stairs. Every minute
or so Claire would poke one freezing foot underneath his stomach to warm it. Still no sound.

  When the clock struck nine, she crossed the boundary of the stairs, towards the light switch. The kitchen dawned on her like a developing photograph. Cupboards were open, the remains of food lay on the table. A pair of Lorna’s knickers lay on the welcome mat. Claire edged forward, until she could see the corner of the driveway from the window. Marianne’s car wasn’t there. No, take a proper look, go to the window. No, no it wasn’t there. They must have gone! Adrenaline burned through her suddenly, and she limped swiftly into the living room. All of Lorna’s DVDs were missing. Benji followed her upstairs into the bedrooms. Lorna’s room was incongruously neat, all the toys gone, all her clothes gone. All that remained in Marianne’s room was an old lipstick and a couple of tattered paperbacks. Benji stayed close as she opened drawers, checked the bathroom for their toothbrushes, walked painfully back downstairs to look for any other bits of the detritus Marianne and Lorna spread about, but, apart from the breakfast things and the knickers, there was nothing. Nothing at all to suggest Lorna had ever lived there.

  She fed Benji. They must have been gone for a long time, given how hungry he was, and when he whined to get out of the door, she left it open for a while, letting in the breeze, hoping it might clear her aching head. There was paracetamol in the cupboard, and she took four, swallowing painfully, her throat swollen. She didn’t dare look in a mirror yet.

  Then Benji began to bark, ran back to the door and carried on barking, leading Claire to the very end of the garden, just where the slope led to the crumbly hills that were a precursor of the beach below. Something smelled, a familiar smell. A horrible smell. It grew stronger the closer she got to the wall Lorna had destroyed. And then she saw them.

  Heaps of burnt toys. Lorna’s toys. Melted and melded together into grotesque, blackened forms. There was the battery-powered yapping dog she’d begged for, there was the pink teddy she slept with every night. Here were the books, the Famous Five, the Secret Seven, The Faraway Tree, their pages now delicate, blackened petals. Here was Mother’s Dickens, ripped and ashy. The clothes, the lipsticks, the hair grips, the ballet shoes – and, at the very top, only partially melted, the Disney princess snowglobe Lorna had given to Claire, ages ago, a lifetime before. They were all in an ugly heap and stinking of lighter fuel.