The robin is the first dead thing Ellen has ever seen. One minute it’s perched on one of the ash tree’s upturned shoots, singing at full throttle; the next minute she’s shot it through the chest.
‘Gotcha!’ screams Madison at Ellen’s side. ‘Noisy cunt.’
The robin has landed on the ground beside the footpath, a few inches from a freshly dug grave plot behind the girls. Ellen can’t understand how it could have flown so far from the ash tree with its heart and belly blown into a thousand bloody pieces.
‘Is it dead?’ she asks Madison, her voice quivering. ‘Did I kill it?’
Ellen hadn’t meant to kill the robin. Madison made her do it, forcing the air pistol into her hand. Ellen throws up a splodge of watery orange sick that looks like bird s**t as Madison kicks the bird into the grave plot.
