The corpse’s head slipped off my shovel into the long grass.
I panicked. “Fukkityfukkity,” I said, rooting around to recover it. Nowhere to be seen. Here I am digging a shallow grave in the dusk light and I’ve only gone and lost the victim’s head.
Pull yourself together man. Get rid of the big stuff. Bury the torso and limbs. Worry about the head later. If I can’t see it, random passersby won’t either. Probably.
The pickaxe and shovel might draw their eye, though. Cross that bridge when we get to it.
The pickaxe hit a stone. A big one. Only a few centimetres under surface. The impact of the steel on rock echoed around the garden. Just my luck. A third of an acre in which to dispose of the corpse and I hit some builder’s rubble straightaway. I looked about to see whether I’d been discovered. Nothing stirred.
Using the pickaxe, I leveraged the slab up out of the ground. Bingo! The hole was big enough for the headless rabbit. I slid its body into the earth using the shovel and lowered the stone down.
Still no sign of the head. I mean, how the bloody hell does a cat take the head clean off a rabbit? Does she have a chainsaw? God, I hope not. Now we’ve discovered she’s a raging psychotic murderer, the last thing we need is for her to have access to power tools.
Don’t be stupid, man. How could a cat operate a chainsaw? Just accept that she ripped the head off with her bare teeth. Jaysus, she’s terrifying.
Where the fukkity is the head? If one of the kids discovers it, we’ll be paying psychologists’ bills for a decade.
There it is!
Most of it, anyway.
I levered up the slab again and kicked the head into the hole.
A quick look about. All good. My complicity in covering up the murder had gone unnoticed. The things we do for love.
Kitten is going to wear a collar with a bell from now on. Possibly a cowbell.
Getting it on her is going to require stealth and guile.
Make sure all the power tools are locked away first, though.