It turned in his hand. Oh God, there was still stuff hanging out. Glistening. Indecently red, a red that no one should ever see.

Jim held the carcass by its legs in one hand and put his other hand into the middle of it, like a magician whose rabbit-or-hare hat-trick had taken a really sick turn, before bringing his fist back out, clenched and oily. He dropped the contents into the pan.

I stopped looking then. That was about as much as I could take. A bit of white fluff drifted past me. No wishes on that stuff. ‘So you’re going to eat that?’

He flashed a look at me, eyes as spiky as holly. ‘’Course.’ He nodded at the pan. ‘And them.’

‘Did you shoot it?’

‘No. Don’t do guns. Wire traps. It’s fairer.’ His hand was treacly-looking. ‘It needs washing.’ He gazed towards the river and I realised what he meant.

I didn’t want to wash it. I wanted to roll up under a duvet and apologise to every animal I’d ever eaten, maybe open a sanctuary for traumatised bunnies and do some high-profile anti-fur campaigns.

‘Sure,’ I said.

If I didn’t look at it, I’d be OK. If I imagined that it was made of wood and plastic, a slightly macabre model for an art show or medical lecture, I would be fine. I strolled to the bank, super carefree, and knelt by the river. A thick smell packed into my nostrils. I glanced down, just for a breath, at the stretched, sinewy red-death-thing, and stuck it out into the water, leaning my other hand back on the grass.

A desperately sharp pain, like I’d been knifed. A wasp, a big one, was vibrating on the flesh of my palm below the thumb. I leapt up, brushed it off and started swearing. A lot. Uncreatively. The hare was lodged in between rocks and mud.

Jim came over, frowned at the ground, and stamped, hard and definite. He eyed me. ‘You OK?’

Distilled acid. A laser beam. An acid-infused laser beam. I clung onto my wrist and swore louder, my eyes thistling with tears. Jim watched me, saying nothing, which just made me feel worse. Like a stupid, pathetic child. He picked up the hare and walked away.

I’d never been stung by anything in my life. God, it hurt so much. A thousand times worse than an injection. Searing, vicious pain, like a white-hot needle being drilled into the bone. It made me dizzy. I couldn’t believe a tiny little fuckshit like that was making me cry. And he’d just gone and left, as if seeing me upset was too much for him, which was ridiculous given that he’d just annihilated a fluffball bunny.

I was rooted to the spot, wondering what to do, my hand between my thighs. I wanted to put it in an ice pack, or a bag of kittens, or both. Fuck. Maybe I was really allergic. Like, death-allergic. And I was going to swell and blacken out here, alone.