Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘We think it might have been a hit,’ said Flemming, ‘on him, you – or both of you. Following on from Toby Mallett’s unexpected resignation and utter failure to give a plausible account of why he did, we’re inclined to think that the Spotters’ office here in Hereford has been targeted by either rabbits, rabbit sympathisers or rabbit sympathiser-sympathisers.’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘So before we even begin to talk about the allegations regarding you and your next-door neighbour, tell us about the accident.’

I told them everything I knew, and tried to stick as much to the truth as I could. I’d be questioned about this again, and if I was inconsistent over my story, I’d be more stuffed than I was already. I told them Lugless steered purposely off the road, no other car was involved, and that I scrambled out of the burning car when I came to. Lugless, I told them, was either dead in the crash or unconscious. Either way, I couldn’t get to him.

‘So you have no idea why he swerved off the road?’ asked Whizelle.

‘None. One moment we’re driving along the road, the next I’m waking up in a blazing car.’

Whizelle looked at Flemming, who nodded, and the weasel opened a file and placed a picture of a white rabbit on the table. Now I’d seen him up close, I could recognise him better and the name on the picture confirmed it – he was Harvey Augustus McButtercup, aged twenty-six, a RabCab driver, resident in Colony One. I also knew he was now earless, a prominent member of the Rabbit Underground, had successfully infiltrated the Taskforce – and was in love with, and loved by, my daughter.

‘Have you seen this rabbit before?’ he asked.

‘No. Spotting isn’t an exact science. Who is he?’

‘We think he’s Flopsy 7770,’ said Whizelle. ‘Lugless looked him up on the Rabbit Employment Database before he died. But he didn’t tell anyone. You and he were in the office alone that morning – did he share with you?’

‘Lugless shared little with me,’ I said, now extremely glad I had searched for Harvey’s details on Lugless’s computer, but realising that I had led them directly to Harvey’s identity. I thought momentarily of asking whether I was detained and requesting a solicitor, but I got the feeling that this would only increase suspicions, not allay them.

They moved on to the allegations I had been suspended about, and the mood in the room seemed to darken. Flemming and Whizelle had been work colleagues for many years and we’d got on OK, but right now that counted for nothing. There followed a long and very detailed account of what ‘four plausible witnesses’ had seen outside my house the night before last. Unlike the Harvey/Lugless issue, where I had to lie convincingly several times, this was a testimony I could actually give from start to finish fairly truthfully – from when the Rabbits moved in, to the incident in All Saints with Mr Ffoxe, and then to the evening when we ran through her lines, the farcical hiding in the cupboards with the Dumas novel, and Connie and Doc’s argument in the hallway.

‘Nothing happened,’ I said.

‘Let me spell this out for you,’ said Whizelle in a more serious voice. ‘Right now we can charge you and Constance Rabbit with offences contrary to the Unnatural Associations Section of the Anthropomorphised Animals Limited Rights Act of 1996.’

I didn’t know the act word for word, but knew that the law was tactically enforced by the authorities as they saw fit. In the current climate, it seemed that they wanted it enforced. Friendship with rabbits, as far as the Rehoming was concerned, was to be discouraged.

‘With four eyewitnesses all happy to testify,’ he continued, ‘you both go to the clink – not a lot, two years, out in one, but with that on your files, I’d like to think that life will never quite be the same. Y’know how everyone believes they’re broad-minded and open? Well, spoiler alert: they’re not. And,’ he added, ‘along with your criminal record and time served, your pension can be cancelled on the grounds of “gross professional misconduct”.’

‘You can do that?’

‘We can do that,’ said Flemming. ‘All we want, Peter, is a teensy-weensy little confession implicating Constance Rabbit in intimate entrapment. You can say it was an accident or a dare or you were beguiled or were drunk or something. You’ll still lose your job but you’ll keep your pension and there’s nothing on your record. Back to Much Hemlock and your uneventful life.’

‘What will happen to Constance?’

‘We’ll plea-bargain it down to surrender of her off-colony status on grounds of “demonstrable moral turpitude”. She’ll be back in the colonies by next week, and probably a great deal happier for it. She wasn’t really what we’d call trustworthy off-colony material.’

‘Best of all,’ added Whizelle, ‘it will send a clear message to female rabbits everywhere that beguiling humans into depravity can and will have dire consequences.’

I stared down at the table in silence.

‘So what do you say?’ asked Whizelle.

‘I—’

But I didn’t get to answer. The door opened, and in walked Mr Ffoxe.

Weasels still turned white for the winter, even though there was no reason to do so. They can get very crotchety either side of ‘the change’ but were actually a lot more agreeable as ermine. Most weasels took the winter off, and headed to the slopes, where they were competent – though not highly visible – skiers.

I say ‘walked’ but ‘burst’ might be a better term. I saw Flemming blanch and make a reflexive move to run away, but she checked herself and stayed put. Whizelle didn’t flinch, but instead looked annoyed. The timing was poor, and things can get badly out of hand when foxes take control.

Mr Ffoxe looked at everyone in the room in turn.

‘You can piss off,’ he said to Flemming, ‘and you, Weasel, can definitely piss off.’

‘It’s pronounced “Whi-zelle”.’

‘Whatever. Tamara, get in here.’

Miss Robyns stepped in, armed with a clipboard and holding three mobile phones.

‘Hello!’ she said in a chirpy fashion. ‘I work for Torquil now.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said.

‘What is this?’ said Whizelle, who I think was about the only operative in the Taskforce who could stand up to Ffoxe. ‘ I am conducting this interview.’

‘Not any more you’re not. I have some new information that elevates our enquiry beyond a little bit of furry slap and tickle.’

‘I’d like to be briefed on this,’ said Whizelle.

‘And I’d like to share a glass of Pinot Grigio with Tilda Swinton,’ replied the fox, ‘but life is full of disappointments. Close the door on your way out, old boy.’

‘No,’ said Whizelle. ‘Knox might be weak-willed and a rabbit-fancying turncoat, but he’s a human, and we know what happened the last time you interviewed a human, don’t we?’

‘That is a disgusting and unfounded accusation,’ said Mr Ffoxe, ‘but when you run with the bun, you are scum like the bun.’

‘Look—’ began Whizelle, but Mr Ffoxe simply lifted a quivering lip and gave a low growl at the back of his throat. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and Whizelle’s ears flicked back as he suddenly became utterly submissive.

‘I’m so sorry for my outburst,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

And he left the interview room with his tail firmly between his legs.

‘Well now,’ said the fox, seating himself opposite me, ‘tempers are a little fraught today, aren’t they?’

He leaned back in the chair while his small yellow eyes peered at me with an appearance of … actually, I’m not quite sure what. Disdain, I think, mixed with quiet confidence and a sense of arrogant superiority. He said nothing, removed a cigarette from a silver case, tapped it on the box and then lit it from a large gold lighter that Tamara held out for him. He took a deep breath, then exhaled the smoke in my direction and said nothing – for quite a long time. 55 55. It felt like half an hour but was probably less than a minute.