In Too Deep by Billy O'Callaghan Page A

catch her breath and to properly survey the terrain. The furze dressed the land just above, the mesh of branches and spine-tipped leaves dark yet without their yellow blossoms, and it took less than a minute to identify the nicely flattened track that swept down to where the ground evened out and wandered through the long grass into a trim of briar and blackthorn. After just a little deliberation, she decided that the best place to lay her traps was just where the run narrowed before it led into the cover of the trees. Then she went to work at selecting and cutting branches to secure the snares, sinking their sharp edges deep into the pliant ground at varying intervals, cutting lengths of wire and twisting them into secure loops, setting up the taut nooses some five inches or so above the ground. This was a busy run and three snares would be enough. More than enough. Her hands built and laid the traps with the ease of long practice, and she finished just as the last glimmer of daylight drained out of the sky, leaving the mountain to strangle in a groggy dusk.
    Back at the cottage, she found the old man asleep. In the darkness there was no sound at all but the breeze sifting through the eaves and the crackle of the soft rain against the glass, and then, after straining to catch it, the shallow, trickling whisper of breath. Beneath the pile of blankets, a small pile of skin and bones was putting up a frantic last stand. She watched for a while from the doorway, but there was little really to be seen.
    Dawn broke late, given the rain. The girl left the house a little after six, and footing on the way down the mountain was difficult, especially in the darkness. But she found the snares easily.
    The first of the three was empty, but the second held a medium-sized buck rabbit that would provide plenty of meat. He’d fought hard to get away and had eventually strangled himself in the snare, the wire cutting though the flesh of his throat almost to the bone. She wrestled him free and skinned and gutted him on the spot, tossing the waste and entrails into the long grass for the rats and crows to feast upon. Then she checked the third snare.
    At first, she wasn’t sure what she’d caught. The ground was badly rutted around the trap which indicated that the struggle to escape must have been immense. She gasped when she peeled back the torn mess of hair and flesh to identify a small tom cat. He must have wondered up here from the village in search of mice or small birds, or perhaps he was out looking for love. Either way, he’d picked the wrong night to stray.
    It was then that the idea occurred to her. Without hesitating, she unfolded her grandfather’s pocket knife and proceeded to skin the dead animal. After all, she thought, meat is meat. If the old man complained, she would tell him that all the snare had caught was a hare and that was probably why the food tasted a little off. Hares were a different kind of eating. Or she’d say that she used margarine in the frying because they were out of butter. She worked fast and ably, the blade of the knife carving through the brindled fur to peel the flesh away. The rats and crows would have one hell of a feast today, but it would be nothing compared to the treat her grandfather had in store. This wasn’t like spitting in his food; this was a thousand times better.
    Laughing from deep down in her chest, she separately packed the two parcels of meat, then started up the mountain-side again.

This Bird Has Flown
    This morning, I woke feeling very cold. A heavy drift of snow had fallen during the night, but the cloud cleared early and the temperatures must have plummeted. I looked out the window, but it was still a little dark to see very much. The glass was frosted over, in odd, vague swirls and clefts that made me think of stained glass windows in churches. Not the colours so much as the texture, that same hearty, chiselled effect that seemed to twist everything