This Little Piggy

by Bea Davenport

  One of the men swore. George Armstrong held up a hand, but another man stood up and leaned towards him.

  “You couldn’t wait, could you?” He stabbed a finger towards Armstrong’s face. “You told the papers before you even told your comrades. That says it all.”

  Clare looked at the little group of men, baffled, as Armstrong shook his head and said, “Nah, nah, it never came from me.”

  He looked grey-faced, Clare thought. “Should I come back in a few minutes, if you’re in the middle of something?” Anything that avoided getting their backs up any further.

  “Why, no, have a seat, I think you might as well hear what we all think about our wonderful leader.” A stocky little man stood up and offered Clare his chair. For a moment, Clare wasn’t sure whether to take it or not. She couldn’t work out the atmosphere and what exactly was going on. She looked at the only one she knew by name. “George?”

  George wiped his hands across his face. “I’m resigning from the union.”

  Clare blinked. “Because of the strike?” A few weeks earlier, George had given her a long interview in which he’d told her the miners had no choice if they wanted to protect their jobs and the strike was a moral responsibility for all the men. “What’s changed your mind?”

  “I’m trying to tell them. We need to have a proper ballot before we carry on. And I’m sure we’re walking into a bloody great trap that the government’s made for us.”

  “The ballot would be a waste of time.”

  Clare looked over at the new speaker, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties. “The fact that we’re all out there on the picket line is enough to show the men support the action. And what’s the choice? Roll over and let Mad Ian McGregor close all the pits down?” There were murmurs of agreement.

  “No, just to do some more talking, that’s all. To make a strike official, through the proper channels, if that’s what it comes to.”

  George Armstrong had been in the union for twenty-five years and he’d been the branch leader for fifteen of them. Clare had enough biographical details to turn the story into a front page lead, with just a few more quotes.

  “So, George, if you’re leaving the union, does this mean you’ll be crossing a picket line?”

  Armstrong screwed up his face as if the very thought was causing him physical pain. All the men were staring at him.

  “George. Don’t do it, man. Change your mind right now and we’ll all forget about it.” It was the tall young man from the back again. Clare couldn’t remember seeing him before today.

  She followed Armstrong as he walked out of the office and into the bright daylight, squinting and blinking hard. Clare pretended not to notice he was struggling not to cry. They chatted a little longer. Armstrong refused to let Clare send a photographer out, but it didn’t matter. The paper had a folder full of library pictures they could use.

  “George, I’m really sorry to ask this right now, but the reason I came out to see you was because of this baby’s death at the flats.”

  George looked at her as if she was talking another language. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Nothing, I hope. But some of the Donnelly family are saying the baby’s murder might’ve been linked to the strike. Because Rob went back to work. I just wanted to know what you thought about those rumours.”

  George gazed across the road at the colliery gates. Clare waited for him to say the idea was outrageous and an insult. Instead, he shook his head. “I don’t think it’s very likely. If anything bad happens these days, someone tries to blame a striking miner. But it’s no good asking me, love.” He jerked his head back towards the union hut. “Go in and ask someone from the new regime.”

  “Who’s taking over from you?” Clare asked.

  George twisted his mouth. “I’d put my money on Finn McKenna.”

  “Which one’s McKenna?”

  “You saw him in there. The gobby one at the back.”

  “Have I met him before?”

  “It’s unlikely. His family’s from round here but he was working down Nottingham way. He wasn’t even a miner. Says he was in security or some such at the pit. And the strike made him join the union and come out on the picket lines. Or that’s his story, anyway.”

  “You don’t get on with him?”

  “He’s already taking over in the union. He’s the one to watch.”

  An hour later, Clare phoned her copy over direct to Dave Bell, who promised she’d get the front page lead in the late night final edition. “You’re turning in some brilliant stuff, Clare. I was telling Blackmore that your baby death copy’s been spot-on.”

  “Is that why you gave Chris Barber the by-line on Friday?”

  The phone line crackled as Bell sighed hard. “That was a mistake, Clare. Don’t get paranoid. Not when you’ve just given me this cracking good story and made my day.”

  Just after she’d ended the call, Joe rang. “Fancy going back out to Sweetmeadows? I want another go at the Donnellys. Five days on and the police are no further forward with finding Jamie’s killer.”

  “I’ll wait outside the office.” On the way, Clare bought some bubblegum and a Double Decker bar, pushing them into her bag in case she met Amy on the estate. She followed Joe’s car for most of the short drive.

  “Heard about your union story,” Joe said, as they each got out of the cars and slammed the doors shut. “That’s a belter. Armstrong’s not answering his door or his phone anymore, so you’ve got the exclusive.”

