He plunges his hand two feet down into the narrow space until he feels fur jolt against wood and grabs velvet ears, dragging the rabbit out as it kicks its thick hocks. Quickly Niall grips its soft neck with his other hand and, before it can bite him, he jerks the rabbit’s head right back. He feels the neck snap and the body fall slack. He checks its liquid eyes for any signs of myxomatosis, then takes hold of its feet and stretches its dangling body downwards before lying it out on the garden path. He has to admit it looks cute.

When he has squeezed out its urine, he takes a knife from his pocket and makes a shallow incision in the animal’s chest, careful not to break the slick white skin underneath that houses the guts. He sticks his rough fingers under the brown fur and tears a straight line down the animal’s stomach, splitting the pelt. Alive only a few moments ago, its body is still supple and skinning it is easy, like stripping thick wallpaper, until the body is naked and red.

Niall opens up the animal’s insides and cuts out slippery black intestines, then kidneys. These he will give to Jameson later. He cuts off the head and the feet, tossing them over into the field for the foxes and buzzards to get to.

He takes the small red body to the kitchen, where he rinses and butchers it, leaving him with meat for the pie to braise and bake in the oven.

He sinks back into the sofa for a break. The clock ticks; the ceiling drips, reminding him of sand slipping through a timer. Feeling tired, he listens to a curt answering-machine message about tiling from Catriona on the hallway phone. He left before she came home today. Her voice is cold, but still syrupy. He doesn’t know how long it will take him to fix this leak in the utility room. He thinks he’ll probably have to climb up on the roof and check the vents and flashing. It can wait. To mask the dripping, he plays an Iron Maiden album on the paint-flecked stereo. He lays out the cans and packages on the worktop and begins to slice carrots, cutting in time to the music. There isn’t much to it; cooking isn’t so different to joinery.

The clouds shift and a bright day comes through the kitchen window, catching dust motes and things that need to be replaced or fixed. After an hour’s work, the light fades and the house feels emptier. He watches the dark oven and the bulb that has been dead for years behind the murky glass door.