The rock has been there ever since the sea once bit a big chunk out of the land. It sits right in the middle of that bite, as if there was a small piece the sea did not like.
It is an awkward thing. Nothing will grow on it: it is too small and too far away for a fort or a tower. Seals often lie sunbathing there. Sometimes a ship smashes into it. And now there is a little dead girl lying on it.
At least, that is what the little girl herself thinks. Because her eyes are closed and yet she can still see everything.
She sees the fairground train, winding its way through the land like a long snake, with her friends at every window: Oswald, Lanky Lester, Olga and Olga, and also a very angry Earl.
She sees the admiral at the open window, Miss Amalia alone in her room, Mr Rosewood on the bench in front of his shop in the evening sunshine.
She sees the lighthouse with a wide-open door, with planks dangling from rusty nails. Where a red-faced sheriff is questioning the neighbour, who is smiling and pointing into the distance.
She sees Martha with her suitcase, sitting on a post at the harbour. Lenny is sitting on the ground beside her, with the dogs resting their heads on his lap. They are looking out over the sea, as if they are waiting for something.
She can see the White Cliffs in the distance, where the mermaids are on the lookout for their Nephew Neverseen, who has read every book there is to read and so knows everything, and yet knows nothing at all.
And much closer, in his hut, she sees Nick, and in his hands a bottle with a string hanging out of its neck. He gently tugs the string and, inside the bottle, the sails of a tiny ship slowly rise. They are black and a flag the size of your little fingernail is flying from the mast, bearing a skull and crossbones.
“Look,” says Nick. “Here she is.”
Lampie looks – and she sees her mother. She is as good as new, with her long black hair tied up with a piece of string.
Hello, Mother.
Hello, my sweet child.
I really must be dead this time.
Is that what you want?
I don’t know, says Lampie. I don’t think I was finished. Or was I?
That’s not my decision to make, says her mother. But I don’t think it makes any difference anyway, whether you were finished or not.
It’s so good to see you. Lampie can’t take her eyes off her mother. You went away.
No, I didn’t. I was here all along.
Where is here?
Here, everywhere.
Oh. But not with me.
Yes, with you. Always. You just have to open your eyes.
Lampie does not like that thought. But then I won’t see you.
Oh, but you will. Just do it.
Through her eyelashes, Lampie can see how bright it all is. Through a hole in the clouds, the sun shines into the water, turning everything around her into gold. Moving gold, splashing gold.
So I am dead, she thinks. Because this must be what Heaven looks like.
You’re in such a hurry, says her mother. It’s just water. Look! There’s a boat sailing this way.
She’s right. There really is a ship coming, a big ship with dark sails and a flag with a skull and crossbones.
Look, says her mother. The Black Em is coming to fetch you.
The Black M… What is that? murmurs Lampie.
She can tell from the sound of her mother’s voice that she is smiling all over her face. The Black Em? she says. That’s me.