1

I was sweeping the porch with the wide broom when I found the fly. A live fly, it was sealed inside the bottle of milk waiting on the doorstep. I knew it was still alive even before I picked up the cold glass and peered inside. Its legs waved frantically and its body drifted in a wave of milk that slapped against the sides with every movement of my hand.

I glanced up the street, and then looked towards my neighbour's hedge; just leaves, just twigs.

"What's wrong with the milk?" my father said, as I entered the kitchen.

"There's a fly inside the bottle," I replied.

"Who put it there?" my father said, frowning.

"No-one." I placed the bottle on the draining board. "It. . . it just happened."

"He did it!" My father shoved back his chair, his neck tall with anger.

I drew in a breath. Of course he had done it; there was no doubt in my father's mind. He had sneaked into our garden while it was still dark and stolen the milk from the doorstep. He had removed the lid with a knife, captured the fly and dropped it into the bottle. The bottle was now sealed. The milk was now tainted; I could almost see the limp feeding tube dipping into the liquid like a straw, not sucking up, but leaching downwards.

"I can throw it away," I said.

"No, I'll do it." My father stepped towards me and closed his fingers round the glass neck. A whiff of mothballs wafted out from beneath his armpit as he lifted the bottle up, opened the back door and disappeared into the garden, leaving a rectangle of early morning sunshine lying on my feet. A shadow fell onto my toes and I looked up just in time to see my father's raised arm silhouetted against the sky.

I rushed out of the back door. No, please!" But it was too late. The trapped fly was airborne again; it soared over the garden wall like a white bird. As the sound of breaking glass raced back into our garden I clamped my hands over my ears and looked up at the wall that divided us from our neighbour. He had the fly now.

He deserved it.