20
A fine and dry day with a good deal of sunshine and some light winds
I WAS CLOSE, easy angle. Still. I got lucky. One shot. It is lying in the leaves with its fingers curled under its chin. I pick it up and it flops, warm, in my hand. Just behind the ear; the brightest blood I have seen, sticky to the touch. I am a hunter. I walk. I carry my squirrel. Everything seems pin-clear. Even the grass shines.
I walk up to the ruined barn. That’s what Mum called it, as if someone had gone and spoiled it. It’s not so much ruined as dilapidated, but we’re not the sort of family to say dilapidated. It’s got three sides and half a roof, rusted bits of machinery, torn plastic sheeting inside. You could do something with it if you had a mind to. Lester said that before his mind went askew. Personally I like it as it is. Where the wood has dropped away you can see rectangles of sky or trees. You get the impression creatures come at night to roost or think, whatever. It’s not indoors or outdoors, but a bit of both, best of both worlds. It’s got a sense of oldness, like it knows something you don’t and it’s watching to see if you catch on.
I stand on the bridge over the flyover with my squirrel. Not a bad sunset. Streaks of red-pink in layers on the horizon. Below is the commuter traffic. Flash vehicles, company cars. Knobheads. I wave the squirrel at them. One of them looks up.
It was not my idea to place a dual carriageway here. If I’m sitting on the fence and some driver stares at me, I think, It’s not me who shouldn’t be here, it’s you.
I watch the crows settling to roost. Craak, craak. Restless they are this time of day; one lifts and off they all go in a raggy circle before settling again. Everything looks good under a pink sky, even the flyover. I wait for Crow, he knows me.
Evening, Lee. On your own again?
There is an oak fence before you get to the woods, then it runs to barbed wire. I always sit on the same fence. If Crow doesn’t appear I mosey up to the woods. He likes to play hard to get. I don’t blame him. If I had wings you wouldn’t see which way I went.
I will check the lane and surrounding area but I have given up hope of intercepting any unsavoury A-level-student-chasing character hereabouts. A pity. Reckon I could’ve done the world a favour there. He won’t chance his arm again. Not with me on the prowl.
Green burials are becoming increasingly popular, I hear. We don’t offer woodland burial; we should. Unconsecrated ground doesn’t bother people the way it did. We never went to church, she preferred the idea of Buddhism, she liked the colours.
With woodland burial you’re allowed to mark the spot with a tree, no stones or memorials. Job done. Anyway, you can get tired of HERE LIES and RIP, talk about unimaginative.
The official line at Shakespeare’s is one of scepticism, but. You can’t afford to be too sceptical in the funeral trade. For this reason we do offer a wicker coffin and, as of recently we have added the cardboard coffin to the menu. Biodegradable is very in. We offer it with an oak-effect shell casement, so your loved-one doesn’t resemble a delivery from Ikea. Alternatively you can plump for one of the decorated ones, Union Jack being quite popular, along with Division One teams. Man U is the bestseller, according to the distributor, Cloud Visions UK. Doesn’t have to be Premier League.
Around here it’s hard to get the ball rolling. This is not London or Brighton. The oldies are not keen. The words bio and degrade mean something else to the over-sixties, Derek pointed out. Never occurred to me. He’s a lot more switched-on than you think.
I prepare my frying pan. I have never cooked squirrel. I decide to approach it as I would chicken. I check it out on eHow. For this I enter Ned’s room alone, while he watches Property Ladder downstairs. I brave the dirty underwear, the stink, the half-eaten food, the welcoming wall of naked bodies, Buongiorno, ladies, and the unexpected; like Mum’s old flip flops and the fish slice Ned uses to scratch his back. I collect the dirty plates on my way out.
I know what to do. I wash the blood off its head and dry the squirrel with the tea towel. It looks nice. I could have it stuffed. For a minute I can’t decide. Eeny-meeny. I lay it in the sink. It’s all about mindset. Come on, Lee. I am not squeamish, but. It is necessary to chop off its hands and feet. Then peel off its fur. This is rabbit revisited. Been here, done it – this time is different. Needs must.
I lay the squirrel on the breadboard. I position the knife. Uno dos tres. F*ck. Call yourself a hunter? I can’t do it. Something about the hands and feet. I open the freezer. I lay the squirrel in beside the rabbit. This is bollocks. Beatrix knobbing Potter on ice.
Ned is sunbathing on a small towel outside. He wears boxers, mine, and sunglasses, hers. He doesn’t seem to notice the gusts of wind. I was going along the lines of a fricassee but now I reckon I’ll do vegetarian instead. I get out the .22 to reload. I step outside to feel the sun on my neck. The sky is empty except for some straggly birds. The sun dings off the trampoline frame. I check the scope, aim.
Ned.
I fire into the grass beside him. A flick of earth. After a moment he raises his head, stares at the sky, then rests it down again. I go indoors. I put the water on to boil for dinner. I would never hurt him, as if.