But then a terrible, terrible sound came out of her. A sound like a whole lot of different animals in pain all at once, and she rose up suddenly. Her leg came out and got me in the forehead.

‘Owen,’ said Mr Parish. ‘You need to move away, now.’

I knew what the black stick was, pointing down next to Mr Parish’s bare feet.

‘Owen, I want you to come up. Just stand up and move over to the windows. Paddy Cow’s in pain, Owen.’

I was sobbing, but I got up, and moved over to the windows and leaned against them. My face throbbed where Paddy Cow had kicked it but I watched as Mr Parish lifted the gun and put his finger on the trigger. I felt the BOOM! in my body. It was one straight hit and it dropped Paddy Cow into silence. She was immediately still. A big red blood patch started up above her eyes.

Mr Parish slumped against the wall and rubbed his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Owen,’ he said.

I stayed quiet for some time, looking at Paddy Cow with her eyes open and the blood from the bullet leaking into them. Her head lay at a strange angle to the rest of her body. And then finally I went over to her. I rubbed my hand on her dead wet body. My knees were covered in green froth and my face was covered in blood. I don’t know if it was blood from my forehead or from Paddy Cow’s bullet-wound.

‘I’m so, so sorry, Owen,’ said Mr Parish.

But I understood. I didn’t blame him. ‘It’s alright,’ I said.

We didn’t wake Mrs Parish. Mr Parish went down to his studio where he had a piece of old carpet he didn’t use. He brought the carpet up the hill on his back while I sat with Paddy Cow. Then he unrolled it on the verandah, and we turned Paddy Cow onto it and wound her up. It was very difficult. Paddy Cow was very heavy. But it was a nice carpet. It had faded oriental patterns on it. It was a nice thing to put her in.

‘It’s her funeral shroud,’ said Mr Parish. ‘Now, let’s clean up this verandah before Mrs Parish gets up.’

And so we did.

MOBY DICK

In days to come, I told Papa about Paddy Cow. But mostly I talked to him about Moby Dick.

I took the tram to the restaurant with my schoolbag and my cricket bat. Papa wanted to consult me, man-to-man, about the banquet he was preparing for Mother’s book launch. I had been thinking about it too. I knew what I was going to say.

‘Have you read Moby Dick, Papa?’ I asked him, as we sat down and he put a bitter Italian soft drink in front of me.