chocolate’s melting fast.”
Amy stood up and brushed dirt off the backs of her legs. “Okay.” She emerged from the little stall, her face still grubbily tear-streaked. Clare handed over the Double Decker bar and the bubblegum.
“Ta,” Amy said, tearing at the wrapper. “I always used to come here when I wanted to be on my own. It was like my den. Only now it’s been spoiled, because of baby Jamie.”
“How do you mean?” Clare waved away Amy’s offer of a bite of the sticky chocolate.
“This is where they found him. After he was dead.”
“Yes, I know. That’s very upsetting.”
“He’s still here.” Amy’s eyes went wide. “I hear him crying at nights. I guess it’s his ghost.”
Clare half-smiled. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Amy. What you hear must be something else. A different baby in one of the flats, or even maybe a cat. I get stray cats outside my flat. They sometimes sound like babies crying.”
Amy shook her head, very firmly. “No, I know Jamie’s cry, it’s special to him. I used to live upstairs from him, remember? Babies’ cries are all different. This is definitely Jamie.”
Clare looked down. “Yes, but, Jamie’s dead, remember? Maybe you dream it. That would be understandable.”
“Not if I’m actually awake, you stupid.” Amy unwrapped the bubblegum and stuffed it into her mouth, where it mingled with the chocolate. “Anyway, I know how to make him stop. I sing him a song, like how I used to do. He loves that. It always makes him smile.”
“You used to sing songs to Jamie?”
Amy nodded, chewing hard. “Yes, I sing him stuff from the charts and I sing him nursery rhymes and stuff that babies like. Then he stops crying.” She blew a huge bubble in Pepto-Bismol pink and let it burst with a dull, rubbery pop.
“What did you actually say to the teacher today, Amy?”
“Not what the stupid head teacher told me mam. She made that up to get me in trouble. I just told them about you and about helping you with your stories. I never said it was good that Jamie died. I wouldn’t say something like that. I miss Jamie. I miss cuddling him.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t say anything so daft. I suppose people are feeling so bad about Jamie that they hear things wrong. That can happen when people are upset.”
“Huh.” Amy looked as if that was no excuse.
Clare hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “I can’t stay, Amy, because I’ve got work to do. But I think your mum went out. Will you be okay on your own?”
“’Course I will.” Amy had already turned away and was wandering slowly back towards the flats. She cut a tiny, waifish figure, in her over-sized T-shirt, her thin legs bare and unhealthily pale. It was with a sharp inner twinge that Clare watched her walk away. If she didn’t have all this copy to write up she would ring the desk and find an excuse to spend time with Amy, until her mother came back.
Clare tried to concentrate on typing up all her copy and outdoing every other reporter, especially Chris Barber, in terms of story count. But Amy wouldn’t leave her head. You didn’t have to spend long with the child to realise that she was prone to making things up, Clare thought, but mostly the lies were so preposterous that they were pretty harmless. And she clearly had loved the murdered baby, in her childish way.
But then there was this story about the two men who may have killed the baby, that everyone lumped in with all of the little girl’s imaginings about ghosts and such like. The police, and even Amy’s mum, filed them all under ‘Fibs’. But Clare thought there was a subtle difference. Clare was sure Amy didn’t really expect anyone to believe her stories about ghost-babies crying in the night: she was old enough to know the difference between what was possible and what had to be fantasy. But the girl seemed genuinely hurt that no one would listen to her version of how Jamie died. And simply by telling it and admitting that
Amy stood up and brushed dirt off the backs of her legs. “Okay.” She emerged from the little stall, her face still grubbily tear-streaked. Clare handed over the Double Decker bar and the bubblegum.
“Ta,” Amy said, tearing at the wrapper. “I always used to come here when I wanted to be on my own. It was like my den. Only now it’s been spoiled, because of baby Jamie.”
“How do you mean?” Clare waved away Amy’s offer of a bite of the sticky chocolate.
“This is where they found him. After he was dead.”
“Yes, I know. That’s very upsetting.”
“He’s still here.” Amy’s eyes went wide. “I hear him crying at nights. I guess it’s his ghost.”
Clare half-smiled. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Amy. What you hear must be something else. A different baby in one of the flats, or even maybe a cat. I get stray cats outside my flat. They sometimes sound like babies crying.”
Amy shook her head, very firmly. “No, I know Jamie’s cry, it’s special to him. I used to live upstairs from him, remember? Babies’ cries are all different. This is definitely Jamie.”
Clare looked down. “Yes, but, Jamie’s dead, remember? Maybe you dream it. That would be understandable.”
“Not if I’m actually awake, you stupid.” Amy unwrapped the bubblegum and stuffed it into her mouth, where it mingled with the chocolate. “Anyway, I know how to make him stop. I sing him a song, like how I used to do. He loves that. It always makes him smile.”
“You used to sing songs to Jamie?”
Amy nodded, chewing hard. “Yes, I sing him stuff from the charts and I sing him nursery rhymes and stuff that babies like. Then he stops crying.” She blew a huge bubble in Pepto-Bismol pink and let it burst with a dull, rubbery pop.
“What did you actually say to the teacher today, Amy?”
“Not what the stupid head teacher told me mam. She made that up to get me in trouble. I just told them about you and about helping you with your stories. I never said it was good that Jamie died. I wouldn’t say something like that. I miss Jamie. I miss cuddling him.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t say anything so daft. I suppose people are feeling so bad about Jamie that they hear things wrong. That can happen when people are upset.”
“Huh.” Amy looked as if that was no excuse.
Clare hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “I can’t stay, Amy, because I’ve got work to do. But I think your mum went out. Will you be okay on your own?”
“’Course I will.” Amy had already turned away and was wandering slowly back towards the flats. She cut a tiny, waifish figure, in her over-sized T-shirt, her thin legs bare and unhealthily pale. It was with a sharp inner twinge that Clare watched her walk away. If she didn’t have all this copy to write up she would ring the desk and find an excuse to spend time with Amy, until her mother came back.
Clare tried to concentrate on typing up all her copy and outdoing every other reporter, especially Chris Barber, in terms of story count. But Amy wouldn’t leave her head. You didn’t have to spend long with the child to realise that she was prone to making things up, Clare thought, but mostly the lies were so preposterous that they were pretty harmless. And she clearly had loved the murdered baby, in her childish way.
But then there was this story about the two men who may have killed the baby, that everyone lumped in with all of the little girl’s imaginings about ghosts and such like. The police, and even Amy’s mum, filed them all under ‘Fibs’. But Clare thought there was a subtle difference. Clare was sure Amy didn’t really expect anyone to believe her stories about ghost-babies crying in the night: she was old enough to know the difference between what was possible and what had to be fantasy. But the girl seemed genuinely hurt that no one would listen to her version of how Jamie died. And simply by telling it and admitting that
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