The Constant Rabbit Read online

  ‘No,’ I lied, ‘I’m just a junior accountant. I – ah – bring Mr Ffoxe his petty cash.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be a Spotter. You recognised me the first time in the library, although I think you were pretending you hadn’t.’

  She said it with her head cocked on one side, and staring intently into my eyes.

  ‘Junior accountant,’ I reaffirmed.

  ‘Well, someone has to do these jobs. Our beef is with head office, Nigel Smethwick and the Regional Fox, not rank-and-file officers trying to earn a crust to feed their families.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s good. Did you think it was wise,’ I continued, wanting to move on, ‘threatening Mr Ffoxe in that manner?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know, but if you let people – foxes, politicians, media outlets, platforms, whatever – get away with unacceptable behaviour, then it emboldens them and others to greater and more extreme conduct. Besides, he knew I wouldn’t have harmed him – I’d be killing my own if I took him out. No, I just wanted to make my feelings known.’

  ‘They’re an unlikely ally of humans,’ I said. ‘Before the Event we used to hunt them on horseback and shoot them on sight.’

  ‘It’s a shame you still don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s a your-enemy-is-my-enemy-you-must-be-my-friend deal. Now,’ she added, giving me a twirl there in the hall, ‘what do you think?’

  I didn’t know what she was referring to: her figure, her clothes, or even her general demeanour. They were all pretty much perfect. I stammered for a moment, and she helped me out.

  ‘It’s called Flopsy Chic by Stella Rabbit,’ she said, indicating the clothes. ‘Very in at the moment. A sort of Beatrix Potter juvenilia mixed with practicality, and of stretch fabric so bouncing is unencumbered.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ I said, still unsure why she was in my front hall, but very glad she was.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I came over here to ask a favour, but if this is a bad moment I can leave.’

  ‘N-no,’ I said, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I mean, no, it’s fine, really – I was just wondering what to do with myself for the evening. There’s always Casualty on the telly, but it’s not been the same since Brenda Fricker left.’

  ‘That was years ago,’ said Connie. ‘Have you really been watching it all that time hoping it will get better?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, maybe now and again. Please, come in.’

  I led her into the living room and she draped herself over the sofa.

  ‘Nice curtains,’ she said, stretching her toes out over the arm of the settee. ‘We don’t have carrot patterns on ours, by the by, that’s a myth. It would be like you having bacon sandwiches on yours.’

  We both sat in silence for a few moments.

  ‘You don’t mind me popping round, do you?’ she asked, blinking her large eyes. ‘I don’t have many friends in the area, rabbit or otherwise, and I always thought you and I got on well, y’know, back in the day.’

  There was a pause, and to fill the empty air I asked whether she’d like a drink.

  ‘Thought you’d never ask. Any dandelion brandy?’

  ‘A friend gave me some earlier today.’

  I poured two small measures, stopped, then made them larger.

  ‘Bobby said Doc was on assignment in the Middle East,’ I said over my shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘something regarding security but I didn’t ask. It’s best not to know in his line of work.’

  I told her I understood, and handed her the drink.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ I said.

  ‘Cottontails to the ceiling.’

  I sipped mine but hers went down in a single gulp.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘very good – maybe a little “kitteny” for me, but heigh-ho: are refills free in this house?’

  We both laughed even though it wasn’t funny, and I went and fetched her another.

  ‘So what’s this favour I can help you with, Connie?’

  She produced two scripts from her bag.

  ‘I’ve got an audition on Monday and was wondering if you could run some lines with me?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, and sat down beside her. ‘But I’m not an actor.’

  ‘We are all actors,’ said Connie. ‘Our true feelings and desires hidden behind masks carved from the trammels of accepted social norms. Wouldn’t you say so?’

  She didn’t wait for me to answer and instead passed me one of the scripts.

