Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘Are you still in the army, Doc?’ I asked.

‘Semi-retired. I picked up some shrapnel, lost two fingers, a nut and partial sight in one eye during an overhead mortar burst during that Kandahar number I was telling you about. I’m a freelance security consultant these days, so now I sell deniability.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ I said.

‘Modern warfare is quite different from the old days,’ he said, ‘and the ugly spectre of accountability can seriously hamper flexibility in a swiftly changing conflict.’

‘Can we move on?’ said Connie. ‘I’m sure Peter doesn’t want to talk military politics.’

‘Governments ask us security contractors to do the shitty stuff they don’t want to put their names to,’ continued Doc, ignoring Connie’s pleas, ‘so if things go tits-up they can turn around and say it was nothing to do with them. It’s very lucrative, I assure you.’

‘I’m sure it must be,’ I said.

‘So, what about you?’ said Connie brightly, touching my arm again. ‘What do you do, Peter?’

‘I’m an accountant for a small firm in town.’

‘Chartered?’ asked Doc.

‘No, payroll,’ I replied, having been coached on my cover story. I could talk payroll software quite convincingly for about three minutes – coincidentally, the longest anyone has ever been prepared to hear about it.

‘That explains the precision of the Speed Librarying,’ said Connie. ‘Where is Pippa’s mother these days?’

‘She’s no longer on the scene,’ I said in a quiet voice.

‘Cancer?’ asked Bobby, without a hint of how inappropriate this might seem. It might have been easier to let it go there, and I could have sailed high on the sympathy, but Helena was emphatically not dead, and it seemed wrong to suggest that she was.

‘No, she’s still alive.’

‘In prison?’ asked Kent.

‘No.’

‘Appropriated by another male?’ asked Doc with sudden interest. ‘Like in a duel?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘she just … lost interest in me. I don’t think I was charismatic enough.’

‘I can see that,’ said Doc, sizing me up. ‘Went for someone younger, did she?’

‘A documentary cameraman,’ I replied, getting used to the rabbit’s straight-talking ways. ‘They live in a converted barn in Tuscany.’

‘We tend to die quite often so marriage rarely lasts for long,’ said Connie. ‘Predation, myxomatosis, duels, cars. The words for death and divorce are often synonymous. I’ve been widowed twice already. My first husband died twenty-one years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Was that … myxomatosis?’

I was hesitant as myxy was still a sticky subject with rabbits. Even though developed and used as a form of bacterial pest control before the Event, the effects and contagion had carried over into the anthropomorphised population. It accounted for almost forty per cent of all rabbit deaths, with no effective vaccine yet in sight.

‘No,’ said Connie with a thoughtful sigh, ‘not myxy – a Toyota Corolla. They ran over his head so at least it was quick.’

I tried to figure out how this might have happened, and Connie, sensing my puzzlement, added:

‘Grassy verges still hold a special place in our heart. Never did find the driver. Husband number two was Dylan. Sort of laid-back but played the guitar well and was unflappable, an easy rabbit to love. There was a case of mistaken identity; his name was leaked and he was jugged by those animals at TwoLegsGood. I’d have fallen apart if it hadn’t been for Clifford, waiting in the wings to pick up the pieces.’

I hope they didn’t see me take a deep breath, and a soft flush rise to my cheeks. If they could by some miracle overlook my work at the Taskforce, they’d never overlook the hand I had in Dylan’s death.

‘I’d fancied Connie for a while,’ said Doc, ‘so it seemed quite natural to ask her. I’m just sorry that our happiness came on the back of such loss.’

She put out a paw and Doc held it tightly. He lifted his glass.

‘To Dylan,’ said Doc.

‘Dylan,’ said Connie.

‘Daddy,’ said Kent and Bobby.

‘As you can see,’ said Doc, ‘rabbits talk truthfully about most things. Life is too short for hidden agendas, vapid posturing and mendacity. Lago’s third circle is about the truth which follows truth. Lies, conversely, make for more lies, one after another. It darkens the circle, and a circle that is dark leads to imbalance, and collapse.’

‘Collapse,’ echoed the others in unison.

‘Truthful about everything?’ I asked, thinking perhaps the question over Helena gave me a free pass.

‘Yes.’

‘Why is Kent wearing an ankle monitor?’

‘Burrowing without due care and attention,’ said Kent, quite matter-of-factly.

‘Really?’ I said, but Kent hadn’t finished.

‘Burrowing without a licence; going equipped to burrow; reckless burrowing leading to property damage; causing death by dangerous burrowing; burrowing while under the influence; incitement to burrow; burrowing while under a two-year burrowing ban; belonging to a banned burrowing organisation; and failure to stop burrowing when ordered to do so.’

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘they really threw the book at you.’

‘Every single one a bullshit charge,’ said Bobby. ‘That utter twat Smethwick has engineered the judicial landscape to be skewed against the rabbit.’

‘The reason Kent’s not banged up,’ said Connie, ‘is that there were many rabbits involved and Kent was a small cog, a bagman, removing spoil. Kent got two years supervised probation; all the rest got between three and nine years in jail.’

‘Only six of the 5,672 rabbits currently incarcerated are in prison for violence,’ said Bobby. ‘Most are in for burrowing offences or theft of root vegetables, neither of which we consider a crime at all.’

‘Anything that grows beneath the soil is a gift from Lago,’ said Kent. ‘Root veg can’t be owned.’

‘Kent might have got longer,’ said Doc. ‘It was a good job RabSAg lent us one of their lawyers.’

The Rabbit Support Agency had been formed only three weeks after the Event, and had worked tirelessly – and mostly in vain – to improve rabbit/human relations. ‘Our work is finished,’ their spokesperson Patrick Finkle said, ‘when we see a female rabbit as prime minister.’

‘So, Peter,’ said Connie, ‘more dandelion brandy?’

‘Thank you.’

Connie poured me another tot and I downed it eagerly. It was powerful stuff, and I felt warm and tingly all over.

The conversation turned to education cuts and the NHS after that, and the differing ethical benchmarks between medical and veterinary science.

‘We’d like to enjoy the ridiculous amount of attention you pay to minor ailments,’ said Doc, ‘and in return, you might think more carefully about the huge benefits of euthanasia.’

And then Connie served up a blackberry parfait for pudding that melted on your tongue. Once the meal was over and the children had been packed off to do homework, Connie shooed Doc and I into the living room and said she’d bring in some coffee.

‘May I ask you a question?’ I asked as Doc poked the fire.

‘Of course.’

‘Yesterday, when I gave Connie the basket of carrots, you seemed angry. I was wondering—?’

‘You must excuse me my temper,’ he said with a trace of embarrassment, ‘scrubbed carrots given to a married doe can really only mean one thing: spouse appropriation.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘hence your comments about a duel.’

‘Pretty much. It’s a good job for you it was only the Autumn King variant. If it had been a Cosmic Purple there would have been no room for ambiguity and I’d ask you to name your seconds 35 35. During a duel, one always has appointed trusted ‘seconds’ to assist and ensure fair play. and we’d be standing back to back at dawn on a foggy heath somewhere.’