The Constant Rabbit

‘What’s down there?’ called out Pippa.

‘A home distillery for dandelion brandy,’ I called back, looking at two trestle tables that were covered by an array of glass retorts, beakers, empty bottles of surgical spirit, various vegetables, cough mixture, red ink and, disturbingly, a kitten pickled in a jar. I picked a bottle out of a crate that was on the floor near by, uncorked it, had a sniff – and the world seemed to reel about me.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘the Excise office would have a field d …’

My voice trailed off as I noticed that on the far wall the stones had been removed and stacked neatly on the floor. Beyond them an earth-lined tunnel lit by low-wattage light bulbs was leading out from the cellar, the tunnel walls scalloped and grooved by the committed industry of busy paws. They’d not been here long, so it was an impressive feat. I stepped closer and peered into the gloom. The tunnel seemed to go straight for about sixty feet or so, then turn abruptly to the right. As I was about to step inside and see where it led, a figure turned the corner in the tunnel. He was short, wore an ankle tag and carried a bucket in each paw.

‘Ah,’ said Kent, looking at me, then at the buckets of soil he was carrying, ‘would you believe me if I told you I was doing a soil survey as part of a school biology project?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Then you’ve got me bang to rights. You won’t tell Mum or Doc I’m burrowing, will you?’

‘They don’t know?’

‘They pretend not to – but I think they probably do,’ he said in a reflective manner as he walked towards me, ‘just in denial. Before the Event teenage rabbits weren’t much of a handful, but post-Event the problems reflect your own: when it comes to burrowing, I just can’t seem to help myself. I’ve been on countless rehab courses, but within a couple of days all I can think about is my next hole. Still, at least I don’t have a gambolling problem – that leads only to ruin.’

Compulsive gambolling in meadows could lead to excessive fatigue and a narrowing of career and social focus. Third to gambolling and burrowing as a social ill was ‘tripping the orange fantastic’, the slang for over-consumption of carrots.

‘Burrowing is actually a lot of fun,’ said Kent, who seemed to have suddenly warmed to me. ‘Do you want to have a go?’

‘I’m not sure I have the nails for it. But if the village finds out it’ll just give them another reason to hate you all.’

‘I’m not sure they need any more reasons than they have already,’ said Kent as he reached up to pull down his left ear. He sniffed at it absently then released it; the ear shot back up with a twang. ‘Just being different is enough. Will you tell them about the burrowing? The village, I mean?’

‘No,’ I said, after a moment’s thought.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he replied with a smile, and stepped forward to select a bottle of dandelion brandy.

‘Have a bottle, but be careful – it’s concentrated so has a specific energy potential equal to rocket fuel. Top fuel dragsters use it as an alternative to nitromethane. Dilute one part to nine with water, unless you want to go blind.’

‘Does it really have pickled kitten in it?’ I asked, pointing at the jar on the desk.

‘No – I just needed some formaldehyde, and you can’t buy it neat as a rabbit. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘We came over to look for Pippa’s mobile phone.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that makes sense. Let’s go up top.’

We climbed back up the steps to where Pippa was waiting for us.

‘Hello, Kent,’ she said.

‘Hello, Pip,’ he replied, pushing the door closed with his hind paw. ‘Bobby put the word out that you were a friend of hers and someone pushed the phone through the letterbox this morning. Bobby’s like that. Sort of popular. Can’t see why; she seems a bit of a bossy twit to me. There you go.’

He retrieved the mobile from where it was lying next to the coat rack by the door and handed it over.

‘Thank you,’ said Pippa, wiping off the dried earth.

‘So,’ said Kent, ‘what did the Maccy-Gs want?’

‘When?’

‘Just now. Over at your place.’

‘Oh – a missing person,’ I said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Bobby, pulling out some tangerine-sized earpods as she bounced out of the living room. We told her about Toby.

‘We’re of the opinion he might have followed Pippa into Colony One,’ I said, ‘and he’s not been seen since.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Bobby without any sort of urgency in her voice. ‘Rabbits go missing all the time. They’re usually seeing an aunt. We have a lot of aunts and all need visiting. Your Toby was probably doing the same. He’ll turn up.’

This was tricky. I took a deep breath.

‘You don’t get it,’ I said. ‘I think – we think – Toby’s a Spotter for the Taskforce.’

Her sunny disposition vanished and she looked at both of us in turn, then pulled a mobile phone from the front of her pinafore and dialled a number. The inference wasn’t lost on her: with a Spotter missing in Colony One, the Taskforce would be going in – no matter what.