The Constant Rabbit Page 10

  ‘She’s well,’ I said, trying to seem cold and disdainful but actually sounding plaintive and apologetic.

  ‘Is she still exceptionally pleasing to the eye?’ he asked. ‘We must reacquaint ourselves now those tiresome consent rules are past us.’

  His small yellow eyes bored into me, and a dribble of saliva oozed from the side of his mouth. ‘Repellent’ couldn’t even begin to describe him.

  ‘I think I can speak for Pippa when I say she despises you,’ I replied.

  He grinned again.

  ‘Quite the little minx. Well, her loss.’

  Owing to small litter sizes and an impenetrably long and complicated mating ritual that required Michelin-starred dinner dates and visits to Glyndebourne, foxes had not reproduced nearly as well as rabbits. From the two vixens and a dog at Event Zero there were now a shade under six thousand individuals. They had become increasingly urbane over the years and insisted on sending their cubs to public schools, quoting Latin in a fatuous and pretentious manner whenever possible and respelling their surnames with a dazzling array of ridiculous affectations. There was plain ‘Mr Fox’, then about forty other permutations that included: Foxe, Ffoxe, Phocks, Phoxse, Forcks, Fforkse, Fourks, Fourxe, Foix, Fux, Foxx and Phourxes. All, without exception, were pronounced ‘Fox’.

  Unlike the rabbit, the foxes had secured British citizenship on the dubious legal grounds that the then Home Secretary liked ‘the cut of their jib’, but they also retained, in a unique legal ruling, dual taxonomic status. They were legally human but also allowed to be fox when the mood took them, or the job required it. They were also notoriously, painfully, cunning. There was a saying: you can never outfox the fox.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Ffoxe, ‘let’s have the cash.’

  I handed him the receipt for signing and he withdrew an expensive pen from his top pocket and signed the docket before handing it back, and I passed over the cash.

  ‘OK, then,’ he said, stuffing the cash in his breast pocket, ‘let’s talk about the operation in Ross. Lugless tells me you haven’t been embracing the sort of enthusiasm we like to see in our staff. With the Rabbit Underground threatening to upset the peaceful status quo of this green and pleasant land you need to try a little harder. Whizelle says you’ve been staring at pictures of Labstock for several weeks and haven’t fingered a single one.’

  I swallowed nervously.

  ‘I haven’t found him yet. These things take time.’

  He moved closer, the heavy scent of Old Spice cologne suddenly filling the air like fog. Foxes used it to disguise their scent from rabbits as they moved in for the kill. And foxes were permitted to kill rabbits. At the High Court in 1978, Fox v. Rabbit established that a fox killing a rabbit – while taxonomically a fox – was legally defensible on the grounds of ‘long-founded predation of historically natural prey’. It gave legality to their job as rabbit enforcers, and although it was legal for a rabbit to kill a fox in self-defence ‘once all other avenues of escape had been exhausted and the law’s definition of proportionality as it appertained to rabbits had been tested in the courts’, rabbits rarely did, owing to … reprisals.

  Reprisals were seen less like mass murder and more a useful tool of deterrence, and began when a particularly unpleasant individual named Jethro Phox ventured on to Colony Five for ‘a little sport’ and was found face down two days later in a muddy ditch just outside the wall. The coroner found enough cocaine and alcohol in his body to kill a small horse, but the actual cause of death was asphyxiation due to ‘a small carrot lodged in the windpipe’. While the coroner said this did not immediately suggest foul play on the part of rabbits, his brother foxes interpreted it differently. When the fur had settled, six hundred random rabbits had been killed, tortured and partially eaten in the most sadistic manner imaginable. It was so unpleasant that even then Prime Minister Tony Blair – a long-time supporter of fox rights – had to warn the fox community that any more ‘overreach of this sort’ would result in a repealing of Fox v. Rabbit.

  This didn’t stop the reprisals – the foxes just found the acceptable limits. A hundred dead rabbits per dead fox, as it turned out, effectively making foxes all but untouchable. But despite Fox v. Rabbit, foxes used right-to-kill sparingly to keep the culling fees disproportionately high.