  ‘There’s no acting required. I just need someone upon whom to project, and to feed me my cue lines. This is the scene I want to run,’ she added, placing her warm paw on my hand and moving closer. ‘I’m a manipulative Lapin fatale who is trying to ensnare a social inferior in order that she can use him to murder her husband in a duel. I wrote it myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘a thriller?’

  ‘Domestic drama. We’re very social creatures, and the close proximity in which we live our lives has engendered a strong tradition of family drama. The last remake of The Flopsy Bunnies was three hours long and sort of like Neighbours, Amadeus and Fast & Furious all rolled into one.’

  ‘Sounds complex.’

  ‘Not to us. Our version of The Comedy of Errors has nine sets of identical sextuplets. It’s much funnier. Shakespeare really missed a trick on that one.’

  ‘Rabbit society seems quite full on.’

  ‘I’d agree with that. We like to enjoy the fruits not just of being rabbits, but being partly human, too.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Speech is super-useful, along with reason, free will and abstract thought. Appreciation of literature, music and the visual arts is also a winner. We especially like Barbara Hepworth and Preston Sturges’ films – plus anything with Jimmy Stewart or Dame Maggie Smith.’

  She sucked her lip and thought some more.

  ‘But there are drawbacks, too: the knowledge of one’s own demise is a bit of a downer, like a massive spoiler alert, and your spiteful sense of illogical hatred does take a little getting used to. It’s just all so, well, pointless – and such a waste of spirit, especially when you think what could be achieved with a little more unity and focus.’

  She fell silent for a few moments.

  ‘But oddly, hate’s counter-emotion does ameliorate the sense of waste. We had a serious amount of sex when we were rabbits – still do – but it brings everything to an all-new high when love is brought into the mix. It’s like – I don’t know – listening to a six-year-old attempting “A Spoonful of Sugar” on a kazoo for your entire life, then discovering Puccini.’

  ‘It’s a winner,’ I agreed, ‘but only if the object of that love loves you back.’

  ‘True,’ she said, ‘and we are often surprised when love strikes in a sometimes illogical and arbitrary fashion.’

  Her voice had been becoming gradually softer as she spoke. I shifted my weight on the sofa.

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ she said, staring intently into my eyes. ‘From the moment I first saw you I knew that we would be together, no matter how insane that was. That love would find a way. That love will always find a way.’

  I stared at her, not quite believing what I was hearing. I’d felt the same, too, all those years ago, and still felt it now. Had always felt it. And just as I was wondering how you kiss a rabbit – or even if you kiss a rabbit at all – she suddenly recomposed herself and said in an abrupt fashion: ‘Line.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s your line. In the script.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, and in something of a panic looked down and simply read the first line I could see.

  ‘I’ve been impregnated by your uncle,’ I said, ‘and it feels like it might be octuplets.’

  ‘I think we’ve missed a page,’ she murmured, taking my script and flipping back a leaf and tapping the first line. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘You’re very attractive,’ I
said, reading the script, ‘but this won’t work.’

  ‘Yes, you say that,’ she said, ‘but it can’t have escaped your attention that there has been something between us, something stronger than both of us – a mutual attraction that transcends the tiresome normalities of everyday life.’

  I didn’t say anything, and she blinked at me.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

  ‘Say whatever you feel,’ she whispered, closing her eyes and leaning forward.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I think your ink cartridge ran out.’

  I held up the script by way of explanation.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, looking flustered. ‘Kent must have been using the printer again. Drat that boy.’ She then added: ‘Is it hot in here?’

  ‘It is quite hot,’ I said.

  ‘Then you don’t mind if I remove my cardig …’

  She’d stopped speaking because there was a knock at the front door.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘It’s Doc.’

  ‘Isn’t he in the Middle East?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘then maybe Rupert.’

  ‘Isn’t that affair finished?’

  ‘No, no, not that Rupert. Another Rupert. He told Doc he’d keep an eye on me in case I was planning to initiate a spousal appropriation. How are you with a duelling pistol?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just my joke,’ she said. ‘Actually, since they’ve knocked on the door, they’re not likely to be a rabbit at all, are they?’

