Sometimes I draped it on the washing line. 'Leave it somewhere he can see.' Sometimes I left the strip on the street wall. 'This is for the angel,' Grandma used to say, tearing off a strip of dough for me to take into the yard. The choice is wounding it with knives, or never touching it again.

What is the colour of the blood? What is its taste? It's tempting just to stab it with a knife. Should they open up and spoon it out? A tune, canned music, something never heard before that would rise from the open can, evaporate, and not be heard again. An aphrodisiac, perhaps 'Let's try.' A plague. One night when there are guests and all the wine has gone, they put the can into the candlelight amongst the debris of their meal and play the guessing game. Will they be disappointed when they open up the can? Will it be what they want? Sometimes their humour is macabre: the contents are beyond description-baby flesh, sliced fingers, dog waste, worms, the venom of a hundred mambas-and that is why there is no label. They are like children with unopened birthday gifts. But still they cannot tell if it is beans or fruit or fish. They compare it with the other cans inside the larder to find a match in size and shape. They shake the can up against their ears. It must be something that they like, or used to like. Of course, they ought to open up the can and have a look, and eat the contents there and then. Top or bottom end? No one can tell what's up or down. The can's batch number-RG2JD 19547-is embossed on one of the ends. There are two glassy lines of glue with just a trace of stripped paper where the label was attached. Someone has taken of-and lost-the label on the can. To be published in October, 2001 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC. Excerpt from The Devil's Larder by Jim Crace.

Devils Larder by Jim Crace