Remember Why You Fear Me by Robert Shearman Page A

bit. “Do you think those are long ears?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Nor me. If we had another rabbit here, you know, side by side. You know, we could compare.”
    They stood there for a good half minute, just looking down at it. And it lay there, for the same length of time, just looking back. “It’s not moving much,” he said.
    “No.”
    “Do you think it’s dying, or what? There isn’t much blood. I mean, unless there was in the road. Was there a lot in the road?” She didn’t answer. “What do we do now?”
    “I think,” she said heavily, “we have to put it out of its misery.”
    “Right,” he said, “right. And are you sure,” he went on, licking his lips, “that it’s actually
in
misery? I mean, it’s not making much noise. It’s not squealing or anything. Surely if there were misery, there’d be squealing and stuff.”
    “Help me find a rock,” she said. And they both went up to the embankment, scrabbled around in the grass. It didn’t have to be a rock, anything sharp or heavy would have done, but it was rocks that they found. Hers was better than his. When he saw that, he dropped his to the ground.
    “How are you going to do this?” he asked her.
    “I’m not going to do it,” she said, and she’d never been more sure of anything. “You’re going to do it.” And she gave him the rock.
    “You could have just left it in the road,” he said. “Why didn’t you just leave it in the road? Some car would have come eventually, squashed it, there’d be no need for rocks and shit.” And she felt such a flare of anger at that, but she didn’t raise her voice, “Go on,” she said. Go on, finish it. Finish what you’ve started.
    So he stood there, all five foot six of him, weighing the rock in his hands, aiming downwards. “You’re going to have to get closer than that,” she said. “Jesus,” he said. “What, right down in the, you want me on my, right, Jesus.” And he got down on his knees. “I hope you’re happy,” he said. “I hope this is what you want. Jesus.”
    “You’re going to have to hit it pretty hard,” she told him. And she almost laughed at the look he threw her then, and it wasn’t funny, not really, she really
mustn’t
laugh. But he’d tried so hard all weekend to accommodate her, to keep smiling no matter what, and here on his face at last was something like fury. “Go on,” she said. And he muttered something, and lined up the rock to the rabbit’s skull, as if he were taking a snooker stroke, for God’s sake, as if he were swinging a golf club. “You might want to hold its head,” she added.
    “I’m not
touching
it,” he said. “I’ll kill it, but I won’t touch it. Oh. Oh. Wait. Look.”
    And she’d had enough suddenly. “I’ll do it,” she said, “if you can’t.” I just want to get home, she thought.
    “No,” he said. “What’s this?”
    She stooped beside him.
    The rabbit had a wing. It was thick and black and leathery. And
wide
, it lay stretched out to the left, a wider span than the body from which it had unfurled. The rabbit blinked at them, as if it was as surprised as they were.
    “It can’t be real,” he said. “It must be stuck on.” And he hadn’t wanted to touch the creature before, but now his fingers were all over it, feeling the wing, prodding at where it met the fur. “I can’t see any join,” he said. “I thought it must have been stitched on or something, but it just comes out of the skin.” The rabbit gave a little cough, almost politely—and from out of its right side a second wing unfolded. It spread even wider, and it fluttered a little under the drizzle.
    The rabbit shuddered and gave a single grunt. It was only for a beat, it was very quiet, but they both heard it. “I don’t see what difference it makes,” she said.
    “Maybe there’s some sort of scientific base nearby,” he was saying. “You know, where they put ears on mice and things.” He was on his feet now, looking about,