Abby watched them, thinking of the crate of ruined baby clothes. If she had a can of flyspray handy, she might have cut them down with it then and there. Of course, that would have violated Ray’s strict catch-and-release policy. Whenever a spider or insect came into the house, Ray insisted on capturing it – usually in the plastic Batman Forever tumbler they kept under the sink – and letting it free in the coastal woodland that lined the rear of their yard. It didn’t matter how hairy or creepy the creature was; 106 Milt Street was a no-kill zone.

After an animal was dead, however, it was free rein. Abby thought about this as she plucked the bag from the fridge and set it down gently on the workbench. She took a long sip of wine, hooked herself into a dark-green apron and snapped on a pair of surgical gloves.

She unwrapped the corpse. It was an adult ringtail with grey and white fur. Judging by its expression, it had no idea what hit it. One second it was crossing between wires, the next, bam, Kentucky Fried Possum.

‘Hello there,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

The possum stared back, mouth open, eyes bulging and glassy.

‘You look like a Trevor,’ Abby decided. ‘I’m Abby and I’ll be your stylist today.’

She pulled up her stool, switched on the radio – a TLC song was playing – and took up her shiny silver X-Acto knife. She fixed it with a No. 11 classic fine-point scalpel blade and got to work. Upon the first insertion of the knife, all her apprehension about tackling a larger animal slipped away.

Step one in taxidermy was to remove and preserve the skin. Starting at the belly, Abby cut a slow and steady seam, taking extra care not to puncture the bowels. She’d made that mistake a few specimens ago: she’d nicked the bowel of a bush rat, and the smell that seeped out had almost been strong enough to send her running from the room – almost strong enough, in fact, to make her hang up her apron, put away the borax and say never again.

She worked the knife along the inside of the skin, making small, measured swipes. With her left hand, she peeled the skin back. The manual described this part of the process as like removing the animal’s jacket and trousers, but she thought it was more like peeling an orange.

TLC faded into Mariah Carey’s ‘Dreamlover’, and Abby wondered who the hell had set the radio to this station. She would have got up to change it if she hadn’t had her hands full. Still, she soon caught herself humming along as she entered a state of something like hypnosis. For the first time in twenty-four hours, she wasn’t thinking about the body – not the human one, anyway. There was just the thump of the moths against the light, Trevor the ringtail, and Mariah—

‘Fuck!’