Dangling the crowbar in my hand I walked across the disarray of the kitchen floor. Viscous tile grout lay drying in a paint pot, several hand tools were scattered about their red tin box. Kneeling down I prodded the skirting board once again, feeling the soft yield of decaying wood beneath my fingers. “Hmm” i said.
I brought the teeth of the crowbar to the lip of the skirting and with a short grunt forced it down the crevice. Wood creaked and nails squealed as I prised the old board away.
In the cavity behind was a macabre little scene, a monstrosity of bones! A swift moment of panic passed over me; then creeping fascination. The form was that of six tiny skeletons coiled together in their damp tomb. A family of mice devastated by the extinction of the boiler - victims of the micro ice age of the dereliction.