The Constant Rabbit Page 31

  He then leaned closer to me and said in a quiet voice:

  ‘Off the record, sir, but if I were you I’d turn around and go back where you came from. Don’t look back, don’t hesitate, don’t stop until you are back safe with your family.’

  ‘I don’t have any family. Not out here, anyway.’

  ‘Then I suggest you find some. What’s in the box?’

  I looked down at the cardboard box Lance had given me.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He took it off me and then gave it to an officer who opened it, had a look and then resealed it and returned it to me.

  I stood there until the car arrived, a military four-by-four with two armed men in the back who looked like Special Forces, or how I imagine Special Forces to look – draped with weapons as a Christmas tree is draped with tinsel. But they weren’t moody or philosophical, they actually sounded quite chirpy.

  ‘It’s Peter Knox, isn’t it?’ said the first, indicating my hands. The dressings had been off for a week, but the skin was still pink and the scars, stitched up finely at A&E, looked like thin red zippers.

  ‘That’s me,’ I replied.

  ‘Outfoxed the fox, I heard,’ said the second. ‘Hats off to you. What’s in the box?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I turned to look back at the checkpoint we’d just left, and noticed that the police were hurriedly withdrawing to their vehicles and the military were moving in to take their place. I could see where several tanks had just fired up their engines, as large clouds of black smoke erupted from where they were parked.

  ‘We’re go for Operation Cottontail,’ said the first soldier, who had been listening to his earpiece.

  ‘Cottontail?’ I asked.

  ‘Forcible Rehoming,’ said the soldier, and gave me a wink.

  ‘In what?’ I said, looking around as we drove into the large car park outside the main entrance to Colony One. There wasn’t a bus in sight. Not up here, not farther down the road. With a shudder, I realised that there wasn’t going to be a Rehoming, and that had never been part of the plan. I felt a sudden chill, even though the evening was warm.

  The four-by-four pulled up beside more armoured vehicles – personnel carriers this time, manned by foxes – and, more ominously, several bulldozers. I was escorted towards a massive tent with Forward Operations Post written on a sign outside. As we walked, I could see more civilians and police officers getting into their cars to leave, while just behind the forward OP there seemed to be a junior officer throwing papers on to a fire inside an oil drum. I was escorted into the tent, the cardboard box Lance had given me was checked and returned to me again, and I was told to wait. I took the opportunity to look around. There was a large map on the wall of Colony One with an overlay of the warrens beneath the ground, so far as they were known. In a small gaggle I could see Nigel Smethwick talking to several foxes and a few high-ranking military officers. The fox who seemed to be in charge looked across at me, then beckoned me to approach.

  ‘Jocaminca fforkes,’ she said, shaking my hand. ‘Your outfoxing skills compel me to grant you the smallest amount of respect.’

  To me, there wasn’t much physical difference between her and Mr Ffoxe – shorter by an inch, perhaps, and a little redder. In a helpful nod to assist in gender identification, vixens wore a flower behind their ear that I could have sworn was identical to the ones you could buy in Claire’s Accessories for under a pound.

  ‘You dodged justice this time,’ said Smethwick, ‘but this isn’t over by a mile. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was asked to be here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To help out, I think.’

  Ms fforkes and Smethwick looked at one another.

  ‘You can try and help out,’ said Smethwick with an unpleasant smile, ‘but if you go in there and it all kicks off, you – along with all the other humans inside – will be deemed to be unlawful combatants in that you offered material support to an illegal insurrection, where extreme violence was perpetrated upon a taskforce eager only to assist in a legal Rehoming.’

  ‘You’re going to kill them all, aren’t you?’ I said, with a surprising amount of bravado. ‘All one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’

  ‘We’d so hate to do that,’ said Ms fforkes without an atom of sincerity, ‘but once Colony One has fallen, the other four will soon fall into line. Rabbits are like naughty children, Mr Knox, and occasionally need to be punished. MegaWarren is a social and economical win-win for all concerned, and it will be implemented.’

