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Bunny remembers the day he and Libby arrived home from the hospital with the baby. The tiny child’s eyes, yet to find their colour, peered out of his scarlet, Claymation face as they laid him in the cot.
Bunny said to Libby, ‘I don’t know what to say to him.’
     ‘It doesn’t really matter, Bun. He is three days old.’
     ‘Yeah, I guess.’
     ‘Tell him he’s beautiful,’ said Libby.
     ‘But he’s not. He looks like somebody stepped on him.’
     ‘Well, tell him that then,’ she said. ‘Only, in a nice voice.’

     Bunny leaned into the crib. The child seemed to Bunny both terrifyingly present and a thousand light years away, all at the same time. There was something about him that he just couldn’t handle, so full of his mother’s love.
     ‘You look like somebody put you through the mincer, little guy.’

     Bunny Junior jerked his tiny bunched fingers in the air and changed the shape of his mouth.
     ‘See? He likes it,’ said Libby.
     ‘You look like a bowl of Bolognese,’ said Bunny. ‘You look like a baboon’s arse.’

     Libby giggled and placed her raw and swollen fingers against the baby’s head and the baby closed its eyes.
     ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s jealous,’ she said.

     That was also the day that Sabrina Cantrell, Libby’s workmate and ‘oldest friend’, came to pay her a visit. While Libby nursed the baby in the living room, in their tiny kitchenette Sabrina made the exhausted new mother a cup of tea. Bunny, who offered to help her, was suddenly and unexpectedly visited by a venereal compulsion that involved Sabrina Cantrell’s arse and both his hands – something midway between a slap and a full-blown squeeze. It came out of nowhere, this compulsion, and even as he groped up great handfuls of her backside he wondered – What the fuck am I doing? Nothing came of it, of course, and it was the last time he ever saw Sabrina Cantrell, but a chain of events was set in motion that Bunny felt was beyond his control. There was a voice and a command, there was an action and there was indeed a consequence – shockwaves reverberated through the Munro household for weeks. Why had he done it? Who knows? Whatever. Fuck you.

     Bunny rarely thought about that first marital miscalculation – what it was that guided his hands inexorably towards their forbidden resting place – but he did often think about the feel of Sabrina Cantrell’s backside under the thin crêpe skirt, that wonderful contracting of the buttocks, the jump of outraged muscle, before the shit and the fan had their fateful assignation.


– The rest of this article is printed in Loops Issue 01, available to buy from these Stockists.

– The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave will be published by Canongate on September 3 2009. www.meetatthegate.com