  ‘Unless,’ I said slowly, ‘they’re a rabbit pretending to be a human in order to put either you or me off guard?’

  ‘Good point,’ she said. ‘Do you have a cupboard in which I could hide?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes – hiding in cupboards from suspicious partners has a strong tradition in rabbit culture. Really, Peter, this is all totally normal.’

  I opened the broom cupboard, and then, after picking a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo out of her bag along with a torch, Connie stepped elegantly inside.

  ‘Oooh,’ she said, looking around, ‘you have a Henry vacuum cleaner. Any good?’

  ‘Very good. Not a word now.’

  She sat down on the Henry and opened the book, then flicked on the torch. I had the feeling that she might have done this before – many times.

  I walked through to the hallway and opened the front door. But it wasn’t a rabbit, or a rabbit pretending to be a human. It was a human: a Toby Mallett sort of human.

  Toby’s Torn T-shirt

  Traditionally, carrots were a treat, not a staple, and aside from garden raids and compost heaps, unknown to Wildstock before the Event. While they are harmless in small amounts, overindulgence can lead to issues very similar to alcoholism in humans.

  Toby had a lost and empty appearance about him. His T-shirt looked as if it had been pulled through brambles with him still inside as it was badly ripped and his torso was criss-crossed with scratches. His face was streaked with dried dirt, the mud in his blond hair made it look brown, and there was a large and very purple bruise on the side of his head which had partially closed his bloodshot left eye.

  ‘Toby?’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I have never been better,’ he said, holding on to the door frame to steady himself.

  ‘You don’t look it. How did you get that bruise?’

  ‘I walked into a tree,’ he replied unconvincingly.

  ‘And the scratches?’

  ‘A … thorny tree.’

  ‘You know everyone’s looking for you?’

  ‘I guessed they might be,’ he muttered. ‘Is Pippa in?’

  ‘She’s gone to the flicks.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, then: ‘Will you tell her that I’m sorry and that I’m not worthy? Despite strict RabCoT employment guidelines I’ve been a paid-up member of TwoLegsGood for the past seven years. I’ve hounded twenty-eight rabbits out of their houses and I am most definitely leporiphobic. I’ve also cheated on Pippa several times, usually with Arabella down at the pony club, but there were others.’

  None of this was hugely surprising, but it was important he’d been returned. For Toby, obviously, but more importantly, it meant Mr Ffoxe had no justification for initiating a crime sweep through Colony One – and that Bobby definitely had connections to the Underground. I asked Toby whether he wanted to come in and sit down.

  ‘Better not,’ he said, glancing at the Rabbits’ house next door. ‘I’ve got to go home and explain where I’ve been.’

  ‘And where have you been?’

  ‘Oh. Er … on a monumental two-day bender. And visiting my aunt. Nowhere near Colony One, if I knew where it was – which I don’t.’

  ‘Everyone knows where it is,’ I said. ‘It’s been there years.’

  ‘Has it?’ he said unconvincingly. ‘Just goes to show.’

  He looked around nervously and lowered his voice.

  ‘They know my every move. They have watchers. Even in the dark. Especially in the dark. It’s those carrots, you know. Will you tell Pippa it’s all over and I’m not worthy? It was one of the conditions of my release that I say that.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. What were the other conditions?’

  ‘That I resign from RabCoT, donate my worldly possessions to rabbit charities and then join a monastery and devote my life to prayer and silent contemplation.’

  ‘Very worthy,’ I said, not imagining for one minute that Toby was monk material.

  Relieved at this, he staggered back to his car, which was so muddy it looked as though it had been buried, abandoned, then dug up and hastily cleaned with a yard broom. He fumbled with the key and then fell over, so I walked across, hauled him to his feet, pushed him into the car and drove him the half-mile back to his home, a large Elizabethan half-timbered house, one of the finest in the village.