  ‘You haven’t found him yet because these things take time?’ he echoed. ‘How much time?’

  ‘Well, about as—’

  ‘Give me some names,’ said Mr Ffoxe, interrupting me. ‘Labstocks who look a bit like Flopsy 7770 – even if nothing else than to sow a bit of discord amongst the cottontail.’

  ‘I’m … not sure that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We should try to avoid another Dylan Rabbit debacle,’ I said, my mouth dry. ‘It brings the Taskforce into disrepute.’

  I could hear my voice crack.

  ‘The public has moved on since then,’ said Mr Ffoxe with a dismissive shrug. ‘The whole Dylan Rabbit wrongful death nonsense lives on only in the deluded minds of the irredeemably self-righteous. To maintain the high efficiency of the Compliance Taskforce we are going to have to make a few mistakes here and there, and Mr Smethwick agrees with me that it is a price worth paying. Now: I want you to go back over your list of Labstocks and select four to be brought in for questioning.’

  ‘I have no names,’ I implored, ‘not a single one.’

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ said Mr Ffoxe, fixing me with a menacing look. ‘It’s yours. Four names. To show the Underground we mean business.’

  ‘Then why not choose four from the Labstock community at random?’ I said, a terrified warble in my throat. ‘They’ll be as guilty as any I can choose …’

  My voice trailed off as his small yellow eyes stared at me coldly.

  ‘You’re an excellent Spotter,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘one of the best. Your strike rates are off the chart. But if you don’t align yourself a little more with policy, we’ll have to talk about letting you go.’

  I swallowed nervously again. I needed this job.

  ‘You can’t fire me for not supplying you with random names.’

  He smiled and patted me on the arm.

  ‘My dear fellow, we’re not going to fire you. Heavens above, no. It’s just that there have been a number of intelligence leaks in the Taskforce, and those leaks can often have grave consequences.’

  He stared at me with a faint smile and I felt hot and uncomfortable. Mr Ffoxe had leaked Dylan Rabbit’s name to TwoLegsGood, who then jugged him. It was quite possible he could leak my name, too – but to rabbits with more on their minds than carrots, dandelion leaves and reruns of How Deep Was My Warren. He chuckled, and I knew he wasn’t kidding. He placed his paw on my shoulder and spoke softly, close to my ear.

  ‘Like it or not, Knox, you’re one of us. You’ve taken the dollar, dipped your toes in the effluent. I’m not sure the rabbit would see your complicity in anything but a …’ he paused for thought ‘… unfavourable light.’

  He was right. There were many incidents that, while seemingly accidental or unrelated, definitely benefitted rabbits. Like the sudden departure of Smethwick’s deputy to a Buddhist retreat in Bhutan without explanation, or the higher-than-average fatal car accidents that involved foxes and weasels, or the Spotters who abruptly left the business, or just went missing without adequate explanation. There was a very good reason we kept our profession secret.

  ‘Do we understand one another?’ he asked.

  I felt a cold sweat creep down my back.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, we understand one another.’

  This was typical of how foxes operate. Cajole, bully, threaten, diminish, divide, disseminate and eventually, as far as rabbits were concerned at least, murder. It was in their blood, it was in their DNA. More than that, they actually enjoyed it. Many of them considered inviting a fresh-found foxy friend on a rampage through the colonies as little more than a cracking first date.

  It was time
for me to leave. I mumbled that I was wanted elsewhere, and turned towards the door to find Mr Ffoxe waiting at the door. He had moved so blindingly fast it seemed as though there were two of him in the room, and I had to look back to check.

  ‘Mr Knox, sir, not so fast, sir. Did I say that you could go, sir?’

  ‘No, sir, no, sir, Mr Ffoxe, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘What else should I do, sir?’

  He placed his muzzle close to me and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Oh-ho,’ he said, suddenly distracted, ‘you’ve been near a female rabbit recently.’

  I thought of Connie in Waitrose.

  ‘I stopped at Ascari’s on the way here,’ I said, ‘there was a rabbarista behind the counter.’

  I stammered slightly as I said it, and Mr Ffoxe knew instantly I was lying.

