The Constant Rabbit

Despite no evidence to corroborate this and quite a lot to refute it, the news was not strenuously challenged. Reports of people in plastic pig masks were also furiously denied, and it seemed that a series of unfortunate car breakdowns had blocked all access to the house, which meant that the fire brigade were late to the scene, and could only control a fire that was so fully ablaze that it even set fire to the house next door, despite there being a gap of forty yards. Corroboration from villagers as to the circumstances of the fire was limited as most people, it seemed, had been watching the season finale of Holby City and either didn’t know the fire had happened, or had seen it from a distance, or thought it was kids ‘mucking around with a bonfire’.

I wasn’t so annoyed about the factual discrepancies and the loss of my house, it was more that no one seemed to care. The Smugleftie reported it on page six, but with few facts to go on and the Rehoming filling most of the rabbit column inches, the attack on Hemlock Towers story was dead in under twenty-four hours.

My story, however, was emphatically not. Mr Ffoxe had been described as ‘a much-loved and respected civil servant and decorated war hero’ by The Daily Fencesitter, and ‘a fox of considerable drive and resolve who had tirelessly committed himself to species integration’ by The Actual Truth. The Briton went a step farther in describing him as ‘a true British patriot cruelly snatched from us by a lowly degenerate’, and ‘a tireless champion of rabbit causes’ was trumpeted by The Ludlow Bugle.

‘The Rehoming,’ said Nigel Smethwick in a speech at Mr Ffoxe’s memorial service, ‘will not be derailed by the tragic death of a good friend and loyal servant of the Crown, whose sole purpose was to assist rabbits in their quest to find a way to a joyous and workable homeland. In memory of Mr Ffoxe’s good work, we will be accelerating the MegaWarren project: rabbits will start being forcibly rehomed in a month’s time if they have not volunteered. Their level of compliance will dictate the level of force.’

I was driven across the road on the afternoon of the second day to make a brief appearance at Hereford magistrate’s court. There was a heavy police presence as the slaying of the Senior Group Leader had angered many people who were either partly or overtly leporiphobic. I think the least offensive chant I heard was ‘Poxie Knoxie’, but there were others, based mostly around the graffito previously sprayed on my garage door.

My plea of guilty to murder and a secondary charge of intimate association was entered and my hearing set for a month’s time in order to give an opportunity for both prosecution and defence to prepare arguments regarding sentencing. I had to go over the proceedings twice for Lance, who said we should try to get some rabbits on the jury, but I explained to him that since I’d already submitted a plea, there didn’t need to be a jury – and rabbits, not being human, were ineligible to serve anyway.

‘Yes, I get that,’ said Lance, ‘but I still think it would be a good idea. Can I yell “Objection”? I’ve always wanted to do that.’

‘Do you have anything to object to?’ I asked.

Lance thought for a moment.

‘The breakfast at the hotel this morning wasn’t very good.’

After an hour of paperwork I was driven to HMP Leominster in a small van with only one window high up and heavily tinted. I could see the top of articulated lorries, telegraph poles and bridges as we drove along, but not much else.

Once I had been processed again, given my kit and watched the prison’s theatrical society perform a short but amusing play about the best way to avoid being stabbed in the showers, the governor himself turned up.

‘Hello!’ he said in a jovial manner. ‘Quentin Pratts, the prison governor. You can call me “Guv”. Take it from me that all inmates here are treated with respect and dignity, and utterly without prejudgement. It’s Peter “Bunnyshagger” Knox, isn’t it?’

‘Just “Knox” will suit me fine, Guv.’

We walked off in the direction of the wings, a prison guard walking behind, but at a discreet distance.

‘I run a peaceful prison,’ said the governor, ‘and since your stay here was precipitated by a certain fondness for rabbits I have to ask if you feel you need to be segregated for your own safety?’

I had thought long and hard about this, and although it might be safer, I wasn’t too happy about the company I would have to keep. It was mostly bankers in the segregation block, talking fondly about collateralised debt obligations and credit default swaps. In a turnabout that no one expected after the 2008 crash, the second-largest group in prison after rabbits was now sociopathic investment bankers, corrupt representatives of ratings companies and dodgy corporate accountants.⁵⁹ It wasn’t company I relished. I’d take my chances on the wings.

‘No, sir.’