Bog Child Read Free

is. See.’ Fergus dropped down into the cut. His finger traced the body. ‘That’s a hand. And, look–a bangle. Gold, maybe.’
    ‘Christ. He’s right, Mick,’ said the JCB man.
    The police drew up, panting.
    ‘Uncle Tally and I,’ Fergus said. ‘We found her. We were up early, bird-watching.’
    ‘Bird-watching? Oh, yeah?’ said the man called Mick.
    ‘’S true.’
    ‘More like—’
    ‘Bird-watching,’ said Fergus. ‘And here’s her bone. Broken off.’
    Nobody spoke.
    Uncle Tally approached the cut and got a fag out but didn’t light it. ‘Somebody’s killed her and buried her here,’ he suggested. ‘And it’s thanks to Fergus that she didn’t get mashed up by your bloody JCB.’
    ‘OK, OK,’ said the man called Mick. He offered Uncle Tally a light for his fag and lit one himself.
    ‘How long d’you think she’s been here?’ said the Irish guard.
    ‘We can’t be sure it’s a she,’ said the RUC man.
    ‘But the bangle. And that gansey she’s wearing. Some kind of woollen nightie.’
    ‘Maybe it’s more of a shirt. A long nightshirt.’
    ‘I never saw a nightshirt like that on a boy. Not nowadays. It’d be pyjamas, wouldn’t it?’
    ‘And are we north or south of the border? That’s what I want to know.’
    ‘According to my OS map, there’s a stream hereabouts. And the North is one side and the South the other.’ The man who spoke was plainclothes, with an English accent.
    Uncle Tally spoke. ‘Fergus and I’ve been up here a few hours. Watching the birds. But we haven’t seen a stream. Just bog.’
    ‘It’s been a dry spring. The stream’s probably dried up,’ suggested the Irish guard. ‘I’d say the body’s yours, though. Going by the map.’
    ‘And I’d say it’s yours.’
    There was another silence.
    ‘Son, you’d better come up out of there.’ It was the English plainclothes, sounding quietly authoritative. He reached a hand down into the cut but Fergus shook his head. He flattened his palms on the top and leapfrogged up.
    ‘The poor wee girl,’ said the JCB man. ‘She looks about seven or eight. Less than my Mairead.’
    ‘We’ve a call out for the pathologist. But meantime, we’ll seal off the area. Is that OK with you?’ The Englishman spoke to the Irish guard.
    ‘We’ve a call out too. But our pathologist has to come from Galway.’
    ‘Galway?’
    The Irish guard shrugged.
    ‘Well, ours will be here before yours. We’ve brought some tape. Can we seal her off?’
    ‘Seal away. Our tape’s the same colour. It makes no odds.’
    The police shooed Fergus and the JCB men and Uncle Tally away.
    Uncle Tally motioned with his head for Fergus to move off down the track some distance, so they could talk alone.
    ‘It’s a detail, Ferg. We’re stranded. I’d to leave the van in the town car park before I went into the guards. I didn’t want them nosing around our bags of peat. Then they made me escort them here in the police car. With the siren wailing, anybody who saw me would have thought I was off to Long Kesh prison. I ask you. And my van sitting in the middle of Inchquin, with thirty pounds worth of turf.’
    ‘You could walk back, Uncle Tally. Once off the mountain, you could thumb it.’
    ‘You’re joking. Who’d pick up a fella like me in a godforsaken place like this? Bandit country!’
    Fergus laughed. ‘I can hear the drums over the next hill, Unk. The natives are getting restless.’
    Uncle Tally grunted. ‘We’re bloody stranded.’
    ‘We could run down the mountain. Inchquin’s only ten miles.’
    ‘Away you go so, Marathon Man.’
    ‘Unk?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Have you heard of any girl–or child–gone missing lately?’
    Uncle Tally thought. ‘No. Not lately. Years back, there was a lassie that vanished over Dranmore way. But she was older. Thirteen. And it turned out she’d only run off to go on the game. The scamp. I reckon whoever murdered this wee one drove her body up here from miles away. She’s probably not