The Lost Child. Ann Troup

he was a gentle, sweet thing even if he was a few biscuits short of a barrel. ‘What are you doing scaring me like that?’ she demanded, righteously indignant. She stared at him angrily then started feeling quite ashamed of herself because he was clearly far more terrified than she was.

      All he could manage was a frightened whimper as he rocked backward and forward with his hands over his head. His great feet were sticking out either side of his squatting body, making him look like a gigantic egg perched precariously on a pair of clown shoes. Brodie felt like the vilest person in the world. ‘Look it’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you, see I’m putting the stick down. OK?’ She bent down and placed the stick on the ground, then put her hands up to shoulder height. It was like some scene out of an American gangster film wherein she was declaring her surrender. ‘I’m going to sit down now, all right?’ She lowered herself onto a giant slab of masonry that formed a convenient and impromptu bench. ‘See, everything’s all right. Yeah?’

      Slowly the rocking ceased and the whimpering diminished until, still crouched, he bravely decided to take a look at her through the cage of his parted fingers.

      Brodie smiled at him, aware that a smile from her wasn’t always a good thing; no matter how much she practised, it often looked more menacing than the sulky look she had perfected. ‘Hey, you’re Derry aren’t you? I’m Brodie. My friend Elaine told me about you, you remember Elaine don’t you?’

      Derry nodded from behind the protective fan of his fingers.

      ‘Sorry if I scared you mate, but I reckon you scared me more. I thought I had a bunch of pissed up devil worshippers on my hands!’ She laughed at her own joke and hoped the humour would calm him down. ‘Anyway, what are you doing lurking around here?’

      Finally he pulled his hands away from his face and scrabbled on the ground behind him grasping at something and dangling it in front of her by its ears. ‘R-r-rr-r-r-abits.’ he stuttered, waving at the woods that lay beyond the chapel.

      Brodie felt a wave of revulsion as the poor dead thing dangled in front of her; she tried hard not to pull a face as she said. ‘Cool. You going to have that for your tea?’

      Derry gave her a vigorous nod.

      ‘Lovely, sooner you than me mate, I prefer a burger myself,’ she quipped.

      Derry grinned and gave out a snort of laughter. He started to rummage inside his coat, pulling something out which was lost to Brodie’s view, concealed as it was within in his big hand. ‘F-f-f-f-fffor you.’ He threw the object.

      Brodie saw something small and grey come hurtling towards her. On instinct she scuffled back, expecting to be confronted by something else that was small, furry and dead.

      At her feet lay a grubby child’s toy. She picked it up and turned it in her hands, recognition and horror dawning as she examined the little furry dog. It was filthy, rimed with age and it was missing one of its glass eyes. ‘Where did you get this, Derry?’ Her voice came out in a tentative whisper as the thing she held in her hands inserted its significance into her mind.