The Constant Rabbit Page 4

  Whizelle, we figured, had been lucky to get away with only a scar.

  ‘Anyone fancy a cuppa?’ asked Whizelle, who understood the importance of office etiquette.

  ‘I’ll have one,’ said Toby.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  He made a ‘T’ sign to Flemming through the glass, who responded with a thumbs-up. Whizelle was about to go out, stopped, then said to me: ‘You on Ops with us today?’

  ‘So it appears.’

  ‘Good man.’

  And he wandered off.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Toby, ‘but look on the bright side: you’re good at rabbit-spotting so they won’t let you be compromised.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ I said, but I didn’t voice my real concern: being on Ops carried a risk. Not just of personal safety, but of seeing and witnessing stuff I didn’t really want to see and witness. If I’d had a mission statement for my employment at RabCoT, it would be: ‘Keep your head down, blend into the wallpaper and never, ever, go on Ops’.

  Spotters & Spotting

  Rabbits always had trouble differentiating between humans. Hair colour, skin colour, clothes, gait, jewellery and voice all helped, but a lot of it was guesswork. In tests, eighty-two per cent of rabbits couldn’t tell the difference between Brian Blessed and a gorilla, if dressed in similar clothes.

  Individual rabbit identification had always been an issue, right from the start. Fingerprints didn’t work as their paw-pads were hard and leathery, and DNA matching was pretty much useless as the rabbit gene pool was deplorably shallow. Mature bucks who’d been in several pistol duels could be recognised by the unique pattern of bullet holes in their ears – like an IBM punch card, as the joke went. But for the most part, juveniles, unduelled bucks and females looked pretty much identical. Any rabbit – of Wild or Labstock – who was detained by the police or Compliance Taskforce required a ‘no mingling’ protocol as, once they got mixed up, it was impossible to say which was which.

  But crucially, not all human eyes were blind to the complexities of rabbit physiognomy. Toby and myself and others – how many, it was never quite ascertained – possessed a gene anomaly that allowed us to differentiate between rabbits almost as well as rabbits themselves. As you’ve probably guessed by now, Toby and I weren’t lowly accountants within RabCoT, we were a fundamental part of the Taskforce machinery. We were officially titled ‘Rabbit Identification Operatives’ but internally at RabCoT we were simply known as Spotters. Oddly, the skill was often discovered late: I only realised I had the talent when I noticed that the rabbit playing opposite Patrick Stewart in Waiting for Godot was the same one I’d seen playing Buttons to Les Dennis’s Widow Twanky in 1982. Then, recalling an online advertising campaign that offered ‘Dazzling Career Opportunities’ for anyone who could tell rabbits apart, I contacted the Rabbit Compliance Taskforce, passed their rabbit comparison test and, following a rigorous background check to ensure I had ‘no unhealthily positive attitude towards rabbits’, my career changed from Post Office Local Sorting Office Manager (Parcels) to RabCoT Spotter within a fortnight. To be honest, I didn’t really want a job in Rabbit Compliance as I’d never been leporiphobic, but was swayed by the good pay and final-salary pension options. Most of all, the work had job security. I could spot rabbits for as long as rabbits needed spotting, which as far as anyone could tell was, well, for ever.

  So for eight hours a day, five days a week, Toby and I compared pictures of rabbits who for one reason or another – work, driving licence, detention, marriage, death, insurance claim, movement, prosecution, intelligence gathering – required confirmation of identity. For the most part it was fairly routine as rabbits either knew we were watching so didn’t trouble to swap identities or were inherently honest. But occasionally we came across a rabbit who claimed to be a rabbit they weren’t. Spotter slang dubbed them a Miffy.

  I logged in and started to work, the ‘target’ and ‘source’ pictures coming up in pairs on my screen. I allocated a percentage likelihood they were the same rabbit: one hundred per cent for a certain match, zero per cent for a certain non-match and everything in between. I was quite good at it. In testing I could spot a Miffy with ninety-two per cent accuracy, up from sixty-six per cent when I started. But it wasn’t an exact science. Any rabbit that got less than seventy-five per cent was referred to other Spotters and the scores aggregated using an algorithm to decide identity compliance.8

  ‘There you go,’ said Whizelle, who had returned with the teas. ‘Keep a close eye on the screens, lads, there’s been a lot of background chatter on Niffer, and while we’ve no idea what’s being said, the increased traffic might suggest something is going on, so remain vigilant.’

