want to check that none of the animals are in any immediate danger.
I am careful to keep my expression neutral as I pick my way through the detritus and perch on the edge of the armchair. Joan hovers beside me, the two rabbits still wriggling in her arms. Her eyes are wide, her lips pursed.
“Have you kept rabbits for long, Mrs Wilkinson?”
“All my life.” She avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere to the left of my face. “I was given a rabbit for my fifth birthday. I only got to keep him for a few months.”
“What happened?”
“We went to India. My father was a missionary, mother was a nurse.”
“I see. That must have been upsetting.”
“It was.”
“And did you have pets in India?”
She shakes her head. “Mother said it would be unfair to the animals because we’d only have to move again.”
“Right.”
“I got these two after my Bob died.” She glances at the faded wedding photograph framed on the mantelpiece. “He wouldn’t let me keep rabbits. He said Spot would go after them.”
“Spot’s your dog?” There are no signs of a dog in the living room – no leads, bedding or bowls.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Ran away.”
There’s something about the way her eyes just flicked towards the door at the end of the living room that makes me nervous. “Did you report it?”
She shrugs. “I might have. I can’t remember. It wasn’t my fault he ran away. He didn’t want to live here after Bob died.”
“How long since your husband died, Mrs Wilkinson?”
“Eighteen months.” Her eyes mist with tears and it’s hard not to feel sorry for her. Cruelty cases may seem cut and dried when they’re reported in the media, but they’re not always about evil men and women abusing animals. So many of the cases involve lonely, desperate people with mental health issues. They take on an animal, thinking it will be good company, but find they can’t cope. If you’re struggling to look after yourself, how can you look after an animal, too?
“I’m so sorry for your loss. That must have been very upsetting. Do you have children or relatives who look in on you?”
She shakes her head again. “My parents are dead and my brother lives up in Leeds. It was only ever me and Bob. We couldn’t have children.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She looks back at the point just to the left of my head. “We were happy enough.”
I gesture towards the door at the other end of the living room. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”
“Why?” The wistful look in her eyes vanishes.
“Just to get an idea of how many rabbits you’ve got.”
“Sixteen.”
“Okay. I’d still like to take a look around, if I may, just to see them for myself. Is that okay?” I take a step towards the door but Joan grabs me by the wrist. Her grip is surprisingly powerful for a woman of her age and build. The two rabbits she was holding escape and hop towards the curtains.
“You can go in the kitchen, but don’t go in the larder.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a fly problem. I don’t want you letting them out and upsetting the bunnies.”
There are three more rabbits in the kitchen, one in a wire cage, the other two in the cupboard under the sink. The door is long gone, the hinges ginger with rust. The sink and surfaces are stacked with crusty pots, pans and dishes, crumpled newspapers, bills, plastic bags and assorted junk. There are two doors at the end of the kitchen, both closed. The glass-fronted one leads outside. The doorknob on the other door, the one I assume to be the larder, is hanging off.
I head towards it, picking my way over split bin bags and rotting food, a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling on exposed wires, humming ominously over my head. It isn’t just the inspector I need Sheila to call. Social Services will have to get involved, too.
“You’ve seen everything you need to see,” Joan says from behind me. “And I’d like you to leave.
I am careful to keep my expression neutral as I pick my way through the detritus and perch on the edge of the armchair. Joan hovers beside me, the two rabbits still wriggling in her arms. Her eyes are wide, her lips pursed.
“Have you kept rabbits for long, Mrs Wilkinson?”
“All my life.” She avoids eye contact, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere to the left of my face. “I was given a rabbit for my fifth birthday. I only got to keep him for a few months.”
“What happened?”
“We went to India. My father was a missionary, mother was a nurse.”
“I see. That must have been upsetting.”
“It was.”
“And did you have pets in India?”
She shakes her head. “Mother said it would be unfair to the animals because we’d only have to move again.”
“Right.”
“I got these two after my Bob died.” She glances at the faded wedding photograph framed on the mantelpiece. “He wouldn’t let me keep rabbits. He said Spot would go after them.”
“Spot’s your dog?” There are no signs of a dog in the living room – no leads, bedding or bowls.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Ran away.”
There’s something about the way her eyes just flicked towards the door at the end of the living room that makes me nervous. “Did you report it?”
She shrugs. “I might have. I can’t remember. It wasn’t my fault he ran away. He didn’t want to live here after Bob died.”
“How long since your husband died, Mrs Wilkinson?”
“Eighteen months.” Her eyes mist with tears and it’s hard not to feel sorry for her. Cruelty cases may seem cut and dried when they’re reported in the media, but they’re not always about evil men and women abusing animals. So many of the cases involve lonely, desperate people with mental health issues. They take on an animal, thinking it will be good company, but find they can’t cope. If you’re struggling to look after yourself, how can you look after an animal, too?
“I’m so sorry for your loss. That must have been very upsetting. Do you have children or relatives who look in on you?”
She shakes her head again. “My parents are dead and my brother lives up in Leeds. It was only ever me and Bob. We couldn’t have children.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She looks back at the point just to the left of my head. “We were happy enough.”
I gesture towards the door at the other end of the living room. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”
“Why?” The wistful look in her eyes vanishes.
“Just to get an idea of how many rabbits you’ve got.”
“Sixteen.”
“Okay. I’d still like to take a look around, if I may, just to see them for myself. Is that okay?” I take a step towards the door but Joan grabs me by the wrist. Her grip is surprisingly powerful for a woman of her age and build. The two rabbits she was holding escape and hop towards the curtains.
“You can go in the kitchen, but don’t go in the larder.”
“Why not?”
“There’s a fly problem. I don’t want you letting them out and upsetting the bunnies.”
There are three more rabbits in the kitchen, one in a wire cage, the other two in the cupboard under the sink. The door is long gone, the hinges ginger with rust. The sink and surfaces are stacked with crusty pots, pans and dishes, crumpled newspapers, bills, plastic bags and assorted junk. There are two doors at the end of the kitchen, both closed. The glass-fronted one leads outside. The doorknob on the other door, the one I assume to be the larder, is hanging off.
I head towards it, picking my way over split bin bags and rotting food, a single light bulb, hanging from the ceiling on exposed wires, humming ominously over my head. It isn’t just the inspector I need Sheila to call. Social Services will have to get involved, too.
“You’ve seen everything you need to see,” Joan says from behind me. “And I’d like you to leave.
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