Death among the camellias

Today I found a corpse at the bottom of my garden. You’d think that would be the biggest shock of my day. But you’d be wrong.

They say you should write about what you know. And really, I suppose it ought to have inspired me. But…

It wasn’t a human corpse, I hasten to add. I might live in a London some newspapers would have you believe – in the interest of boosting their circulations by spreading unwarranted panic – is a hotspot for violent crime. But it’s hardly gangland central in the parts I live.

This particular dead body, lying in a spot a few feet from my camellias, was that of a fox. Following its discovery, I stared for a while wondering how best to deal with it. Then I did what any modern man would when faced with a problem he’d not encountered before.

I resorted to Google.

I tapped out ‘What to do with a dead fox?’ And up came the details for a site for a local pest control service.

A rudimentary scanning of their site revealed they did indeed deal with dead foxes. A more careful scrutiny of their site revealed at no point did they list their prices.

I rang the contact number and a cheery sounding voice said they could get someone round today, and then he uttered the words that shocked me more than finding the body.

‘That’ll be £199.’

A few hours later, a young man rang the doorbell and apologised for being late. He had, he revealed, been delayed by a tricky infestation of rats in the job he was doing before mine.

‘What do you think happened to it?’ I asked, nodding at the fox.

‘Difficult to tell. He might have been hit by a car then come back here searching for a peaceful place to lay down and die.’

I suppose it was flattering in some way that I had the sort of garden which wildlife might regard as the perfect spot to shuffle off their mortal coils.

‘Then again,’ the young man continued, ‘he might have died somewhere else. And then some bastard chucked the body over your fence rather than have to deal with it themselves.’

Our conversation ground to a halt at that point as the man ushered me away while he sprayed the area to kill off any maggots that might have crawled away from the fox’s corpse.

I took little persuading to retreat back inside.

When I next ventured into the garden, he was just packing up. The fox was in a sack and I was about to ask the man what he was going to do with the body.

Macabre, I know. But I had my reasons.

Before I could get the words out, he warned me, ‘You might want to put your hands over your nose and mouth as I pass, this one’s a bit ripe.’

Seconds later he was gone.

Shame. I wanted to know if he had an incinerator. If he did, the job of a pest controller – it occurred to me – would make excellent cover for any fictional serial killer, giving them instant access to somewhere to dispose of the corpses of their victims. I could get at least a short story out of something like that.

It was too late to ask him now. Bit of a missed opportunity, really.

Afterwards as I sat back down in front of a blank screen, I found myself drawn away and gazing instead through my back window at the spot in the garden where Foxy had breathed his last.

It wasn’t that I was searching for inspiration from the events of the day, but rather that I was on the look-out in case any other bastard fancied saving themselves £199 by lobbing a stiff of some description in the direction of my camellias.