Читать книгу The Ann Ireland Library - Ann Ireland - Страница 28

Miranda and Jill from upstairs should deal with this pyramid of dog shit. Jasper scoops the feces into a plastic bag and ties a knot, then notices the rat, or what’s left of it, that their yappy pooch, Polly, attacked a day earlier. That makes two rodents spotted in twenty-four hours. He hopes this doesn’t signal an infestation. The corpse lies prone, nearly hidden in the crabgrass in front of the row house. Crouching over its remains, Jasper prods delicately with the trowel. Its skull is intact, eyes opaque, teeth bared. The abdomen is torn open, and a trace of entrails lies like a dried umbilical cord. Brownish fur, underside a light colour. The Norway rat will creep through any space bigger than half an inch — smaller than the width of your baby finger. Cellars here are porous, as crumbling masonry competes with the shifting sands of lake soil. He glares at the clinic’s rear door where graffiti blazes despite earnest removal attempts. Their dumpster is shut, as per regulations, but rodents have advanced olfactory skills. Jasper suspects a scary birth rate, lured by medical waste. He pushes the tip of his fedora back, remembering not to touch his eyes.

Abruptly, the back door of the clinic springs open and three men and one woman step into the sun. Working their cellphones, they hasten toward a red SUV parked illegally in the laneway.

“An obvious gap in screening protocol,” one of the men says in a self-important tone that Jasper immediately recognizes.

Luke.

Pull the cap over brow, but not in time.

“Jasper!” The man stops in his tracks and sings out the name: long lost friend.

Jasper must look like a retiree, yard work in the middle of the day, and he uses the trowel to hoist himself up out of a crouch. These khaki shorts aren’t exactly flattering, nor is the Bacardi Rum souvenir T-shirt.