I grope blindly towards where I think the cellar sink is, knowing there's little time before I'm discovered, making up whole novels in my mind.
'Playing a game, Ralph?' says Biggie, more playfully than I like. I can't help thinking. Don't let up on him, Big. Be merciless.
Ralph laughs unconvincingly just as I step directly on the trap that's always laid for Risky Mouse, the fierce wombat trap, the crusher of small spines. I think it sprung directly on one of those boil-like wounds the barbwire made, because the whole cellar seemed to light up and I could see everything around me for a moment, just as if the light switch by the stairs had gone on. I couldn't stop the scream, because I didn't realize what I'd stepped on until it was at a crescendo. Its forceful volume must have shattered poor Fitch into thousands of tiny ice cubes beside his rake.
'What was that?' Biggie shouted.
Ralph, the coward, surrendered instantly. 'Thump-Thump. He's in the basement ...' He added gratuitously, 'It's his feet,' as through the cellar window I saw him sprint across the lawn to his getaway bike.
Mr Fitch, in a voice miles away, said, 'Good hunting!'
To Fitch, Biggie said, 'What?'
'Good hunting!' Fitch repeated, while I wore the mousetrap like a shoe to the sink, opened the rusty faucet and frantically sloshed my face in the dark.
'Bogus?' Biggie called; she thumped on the kitchen floor above me.
'Hi! It's just me!' I yelled up to her.
Then the real light came on, and I could see Biggie's lower half at the top of the stairs; I could also see well enough to remove the mousetrap.
'Bogus? What's going on?'
'Stepped in the damn mousetrap,' I muttered.
Biggie sat down at the top of the stairs, allowing me to look up her skirt. She said, 'But what were you doing down here, anyway?'
I had already surmised that it was going to get complicated. The answer prepared, I said, 'I didn't want to frighten you with my feet. Thought I'd clean myself up a bit ...'
She leaned forward, confused, and stared at me. From the bottom step, I tilted the sole of one foot up at her; a dramatic gesture; she squeaked. Then I held up the duck.
'See the duck, Big?' I said proudly. 'I've been hunting, but it's hell on the feet.'
Well, that threw her off - that, and the artful way I propelled myself up the stairs on my knees. In the hall, still kneeling, I handed her the duck, which she promptly dropped.
'Bringing home the dinner,' I said winningly.
'It looks like someone's already eaten it.'
'Well, we've got to wash it, Big. Clean it up a bit, then roast it in wine.'
'Give it brandy,' Biggie said. 'Perhaps we can revive it.'
Then Colm toddled down the hall and sat next to this oddly feathered surprise. May he remember me as the father with fancy presents of all kinds.
Colm protested when Biggie slung him over her hip and helped me down the hall to the bathroom.
'Easy, oh easy, my feet,' I murmured.
Biggie examined me all over, searching for some specific explanation. In my ear? Under my mustache?
'You went hunting?' she began again.
'Yes ... You know, I've never been interested in hunting before ...'
'That's what I thought,' she said, nodding. 'But you went hunting and you shot a duck?'
'No, I don't have a gun, Big.'