  ‘Dear Jocaminca can be a little fearsome at times,’ said Smethwick. ‘Policing actions like these can be very confusing to the man in the street, and although the UK’s citizenry is generally on our side, public opinion can be a fickle beast. Do you think you can get the rabbits to return to the negotiating table?’

  From what I’d learned about rabbits over the past two months, the answer was a resounding no. But I wanted to get in there, and this seemed as good a way as any. I was kind of flattered, too, that he thought I might somehow be a player.

  ‘I can give it my best shot.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Smethwick, passing me his card. ‘If I’ve not had a call from you by twenty hundred hours then I’ll hand over control to the foxes. I am sure you can appreciate what this means, given that foxes have a historically loose relationship with the concept of restraint.’

  He patted me on the shoulder, then tapped the cardboard box I was carrying.

  ‘What’s in the box?’

  ‘Something for the rabbit, I think.’

  He beckoned over a Taskforce officer, who removed the box to a small table, had a look inside, resealed it and then brought it back.

  ‘So,’ said Ms fforkes as she walked me across the open area in front of the main gates, ‘what exactly was Torquil Ffoxe doing in the Rabbits’ house that evening?’

  A single sentry was guarding the twin gates of the imposing main entrance, but the admin buildings either side were dark and empty. I checked my watch. It was just past six. There were two hours to go until Operation Cottontail began.

  ‘He thought Constance Rabbit was involved with the Underground and would know of the Bunty’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘We’ll have the VB in custody by dawn,’ said Ms fforkes, ‘you have my word on that.’

  ‘You’ll never catch her,’ I said, ‘she’s been three steps ahead of you every time. I didn’t outfox the fox, she did – and she’ll do it again. Your days are numbered, just like Mr Ffoxe’s. And you know what? You’ll never see it coming.’

  For a fleeting instant, somewhere deep beneath the brash confidence of a well-evolved carnivore, I saw a glimmer of doubt cross Ms fforkes’ features. A sense of … mortality.

  ‘Balls,’ she said, her confidence swiftly returning. ‘Do what you can to bring about peace. The attack would be a lot of fun, and the per capita death payments would make all of us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams – but in the broader picture, a culling benefits no one.’

  ‘That’s an oddly charitable viewpoint for a fox.’

  ‘Not at all. A culling in Colony One will only strengthen the rabbit’s resolve in the other colonies, not weaken it. So we’ll have to kill them, too. And if this all goes to Smethwick’s plan and we cull the lot, do you really think that humans will welcome us into their society and offer us a cosy retirement package? No. We’ve only been invited to top table to do the dirty work, and if things go tits-up – which they eventually will – there is a convenient bogeyman at which to point the finger. Human guilt, as always, will be abrogated to foxes, or circumstance, and eventually to history.’

  ‘Is that really Smethwick’s plan?’ I asked. ‘To eradicate them all?’

  ‘If the Rehoming doesn’t work out and there’s a general strike, then yes. But listen,’ she continued, ‘I like to kill rabbits as much as the next fox, but compliance rather th
an eradication is the winning business model for us. So oddly, yes, I want you to try and achieve a peace. You’ve got two hours. Good evening, Mr Knox.’

  After checking through a peephole, the guard threw the bolt and opened the small wicket door set into one of the large double gates. I took a deep breath, paused for a moment and stepped for the first time into Colony One.

  Endgame

  It was dubbed ‘a battle’ to make it sound as though the opponents had been equally powerful and that there had been some sense of doubt over the outcome. A more realistic word would have been ‘slaughter’ had the engagement gone the way it had been intended.

  But it didn’t.

  I paused inside the gate, suddenly aware that I had stepped into a world that until recently had been closed to me. I still felt a stranger, and knew I could never belong, but I also knew that somewhere close by would be Connie and Pippa, and that I was not alone.

  I looked around, expecting to see a massed group of rabbits or something, all armed with whatever was to hand, but there was nobody. The area between the first gates and the second, a place usually reserved for where articulated lorries brought components in and trucked completed goods out, was deserted. I walked towards the second set of gates, which I noticed were ajar.

