The Constant Rabbit

‘I went into the Poundland there the other day,’ added Toby, ‘and it was stuffed with rabbits all chattering in Rabbity. I swear they were not understanding me on purpose, just to make me feel unwelcome.’

I made no answer, as there was no answer to make. What happened in Ross wasn’t to everyone’s liking, but it was all legal. I should know: it was a hot topic at work.

‘Could you run a few enquiries for us when you get into RabCoT?’ continued Victor. ‘I heard the rabbit said the book was for her husband Clifford, and there can’t be that many off-colony rabbits around here named Clifford who hold library cards.’

‘I’m not sure that’s an appropriate use of resources,’ I said, not wanting to be a lackey of the Malletts, ‘and we only work in the accounts office. If the rabbit or her husband are legally off-colony, then it’s not a RabCoT matter anyway.’

I glanced across at Victor. He was staring at me in an empty, unblinking fashion – something that was usually the early portent of a lost temper.

‘OK then,’ he said, ‘we can always ask TwoLegsGood to make some enquiries.’

Of the three Hominid Supremacist groups currently active in the UK, TwoLegsGood were the largest, best organised – and most violent. I understood Victor Mallett’s gambit.

‘TwoLegsGood are thugs, pure and simple,’ I said. ‘Escalating the situation helps no one.’

‘They’re not thugs, they’re patriots of their species,’ replied Victor in a sniffy tone, ‘and while we applaud their enthusiasm and politics, I do admit they need to show a little restraint on occasion. A jugging makes them look like right-wing reactionaries and leporiphobics,⁵ which they’re not – merely realists with a legitimate concern over multispecism.’

I sighed.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said.

Victor Mallett smiled broadly. He liked it when he got his own way, and could do a passable imitation of a pleasant person once he did. It took a half-hour to get into Hereford, and I dropped Victor at Bobblestock.

‘Well, cheerio, old chap,’ he said once he’d climbed out of the car. ‘You and Pip must come round for dinner one day.’

He didn’t really mean it, and I said that would be very nice, again not really meaning it.

‘Sorry about Dad,’ said Toby as we drove the remaining short distance into town, ‘but he only wants the best for the village.’

‘I’m sure Pol Pot only wanted the best for Cambodia,’ I replied, ‘but it didn’t really work out that way. Joke,’ I added, as I could see Toby about to raise the curtains on some theatre of umbrage, something the Malletts often did when even mildly challenged.

‘So,’ I said, wanting to change the subject, ‘who do you think’s replacing Daniels?’

Daniels had been our Intelligence Officer, and about the most pleasant we’d had. But the job was stressful, and ‘pleasant’ wasn’t really a winning strategy when it came to working in RabCoT.

‘No idea,’ said Toby, ‘someone easy to work with, I hope.’

I parked up outside the regional Rabbit Compliance Taskforce headquarters, a blocky building built in the thirties with half-arsed art-deco pretensions, and renamed the Smethwick Centre by Prime Minister Nigel Smethwick himself, who was very conscious of crafting his own legacy while he still wielded enough power to do so.

Smethwick had begun his steep political climb as the Minister for Rabbit Affairs fifteen years before, when UKARP were only a coalition partner, and to celebrate his promotion greatly increased the number of things a rabbit could do wrong. He personally drafted the ‘Regularity Framework for Subterranean Construction’ and ‘The Orange Root Vegetable Licensing Act’. The new laws naturally increased rabbit arrest and incarceration rates, which Smethwick duly blamed on ‘increased cunicular criminality’, which was then, predictably and unashamedly, used to justify a greatly increased budget and workforce.

‘Oh dear,’ I said as I noticed a small crowd of people across the entrance to the Taskforce headquarters, ‘looks like TwoLegsGood are upset about something again.’

There were only four of them, and the gathering seemed more of a presence than an active demonstration. Despite the Hominid Supremacist group’s record of leporiphobic attacks, they generally stayed one step ahead of the law, and by a curious quirk of inverted stereotyping were not a bunch of semi-skilled neckless tattooed hooligans with IQs barely into double figures, but were predominantly middle class: retail, middle management, C of E fundamentalists, unemployed furriers and hatters, several doctors and barristers as well as a few strident environmentalists who saw the rise of the rabbit as ‘a potentially greater threat to biodiversity on the planet than humans’.⁶

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said one as we walked past. ‘Please don’t waver from the bold and righteous anthropocentric path.’