  ‘Well, how about that?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Little Knoxie’s been beguiled. What was it? The eyes? The bobbling cottontail? The inexplicable and utterly inappropriate sexualisation of an otherwise unremarkable lower mammal? Who was she? Your new neighbour?’

  ‘No—’ I stopped as I realised what he’d said, then: ‘How did you know I had rabbits as neighbours?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Don’t let yourself be tempted by the bun’s mild temperament and apparent peaceful nature,’ he said without answering my question. ‘That “cute and cuddly victim of human’s domination” stuff they do? It’s bullshit. It’s not sunny meadows, warm burrows and dandelion leaves they’re after, it’s majoritisation, assimilation and domination. And they could win out, if left unchecked. Promiscuity is not just their raison d’être, it’s their secret weapon. A LitterBomb is a very real and present danger, and once the supply chain of stockpiled food is successfully coordinated by the Underground, the word will go out. Before you can say Lapin à la cocotte you’ll be outnumbered, outvoted in your own nation, working for a rabbit, taking orders from a rabbit, worshipping at their altar and living the lapine way – it’ll be lettuce for supper, dinner and tea. Do you want that?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘Then we’re totally together on this, because that’s what Flopsy 7770 and the rest of those treasonous bunscum are up to.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’d better believe it. So look, here’s what you’re going to do about your neighbours: be wary, but stay friendly. Do what you have to do to gain their confidence. We’ll tell you what we want you to do in due course.’

  ‘So I want to keep them in the village?’ I said, thinking about the Malletts’ moving-out fund.

  ‘If you can. Infiltrate, make friends and report back. The Taskforce will be grateful. I will be grateful.’

  Mr Ffoxe patted me on the shoulder in a patronising manner, and then, without me noticing, snaked a paw into my jacket and deposited a small yet very fresh fox turd in my inside breast pocket.32 He then smiled.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, indicating the bloodstained hessian sack in the middle of his office carpet, ‘want a couple of haunches for the pot? Tasty and nutritious.’

  I finally found a voice.

  ‘This isn’t compliance,’ I said, ‘it’s …’

  My voice trailed off.

  ‘You can speak your mind here, Knox. I give you permission. This one’s on me. A free pass.’

  ‘It’s … murder,’ I said, indicating the hessian sack.

  He took a draw on his cigar and chuckled.

  ‘Can you even begin to understand the level of that statement’s hypocrisy coming from you? Cruel as we are, foxes are amateurs next to humans. I may be a little harsh on your furry woodland friends, but exitus acta probat,33 Knox. But here’s the thing: it’s not me and my foxy chums currently and without even a flicker of collective guilt precipitating an unprecedented extinction event on the entire sodding planet.’

  He glared at me for a moment and I shifted my weight nervously.

  ‘And don’t say you’re not personally responsible,’ continued Mr Ffoxe, ‘because you are. Your tacit support of the status quo is proof of your complicity, your shrugging indifference a favourable vote in support of keeping things exactly as they are. I’m not the murderer, Knox, you are – you and all your pathetic little naked primate cousins with their silly hairstyles and gangly limbs and overdeveloped sense of entitlement and self-serving delusion.’

  I felt myself grow hot under his glare.

  ‘And now,’ he said in a low voice, ‘you can piss off back to the upstanding and necessary work you are paid handsomely to do. Four names, on my desk, by sundown.’

  I needed no second bidding and hastily left the room.

  ‘Everything OK?’ asked Toby when I got back to my desk.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not really. In fact, not at all.’

  Dinner & Dandelion Brandy

  The most decorated service rabbit in history was RAF Navigation Officer Danielle ‘Thumper’ Rabbit, who ejected from a Tornado over Iraq when it was hit by a surface-to-air missile. She wrote about her time as a POW in Bouncing Out of Tikrit, and it was quite a good read, although critics did find fault with the overlong detail of Iraqi salad in the latter part of the book.

  After prevaricating all afternoon on which Labstock names I should send down to Mr Ffoxe, I selected four who were already dead or long missing – but wouldn’t be readily apparent as such. Someone would have to do some research, and that might give me breathing space for a couple of days.