  We acknowledged the intel – and the teas – then resumed our work, which while seemingly easy, wasn’t totally straightforward. Of the eighteen rabbits elevated to humanness at the Event, there were three distinct sub-groups: Wildstock, Labstock and Petstock. Petstock were the simplest to identify with their varied markings, easy enough for even a layperson. The brown-furred generic Wildstock variety were much harder – and Labstock harder still as they were always white with red eyes. Comparing the capillaries in the Labstocks’ ears was a pet project of mine and had won me the Taskforce Adequate Conduct Award seven years previously along with a rare word of encouragement from the Senior Group Leader. Despite the benefits, Ear Capillary Identification had one major drawback: the subject usually needed a bright light behind them, which they almost never had.

  ‘Shit,’ said Toby, echoing my thoughts, ‘these Labstocks are a bitch to tell apart.’

  We continued working and for the next hour there was nothing but positive IDs, then a few around the fifty per cent mark. At a little after 11.30, I had my first Miffy of the day.

  ‘Bingo,’ I said as I stared at two pictures that were almost certainly not the same rabbit, ‘there’s a Petstock claiming to be one Randolph deBlackberry up in Berwick.’

  There had been three Petstock rabbits anthropomorphised at the Event, house pets named Hercules, Blackberry and Buttercup. Only the last two still had clear and uninterrupted bloodlines. The ‘Von Hercule’ family died out during the Great Petstock Dynastic Exchange of Discourtesies9 of 1980–88, and although several hundred carried the family’s notable black fur either wholly or in part, none carried the name. The deBlackberrys won the struggle for aristocratic dominance but it didn’t make them any more popular. Most Petstocks were greeted with suspicion by the Wild and Labstock members of the rabbit community – too cosy with humans in the past, it was said.

  The all-white McButtercups, for their part, generally kept themselves to themselves, the way they liked it.

  I gave the Miffy a four per cent, and Flemming asked Toby whether he concurred, which he did, so Flemming signed the warrant and Whizelle picked up the phone to coordinate the arrest of the rabbit on charges of identity fraud. Whizelle had done this before many times on my eye testimony, so the consequences of the unseen arrest and its aftermath were no longer something I worried too much about. The first month maybe, but not any more. Rabbits can be criminals too.

  The excitement over, Flemming returned to her office and Whizelle busied himself with the paperwork, of which there was a lot. I took a break and then, out of a sense of curiosity regarding Connie rather than because of Victor Mallett’s pleas, looked up ‘Clifford Rabbit’ on the RabCoT database. There were two thousand of them, so I narrowed it down to those off-colony and living in Herefordshire. This threw up three hits: one who was single, another who was currently doing time for ‘insider trading on collateralised carrot obligations’10 and one who lived in a temporary address for legal off-colony rabbits in Leominster. I discovered this last rabbit had been married almost exactly a year, and there she was: Constance Grace Iolanthe11 Rabbit, and I double-checked to make sure it was her by accessing her mugshot from the Rabbit Employment Database.

  Reading further I learned that she was two years older than me and sec
ond generation from the Event. She was a respectable eight short of the rabbit’s ten-child policy, and was twice widowed, which was not unusual. The buck rabbit’s propensity for duelling prior to the breeding season could often have fatal results.

  ‘What you got there?’ asked Whizelle, looking over from his desk. I explained that a rabbit had turned up in our village and I wanted to know who she was.

  ‘Local village?’ he asked.

  ‘Much Hemlock.’

  He grunted.

  ‘Multispecism never worked. Different agendas, you see. It’s not leporiphobic to say they dislike integration – it’s a fact. Does she have any previous you can use to move her on?’

