The Constant Rabbit

‘Good afternoon,’ I replied genially. ‘I see you have our furry friends¹⁹ as volunteers.’

Although the rabbit religion had no issue with where and when you worshipped, nor who, it was still unusual to see them in a church, probably because churches were as far from a cosy moss-and-fur-lined warren as you were likely to get.

‘Yes indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Saint Mary’s is a church that accepts everyone through its doors, irrespective of taxonomic classification.’

I wasn’t going to get any closer to the Labstock without conversing at least a little to allay suspicion, and the Labstock did not seem to be in a hurry to leave.

‘Back home in Harrogate where I come from as I am a Yorkshireman, we have no rabbits,’ I said. ‘What is the Church’s view?’

The vicar nodded his head thoughtfully.

‘The Church’s opinion is divided. Although we here on the ground consider rabbits as just one of many of God’s blessed creatures, the official line is that they are a lower animal, and when they arrived they were viewed as an abomination – the sinful product of a satanic union. When that was disproved from the DNA evidence, our stance softened. I think the problem is that while humanlike, they are not actually humanful, and according to scripture and teaching, mankind was made in His image, as they were in their Grand Matriarch Lago’s. Church policy is that we don’t allow them to participate in church matters but we will not exclude them from our house – so long as there is no crunching of lettuces from the pews and pellets are kept to an absolute minimum.’

He paused for thought, then recited his next comment as though learned from a crib sheet.

‘We must love all God’s creatures, but allow change and acceptance to happen slowly and at a pace commensurate with acceptable norms and customs.’

‘I see,’ I said, and after making some excuse about wanting to view some particularly fine statuary, moved towards where the Labstock was still dusting. If he knew I was from the Taskforce he made no sign of it, and even nodded a greeting. But of distinguishing marks on his coat or whiskers or eyes – there was nothing.

‘With you in five, Knox,’ came Lugless’s voice in my ear. ‘Confirm to me suspect still in church.’

I tapped the microphone twice on my wrist, and stared with feigned interest at the impressive array of tombs, glad that the other agents would take the burden of action from me. I had done a fair job, and should not be poorly thought of. My career might very well still be secure.

I heard the doors to the church open on both sides, and turned, expecting to see the agents arrive. But it wasn’t them, it was more rabbits – and all of them Labstock. Nine all told, and they hastily grabbed volunteer tabards that the vicar was handing out. Within a few minutes they would all be hopelessly mingled. I looked across at the target Labstock, who was staring back at me with a smile on his placid features. He was definitely the one we were after, and once the other Labstocks had moved in and around him, I would have no way of pointing him out, or even finding out who he was.

But I was wrong, for at that moment the sun came out, and shone through the church window, transfixing Flopsy 7770 in a shaft of white light that perfectly illuminated his ears. There, on his left, about two-thirds of the way up, was a unique pattern of capillaries that looked like a squashed Tudor rose.

I didn’t have time to make comment as the influx of bustling Labstock church volunteers gathered in a clump around us, moving and whirling and mixing so that within a short space of time I had no idea who was who. I was impressed. 7770 had been smarter, and quicker, and one step ahead of Lugless. There was definitely a Rabbit Underground, and the Labstock – whoever he was – had been part of it. And if I saw him again I’d know exactly who he was.

So long as he had a bright light behind him.

Griswold & Gossip

Because of their dislike of obsolescence, rabbits only chose domestic appliances that would last a minimum of half a century. Dualit toasters were favoured, as were Hoovermatic washing machines, vintage Kenwood Chef food mixers, seventies push-button phones, treadle sewing machines and large-format cameras. They loved wet-chemistry photography; the older the process the better.

‘How was work?’ asked Pippa when I got home after the debriefing. Even to my own daughter I had always maintained I was a low-level payroll accountant. I told someone I was a Spotter once, and there had been consequences. I didn’t want that again.