  The evening was warm and clear with white mares’ tails flecking the sky as I drove back towards Much Hemlock. I said nothing to Toby on the way home, my mind full of spotting, LitterBombs, Mr Ffoxe, Connie – and, of course, the fox turd I found in my breast pocket when fumbling for my dark glasses. After I’d dropped Toby at his house, I drove home and had a shower, a shave, and went through the cupboard to find something to wear for my evening over at the Rabbits’. I eventually chose slacks, white shirt and casual sports jacket. I’d put on a few pounds since I’d bought them, and they felt a little tight, but were about the best threads I had. I didn’t go out much.

  Pippa had decided not to come with me as she’d half-promised to meet Toby at the new Welsh-Thai fusion restaurant that had opened in the village. She’d got wind of the leaving fund, too – the move to have them ousted was already known around the village as ‘Rabxit’.

  ‘Are you really going to ask them to shove off for cash?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure being a mouthpiece for the Malletts can lead to anything but trouble.’

  ‘I’ll be diplomatic,’ I said. ‘After all, it’s possible this might be the Rabbits’ plan, and fleecing everyone who’s put in some cash does have a sense of poetry about it.’

  ‘Aside from the vicar who raided the church roof appeal.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘maybe I could arrange some sort of ecclesiastical cashback arrangement.’

  She told me to be careful, I said I would, and I walked across to their house.

  Major Rabbit opened the door almost as soon as I knocked.

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Peter, do you?’

  I said that he could, and he replied that I should call him ‘Doc’ because everyone else did.

  He squeezed my hand in his two paws, then beckoned me in. Although it was still light, most of the curtains were drawn and what few lights were on had only low-wattage bulbs with an orange colour bias, so the interior appeared gloomy, yet warm. There was a rich, almost loamy scent of fresh earth in the air, and in a prominent place on the wall was a circle of delicately braided copper wire that represented the symbol of their faith, the five circles of lifefullness. We had a cross, they had a circle.

  ‘The Circle of Lifefullness,’ said Doc, following my gaze, ‘and the circle of trust. It also represents home, the burrow, the bounty of ovulation, the birth canal from which we all emerge, and the mother earth to which we all return. It is incumbent upon us all to complete the circle.’

  ‘What exactly does that mean?’ I asked, as the term
‘completion of the circle’ had always remained ambiguous.

  Doc shrugged and stared at the braided copper circle for a moment, deep in thought.

  ‘The linguistic translation is easy, but the cultural translation much harder. It’s … the completion of an individual journey of one’s own making. For some, it’s simple, like seeing all the Die Hard movies in order, or collecting versions of Spider Man mini-figures. For others, it’s harder, like attaining a truth, or bringing about a change in others. For me and Connie, it’s about leaving this world in a better state than we found it.’

  ‘That sounds a noble cause,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a noble goal,’ he corrected me. ‘Ninety-two per cent of circles remain broken – which is why some rabbits go for mini-figures and Die Hard. If you really want to achieve your life goal, it’s probably best to keep it fairly simple.’

  UKARP and Smethwick had long been worried about the whole Bunty ‘Completing the Circle’ issue, and always maintained – without evidence – that a noble goal in the rabbit’s eyes might not be one that was compatible with humans. Bunty, as far as Smethwick was concerned, was not a spiritual leader at all, but a leader-in-waiting, poised to a seditious overthrow of the UK.

  Doc had gone silent and was standing on one leg, as was the custom when venerating Lago, the Grand Matriarch, and I did the same. Doc looked at me oddly, so I put my foot down again.

  ‘Connie has met the Venerable Bunty, you know,’ he said quite proudly. ‘Worked on her staff for a while – and was present when the Bunty performed one of her miracles.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Number 16b: the reattachment of an ear following an unfortunate accident with a bacon slicer.’

  Bunty’s apparent ability to perform miracles confirmed her divine status to rabbits. Although it made her a powerful spiritual leader, there was no evidence to suppose she wielded that power for anything but good. The Taskforce had different ideas.

  ‘Your bunch should do a few miracles,’ said Doc. ‘If your archbishop made someone’s missing foot regrow, it would give the credibility of your church a massive boost.’