The Constant Rabbit

‘Humph,’ said Whizelle, then thanked me and moved away. I made a quick exit too, just in case he wanted to question me further.

I wandered into the Palace of Creative Joy, which was actually one of the factories in which the rabbits would build vacuum cleaners, microwave ovens, kitchen appliances and car engines. There were four of these buildings, all huge, and subcontractors from RabToil were busily installing the moving assembly lines. I could see CCTV cameras everywhere, and knew that this alone could be a deal-breaker. None of the colonies had a single camera. Rabbits hated being surveilled. I suddenly had the strongest feeling that for all the planning and money and effort, not a single rabbit would ever move here. Or at least, not by their own choice.

I left the Palace of Creative Joy and walked across to the Lago meeting house. The circular building was of tiered seating on six levels that surrounded a central area where a large circular void in the roof bathed the interior with natural light. I paused for a moment, having never been in such a place before, then stepped back outside and looked around. Beyond the admin blocks, factory units and large multilingual call centres, the land stretched away to the steep hills opposite, four or five miles distant. I could see the perimeter fence undulating softly with the contours of the land, and a river wended its way out from the hills through a narrow gorge and what looked like productive farmland, criss-crossed by hedges, spinneys and the odd oak tree in cheerful abundance. It was, I had to admit, a very lovely area of the world. The soil good, the climate pleasant. If you took away the sense of menacing coercion, it was somewhere any rabbit might want to live.

‘Hello!’ said a young woman, one of the Pandora Pandora clones – dressed all in black, with an aggressive attitude of chatty bonhomie and the mandated blond hair, ‘I’m Miss Robyns. Want to see the burrows?’

‘OK,’ I said.

We walked down one of the access roads while Miss Robyns regaled me with all the high points of the facility. About how beautiful it was, how clean, and how there was space to roam and even a sixteen-mile perimeter bouncing track for early-morning jaunts and for beta-bucks to ‘blow off excess humours during the inevitable disappointments of the mating season’.

We stopped where a six-foot-wide concrete pipe was sticking out of the ground with ‘Section 87D’ stencilled on the side. She led the way into the ground by way of some steps but the tunnel soon levelled out and after fifty feet or so made a sharp right turn.

‘Although no ferret was anthropomorphised during the Event,’ said Miss Robyns, ‘the rabbit still like to have defensible bends in their burrows.’

As we walked, I noted that every ten feet or so a panelled wooden door complete with doorknob, brass knocker and letterbox slot was set into the wall of the concrete pipe. We stopped opposite one marked ‘87D-237’ and I opened the door to find that it led nowhere – facing me was a wall of soft earth, with the imprint of the back of the door neatly impressed upon it.

‘The rabbit like to dig their own home,’ explained Miss Robyns, and I closed the door.

‘There must be a lot of doors,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Miss Robyns, suddenly looking bored, ‘thousands.’

We turned the anti-ferret corner and could see the long tunnel stretch out in front of us, doors off to left and right. We also surprised Harvey, whose hearing, I thought later, was probably greatly diminished. He was staring into one of a series of ventilation grilles set into the tunnel wall, each one above a telephone point, postbox and WiFi transmitter.

‘Very interesting,’ he said, secreting in his coat what looked like a camera. I was walking in front, so Miss Robyns didn’t notice.

‘Oh!’ she said, startled by his appearance. I told her who he was and how he disliked rabbits more than almost anyone I knew, and she shook hands with him, but was at pains to point out that she was only doing this job because it was her job, and not because she was leporiphobic.

‘I believe you,’ said Harvey/Lugless in an ambiguous manner, and he joined us as we viewed the communal kitchens, rest, play and nursery areas. We then retraced our steps to the entrance and blinked as we came out into the warm sunshine. Almost immediately we noticed some sort of commotion near by, where Mr Ffoxe was talking to Whizelle and Section Officer Flemming.

‘… when did you hear about this, Weasel?’ asked Mr Ffoxe.

‘Just now, and it’s pronounced “Whizelle”.’

The fox then caught sight of our small group.

‘You!’ said the Senior Group Leader, jabbing a paw in our direction. ‘You’re in some big f***ing trouble.’

The game, it seemed, was up, and I think Harvey knew it too as I heard a faint ‘pop’ as he dropped a pellet.⁵²