It was summer when I decided to make the wasp trap. I remember my grandmother used to have a pot by the door, its rim encrusted with lemon curd or treacle or jam; the flies and wasps didn't care what it was so long as it was sweet. And it was sweet, truly it was, as they spread their questing mandibles along its rim, as they delicately balanced on the moulded glass edges, each antenna moving independently, describing in swirls the sugary ecstasy of my grandmother's jam pot. If you looked in the bottom of the jar you'd see layer upon layer of dead insects, corroded and blackened by the sugary death that surrounded them. The ones nearest the bottom were stone dead, of course, their airways filled with seeping, sticky jam solution; the ones on the top still struggled, desperate to gain purchase on the fallen, just to find a steady foothold while they freed their wings from the inexorable draw of surface tension.
The wasps had been annoying me for about a week, anyway. Last summer I'd quickly grown tired of ushering flies from room to room, of opening windows for fat bluebottles and tiny, tiny midges. So this year I invested in a can of bug spray. Nothing special; spray it at the insect and ten seconds later the creature is on its back, the reflexive buzzing of its wings spinning the tiny corpse around in death-throe circles, legs flexing and unflexing, curling and uncurling until stillness finally descends. The whole process takes a couple of minutes.
It was last Saturday, I think, that I killed the first wasp. It had crept into my kitchen window and lurked behind the net curtain, busily searching for a way out. After dispassionately observing the creature for a moment or two I found my spray from under the sink and gave the creature a good blast. I watched it buzz around for a second or two, then plummet, its descent accompanied by abortive wing and leg movements. The intermittent buzzing was indescribably disturbing; I hate wasps, not through rational dislike or anything so noble, but merely out of fear. It may stem back to childhood, it may not, but whatever the reasoning I cannot stand to be near a wasp or even a bee, and my lack of control in this area even extends as far as embarrassingly screeching if such an insect suddenly approaches. It sounds pathetic - perhaps it is - but the effects of my fear are undeniably real.
This said, however, I was filled with a desire to observe the creature. I dared not lift the curtain, for fear the creature should summon up some strength in extremis, as it were, and hurtle for me with its sting unsheathed. As it was, I couldn't find the wasp. I delicately prodded at the bottom of the curtain, fearful in case the maddened insect should burst forth. In the end I went outside and watched the wasp through the glass; my position secure I was free to press my face almost up against the glass, to indifferently observe its squirming loss of control. Deep within its tiny brain I imagined neurons misfiring, sparking nerves transmitting wild signals, futile and unachieving. The creature lanced its sting against the glass, against the curtain, against itself. Its body curled and uncurled, the slender waist and fat abdomen squirming with jerky, stabbing movements. The wasp took a full two minutes to die, its mandibles champing and opening, the feathery black tongue protruding and retreating, again and again. It seemed eternity, standing there watching the wasp's struggles eventually subside into nothing. I'm glad I wasn't the wasp. But I was also glad it was dead.
There was another by the window, later that day. I watched it bobbing against the glass, swooping and retreating. Another wasp joined it, both of them delicately spiralling before my window. It angered me, in truth, that they should dare to make their presence known like this. The door was closed, and the windows were netted, however, so it remains a mystery to me how the third wasp entered the kitchen. But there it was, joining its fellow insects' strange dance, the two separated from the one by but a thin layer of glass. Once again the spray came into play, bursting forth gaseous death, and another wasp falls to the sill, spins wildly and expires. Another wasp dead.
It was then that I decided to make the trap. I had a jar in the cupboard beneath the sink; the very same cupboard in which I had housed the insecticide spray - a fitting location, perhaps. The cupboard beneath the sink has always been regarded as a lesser cupboard, a place for the storage of bleaches and chemicals, polish and floor cloths. Now it gave forth its treasures - a smooth, glass container. I half filled it with strawberry jam, added a good amount of hot water and screwed the lid on tightly before shaking it. The jam dissolved into the water and I was left with a thick, sugary syrup, exuding the smell of chemical strawberries. I crept outside and left the jar on the windowsill, half-watching for the wasps; this was some kind of struggle now - a battle between the wasps and myself. It was hard not to personify them; so hard not to imagine they were plotting, closing in, desperate to seek revenge for their lost. But safely inside I was able to watch the pot with the same detached interest I had granted the first dying wasp; idle curiosity on a hot summer's day.
Yes, one could have been forgiven for imagining the wasps were playing some sort of game. The jar sat on the windowsill, alone and ignored. It would have been foolish to imagine that the wasps were arrayed along the guttering, patiently waiting for my attention to slip, that they might steal down to feast on the warm, oozing solution. But they came; oh, they came. First one, then another. There were three circling the pot, settling on the rim and scraping their mandibles along it, clinging to the edge with black-yellow legs. I pressed closer to see, to watch the first one fall into the jam, to see it struggle and scramble, desperate to free its slender, striped body. But it never happened.
I had made the solution too thick. Had I diluted it just a little more then perhaps the trap would have worked. As it stood, however, the solution was more like mud than quicksand, a good solid footing of thick, heavy food; an edible land of plenty, sweet in the warm rays of the sun. The wasps were four in number, circling and batting at the glass of the jar, scraping tiny drops of jam from the side, swooping and settling on the Mars-red surface. This was not how it should have been; I had to dilute the solution. Draping a towel over my arm I opened the door and reached out for the jar. Wasps circled my towelled hand as I retreated with the jar, backing into the house and closing the door, leaving the wasps to their own devices. I diluted the jam solution further, tipping half of it down the sink and making it up with warm water, and when I was certain no wasps lurked beyond the door I replaced the jar in its previous position. Ducking back inside, I settled to wait - it was the wasps' turn to move once more.
So delicate: the first wasp folded its legs onto the rim of the jar. The antennae twitched, hunting for the catch; it knew, I swear it knew. It hung forever on the rippled screw-thread, questing, thinking, considering. But that glorious moment was worth all the tension, all the anticipation fused together into one moment of fulfilment. The wasp landed delicately on the blood red surface, lapping for but a moment at the sugared fruit; that moment of pleasure was its last - its two back legs slid gently into the liquid and it was trapped. Sprawled half in, half out of the jam the wasp's wings were a blur of ineffectual effort; its legs spiralled just beneath the surface, desperate for a purchase, but doomed never to find one. Slowly it sank into the syrup, not quite heavy enough to sink outright, but stuck too well to escape. The first of many. Trapped.
Soon it was joined; wasp after wasp fell into the sweet and sticky pot, struggled and struggled, squirming over the half-dead bodies that lay beneath and alongside it. But none escaped from this tiny drama. And on the rim of the pot crept more, wasp after wasp, gorging themselves on the sweetness of death.
I left the jar there for a week. After that time a layer of insects had gathered at the bottom of the jar, and though summer was not even nearly over the number of wasps visiting the pot had dropped sharply. In addition to this the jam had acquired a thin layer of mould which drifted and eddied in the slow heat of the midday sun. I put the jar into a plastic bag and tied the top before throwing it into the dustbin. I'd have liked to imagine I'd learned something from the experience, but I knew deep down that there was nothing to be learned.