The boy looked about six or seven but the grime encrusting his hands and face made it impossible to be sure. Between pinched finger and thumb he held one end of a length of green string. The other end was tethered to the ankle of a wailing infant, equally grimy, that floated a few feet above the boy’s head.
The boy smiled at me with brilliant-white teeth.
“I won him at the funfair,” he said, his voice old and gravelly. “You wanna come to the funfair? You can win all kinds of stuff.”
The infant stopped wailing.
“Don’t listen,” it said. Its voice, neither male nor female, was soft and chiming and I felt myself go a little weak at the sound of it. “Don’t listen to a word this lying little toe-rag says. He’s filth and dirt through and through. Don’t listen.”
“All kinds of stuff,” said the boy.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
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