Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

It was probably the least likely scenario I could think of, given that Mr Ffoxe had already threatened to leak my name to the Rabbit Underground, but delusive hope seemed to currently be my best plan of action. Pippa told me she was proud of me, which was about the best thing I’d heard from, well, anyone.

We heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

‘Are you expecting someone?’

She shook her head and I walked to the kitchen window.

‘That’s odd,’ I said, ‘it’s the cops.’

‘Taskforce?’

‘No, HPD: Hereford Police Department.’

Expecting this to be a complaint regarding the rabbits, I opened the door warily. The ranking officer was DI Eastman, who had been in the year above me at sixth form college. Her number two looked more experienced than her by about ten years and thirty bar fights. Eastman introduced her as Sweet, but said it in the sort of way that made it sound as though she were sweet, rather than that simply being her name. But they weren’t here to speak to me or discuss the Rabbits next door. They had come to talk to Pippa – about Toby Mallett.

I invited them in.

‘Missing?’ I said once they’d explained. I’d noticed he wasn’t at work that morning, and come to think of it, the Malletts had mentioned something about it on Sunday. So far he’d left no trace: they hadn’t found his car, mobile phone – nothing.

‘I last saw him Friday,’ said Pippa, ‘and haven’t spoken to him since, although I may have texted him a couple of times before I lost my phone. He didn’t reply, but that’s not unusual. In fact, I was going to break up with him.’

‘Any particular reason?’ asked Eastman.

Pippa shrugged.

‘He’s a Mallett,’ she said, ‘and something of a massive tit.’

‘I see,’ said Eastman in an understanding manner. She’d been at school with the Malletts too, and knew them well enough. The cops might have left after that, but then, really without thinking, I said:

‘I saw him Saturday. He came round here looking for Pip.’

‘He did?’ said Eastman and Pippa at the same time.

There was a long pause in which I suddenly realised the implications of what I’d just said. I related my conversation with Toby as Sweet took notes. About how Toby had appeared, asked about Pippa, and I told him that she was at a rabbit party in Colony One. DI Eastman listened carefully, asked a few more questions, then said in a kind of weirdly accusative way that I was the last verified sighting. She then turned back to Pippa.

‘So you went to a rabbit party at Colony One?’

Pippa shot a daggerish glance at me then raised her chin in defiance.

‘It’s not illegal.’

‘No,’ said Eastman icily, ‘not illegal. Would Mr Mallett have come looking for you?’

Pippa shrugged.

‘He might have done, but I couldn’t say for sure.’

The questions went on for another twenty minutes and, finally satisfied, they left, but only once DI Eastman had imparted some advice to Pippa: about while the rebellious spirit and animalistic attraction of the rabbit is well known, fraternisation can have a devastating effect upon one’s social and professional life.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.

Eastman ignored Pippa’s sarcastic retort and departed, and I shook my head at my own crass stupidity. It wouldn’t be long before the Taskforce got wind of all this, and if they thought rabbits were involved with his disappearance – as they surely would – there would be consequences.

‘Will they do a crime sweep of the colony to try and find Toby this close to the Rehoming?’ asked Pippa once the door had closed.

‘If they’ve got an ounce of sense, no,’ I replied, realising I shouldn’t have said anything at all, ‘but Mr Ffoxe might think it a useful justification to sow some terror – and get his hands on the Venerable Bunty, who’s in Colony One right now.’

The house phone rang and Pippa answered it, talked for a few minutes and then hung up.

‘That was Vodafone Technical Support,’ she said. ‘They’re reporting my phone is currently pinging from the local mast. Suggested I’d simply mislaid it.’

‘Have you?’

‘No.’

I looked out at Hemlock Towers opposite. The Dodge Monaco was still absent from the drive.

‘Wait here,’ I said, but she didn’t, of course, and followed me as I walked across to the Rabbits’ place. The curtains were drawn, the lights switched off, and the front door swung open with an ominous creak when I knocked. I stepped in, and Pippa followed, heaving to bump herself over the weather strip. Her tyres squeaked on the polished wooden floor of the hall.

‘Hello?’ I said.

Nothing.

‘Downstairs?’ whispered Pippa, gesturing towards where a sliver of warm light emerged from the partially open cellar door. Intrigued, I moved across, opened the door and a waft of cool air swept up from below, along with the smell of damp earth and dandelion brandy.

‘Hello?’ I said again.

I opened the door wider, glanced at Pippa, then walked slowly down the steps and on to the stone-flagged floor of the cellar. The large chamber was held up by stone vaulting. Evidence, apparently, that Hemlock Towers was built on the site of an abbey.

‘What’s down there?’ called out Pippa.

‘A home distillery for dandelion brandy,’ I called back, looking at two trestle tables that were covered by an array of glass retorts, beakers, empty bottles of surgical spirit, various vegetables, cough mixture, red ink and, disturbingly, a kitten pickled in a jar. I picked a bottle out of a crate that was on the floor near by, uncorked it, had a sniff – and the world seemed to reel about me.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘the Excise office would have a field d …’

My voice trailed off as I noticed that on the far wall the stones had been removed and stacked neatly on the floor. Beyond them an earth-lined tunnel lit by low-wattage light bulbs was leading out from the cellar, the tunnel walls scalloped and grooved by the committed industry of busy paws. They’d not been here long, so it was an impressive feat. I stepped closer and peered into the gloom. The tunnel seemed to go straight for about sixty feet or so, then turn abruptly to the right. As I was about to step inside and see where it led, a figure turned the corner in the tunnel. He was short, wore an ankle tag and carried a bucket in each paw.

‘Ah,’ said Kent, looking at me, then at the buckets of soil he was carrying, ‘would you believe me if I told you I was doing a soil survey as part of a school biology project?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Then you’ve got me bang to rights. You won’t tell Mum or Doc I’m burrowing, will you?’

‘They don’t know?’

‘They pretend not to – but I think they probably do,’ he said in a reflective manner as he walked towards me, ‘just in denial. Before the Event teenage rabbits weren’t much of a handful, but post-Event the problems reflect your own: when it comes to burrowing, I just can’t seem to help myself. I’ve been on countless rehab courses, but within a couple of days all I can think about is my next hole. Still, at least I don’t have a gambolling problem – that leads only to ruin.’

Compulsive gambolling in meadows could lead to excessive fatigue and a narrowing of career and social focus. Third to gambolling and burrowing as a social ill was ‘tripping the orange fantastic’, the slang for over-consumption of carrots.

‘Burrowing is actually a lot of fun,’ said Kent, who seemed to have suddenly warmed to me. ‘Do you want to have a go?’

‘I’m not sure I have the nails for it. But if the village finds out it’ll just give them another reason to hate you all.’