  ‘Hello?’ I said as I put my head around the door. There didn’t seem to be anyone around so I stepped inside. To my left and right were the call centres and factories, and straight on was a single thoroughfare that led on to rows and rows of allotments under which there would be a network of tunnels. Beyond this the ground rose to the top of May Hill itself, where a circular grove of trees punctuated the skyline. On the air was the heady scent of meadowfield stew, and on the breeze I could hear the distant strains of jazz.

  ‘Is that Peter Knox?’ came Doc’s voice from somewhere close at hand. ‘Your shape and walk give me only a 42% cenrtainty.’

  I said that I was indeed Peter and he stepped out of the shadows.

  I smiled, but instead of shaking hands/paws, he gave me a hug.

  ‘You got out of Hemlock Towers, then,’ I said.

  ‘Singed a few whiskers when I went back for the Kyffin Williams painting in the downstairs loo,’ he said. ‘Nearly forgot. What a twit. But otherwise no ill effects. I heard they took your thumbs?’

  I showed him my hands.

  ‘That’s what comes of playing with scissors,’ he said, grinning broadly.

  ‘Is Pippa here?’ I asked.

  ‘Safe and well. We followed your court case on the wireless. Lance deBlackberry has quite a mind, hasn’t he?’

  ‘The best. He said you wanted my help.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Follow me, and bring the box.’

  We walked towards the Lago meeting house.

  ‘When are they planning on attacking?’ asked Doc.

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, we heard the same. So long as they attack first and we are defending ourselves, then everything is fair game.’

  He flicked his incisors with a claw and they pinged like expensive porcelain.

  ‘They have guns,’ I said, ‘big ones.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘None of us have high expectations of the outcome, although that’s not to say Constance and the Venerable Bunty don’t have a few ideas up their sleeves. Smarter rabbits than I, those two. Which reminds me,’ he said, ‘there is still the question of our duel. Constance said it was OK, so do you want to challenge me, or shall I challenge you? It’s traditional as the appropriating husband for you to do it, but I’m flexible.’

  ‘Is this really the time and place?’ I asked. ‘Besides, nothing happened.’

  ‘Even if it didn’t,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I’ve seen you look at each other in that way. You think it might be doing no harm, but when you’ve lusted after bacon and eggs, my friend, you’ve already committed breakfast in your soul.’

  ‘That’s amusingly deep.’

  ‘It was C.S. Lewis,’ mused Doc. ‘Terrific writer but for one thing: did you know there’s not a single talking rabbit in all of the Narnia series? He didn’t think we were deserving enough, clearly. And don’t get me started on Gus Honeybun or the Duracell Bunny: demeaning stereotypes and patronising beyond belief. Br’er Rabbit and Bugs Bunny are about the closest you’ll get to a genuine rabbit, although in film and theatre, Harvey is the gold standard. Just the right mix of compassion, erudition and insouciance.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said, glad that, for the moment at least, the subject of duels seemed to have slipped his mind. ‘What about Roger Rabbit?’

  ‘My uncle? Runs a hookah den in Ross that specialises in readings of Voltaire.’

  ‘No, I meant the film.’

  ‘Ah – the jury’s still out on that one. Rabbit psychologists hold entire conferences based on him, and we still have no idea what he saw in Jessica. So, do you have a duelling pistol, or do you want to borrow my spare?’

  ‘It’s less than two hours before you get hit with every fox RabCoT can muster, backed up by thousands of Compliance Officers and the British Army,’ I said. ‘Is this really the time to be duelling?’

  ‘Mais oui, my little furless friend. You’re in love with my wife so it’s about you and me making this right. Don’t be afraid, I’m an excellent shot: you fire, you miss really badly, I fire, I miss by a hair. Honour is restored, simple. Here.’

  He opened his jacket to reveal his duelling pistols, both stuffed inside his belt.

  ‘Loaded,’ he said, ‘and since it’s my challenge, you get to choose.’

  I looked at the pistols. One had a silver crocodile on the handle, and the other a mother-of-pearl rabbit elegantly set into the stock. The gun with the bun has the aim that is lame, but the shot’ll hit the spot if you’ve a croc on the stock. If I hadn’t been a good shot myself, all of this would have been academic. But I’d won prizes at school with a .22 pistol, and once represented the county and got a bronze.

