Bog Child Read Free Page B

level. ‘Thanks. For all we know, this child might have walked the earth the same time as Your Man Himself.’
    ‘What man himself?’
    ‘Jesus Christ, who else?’
    ‘Jesus?’
    ‘We’re talking two thousand–odd years ago, Duncan. Maybe more.’
    ‘Which makes that bangle, the cloth, everything—’
    ‘Priceless. If I’m right, you’ve a sensation here.’
    ‘I
knew
she was on our side of the border. I knew it.’

Three
    More police arrived and more arguments broke out about where the border was, but in reverse. The body of the girl had gone from a serious crime headache to a valuable find. Everyone laid claim to her. Fergus listened in silence; Uncle Tally kept his distance.
    It was gone noon when a guard remembered them and gave them a lift down from the mountain. They collected the van from Inchquin and drove back over the border. A different soldier was on duty, a big, bald fellow who looked fit to down ten pints of beer in as many minutes. He asked for Uncle Tally’s licence and read it over, holding it at arm’s length as if it had fleas.
    ‘God,’ said Uncle Tally. ‘Someone must have jogged Lloyd George’s hand when he drew that bloody border and left Drumleash on the wrong side.’
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘You’d have thought they’d put us Fenians in the Republic to be shot of us.’
    They drove into Roscillin with the bags of turf and sold all but three to Uncle Tally’s mate Frank, who ran a hardware business. They stopped there for some cans of beer. It was nearly three when they hit the outskirts of Drumleash.
    Da was filling up a posh blue Rover at the petrol station as they went by. Uncle Tally tooted his horn and Da looked up and raised his eyes to heaven. The village was peaceful otherwise. The modern Catholic church with its flying-saucer roof loomed like an abandoned UFO. Two sleeping dogs sprawled on top of each other outside Finicule’s Bar, the pub where Uncle Tally rented a room and served as barman.
    ‘I’m wrecked,’ said Uncle Tally. ‘I’ll drop you at your place but I won’t come in. Say hello to your mother and give her a bag of turf. Then she won’t be cross with me.’
    They turned into the close at the far end of the village and drew up at Fergus’s family’s white bungalow. In the afternoon sunshine the place wore a cheerful aspect. The roses were out. Outside the front gate was a sign saying B & B. A PPLY WITHIN . Fergus could barely remember the last time there’d been a taker. They’d had a few Americans visit, looking for their roots, but when the violence escalated, custom had dried up.
    Fergus sprang out and heaved out a fat bag of turf. ‘Ta-ra, Unk.’
    ‘Fight the fight.’ Uncle Tally waved and drove away.
    Fergus dragged the turf round the back of the house and found his mother there, peg in mouth, hanging out the washing. The wind whipped her blonde hair across her face as she glanced over to him.
    ‘Giv urs a hind with thus shoot,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    She took the peg from her mouth. ‘Give us a hand with this sheet.’
    Fergus grinned. ‘Sure.’ He grabbed a flapping corner.
    ‘Where’ve you been all day, Fergus? You smell of beer.’
    ‘It was only the one.’
    ‘It’s always only the one.’
    ‘It was really only the one. Uncle Tally and I, we went to get the turf. I’ve a big bag of it there. But then we got delayed. We found a body, Mam. Up there in the mountain bog. A wee, tiny child.’
    Mam stopped and stared open-mouthed, holding small Theresa’s dungarees to her chest. ‘A child?’
    ‘A child, Mam.’
    ‘God help us. She was dead?’
    ‘Of course, dead. Buried. But the JCB unburied her.’
    ‘Mother of God. Was she murdered?’
    ‘I don’t know, Mam. They think she’s ancient. Iron Age.’
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘Iron Age. Two thousand years old or more.’
    He poured out the story, helping her with the washing between breathless sentences.
    ‘They’re waiting for the archaeologists,’ he