‘Good man. Do it quick.’
I crouched down beside the hare, peering deep into
the bleeding wells of its eyes. I lunged and snatched it up
by the scruff. It bucked weakly as both my hands closed
around its neck.
‘Not like that.’ My mother rolled her eyes. ‘I said
break its neck, not choke it.’
She mimed snapping a stick of kindling.
I adjusted my grip and squeezed my eyes shut. I drove
my knee into the back of the hare’s neck and pulled the
head and belly towards me simultaneously. There was a
sound like a knuckle crack. The hare took fit. I tossed it
on the grass and watched its body twitch and finally go
limp. My mother got the toe of her boot under the belly,
hefted her leg and sent the hare’s corpse arcing into the
ditch.
‘C’mon,’ she said. ‘Those mushrooms won’t pick
themselves.’
17
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