  Clare shrugged. “It was a total fluke. I went to ask him about baby Jamie and I walked in on the guys having a big row.” She thought for a moment. “Heard of a union man called Finn McKenna?”

  Joe gave her a sideways look. “Funny you should say that. I’d never heard the name until today. But I had a message to call him. Is he in charge now?”

  “That’s who George Armstrong thought would step into the breach. And he was there, this morning. I’d never seen him before either. Face of the future, apparently.”

  As Clare and Joe climbed the stairs towards the third floor of Jasmine Walk, the sounds of raised voices grew louder. Clare and Joe quickened their steps. One of the voices was Annie Martin, the other was a man’s deeper tone. They stopped before turning the corner onto the walkway, to listen in.

  “You can take your card,” Annie was saying. “And you know where you can stick it. One thing we don’t need is any sympathy from the likes of you.”

  Clare poked her head around the corner for a second, and turned to whisper to Joe. “It’s him again. That McKenna bloke.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. He nodded towards the walkway and together they walked round the corner.

  Annie turned to look at them, then turned back to Finn McKenna. “Bugger off. And take your crappy card with you.”

  McKenna was holding an envelope. “A lot of Rob’s workmates have signed it, that’s all. He might want to see it, even if you don’t. You need to understand, Annie, that all the lads are sickened by what happened. It doesn’t matter what Rob’s done. Something like this…”

  “Rob hasn’t done anything, except try to take care of his kids. So don’t you come here acting like you’re doing us a favour.”

  McKenna held up his hands. “Fair enough. This is a bad time. I just wanted to make it clear that these rumours going around are all lies. None of the union lads would’ve harmed the baby. And we’re all sorry for what’s happened.”

  “You said that. Now sod off, like I told you.”

  Joe and Clare looked at each other. Joe followed McKenna down the steps while Clare went up to the Donnellys’ door. “You okay, Annie?”

  “That’s some nerve. Coming here with a sympathy card signed by all the bloody bastards who’ve been posting dog shit through the door.” The expression on Annie’s face was hard but her eyes were wet.

  Clare followed Annie indoors, without waiting to be asked. “You still think it was all related to the strike, then?”
>
  “There’s no question in my mind.” Annie walked through to the tiny kitchen and filled a kettle.

  “How’s Deborah?” Clare perched on a little bar stool.

  Annie jerked her head in the general direction of a closed bedroom door. “Still on pills. What do you expect?”

  Clare nodded. “And you? Looks like you’re the one keeping everything going.”

  “I don’t know about that. But Rob’s in pieces, Deborah’s out for the count, and there’s still two little ’uns needing their dinner cooked and their socks washed.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  A pile of sympathy cards, several inches high, lay face down on the kitchen table. Clare picked one up and put it down again. “Lots of cards.”

  “Aye. Little Becca asked me if it was someone’s birthday.” Annie blinked hard again. “I have to say this. We’ve had cards and flowers and knocks on the door, every one offering to help. Half of them may be just being nosey, I suppose. But they slag off this estate and they call the people who live here worse than thieves, when at the end of the day, the folks all rally round to help. You should print that in your paper.”

  “I will,” said Clare. Tragic Baby Gran says thanks. She glanced at a few more of the messages of sympathy and then asked, “When’s the funeral, Annie?”

  “We’re talking about it. The priest from St Lawrence’s is coming round tomorrow, if Deborah’s up to it. Only thing is, we don’t know if the police will release…” Annie bit her lip and swallowed. “If they’ll release his body.” She cast around for a hankie and grabbed a tea towel to wipe her eyes.

  Outside on ground level, Amy was there, showing Joe how well she could do cartwheels and headstands, and Joe was trying to look impressed. He looked relieved to see Clare. Amy took a few steps towards her on her hands. “Did you do my story?” she demanded, her stringy hair trailing on the ground and her face slowly going pink.

  Clare bent down and angled her head. “I did the petition one. It went on the front page. I’m talking to the police about the other one.”

  Amy jumped back to a standing position and smacked her hands together to get rid of the grit. “Them. They’re bloody useless, the police. They don’t know anything. And they don’t listen.”

  “I’m working on it, Amy. Anyway, how come you’re not at school again? I thought you didn’t break up until Friday.”

  Amy filled her cheeks with air and blew it out again. “I got sent home.”

  “What for?”

  “Nothing.” She pronounced it, Noffink.

  “It wasn’t nothing, you little mare.” Tina emerged from the stairwell. “Tell the lady why you got sent home. Go on.”

  Everyone looked at Amy, who looked down at her own sandalled feet and started making circle-shapes with her toes.

