A young girl aged 8 (and a half, thank you very much ) sat upon a step, hopelessly bored. Once again, her parents were arguing and once again, she was left to listen to it and stayed, in her opinion, borderline neglected. They were always arguing about something useless or other, she didn't usually listen as she found the whole ordeal completely tedious- usually about money or the like. It was ridiculous, a child having to try and calm down adults about mere numbers. It wasn't her fault that her parents were idiots, why should she have to endure it? Her stomach made an unpleasant rumbling sound. " Abysmal. " She said simply. Jim from down the road had taught her that word. A quick glance at the clock confirmed it was way past her usual lunch time. She might visit Jim, actually.
...If he was home, that is.
Jim Moriarty was the young son of Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty, a lovely middle aged couple whose main hobbies consisted of biscuits and looking after their poodle, Susie. Jim was usually working just outside Belfast but often came back to Dublin for various reasons, usually to check on the family. He often gave her sweets and other confectionery, declaring her his ' favourite niece ' despite the fact that she frequently told her they weren't even blood related. Yes, she thought, I'll go to the Moriarty's house, see if she can't steal a biscuit or two.
She swiftly arrived at the door and knocked only to have Mrs. Moriarty open the door seconds later. "Evie, dear, come in, come in."
"Hello, Mrs. Mor-"
"Daphne, dear. How many times?" She chuckled fondly and ushered her to sit down on an uncomfortably comfortable seat. It was decorated with an unbearable floral pattern. "Parents arguin' again?" Mr. Moriarty inquired, sipping his tea (which he sometimes liked to mix with Guinness early in the morning despite his heart and liver condition) "Yes."
He tutted fondly. "Eh, you're always welcome here, d'ya wanna biscuit?" Without waiting for an answer, he handed her a well loved biscuit tin.
She ginned wolfishly. "Thank you."
"That reminds me, Jim is in the garden, I think."
She nodded and jumped off the chair, running excitedly to see her 'uncle' Jim.
Jim, standing back to the door with a shovel in hand and, as ever, wearing a well fitting suit and his dark hair jelled back expertly.
"Uncle Jim! You're back." She said with a smile. "Hello, Evelyn, dear. How are you?" He said evenly. "Okay. Hungry though." But something caught her eye, something unsettlling.
His short fingernails had dirt trapped within them, his knuckles on his left hand were grazed lightly, his shoe laces messy and his right shoe scuffed on the toe. Mud was very lightly splattered on the side of his suit trousers. A small hair was on the shovel, a dirty blonde.
Evelyn felt her head heat up.
"What were you burying, Jim?" She asked, looking at the mound on the grass with a level of morbidity unusual for a girl her age. "You know I really don't like getting my hands dirty." He said, ignoring her question in that annoying, charming way of his.
"Jim."
"A few flowers, thought it'd liven the garden up a bit, y'know?"
Evelyn didn't say anything else about the matter as she believed him, after all, she was her Uncle Jim.