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On Monday morning the Cameron family rose at a quarter to six, a bright and sunny August morning. By six the four of them were at breakfast in the tiny kitchen at the back of the house, the son, daughter and wife in their dressing gowns, Big Billie dressed for work. His jacket was where it had spent the weekend, in a closet in the hallway.
Just after six his daughter Jenny rose, stuffing a piece of marmaladed toast into her mouth.
'I'm away to wash,' she said.
'Before ye go, girl, get my jacket from the press,' said her father, working his way through a plate of cereal. The girl reappeared a few seconds later with the jacket, held by the collar. She proffered it to her father. He hardly looked up.
'Hang it behind the door,' he said. The girl did as she was bid, but the jacket had n
o hanging tab and the hook was no rusty nail but a smooth chrome affair. The jacket hung for a moment, then fell to the kitchen floor. Her father looked up as she left the room.
'Jenny,' he shouted, 'pick the damn thing up.'
No one in the Cameron household argued with the head of the family. Jenny came back, picked up the jacket and hung it more firmly. As she did, something thin and dark slipped from its folds and slithered into the corner with a dry rustle across the linoleum. She stared at it in horror.
'Dad, what's that in your jacket?'
Big Billie Cameron paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. Mrs Cameron turned from the cooker. Fourteen-year-old Bobby ceased buttering a piece of toast and stared. The small creature lay curled in the corner by the row of cabinets, tight-bunched, defensive, glaring back at the world, tiny tongue flickering fast.
'Lord save us, it's a snake,' said Mrs Cameron.
'Don't be a bloody fool, woman. Don't you know there are no snakes in Ireland? Everyone knows that,' said her husband. He put down the spoon. 'What is it, Bobby?'
Though a tyrant inside and outside his house, Big Billie had a grudging respect for the knowledge of his young son, who was good at school and was being taught many strange things. The boy stared at the snake through his owlish glasses.
'It must be a slowworm, Dad,' he said. 'They had some at school last term for the biology class. Brought them in for dissection. From across the water.'
'It doesn't look like a worm to me,' said his father.
'It isn't really a worm,' said Bobby. 'It's a lizard with no legs.'
'Then why do they call it a worm?' asked his truculent father.
'I don't know,' said Bobby.
'Then what the hell are you going to school for?'
'Will it bite?' asked Mrs Cameron fearfully.
'Not at all,' said Bobby. 'It's harmless.'
'Kali it,' said Cameron senior, 'and throw it in the dustbin.'
His son rose from the table and removed one of his slippers, which he held like a fly swat in one hand. He was advancing, bare-ankled, towards the corner, when his father changed his mind. Big Billie looked up from his plate with a gleeful smile.
'Hold on a minute, just hold on there, Bobby,' he said, 'I have an idea. Woman, get me a jar.'
'What kind of a jar?' asked Mrs Cameron.
'How should I know what kind of a jar? A jar with a lid on it.'
Mrs Cameron sighed, skirted the snake and opened a cupboard. She examined her store of jars.
'There's a jamjar, with dried peas in it,' she said.
'Put the peas somewhere else and give me the jar,' commanded Cameron. She passed him the jar.
'What are you going to do, Dad?' asked Bobby.
