Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘What happened to Rosalind?’ I asked, referring to the only other rabbit on campus. She’d been big into X-ray crystallography.

‘Her co-researchers took a Nobel prize for physics,’ said Connie, ‘as animals weren’t eligible for the prize at the time. She then worked at B&Q for a bit, and brought up eight children while deciphering Linear A 42 42. ‘Linear A’ is a Minoan writing system used between 1800 and 1400 BC, and was generally thought to be undecipherable. for fun. Last I heard she was fitting microwave doors for RabToil. What about your friend Kevin? Did he ever graduate?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘dropped out in the second year, bummed around for a decade, then got lucky, fell in with some whizz kids and made a killing just before the ’08 crash. He lives in Guernsey these days.’

‘Ah,’ she said, and we fell silent again.

‘Has it risen?’ she asked.

‘Has what risen?’

‘The leaving fund.’

‘I think you could almost name your price.’

She laughed, then told me she needed to marinade the carrots for supper, and I smiled politely and turned to go. I was about twenty paces away when I heard the front door close. She must have been watching me walk away.

Pippa returned three hours later, and vanished into her bedroom.

‘Bobby must have a lot of Rick Astley memorabilia,’ I said as she scooted past, thinking myself a lot funnier than I actually was.

She said ‘Ho ho’ and returned thirty minutes later in trousers, a plain blue blouse and a pair of Timberlands.

‘Going out?’

‘A party, with Bobby.’

‘A rabbit party?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a grin, ‘a wild rabbit party. We’re picking up Sally on the way. She’s been very curious about rabbit parties but never had an invite.’

‘Well, text me if you’re going to be later than midnight,’ I said, then added: ‘Kind of plainly dressed, aren’t you? For a party, I mean.’

‘Bobby said you always dress down,’ she said. ‘Ostentation is frowned upon, and besides, it can get a little dusty in the warrens.’

‘Wait, wait,’ I said, suddenly worried. ‘ Warren ? You’re going on-colony?’

She didn’t seem put out in the least.

‘Bobby will be there to look after us. Tons of people I know have done it. You’re kind of a loser if you haven’t.’

I said nothing for a moment.

‘Loser means “uncool” rather than “idiot”,’ she said, trying to be helpful.

‘I know what loser means. But the warrens, are they, y’know – suitable?’

‘Hard-packed earth,’ Pippa said, ‘no stairs, smooth as asphalt. I can look after myself.’

‘I know you can – it’s just, well, I forbid it.’

She looked kind of puzzled. I’d always had a policy of allowing her to do whatever she wanted, try anything and be anything, so she was surprised at my attitude, rather than shocked by the order – which we both knew she could and would ignore. She was an adult, after all.

‘Why ever not? Paws and hands across the divide – you know the score.’

Actually, she was right: going on-colony to a bunny bop was quite a common occurrence amongst youth, and you would be perfectly safe – Lago’s fifth circle related to hospitality, which itself begets hospitality, completing the cycle of respect, understanding and tolerance. But my concern was different. If my name had been leaked to the Underground, they might try to get to me through Pippa. Paranoid delusion perhaps, but when it comes to being a father, paranoid delusions really hold sway.

‘I can’t tell you why you can’t go, you just can’t.’

‘Dad,’ she said, giving me the look Helena gave me when I had not the slightest chance of winning an argument, ‘parental orders worked when I was thirteen. They don’t any more. If you have a genuine grievance, I’m all ears – if not, I’m going.’

I thought for a moment.

‘OK – but if asked, use your mother’s surname.’

She paused for a moment, then said:

‘If it makes you happy.’

‘It makes me happy.’

A car horn sounded outside, and Pippa gave me a cheery wave, dumped her coat and bag on her lap and was out of the door in a flash. I followed her outside, where Bobby was standing beside another large American car that I learned later was a Chevy Impala, probably from the seventies. It was a licensed RabCab in the usual orange and green livery, and the uniformed driver, I noted, was a male Labstock, features partly hidden behind dark glasses. He climbed out to assist Pippa into the car, and as I stood there feeling worried and silly and fathery, the low sunlight caught his long and elegant ears, and my heart missed a beat.

He had the pattern of capillaries in the shape of a squashed Tudor rose in his left ear.

He was John Flopsy 7770. There, in the fur, right in front of me. Living, breathing.

Shit .

While I was rooted to the spot wondering what to do, he returned to the driver’s door, then turned and, seeing me staring at him, lowered his dark glasses and winked at me with the click of his tongue. He then climbed into the car and a few seconds later they were off in a sedate manner down the lane.

I took a mental note of the number plate as they drove away, then waited until the car was out of sight before hurrying indoors. Always assume that if you can see a rabbit, they can see you. I ran into the kitchen, picked up my mobile and dialled the RabCoT Crisis Room, which was on Speed Dial One disguised as ‘Aunt Vera’. All I needed to do was to pass them the details of the car and the duty sergeant would be on to it. Given the importance of this particular Flopsy, there would doubtless be a hard stop before they even got as far as Hereford.

I gave the controller my name and employee number, and they asked me, as was standard practice, to answer ‘that’s right’ if I was being coerced or had in any way been compromised. I told them I wasn’t and hadn’t.

‘Pass your message.’

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it again. Since Flopsy 7770 had been flagged by Lugless as ‘seditious’, ‘highly wanted’ and a ‘serious bounce risk’ there would quite likely be weapons involved in the hard stop – and Pippa was in the car.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to think quickly, ‘wrong number. I actually need to speak to Human Resources. I’m not going to be in work tomorrow.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’

‘Monday, then,’ I said. ‘I’ll call them in the morning. Monday morning.’

The duty officer asked me again whether I was OK, then, satisfied I was either an idiot or drunk or quite possibly both, rang off.

I put the phone down and leaned on the edge of the kitchen table, trying to calm down. Pippa was just going to a rabbit party with Bobby and Sally. She’d been to dodgier parties with worse people. Pippa was sensible. She’d text me if she needed anything. And as for Flopsy 7770, he was a RabCab driver. All journeys were logged. I’d have his name first thing Monday.

I wandered into the living room and watched Mastercook on the telly, which featured, unusually, a bright-eyed Wetstock named Sue Patton Rabbit. She apparently ran a fashionable bakery in Brick Lane called Empire of the Bun , although I hadn’t heard of it until now.

‘Well, Sue,’ said Greg, ‘what will you be cooking for us tonight?’

‘I thought I’d start with carrot three-way,’ she said a little nervously, her ears covered by a tall chef’s hat, ‘with a carrot jus, carrot crumble and quintuple fried baby carrot.’

‘OK,’ said Greg, ‘and for the dessert?’

‘Carrot soufflé,’ said Sue, ‘with a caramelised carrot sauce and crumbed carrot sprinkles.’