  ‘She’s not resident in the village,’ I said, then to add plausibility to the data search added: ‘I was just making sure that she wasn’t, um – y’know, on a recce.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Whizelle, nodding in agreement, ‘one can never be too careful as far as rabbits are concerned.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Time for the briefing, Knox. Toby, you’ve got two hours’ overtime tonight to make up for Peter’s absence.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Toby happily, as the Guild of Spotters had negotiated double-time overtime, with generous no-supper-break penalties.

  ‘Flemming said you weren’t keen on going on Operations,’ said Whizelle as we walked down the stairs towards the briefing room, ‘and even got a bogus note from medical. Any particular reason?’

  Whizelle, like Flemming, spoke his mind.

  ‘I was on Ops the night Dylan Rabbit was misidentified,’ I said, attempting to gain some sort of sympathy, ‘two years ago. The Senior Group Leader’s last operation before promotion.’

  ‘The whole Dylan Rabbit episode was unfortunate,’ said Whizelle thoughtfully, I think meaning from a PR point of view and not from Dylan’s point of view, as he wound up jugged, ‘but to keep a high level of efficiency in Compliance there has to be a small amount of collateral damage. It’s inevitable. Besides, Dylan Rabbit was probably guilty of something – or would be, given time.’

  ‘The papers had a field day,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Whizelle, ‘the Smugleftie and Headlights12 had a field day. The others barely covered it. Besides, you weren’t lead Spotter. None of it came back to you.’

  This was true. I’d been there on the sidelines only to verify the ID. The fallout over Dylan Rabbit was at least big enough to have Smethwick answer questions in Parliament and required RabCoT to ‘seriously overhaul and thoroughly review their identification criteria’. This reached us as a single memo urging us to ‘show a bit more caution for a few months’ over identification. The thing was, I knew we’d got the wrong rabbit during the hard traffic stop and said so, but I’d been overruled. Not just by the Senior Spotter on duty who had retired once the mistake was made public, but by the Senior Group Leader, who threatened to ‘punch my f***ing lights out’ if I didn’t concur with the identification. And I did.

  ‘Identification is always a thorny problem,’ said Whizelle, opening the door to the briefing room, ‘and while the Rabbit Support Agency, Grand Council of Coneys and the rest of the woolly-liberal protest groups refuse to countenance RFI chipping or discreetly tattooed barcodes on the ears, we have to rely on Spotters who are only human and can and do make mistakes. Besides,’ he added, ‘if the perfidious bun didn’t pull a Miffy every now and again, none of this would happen. They’ve only themselves to blame.’

  Flemming was already there when he walked in the room. She was chatting amiably to five Compliance Officers. I knew them all by sight, but only three by name. Spotters regarded Compliance Officers as gung-ho thugs with only a badge and a union-appointed lawyer to separate them from TwoLegsGood, and COs regarded Spotters as overpaid milksops who had lucked out.

  They all introduced themselves to me at Whizelle’s behest, and they remained cordial, as did I, although I could see they were all deeply suspicious of my inclusion on the team. It wasn’t just the Fallen Arches exemption that had kept me off Ops. If you’re going to be part of a politically motivated team, you need a common goal, a common agreement, an understanding.

  Our new Intelligence Officer was already there, but wasn’t like any other Intel Officer we’d had, either permanent or loaned.

  This one was a rabbit.

  Fudds and Flopsies

  ‘Fudd’ – as in ‘Elmer Fudd’ – was the usual pejorative rabbit term for a human. There were also: Pinko, Fleshy, Homo, Bingo and Rupert. There were others in Rabbity, too, usually reproductive slurs regarding evolutionarily disadvantageous rates of ovulation and shockingly low litter sizes.

  The new rabbit Intelligence Officer had a startled look which made it appear that he’d been caught in car headlamps some time in the seventies and was still suffering the trauma. He would have been Labstock owing to his white fur which looked matted and ill-kempt, and he was dressed in an embroidered waistcoat covered by a long duster jacket that had been patched several times with brown corduroy. Rabbits abhorred waste and would often use an item of clothing until it fell off them.

