Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

And he carried on with his paperwork.

After I’d reviewed another twenty rabbits, all of whom were exactly who they said they were, Lugless suddenly said:

‘Section Officer Flemming, Whizelle and the rest of senior management are at a MegaWarren site meeting. I would have gone but it’s barred to all rabbits, irrespective of security clearance.’

He was right. Rabbits had been banned from seeing their new home on the grounds that it might ‘spoil the nice surprise’.

‘The official visit for staff that includes me is tomorow,’ said Lugless. ‘You going?’

‘Probably.’

‘Actually, I don’t care a mouldy carrot if you do or don’t,’ said the earless rabbit. ‘Is that enough rapport and comradeship for you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

And he went back to his work. The phone rang ten minutes later. He waited for it to ring six times – he always did that, I’d noticed – and after listening to the caller for a few minutes, said: ‘The fat furry bastard. Don’t let him talk to anyone until I get there.’

He put the phone down and in an unhurried manner chose a hammer from his desk drawer and departed, doubtless on one of his ‘no rabbit I can’t turn’ quests. I quickly went over to his desk. It was a long shot but rabbits were notoriously lax at computer security, and it was possible that Lugless had been given the usual default password, and hadn’t yet changed it.

I was in luck, and quickly logged in to the Working Rabbit Database. The reason was simple. I wanted to look at Harvey’s details, but didn’t want anyone to know that I was the one doing it. Lugless looked up rabbits all the time; it would be just one more search of many. Since Harvey was a Petstock, a McButtercup and a licensed RabCab driver, it took me less than a minute to find him. His full name was Harvey Augustus McButtercup, age twenty-six, resident in Colony One and a cabbie for six years. I went through his record, which revealed nothing more exciting than a series of minor traffic offences dotted around the country – either close to other colonies, or en route from one to another. If the Underground needed a courier moving around without restrictions, they’d choose a cabbie. It wasn’t a smoking gun, but factoring in his politics and his work as a courier in Ross made it pretty clear he was Underground. I logged out of Lugless’s computer, and returned to my own desk and worked non-stop until lunch.

For a change I decided to use the café in All Saints church so sauntered over there, ordered a coffee and panini and sat down. I opened my copy of the Smugleftie . Most papers relegated rabbit news to page five or six if they covered rabbit stories at all, and today, I turned there first. The articles mostly covered overcrowding in the colonies, the ballooning costs of MegaWarren and the worryingly broad remit of Rehoming legislation.

‘Panini and a coffee?’ said the waitress, placing the items on my table. I thanked her and she hopped back to the kitchens.

I read on and learned that Smethwick was already six months ahead of schedule with MegaWarren and the planned Rabbit Rehoming Initiative. The site, after protracted and delicate negotiations with the Welsh Assembly, was just south of the Elan Valley and sandwiched between the reservoir complex and Rhayader itself, an ideal location as the disused railway from Builth could be easily relaid to allow ease of transportation for the million or so rabbits who would live there. At close to ten thousand acres and with a seventeen-mile perimeter fence – or wall, if they could get the rabbit to pay for it – MegaWarren would be large enough, Smethwick said, ‘to provide a lasting, workable and cost-effective answer to the pressing rabbit issue once and for all, but not so large as to encourage irresponsible levels of reproduction’.

I was interrupted in my paper-reading reverie by a high-pitched peal of laughter that I recognised instantly. Connie Rabbit had just walked into the café with a friend. They were both carrying shopping bags, and were dressed in the ‘Moneyed Outdoor’ look of Hunter wellies, tweed shooting jackets and flat caps precariously perched between their ears. The conversation in the café muted for a few moments as they entered, then started up again, but in a lower tone, most likely commentary on their attire and overtly strident speech and manner. Connie and her friend seemed not to notice and ordered a skinny chai latte and a green salad each, then sat at a newly vacated table. I hunched lower and raised my newspaper. I’d be happier not to be recognised by her, not here in All Saints.

Connie and her friend spoke loudly and not at all guardedly, and at one point described their recent sexual exploits in perhaps a little too much detail for the clientele. Several couples near by moved away, and after a few minutes the manager appeared and had a quiet word. To their credit, both Connie and her companion complied, and just as the room had got used to their presence she noticed me.

‘Yoo-hoo, Peter!’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Over here!’

The room turned to see who they might be talking to. I tried to hide behind my copy of the Smugleftie but the newspaper had moved from broadsheet to tabloid format, which made it difficult to hide behind. Providence is guided by such quirks of fate. After realising that hiding was useless, I looked up, pretended to recognise her and strode over. Connie rose rapidly and hugged me fondly then planted a kiss on both cheeks, right there in front of everyone. While I confess being hugged and kissed by Connie Rabbit was not wholly unwelcome, I would have been more comfortable with no one watching.

‘This is Peter,’ said Connie to her friend in a loud voice, ‘about the only human I’ve ever really liked. We go back a ways. Peter, this is my twelfth cousin on my father’s aunt’s son’s daughter’s boyfriend’s aunt’s daughter’s side: Diane Rabbit. We grew up in adjoining burrows in Colony Three.’

‘We shagged our way off-colony,’ said Diane, who seemed to be drunk.

‘Oh, Diane,’ said Connie with a mildly embarrassed laugh, ‘you are a one.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, offering my hand for her to shake. She looked me up and down as you might regard a haunch of meat.

‘You’re right,’ said Diane, who smelled strongly of dandelion brandy, ‘this one is quite good-looking in a small-eared sort of way.’

The café was listening to every word, and I could hear the other diners making derisive comments to one another about me , which somehow seemed manifestly unfair – I was getting more flak for being friends with a rabbit than Connie and her noisy friend seemed to be getting for actually being rabbits. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and I didn’t like it.

‘I’m trespassing on your time,’ I said, and made to leave.

Connie didn’t answer and instead suddenly stood stock-still, whiskers trembling.

‘Diane,’ she said between clenched teeth, ‘oxfay at the oorday.’

‘What?’

‘ Oxfay at the oorday ,’ she repeated, then, because Diane wasn’t getting it: ‘Fox – at the door.’

I turned and noted that Mr Ffoxe, the Senior Group Leader, was indeed at the door, holding a copy of the popular periodical for foxes, Fox and Friends. He walked over to the counter to order and it didn’t look as though he’d noticed us.

‘I’m so outta here,’ said Diane, ears completely flat on her back. She turned to walk away and in her panic momentarily lapsed to lolloping on all fours like a standard rabbit, before she managed to regain her dignity to stand on two feet and then walk briskly away.

‘What’s the panic?’ I asked. ‘You’re legal.’

‘Foxes don’t give a limp lettuce for legality,’ whispered Connie. ‘The government putting foxes in charge of rabbits is like – I don’t know – putting a fox in charge of a henhouse.’