MOUSER

Maisy Shaw

We called him Mouser because he was small, skittish, and always one to scurry off from a fight. He was always nicking shit from our gaffs: pennies, bog rolls, cereal boxes. Me and Foxy were sick of him. Even Tabs, who’d brought Mouser round in the first place, was done. In the dim light of my flat, the three of us came to a decision.

            ‘Last week, yeah,’ Foxy took a draw of his joint, ‘he stole my sock!’

            Tabs plucked the grey roll from Foxy, pressing it to his mouth. ‘Bro, we need to get rid of him. He robbed the inside of a cushion the other day, you know, the fluff.’

            ‘How are we gonna actually lose him? We’ve told him to piss off before, but he’s always come back.’ I sighed, watching the embers glow in the joint’s black ash.

            Foxy sat up. ‘Jump him. He’ll know we’re serious.’

            I shook my head, taking in a smoke before passing it on. ‘Three of us against him would feel like beating up an eight-year-old. We’d kill him.’

            Tabs walked to the window. ‘Maybe we should.’

            ‘What are you saying?’ I asked.

            ‘I’ve had enough of that rat taking the piss out of us! If he needs to rob from mates, we might as well put him out of his misery!’ A vicious flare grew in his eyes. Tabs looked between me and Foxy, searching for an inch of support. There was no disagreeing with Tabs. ‘I can get some pills; Mouser’ll take the lot. Just have to hope he doesn’t hang around so there’s no clean-up.’

            The following day, blue pellets sat on my kitchen counter while the three of us waited for Mouser’s rapid knocks.

            ‘Open,’ I shouted, guilt turning my stomach to a vacant hole.

Mouser scampered in, murmuring a greeting. I could hear him, searching. Picking things up and replacing them. Then, a thud. I turned around.

Mouser lay twitching on the floor, mouth frothing. His panicked wide eyes quickly turned dull and empty. His body stopped convulsing. The young boy fell silent on my cracked tile floor.