Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘Connie has met the Venerable Bunty, you know,’ he said quite proudly. ‘Worked on her staff for a while – and was present when the Bunty performed one of her miracles.’

‘Which one?’

‘Number 16b: the reattachment of an ear following an unfortunate accident with a bacon slicer.’

Bunty’s apparent ability to perform miracles confirmed her divine status to rabbits. Although it made her a powerful spiritual leader, there was no evidence to suppose she wielded that power for anything but good. The Taskforce had different ideas.

‘Your bunch should do a few miracles,’ said Doc. ‘If your archbishop made someone’s missing foot regrow, it would give the credibility of your church a massive boost.’

‘I expect it would,’ I said.

‘It doesn’t even have to be that dramatic,’ he added more thoughtfully. ‘A vicar levitating would probably do the trick just as well. I mean, something .’

‘I’m not sure miracles are really the C of E’s thing.’

‘No? Hmm. Look here,’ he said, suddenly thinking of something else and leaning closer, ‘can you and I have a word? Man to rabbit?’

‘Of course.’

‘Connie said you knew one another quite well at university and … well, you’re not planning any hooky-doo, are you?’

‘We were just friends,’ I said, suddenly feeling defensive, ‘nothing happened.’

‘My dear chap,’ he said with a laugh, ‘I’m not suggesting it did. But correct protocol is always observed in rabbit marriages, so if you make a play for the missus either above or below the table, I will probably have to kill you.’

‘What?’ I said, suddenly taken aback.

‘Not for real obviously,’ he said, giving me a friendly nudge, ‘symbolically. In a duel. Or even in a symbolic duel, where you concede your beta-male status in a meek and self-deprecating fashion without a shot being fired.’

‘How would I do that?’

‘Rolling over and weeing on yourself is the most usual form, but a written note of apology and a decent bottle of Chablis will probably suffice.’

I paused, trying to get my head around the complexities of rabbit culture.

‘I admit I liked her,’ I said slowly, ‘but not like that . Besides, I’ve not seen her for over thirty years, and she’s your wife.’

‘She’s only “mine” so long as that’s what she wants,’ explained Doc. ‘I’m here more by permission than commitment. She’s not mentioned a change in husbands, so until she does, I’ll warn off any newcomers.’

‘O–OK,’ I said, still a little confused, ‘but I’m not going to make a play for Connie.’

‘That’s great news,’ said Doc, clapping his paws together happily and seemingly satisfied. ‘I’m glad to hear it – and I’m very happy we’ve managed to have this little chat. Come into the living room, why don’t you?’

We walked across the large oak-panelled hall and then into the front room, where Connie was working on a large jigsaw that depicted, as far as I could see, a huge meadow covered by thousands of dandelions.

‘Good evening,’ I said, her large and very luxuriant eyes staring back at me. I guessed she hadn’t mentioned to her husband about our meeting in Waitrose that afternoon.

‘Good evening, Peter,’ she said, stepping forward to give me a light hug as Doc looked on. ‘ Nhfifh hi hniffr i hffnuh : our burrow is your burrow. Was your daughter not able to come?’

‘A prior engagement. She sends her apologies.’

‘Another time, perhaps?’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘I must just go and stir the stew,’ she said, pausing on her way out to momentarily adjust a picture of Dylan Rabbit that was displayed next to a battered guitar. She turned back.

‘Make yourself comfortable, have a chat and … I’ll be back in just a jiffy.’

I watched her walk across the hall and back into the kitchen, and my gaze might have inadvertently strayed to her cottontail. When I turned back Doc was staring at me and I suddenly felt acutely embarrassed.

‘So, Doc,’ I said, eager to move the conversation on, ‘you’re a medical man?’

He laughed.

‘No, no. The “Doc” epithet was the result of barracks banter. There was a certain … hazing that I had to endure before being accepted in the army. Copies of Watership Down and heads of lettuce left on my bunk, taunts about Mr McGregor and the always hilarious “What’s up, Doc?” I’m sure you can imagine it.’

‘Well, no, not really – but then I’m not a military man. Or a rabbit.’

Doc shrugged.

‘We can’t all be so lucky. Anyway, I took this all on the chin except the lettuce, which I ate. But the good thing about the services is that you win or lose respect solely on merit. Show some steely resolve and the species barrier evaporates. I won the respect of my fellow soldiers during some fun and games in Kandahar, but the “Doc” name stuck, so I use it to this day.’

‘I heard you almost served in Afghanistan.’

Doc laughed again.

‘Not strictly true. I was almost served up in Afghanistan. I weighed two hundred and forty pounds then, and was unlucky enough to be captured. After interrogation and discussions over whether I was haram or not, they were going to make me into a hearty meal for at least thirty-two hungry mujahedin. No British officer had been eaten since Suez, so Command put on a bit of a show on my behalf – close air support, artillery, the works. Want to see a memento?’

Without waiting for an answer he hopped to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a walnut case which contained a set of antique-looking percussion pistols, each one decorated with engraved animals, and both with a barrel about twelve inches long.

‘Without opposable thumbs, operating any sort of weapon is tricky,’ he said. ‘These have been modified to work with a squeeze action rather than a trigger. Here.’

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?’