  ‘Is this why you wanted me in Colony One?’ I asked.

  ‘Unfinished business,’ he said, ‘so yes, partly.’

  He was right in that I was in love with Connie. I think I always had been, and I think she felt the same. But she was a warrior and so was Doc – fearless and focused, utterly committed to the cause. They belonged with each other. But Doc was a good rabbit, and I would have to go through with this for the sake of his honour, so I chose the gun with the bun, the aim that was lame. If I was about to lose a duel, I needed Doc’s marksmanship to be as good as possible.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, realising that to win a rabbit duel one has to hit the opponent’s ears without actually killing them, ‘I’ve got no ears – well, none to speak of.’

  ‘I thought of that,’ said Doc, handing me a folded chef’s hat from his jacket pocket.

  ‘If it’s OK with you,’ he said, quite enthused by the idea of a duel, ‘we’ll dispense with the foggy heath at dawn and just get on with it. Twenty paces sound all right?’

  I put on the chef’s hat and we stood back to back, paced off and then turned to face one another. A .22 pistol has very little kick, but a duelling pistol – which I’d never fired – would be loaded with heavy ball, and the kick would make the shot run high. Plus I had the gun whose aim was lame. I couldn’t possibly hit him.

  ‘You first!’ yelled Doc, holding his pistol at his side. He was almost in silhouette, his ears tall and erect, his stomach quite large.

  I pulled back the hammer, aimed just above Doc’s head and fired. The muzzle of the pistol erupted in a ball of fire but, annoyingly, the charge was weaker than I expected and my aim not as errant as I’d thought. I saw a nick appear in the very top of Doc’s right ear where the ball just caught it.

  ‘Good shot, sir!’ cried Doc. ‘My turn.’

  I held my breath as he pointed the pistol in my direction, then, at the very last moment, he pointed it to the left of me, and fired. The ball thudded harmlessly into the door frame of a shop that sold second-hand hookahs.
He lowered the pistol and smiled.

  ‘Honour is restored,’ he said. ‘Connie is yours. Pick up your cardboard box and let’s get you to the meeting house. We have some vital work we need you to undertake.’

  I ran to catch up with him as he strode off.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I said. ‘You deliberately shot wide.’

  ‘I most certainly did not,’ he said in a shocked tone, ‘and to suggest I had would impugn my good name. Besides,’ he added, ‘I volunteered to lead first wave against the attack this evening and it will all end for me tonight. Some of us won’t get to go home.’

  He stopped and turned to look at me.

  ‘There are unsuitable bucks about, and I’d rather you and she had a chance. I know she loves you, always has, and she’ll want you to go home with her. She’d like that, and I’d like it too, knowing she was in good hands.’

  He put out his paw and I passed back the pistol.

  ‘I worked at the Taskforce for fifteen years,’ I said. ‘I enabled their appalling work. I’m not a good person.’

  ‘But you proved that you can be,’ said Doc, ‘and that’s what’s important. You took the heat off Constance, and a thousand rabbits were spared. You’re repaired, Peter. Not everyone gets that. Count yourself fortunate.’

  We had reached the door of the circular Lago meeting house.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘this is where we need your help.’

  ‘You want me to address the Grand Council of Coneys?’ I said. ‘And try and broker some sort of eleventh-hour deal? I can take offers back and forth to Smethwick, and even, perhaps, have a few ideas of my own.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ he said, finding my comments somehow amusing. ‘Better rabbits than you have tried and failed on that score. You’re not here to help us, rescue us, lead us to freedom or otherwise give us the benefit of your wisdom. We’re not going to see any hoary old “Hominid Saviour” bullshit this evening, thank you very much – we’ve got troubles of our own.’

  ‘Then what am I here to do?’

  Doc opened the meeting-house door to reveal a large room with about two hundred rabbits inside, all either elderly, young or infirm. There was also a smattering of humans, but Pippa was not amongst them. The tables were arranged seven long in five rows, and in the centre of each table was a huge pile of sliced bread. On the table in front of each workstation were tubs of dandelion-oil margarine, and the air was full of gossip in English and Rabbity.