The Constant Rabbit

He handed me a pistol that was beautifully made, all wood and brass and blued steel with a crocodile inlaid in silver on the butt. It was surprisingly heavy, but quite well balanced. I’d shot a .22 target pistol at school, and had won several prizes.

‘A handy last-resort close-combat weapon,’ he said. ‘Takes a whopping three-quarter-inch ball. With a double charge of powder, a round can go clean through two people and then at least as far as “plumbers” in the Yellow Pages. They’re my family’s old duelling pistols, but I took them with me – so they’ve seen action in combat.’

He grinned, retrieved the pistol and placed it carefully back in the box. Despite the mildly threatening tone engendered by showing me the pistols and his warning earlier, I was intrigued, as duelling was a part of rabbit culture that was rarely talked about.

‘Have you used them?’ I asked.

‘More times than I would have liked,’ he replied, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen, where we could hear Connie singing softly to herself. ‘Nothing of any value was ever easily gained. I’ve had a few losses, too, mind.’

‘How can you lose a duel and not be dead?’ I asked.

He pointed to the neat bullet holes in his ears which I’d noticed when we’d met the day they arrived. There were about nine obvious holes, then others partially hidden by fur and several more which were more like nicks off the top and sides – and might easily have been mistaken for general wear and tear. There was one very near the base of his left ear, too – two inches lower and he would have been dead.

‘Closest to the head wins the bout,’ he said, ‘and a miss is a lose. Some serial rabbit Lotharios have ears like Swiss cheese, but if your aim is too low you might kill someone by accident – and that would entail a heavy financial penalty for the family. Did you know the biggest cause of male rabbit bankruptcy is accidental rabbitslaughter during a duel?’

‘I did not know that.’

‘You know it now. My goodness,’ he added, ‘I’m being a terrible host.’

He moved in a single bounce to the drinks trolley, narrowly missing the light fitting as he sailed elegantly through the room. ‘Fancy a snifter?’

‘Whisky if you have it.’

‘Never touch the stuff. Have you tried dandelion brandy? Distilled from root. Makes you piss like billy-o and has the kick of a mule.’

I read something that described dandelion brandy as ‘the diabolical three-way love child of methanol, crack cocaine and U-Boat fuel’. I’d been warned never to even go near the stuff, let alone drink it. So I said, without so much as a pause:

‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’

Major Rabbit poured me a large measure of an oily liquid that had a vague pink sheen and smelled of rose petals. He then poured one for himself and another for Connie, who had just returned.

‘Here’s to new friends,’ said Connie.

‘New friends,’ replied Doc and I together.

The brandy tasted of cough mixture mixed with summer harvest, bilberries and sweetened paint thinners. It slid down the throat easily and apparently without ill effect. Then, like a volcanic caldera that had been rumbling to itself for several millennia and suddenly chose an inopportune moment to erupt, the brandy kicked into life. The colour in my vision shifted from red to green with a sound like crinkly cellophane and I felt the sweat suddenly stand out on my forehead. A warmth coursed through my body as though I’d been given a blood transfusion with hot chocolate, I suddenly felt exceptionally amorous both mentally and physically, and the image of Helena, Pippa’s mum, popped into my head – but not when we were married or just before I lost her, but just after we’d met and couldn’t keep our hands off one another.

‘Wow,’ I said, to the evident amusement of Doc and Connie, ‘any more?’

‘Steady, tiger,’ said Doc with a smile, ‘best enjoyed in small amounts.’

‘We distil it in the basement,’ added Mrs Rabbit, ‘but not a word to Customs & Excise. They want to slap a tariff on it to match that on cognac. Shall we sit down?’

The table was laid in the large dining room next door, the dark oak panelling hung with paintings of Connie and Doc’s relations, each portrait looking pretty much the same as the next, with only variations of costume to give an idea of gender or age. The furniture was old, dark and well used; I guessed the house came furnished. The children were already seated, and politely stood up as we walked in.

‘These are our two wonderful children,’ said Connie, beaming. She indicated the male first. ‘This is Kent.’

Kent was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt which featured Patrick Finkle and the Rabbit Support Agency motto All Life is One. His two-paw squeeze was a bit lacklustre, and his fur felt stiffer than Doc or Connie’s. It would not have surprised me to learn that he used gel.

‘Good evening, Mr Knox,’ he said politely, yet with a certain degree of teenage reluctance.

‘Hello, Kent,’ I said, trying not to sound a little patronising and failing.