  I rang the doorbell while Toby sat dejectedly on the seat inside the porch. As soon as Mrs Mallett opened the door Toby went into a long and borderline coherent explanation of the ‘bender’ he had allegedly been on, interspersed with sobs and apologies and declarations of how much he’d missed them all, and how he was quitting the Compliance Taskforce and renouncing his membership of TwoLegsGood, even if that meant returning the funny hat and two-handled paddle used in his initiation.

  The second Mrs Mallett was clearly relieved her stepson had reappeared, but without a huge amount of enthusiasm. After a few moments Victor Mallett appeared and demanded to know where I’d found him. I explained what I knew, and he looked at Toby, the state he was in, then the state of his car.

  ‘Kidnapped by friends of yours?’ he demanded. ‘Those sodding rabbits?’

  ‘I don’t know anything more than what I’ve just told you.’

  Victor took a step forward. He was taller than me, a lot stronger and very intimidating.

  ‘If I ever find out you had a hand in his kidnapping, Knox,’ he said, ‘my revenge will be terrible. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I had nothing—’

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I understand you.’

  ‘Good.’

  And he slammed the door in my face. There was a pause, the door reopened, they bundled Toby inside, then slammed the door again. I waited for the door to reopen for the third time and then handed them Toby’s car keys.

  As soon as I got home I went immediately into the kitchen.

  ‘It was Toby,’ I said outside the cupboard door, ‘and he looks as though he’s been beaten up and held captive by rabbits before being released, probably because they found out he was with the Taskforce, and they didn’t want a colony crime sweep.’

  Connie didn’t answer.

  ‘What troubles me,’ I continued, ‘is that we mention to Bobby that Toby is missing and a member of the Taskforce, and she makes a phone call and all of a sudden he’s apologising to Pip and confessing he’d slept with Arabella from the pony club, and he looked frigh
tened. Really frightened.’

  I leaned closer to the cupboard door.

  ‘Is your family involved with the Underground?’

  I paused.

  ‘You’re not in there, are you?’

  I opened the cupboard door to find I was correct. Connie wasn’t there, and neither was the Alexandre Dumas novel, the torch – nor, oddly, the Henry vacuum cleaner. I shut the door, sighed, made myself some tea and sat at the kitchen table, wondering whether Harvey had a hand in Toby’s condition, whether he had been at the movies too – and whether they had even been going to the pictures at all. I reminded myself that Pippa was her own person then walked towards the living room, meaning to watch something – anything on the telly. I didn’t get that far as something in the hall caught my eye. Connie’s shoes were still parked where she’d left them near the grandfather clock. It had rained briefly that evening, and I knew that rabbits had a peculiar dislike for getting their paws wet.

  She was still in the house.

  I looked in the living room, then the utility room, where I could see Connie’s floral-pattern dress going round and round through the viewing port of the washing machine. Now more flustered, I checked the conservatory, my study and the dining room, but she was nowhere to be seen. I returned to the hallway, then heard the sound of the shower running upstairs.

  ‘Mrs Rabbit?’ I called up the stairwell. ‘Are you up there?’

  She didn’t answer, and instead I heard her singing in a rather lovely voice. I stood there for a moment, undecided as to what to do, but then told myself that this was my house, so I padded slowly up the stairs.

  The shower in use was the en suite in my bedroom, and the door was open. I could see her reflection in the mirror. With wet fur and discounting her tail and powerful thigh and calf muscles, she had a body that was almost identical to a human’s. I looked away, paused for a moment, looked back and then looked away again. If you can see a rabbit, they can see you.

  ‘Connie?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Peter,’ she sang out, seemingly unconcerned by my presence. ‘I didn’t know how long you were going to be so I took the opportunity to wash some things and have a shower – we can’t seem to get the hot water to work over in Hemlock Towers. You don’t mind, do you?’