The mole traps haven’t sprung. The wishbone handles of grey metal stick up from the ground like tuning forks. If I’d caught, the handles would be angled wide apart – V for victory, or fuck off, depending which way you look. I seldom trap one, but it makes me look busy.

Another Sunday, another Sunday roast. A ceremonial carve up. Do you take these legs and breasts as your lawfully stuffed lunch? Soon she’ll start banging the saucepans on the hob and peeling vegetables. The needle will start after breakfast. Could be anything. How long to cook the meat is our Sunday family favourite. Last week I did the cooking.

“It’s running with blood,” she said and didn’t touch it.

We used to yell but it skidded out of control. Rattled the kids. A bit of pushing that’s all, a slammed door, a smashed plate.

Yesterday she said, “Don’t roll your eyes at me. You’re beginning to look like your father.”

I said, “Control your temper. You’re beginning to sound like your mother.”

My father’s got his anxiety. Her mother’s dead.

To find the mole runs I prod the grass with a screwdriver then dig round holes into them with a trowel. I set the traps on a hair-trigger and lower them in. Lay on a lid of turf, plug the gaps with dead leaves to stop daylight or draughts. The moles sense both. Noses like radar dishes.

“Mum says lunch is ready. Can you come and cut the meat.” Our youngest enjoys running errands for his mother. I follow him as he runs back up the path from the toolshed.

Chicken’s on the table. The sharpening steel, carving knife and fork laid out like an amputation.

“This bird doesn’t smell right,” I say.

“In what way?” she says.

“Smells like shit. Literally like shit. Excrement.” I prize apart its back end and bring out a smear of brown on the knife.

“Smell that,” I say.

“I can smell it from here.” She takes the carving fork from my hand, spears the meat and dumps it in the bin.

“Just roast potatoes and veg today. The chicken is shit,” she says to the kids.

Back outside a trap’s been sprung. I pull the dead animal from the earth, its neck broken, a lick of blood oozes from its mouth. I take the mole to the fence and spike its corpse onto the barbed wire. By morning all trace of it will be gone.

Steven John

Steven John’s writing has appeared in Riggwelter, Spelk, Fictive Dream, Cabinet of Heed, EllipsisZine, Ghost Parachute and Best Microfiction 2019. He’s won Bath Ad Hoc Fiction a record six times and has been nominated for BIFFY 2019. He lives in The Cotswolds, England. Steven is Fiction & Special Features Editor at www.newflashfictionreview.com @StevenJohnWrite www.stevenjohnwriter.com

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