The Constant Rabbit

‘What about the Spick & Span awards?’ I said, suddenly having a brainwave. ‘The judges are due any day now, and a thuggy TwoLegsGood presence in the village wouldn’t look very good.’

It was a good argument, but Norman, always apt to weigh arguments carefully, eventually remarked after a long pause:

‘We can win the Spick & Span award next year or even the year after,’ he said, ‘depending on how damaged the wisteria and planters are in the town square. But if the village is overrun with rabbits, it’ll never be ours.’

Toby and I said nothing, so he continued, this time his voice more threatening.

‘You get one more chance to buy them out, Knox, then we go to TwoLegsGood. Rabxit is happening – no ifs or buts – and in whatever fashion we deem necessary. Be smart and do a good job with the bunnies. Forty grand is our final offer, but come in under that figure and we’ll give you ten per cent. You can drop me here and I’ll walk home.’

I stopped the car, let him out and we drove to Hereford in silence, arriving at RabCoT half an hour later. We picked up a coffee each from the canteen, then wandered up to the office and started work: Toby on his usual work-a-day spotting, and me trying to find our rogue Labstock 7770. Flemming said little to either of us when she got into the office, being busy, apparently, with an open day planned at the MegaWarren building site next week, and Lugless and Whizelle turned up at ten. Whizelle sat down at his desk and occupied himself with the endless form fillery that was part and parcel of Rabbit Compliance, but Lugless walked over to me.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asked. He seemed almost amiable, which immediately made me suspicious.

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Keep at it,’ he said, then: ‘Oh, I reviewed those Labstock names you submitted to Mr Ffoxe last night and made a few changes.’

I suddenly came over all cold.

‘Changes? What sort of changes?’

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, knowing I would, ‘but none of the ones you suggested were remotely suitable to be used as an example of what happens when you piss around with the Taskforce. Half of those rabbits haven’t been seen at all for over three years, and are probably unregistered dead – and the other half haven’t been off-colony for six months. No, I went for four who were happily living here in the city and would be easier to pick up for questioning. They’re in the cells downstairs at the moment. They won’t have anything to tell us, but we’ll have a go nonetheless. The message to the Underground and to the rabbit at large will be abundantly clear.’

I stared at him coldly.

‘But don’t worry,’ added Lugless with a grin, ‘I won’t steal your thunder – I made sure your name was still on the memo. Here.’

And he placed the new list in front of me, patted me on the shoulder and went back to his desk. I stared at the small group of Labstock that Lugless had chosen. The only name I recognised was Fenton DG-6721, who was the prominent charity organiser. The DG-6721s were the largest group in the Labstock community. Their ancestor had been used to study the effect of unsaturated fat on the liver prior to the 1965 anthropomorphising. A troubled pre-Event life had left all Labstocks with an indelibly etched propensity to devote themselves to the service of others. While I sat there, feeling hollow and sick, Whizelle looked up from his computer.

‘Do you want to prepare a report on your dinner at Major and Mrs Rabbit’s last night,’ he asked, ‘or go for a verbal debrief?’

‘You know about that?’ I asked with dismay. I had achieved relevance at RabCoT, but not the way I’d hoped.

‘There’s not much we don’t know,’ said Whizelle in a smug manner, ‘so what about that report?’

‘I’m still getting to know them,’ I said, not wanting to talk to anyone about anything, ‘there’s nothing to report.’

‘You should know that Constance Rabbit is flagged,’ put in Lugless. I turned to face him. He had his rear paws up on the desk and was idly using the eraser end of a pencil to extract an ear-bogey. He stared at the jammy brown object for a moment, then ate it. Toby and I looked at one another. Rabbits have very few objectionable habits, but eating their ear-bogeys was definitely one of them.

‘Flagged?’ I echoed.

‘Yup,’ said Whizelle, ‘as someone ripe for radicalisation by the Rabbit Underground. The Dylan Rabbit connection kind of makes her someone with a potential axe to grind, and those sorts of rabbits should always be watched very closely.’

It would have been cheaper and easier and better for human/rabbit relations for Mr Ffoxe not to have outed Dylan Rabbit to TwoLegsGood in the first place, but I didn’t say so.