  More shockingly, when he removed his battered brown derby hat, there were only two healed-over stumps where his long ears would have sprouted from his head. He’d been, in rabbit terminology, ‘cropped’. His fellow rabbits had meted out the worst possible punishment for his unknown and presumably heinous crime and banished him from the rabbithood. Most rabbits took the honourable way out and dug themselves a lonely burrow in which to expire – but a few, consumed by humiliation and loss, wandered the country as outcasts, attempting to find absolution in any way they could. Some, like this one, flipped to the other side, knowing they could not be hated any more than they were already, but still knowing they would have to wear the burden of their sins for all to see, every day, for ever.

  ‘A rabbit without ears,’ a rabbit would say, ‘is less of a rabbit than nothing.’

  One of the officers might have stared for longer than was polite, for the earless rabbit said in a low and unusually threatening growl: ‘What are you staring at, Fudd?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the officer.

  ‘This is Agent Douglas AY-002,’ said Flemming, introducing the cropped rabbit warmly and to low gasps of recognition from the room, ‘vouched for by the Senior Group Leader, no less, and transferred from the Swindon office. Treat him as you would a human,’ she added, enthused by having a rabbit onside against the rabbit, ‘his record is exemplary, his dislike of rabbits well known.’

  I too had heard of this rabbit before, though I had not met him. All rabbits who had turned against their own were cropped, but that wasn’t in itself enough. To be fully trusted, rabbits in the employ of the Taskforce would be expected to demonstrate their anti-rabbit credentials, and in this respect AY-002’s reputation preceded him. It was said his usual method for extracting intelligence from any recalcitrant brethren was via a hammer – varying sizes, from toffee all the way up to claw, to match levels of coercion.

  ‘Agent Whizelle,’ said Whizelle, introducing himself, ‘Intel, Identity Fraud. We met at the interrogation training weekend last year. I enjoyed your talk immensely – the one where you expounded on your “tie the suspect into a hessian sack and beat them with sticks” technique for extracting information.’

  ‘Morris dancer’s sticks,’ corrected Douglas. ‘It’s an important point, and I thank you. I thought your talk with the Senior Group Leader about the MegaWarren project saving upwards of a hundred million a year by bringing all five colonies together was particularly enlightening, and not before time.’

  ‘Kind,’ said Whizelle, ‘very kind.’

  ‘This is Peter Knox,’ said Flemming, beckoning me over, ‘our Spotter today.’

  Douglas AY-002 gazed at me suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve seen your file,’ he said after a pause. ‘They say you’re talented, but hobbled by an unwarranted sense of fair play.’

  ‘I think it’s important to play the safe game,’ I managed to mumble, ‘to stop
RabCoT making a fool of itself.’

  He stared at me for a moment.

  ‘Is that all it is?’

  ‘That’s all it is.’

  He paused again, then clasped my one hand in his two paws, the traditional human/rabbit greeting, as handshakes were tricky to accomplish without thumbs.

  ‘I won’t let you down, Mr AY-002.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said the earless rabbit, ‘and you can call me Lugless; every other Fudd does.’

  ‘I’d be happy to call you anything you want,’ I said, trying to be accommodating.

  ‘And I’d be happy if you didn’t speak to me at all,’ said Lugless, ‘but I have a feeling I’m going to be disappointed. The Senior Group Leader told me to report directly to him if you get pointlessly sentimental over our little furry friends.’

  ‘Lugless is a straight talker,’ said Flemming in the awkward silence that followed. ‘Agent AY-002, let me introduce you to the rest of team.’

  ‘You come highly recommended,’ said Sergeant Boscombe as they shook hand/paws. ‘Your kind loathe you.’

  ‘They aren’t my kind,’ said Lugless in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They took everything from me and I owe them nothing.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ said Boscombe, and introduced the others. Lugless greeted them all in a distant yet businesslike manner, but didn’t direct any terse words towards any of the others. I had the sudden worrying realisation that I was on Operations today to be tested. If my loyalty to the department remained in question, I was probably finished, in spite of my skill at spotting.