They’re supposed to sit and talk to each other at the weekends. Weeknights are busy, interrupted by James’s hockey practice and Dylan’s football training, and by Dylan’s mates slipping in and out of the house as if they own it.
‘The solar charger’s on the windowsill, if anyone wants it,’ Chris says. ‘And the wind-up torch, too, for when you need the loo. Where are the matches?’
‘In the cupboard,’ Dylan drones.
‘The candles?’
James points at the lit pair on the table.
‘The rest of them?’
‘In the cupboard, too.’
‘The batteries?’
‘In the garage.’
‘The car inverter and the lantern torch?’
‘In the van.’ James starts to laugh. ‘With the LED beanie.’
‘Oh God, not the LED beanie,’ Dylan jokes. ‘It really would be the end of the world if someone had to wear that.’
‘Glad you find this so funny.’
Three candlelit smiles capsize, and everyone looks at their food.
‘Are rabbits nocturnal?’ James asks eventually.
‘They’re crepuscular,’ Chris says. ‘It means they’re most active around dawn and dusk.’
‘Do you think they know they’re rabbits?’
‘That’s an interesting question, James.’
‘Thanks, Emma-Jane.’
‘You mean Mum,’ Chris says, unable to tell whether James’s recent habit of addressing Emma by her full name is intentionally disrespectful or a poorly executed joke. Either way, he doesn’t like it, but perhaps she isn’t bothered – he really should ask.
James grins and continues, ‘Also, do they know we’re human?’
‘I don’t know,’ Emma says.
‘And do they know they live in the world?’
‘I think it’s only humans who have an idea of the whole world, as opposed to, say, a field, or a pond … but then, I suppose migrating birds must have an immense sense of space and place. The pink-footed geese that arrive in the autumn come all the way from Iceland and Greenland. They only stop here for a few weeks before carrying on to Norfolk. And dolphins and whales travel hundreds of miles. What do you think?’ Emma addresses the question to everyone, but Chris has nothing to add.
‘Do you think they can remember stuff?’ James asks.
‘Maybe,’ Emma says.
‘Do you think their mum told them stuff before they left? Like, have they heard any stories about rabbits – you know, adventures, and what good rabbits should do; stuff like that?’
‘No,’ Chris says.
‘Zebra finches sing to their babies while they’re still embryos. I read that, Dad.’
‘Birds sing. Who knew?’
‘And when temperatures climb above a certain point the finches make a special warning sound which helps prepare the eggs for the warmth.’
‘Can you remember where you read that, James?’ Emma asks. ‘I’d like to have a look, it sounds really—’
‘This is real life, not Beatrix Potter. The rabbits are animals. They’re made of meat.’
‘So are we,’ Emma counters.
Chris glances down at his arms. The rolled-up sleeves of his checked shirt expose bunched muscle, weathered skin and a dusting of dark hair. He recalls the sense he sometimes had when he first stopped believing in a life after this one – that he no longer resided in his body, but was, rather, the sum of its parts; that his skin was, at once, both his and him.
‘I’m not meat,’ Dylan protests.
‘Well, there’s a story …’ Emma begins.
‘Here we go.’ Chris drops his spoon in his bowl and leans back in his chair. Emma has a story for everything.
‘It’s basically a conversation between two aliens who can’t get over the fact that humans are made of meat. They’ve picked up several people from around the world and probed them, just to make sure.’ Emma chuckles in that way of hers – part laugh and part nudge, an entreaty to join her. ‘It’s funny because they describe human speech as meat sounds. And they say humans sing by squirting air through their meat.’
The boys laugh at this, especially Dylan who says, ‘Their meat, ha-ha! Squirting through their meat!’
‘Anyway,’ Emma continues, ‘they’re so disgusted by us, they decide to ignore the radio signals coming from earth. And that’s why we seem to be alone in the universe, because the other life forms don’t think we’re worth knowing. To them, we’re just meat.’
‘That’s it?’ Chris is disappointed. ‘And the moral is …?’
‘There doesn’t have to be a moral.’
‘The point, then. Or is it a pointless story?’
‘Are you two arguing?’ James asks.
‘No,’ Emma says. ‘We’re having a discussion. Who’d like more curry?’ She pushes her chair back and grabs a tea towel before lifting the stoneware bowl out of the slow cooker and on to the table. ‘So … rabbits,’ she says, casual and light, in a back-to-the-matter-in-hand manner, as she spoons more curry into Dylan’s bowl. ‘Who’s going to do the dispatching?’
‘Me,’ Chris says.
‘Really? I can’t imagine …’
‘Oh, I think you can – Emma-Jane killed a frog today.’
‘You mean Mum.’
‘It was an accident.’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Dylan says.
‘It was, at first. Then it was a mercy killing.’
‘You did it, then?’ Chris asks.
Emma nods miserably.
‘First she disembowelled it with her shovel then she crushed it to death with a brick. Like something out of Horrible Histories.’
‘Well, I couldn’t use the shovel again. I couldn’t make myself take aim. It was easier to gently cover it with a brick and stand on it.’
‘Hey, Mum. What was the last thing that went through the frog’s head?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Its brain!’
‘The key is to be quick and efficient,’ Chris says, fed up of the boys’ silly comments and Emma’s squeamishness. ‘So I’ll be using the broomstick method.’
‘Oh, the broomstick method. Right. Good.’
‘It works like this,’ he continues, ignoring Emma’s determination to make this awkward. ‘The rabbit sits on the floor, on all fours – as they do. You put the long part of a broom over its neck. You stand on the broom, securing the rabbit, then you lift the rabbit’s back end up until you’ve folded it over the broom. Snap. Dead.’
‘It doesn’t struggle or anything?’
‘Not in the video I watched. This American woman, she just positioned the broom and snap! You cut the arteries in the neck straightaway and it bleeds out quickly.’
‘The video was recorded in America, though? Is it even legal here? Have you checked? There’s probably a government white paper on appropriate ways to, you know, dispatch animals.’
‘I’ll check,’ he promises. But he won’t. Who’ll know? It’s not as if he plans to sell the meat.