Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

As soon as I got home I went immediately into the kitchen.

‘It was Toby,’ I said outside the cupboard door, ‘and he looks as though he’s been beaten up and held captive by rabbits before being released, probably because they found out he was with the Taskforce, and they didn’t want a colony crime sweep.’

Connie didn’t answer.

‘What troubles me,’ I continued, ‘is that we mention to Bobby that Toby is missing and a member of the Taskforce, and she makes a phone call and all of a sudden he’s apologising to Pip and confessing he’d slept with Arabella from the pony club, and he looked frightened. Really frightened.’

I leaned closer to the cupboard door.

‘Is your family involved with the Underground?’

I paused.

‘You’re not in there, are you?’

I opened the cupboard door to find I was correct. Connie wasn’t there, and neither was the Alexandre Dumas novel, the torch – nor, oddly, the Henry vacuum cleaner. I shut the door, sighed, made myself some tea and sat at the kitchen table, wondering whether Harvey had a hand in Toby’s condition, whether he had been at the movies too – and whether they had even been going to the pictures at all. I reminded myself that Pippa was her own person then walked towards the living room, meaning to watch something – anything on the telly. I didn’t get that far as something in the hall caught my eye. Connie’s shoes were still parked where she’d left them near the grandfather clock. It had rained briefly that evening, and I knew that rabbits had a peculiar dislike for getting their paws wet.

She was still in the house.

I looked in the living room, then the utility room, where I could see Connie’s floral-pattern dress going round and round through the viewing port of the washing machine. Now more flustered, I checked the conservatory, my study and the dining room, but she was nowhere to be seen. I returned to the hallway, then heard the sound of the shower running upstairs.

‘Mrs Rabbit?’ I called up the stairwell. ‘Are you up there?’

She didn’t answer, and instead I heard her singing in a rather lovely voice. I stood there for a moment, undecided as to what to do, but then told myself that this was my house, so I padded slowly up the stairs.

The shower in use was the en suite in my bedroom, and the door was open. I could see her reflection in the mirror. With wet fur and discounting her tail and powerful thigh and calf muscles, she had a body that was almost identical to a human’s. I looked away, paused for a moment, looked back and then looked away again. If you can see a rabbit, they can see you.

‘Connie?’

‘Oh, hello, Peter,’ she sang out, seemingly unconcerned by my presence. ‘I didn’t know how long you were going to be so I took the opportunity to wash some things and have a shower – we can’t seem to get the hot water to work over in Hemlock Towers. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Well, no,’ I said, which was kind of true.

‘I’ve used all your shampoo,’ she said, ‘all two litres of it. I have a lot of fur. But I couldn’t find any conditioner.’

‘I don’t use it.’

‘Maybe just as well,’ she said, ‘as I tend to go a little fluffy. Would you pass me a towel?’

So I did so as best I could without looking as though I shouldn’t be looking, but not wanting to appear prudish, I made sure I did look at her, but just her eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said, wrapping herself and stepping out of the shower. ‘You don’t have a hairdryer, do you? Fur takes an age to dry and can get a little spiky if not brushed immediately.’

‘I’ll get you Pippa’s,’ I said, and went downstairs to fetch it. When I got back Connie had dispensed with the towel and was staring at her naked self in the full-length mirror on the cupboard door.

‘Bunty teaches us that mirrors, endless selfies and self-aggrandisement on social media are the gateway to narcissistic self-absorption,’ she said, turning this way and that to get a better look at herself. ‘There are no mirrors in the colonies, we don’t have one in the house, and car mirrors are always reduced in size to avoid unseemly self-regard. What do you think?’

‘I think you are … very lovely, Connie.’

She smiled, took the hairdryer and started to blow-dry her fur, which, being quite fine, seemed to dry quite fast. She started on her hind paws and then worked upwards, all the time seemingly unconcerned by my presence.

‘They returned Toby,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Bobby knows a rabbit who knows a rabbit who knows a rabbit.’

‘Are you with the Underground?’

‘All rabbits are with the Underground,’ she replied after a pause. ‘It’s an understanding rather than a recruitment. You get a nod or a tap on the shoulder or a phone call and you have to do the right thing, no matter what the personal cost. Unity and focus. Here, dry my back, would you?’

She turned round and I directed the hairdryer at her furry back. She passed me a soft brush and I brushed the fur at the same time.

‘Do you remember all those terrible films we went to see?’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And we sat in the back row because of my ears and we didn’t hold hands or anything, but the seats were small so we were touching?’

‘I remember that very clearly.’

‘I liked that,’ she said after a pause. ‘A sort of understated intimacy. I always felt that we kinda just clicked, you and I. Never had that since. Not with a rabbit, not with a human, not really with any of my husbands.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I felt that too. OK, your back’s dry.’

She turned round, took the hairdryer from me and then started to dry the fur on her arms and torso.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

She turned the dryer on to her ears, which flapped in a comical manner.

‘About what?’

‘You know when I said I wasn’t a Spotter for RabCoT? Well … I lied. I am. For the past fifteen years.’

I looked down and saw that my fingers were knotted together in a telltale fidget. My heart was thumping and it felt as though there was a tight band of steel around my chest.

‘I knew you had the gift thirty years ago,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘when you could pick me out of a crowd of rabbits back at uni. I often wondered if you’d realise you had the skill, and what you’d do with it. I accept your apology for lying earlier. The Rabbit Way allows one to quash the stain of an untruth so long as one makes good within the hour and there was no advantage. I think you just squeaked through.’

And she smiled.

‘Nothing’s changed, Pete. Not between us.’

I took a deep breath.

‘That’s not really what I’m sorry about.’

‘Ah,’ she said, suddenly looking more serious, ‘then what?’

I stared at her for a moment, opened my mouth to tell her about how I was the secondary Spotter the night Dylan Rabbit was arrested and that I was pressured to confirm the ID. That I should have done more, that I could have done more. But what came out was:

‘Not being at the demo when you were asked to leave the university. My aunt wasn’t that ill – and eventually pulled through. I should have been there, with you.’

She shrugged.

‘I’d have been chucked out irrespective. Your aunt needed you. I have no problem with any of that; it was UKARP policy to change the university’s admissions policy, not yours. And Peter?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘What about?’

‘You’ll see.’

I was going to tell her that I’d always regretted not getting in contact, even after Helena had left, probably out of fear. Fear of seeing a rabbit, fear of me being wrong about what I thought we’d felt. But I didn’t get to say any of that, because Connie’s long and very elegant ears, which up until then had been draped in a relaxed fashion down her back, suddenly popped vertically upwards and she listened intently for a few seconds.