Read Online This Little Piggy by Bea Davenport - Free Book Online Page A

she had watched the tragic events unfold, too scared to act, Amy had laid herself open to trouble, though Clare was not sure whether the child had thought that through. She really wanted to believe Amy on this one, if nothing else.
    As soon as she’d finished for the afternoon, Clare drove back to Sweetmeadows. The plan was just to make sure that Amy was okay. As she drove into the estate, she could hear music and spotted a gaggle of kids doing some kind of a dance routine. Amy seemed to be leading the troupe, all of whom were much younger than her. Clare parked and watched for a moment. The music was coming from a radio on a low wall: Grandmaster Melle Mel’s White Lines , so loud it was distorted. Amy was the one making up the dance, a combination of something she must have seen on Top of the Pops and her own, manic inventions. She was singing along too, tunelessly, and every time she yelled, ‘Freeze!’ the other kids obeyed.
    Rang-dang-diggedy-dang-de-dang. Amy was furiously crossing and uncrossing her feet, like some grubby little ballet dancer in a film on fast-forward. Clare noticed how the younger kids watched her every move and tried to copy it. Smaller children seemed to like Amy, perhaps because they weren’t old enough to notice the things that were different, the things they could use to bully or isolate her. Clare decided she’d better drive away before Amy spotted her. Smiling, she steered her car into a full turn. The track pulsed in her head for the rest of the night.

four
    Wednesday 18th July
Clare parked outside the office and was fishing for her keys when she heard another car door slam. She looked up to see Finn McKenna walking towards her. Clare glanced at her watch. It was only eight-thirty; too early for anyone to be sitting waiting to meet her.
    “Clare Jackson from the Post ?” McKenna held out a hand.
    Clare took it, lightly, and let it go again immediately. She deliberately looked at her watch again. “You’re an early bird.”
    McKenna gave half a smile. “You’re hard to catch.”
    “How can I help you?”
    “Let’s chat,” McKenna said, nodding his head towards Clare’s office.
    Feeling a little cornered, Clare led him up the office stairs. Jai called up after her. “No milk for your coffee this morning, Miss Beautiful?”
    With her back to McKenna, Clare made an irritated face. She’d intended to say that she couldn’t offer him coffee precisely because she was out of milk.
    “I drink it black,” McKenna said, without being asked. He picked up her kettle, shook it to check the water level and clicked it on to boil.
    Clare sat at her desk and swivelled her chair to face him. “Make yourself at home.”
    He peered into the mugs. Clare remembered with a small flush of embarrassment that they weren’t particularly clean, but she was damned if she was going to apologise for them. He didn’t seem concerned as he spooned in the instant coffee.
    Clare waited, determined not to make any more small talk. She didn’t thank McKenna when he placed the coffee in front of her.
    “I wanted to catch you before you were right up against your deadlines,” McKenna began. “Joe Ainsley said yours are late morning and early afternoon, right?”
    “That’s right. Like most evening papers.”
    “You’ve done some good reporting for the union, George Armstrong said.”
    Clare shook her head. “Nope. I don’t do my reporting for the union, I do it for the Post .”
    McKenna held up his hands. “That’s not what I meant. George Armstrong said you were fair. Not anti-union. That’s a good start as far as I’m concerned.”
    Clare turned over her notebook to hide the bright red-and-yellow ‘Coal Not Dole’ sticker. She didn’t want McKenna to think she was some sort of a pushover.
    “These are bad days,” McKenna went on. “The men are flagging and the press are out to get us. No, they really are. Three-quarters of the stuff in the national press is not true. If we lose the war