  “She got asked to tell the class something good that happened this week,” Tina began.

  “Stop it,” said Amy. “Don’t tell.”

  Tina poked Amy on the shoulder. “And she stood up in front of everyone and said the best thing that happened was that the baby died.”

  “That wasn’t…”

  “The best thing that happened was the baby died, because it made the reporters come round and Amy got in the paper.” Tina folded her arms and glared at the girl. “So she got sent to the head teacher. And I got dragged in to pick her up again. I could’ve killed her, honestly.”

  “Sorry,” Clare said, not sure where to look. “That wasn’t a very sensitive thing to say, Amy.”

  “It wasn’t like that!” Amy’s cheeks were now a deep red. “You bloody stupids!” She turned and ran off.

  Clare made a cringing face at Tina. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not you, it’s her,” Tina said. “She’s a bleeding pain in the backside. The council is always on my back to send her to school and when I do it, I get a phone call saying I have to come and take her home again.” She rummaged in her bag for her purse. “I have to go out, anyway.”

  Joe and Clare watched her hurry towards the bus stop. Joe spread his hands. “Tell me she doesn’t think we’re about to babysit her daughter?”

  “I don’t think she really cares. I think Amy does quite a bit of fending for herself.”

  Joe checked his watch. “I should get a move on. Give me Annie Martin’s quotes and I’ll tell you about the mystery man Finn McKenna.”

  “Sounds like a good swap.” Clare traded the story about Annie’s thanks to her neighbours and how the family was hoping to sort out a funeral soon. “Might be worth calling in on the priest at that church over there, maybe tomorrow. What’s it called again?”

  “St Lawrence’s. One of the patron saints of miners.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just one of the many things a lapsed Catholic knows.” Joe folded his arms. “Now then, Clare Jackson. You have an admirer, I think. Or I should probably say another admirer, to add to your legions of adoring men.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake. What’re you on about?”

  “Finn McKenna is the new branch official for the miners at Sweetmeadows. And you certainly caught his eye this morning.”

  “Never mind that. What did he say about George Armstrong? And what about this card he tried to give the Donnelly family?”

  “He seriously wants to quash this rumour that strikers were in any way involved in Jamie’s death. I believe him, about that, anyway. He’s given me some quotes but he really wants to talk to you, he says. And he asked me far too many questions about your personal life.”

  “Oh, honestly. Men.” Clare had her pen at the ready. “Give me the quotes. And I’ll call him, later.”

  Joe read his notes back. “If he suggests meeting you somewhere, I’m happy to come along and ride shotgun.”

  Clare laughed. “Why would I ask you to do that? I’d be a pretty crappy reporter if I needed a chaperone every time I went out.”

  “There was something about him, that was all.” Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. Something I didn’t like.”

  “You don’t like many people, let’s face it.” Clare punched Joe lightly on the arm. “It comes from being a journalist. You think everyone has feet of clay.”

  Joe gave a little grunt. “That’s because they usually do.”

  “Haven’t you got some copy to write?”

  “Yep, I’d better get going.” Joe turned to his car. “Coming?”

  Clare hesitated. “I might just go and see that Amy’s all right. I feel a bit responsible for what happened at school.”

  “That little girl again? Clare, don’t get too involved.”

  “I’m not.” Clare put her fingers inside her bag to make sure the chocolate was not too badly melted. “I’m just going to make sure she’s not still upset. Then I’m gone, I promise.”

  Joe shook his head, opened the car door and swung inside. He gave Clare a quick salute as he drove away. She held up her hand in response then turned to stare around the empty square, surrounded by its grim buildings. No one seemed to be around and the only sounds were traffic from the nearby main road, a dog barking somewhere and a piece of torn plastic skittering along the pavement in the faint breeze. The heat seemed to be keeping everyone indoors. That, and the fact that there was still a killer on the loose.

  Which way did Amy run? Clare wandered in the general direction and noticed that the dark open stalls where Jamie’s body was found were still taped off, although presumably any police forensics team would have taken everything they needed days ago. The tenants’ bins had been moved outside, where flies buzzed around their rancid-smelling lids.

  Clare was about to turn away when she heard a tiny shuffling sound. She peered into the stalls, suspecting a rat. But she spotted Amy’s pink day-glo T-shirt, which the girl had stretched over her skinny knees. Amy was sitting huddled on the stone floor, watching her.

  “Hey.” Clare gave her little thumbs-up sign. “You’re here. I was looking for you.”

  Amy stuck out her lower lip. �
��Are you going to give me wrong?”

  “Not my job.” Clare wrinkled her nose at the stench from the bins. “This isn’t a great place to hang out, though. I’ve got you some sweets but the 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.”