Free Bog Child by Siobhan Dowd Page A

staring out of the window at the evening sky, kneading her fingertips with her thumbs, as if she was preparing another rhubarb tart.

Twelve
    That night, in bed, the mountain called to him. He had a sparrowhawk’s view, zooming in on the grasses and the gorse, the wind-stunted trees, the lichen-covered rocks. And there was the cut, with the tarpaulin over it, billowing in the breeze. And the child under it, waiting. And the JCB silent.
    He heard a cough from the spare twin room, then a creak. Either Cora or Felicity had turned over in their sleep. He imagined their faces on the pillows, Cora’s forehead in the crook of her elbow, Felicity on her back in her maroon silk, her straight firm nose pointing upwards, her eyelids still.
    Then he was back in the prison, mouthing better arguments, and Joe was listening, reaching out through the glass, which dissolved at a touch. ‘Joe, come off that weary strike,’ he whispered. The memories of the years flew at him like cards in a deck: Joe showing him how to rake up cut grass, then shaking the implement up at the sky like a hellish imp’s pronged fork and chasing Fergus around the house.

    In the middle of the night
    In the middle of the night I call your name
    Oh Yoko!

    Joe carol-singing with Dafters and himself, the three reprobates, shaking the collecting tins for the St Vincent de Paul Society like maracas and their songs coming out like white balloons in cartoons, getting dirtier with every doorbell.
We three kings of buggered-up Eire, selling condoms, tuppence a pair…
Joe boogying with Mam in the drawing room on Christmas Day to the fast bit of
Bohemian Rhapsody
, Mam’s favourite pop song.

    In the middle of a shave
    In the middle of a shave I call your name

    Joe with the razor, giving Fergus his first-ever shave, and their laughing like crazed orang-utans. Joe on the football field, going for broke, and the whole school cheering him as the ball went home to the corner of the net like a kiss.

    In the middle of a cloud
    In the middle of a cloud I call your name

    And the police coming for him on that winter’s night, with Da hollering like a shot elephant and Mam gripping the back of the chair and Joe at the door, saying nothing, just taking off his watch and giving it to Fergus, saying, ‘Mind it for me, Ferg. Keep it safe,’ and then holding out his hands for the cuffs, smiling.
    Oh Yoko!
The memory cards flew off and away like scared birds. The name Yoko turned to Joey and then Fergus slept.
             
    In the middle of a dream, Rur. In the middle of a dream I call your name.

Thirteen
    ‘Today is the day,’ Felicity said. ‘Exhumation.’
    The girls had gone to school and Da to work. Mam had the fry going. Fergus was helping. His head was pounding from the bad night, but he smiled as if nothing was wrong when the guests appeared for breakfast. Cora said she only wanted an egg, but Felicity wanted the works–beans, potato cake, egg, bacon, sausage.
    ‘My school friends in Roscillin are coming over to help,’ Fergus said. ‘You should see Padraig. He’s six foot five, and built like a truck, with a Mohican on him.’
    ‘We’ll need every one of you.’
    ‘Have you ever shifted something like this before?’
    ‘Never. But Professor Taylor’s arriving down from Queen’s University, and the police pathologist. Between us all we should get her up in one piece. And the army’s helping.’
    ‘The army?’
    ‘They’re coming in a truck. They built a crate for her.’
    Mam came in with the plates. Her face was white, the top button of her jeans undone. ‘Fetch the sauce, Fergus.’
    She put the plate of food down by Felicity. Fergus got the brown sauce and ketchup from the press. Mam reappeared carrying an eggcup with a brown egg popping out. She put it on Cora’s side plate and vanished, shutting the door behind her.
    ‘Sit down, Fergus,’ Felicity coaxed.
    He sat down. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
    ‘You’re not intruding. Tell me,