Jasper Fforde - The Constant Rabbit

The cabbie had the radio on as we drove, and I featured prominently on the news. The general consensus was that a ‘shady rabbit lawyer’ had ‘exploited a loophole’ to ‘get me off’, a loophole which fox legal minds were currently trying to close – and there was even talk of appealing the judge’s decision as she had clearly promoted ‘an appallingly biased anti-human and pro-rabbit agenda’. Either way, it didn’t appear as though this was over.

As we approached Colony One we could see a huge military build-up had occurred. There were lorries and tanks parked amongst the trees, with artillery pieces positioned in the surrounding fields, gun crews at readiness.

‘This is as far as this old rabbit goes,’ said the cabbie, as the access road to the colony had been barricaded about a mile from the main entrance. There was, in fact, a good-sized crowd of humans present and a peace camp seemed to have been set up. Banners proclaiming equal rights for all animals and support for vegetarianism and sustainability were prominently displayed, and several others which were only passive-aggressively anti-fox, as it really wasn’t wise to piss them off. The police were present also, leaning on their riot shields and looking bored, while groups of foxes sat around on deckchairs, listening to Caruso on a wind-up gramophone, sipping Chianti and playing cribbage.

‘You need to take this in with you,’ said Lance, handing me a sealed cardboard box about a foot square.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, just supplies,’ he said, ‘but vital for the effort.’

‘OK,’ I replied, now uneasy. ‘But how am I going to get in?’

‘Go straight in the door,’ he said. ‘My guess is they won’t dare touch you.’

I squeezed his two paws with my two thumbless hands. It actually felt more comfortable and connected, as though our hands/paws interlocked more fully and completely, and with them, an understanding.

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ said Lance with an air of finality, ‘it’s been a lot of fun. I may see you on the other side.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

I climbed out of the car, which drove off without urgency, and walked up to the barrier, where several police officers were talking in a nervous gaggle. For the most part, they stayed separate from the Taskforce. When mud gets thrown around, the further you are away, the less likely it will stick.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the policeman in charge, a superintendent, I think, ‘no entry to Colony One at present.’

‘My name’s Peter Knox,’ I said, ‘I need to speak to the fox in charge.’

The superintendent either hadn’t followed the breaking news, didn’t see how it might be relevant or couldn’t care, so he simply repeated what he had said a little more forcefully: that the colony was closed.

Luckily for me there were also military personnel standing just a little way off and the ranking officer, a brigadier, strolled over and asked the superintendent for a word. It was several words in the end, for they were chatting for five minutes, and eventually the superintendent made a call on his mobile, nodded several times and then walked back to me.

‘You’re allowed in,’ he said, ‘under military and not civilian escort. They’re sending a car for you.’

He then leaned closer to me and said in a quiet voice:

‘Off the record, sir, but if I were you I’d turn around and go back where you came from. Don’t look back, don’t hesitate, don’t stop until you are back safe with your family.’

‘I don’t have any family. Not out here, anyway.’

‘Then I suggest you find some. What’s in the box?’

I looked down at the cardboard box Lance had given me.

‘I don’t know.’

He took it off me and then gave it to an officer who opened it, had a look and then resealed it and returned it to me.

I stood there until the car arrived, a military four-by-four with two armed men in the back who looked like Special Forces, or how I imagine Special Forces to look – draped with weapons as a Christmas tree is draped with tinsel. But they weren’t moody or philosophical, they actually sounded quite chirpy.

‘It’s Peter Knox, isn’t it?’ said the first, indicating my hands. The dressings had been off for a week, but the skin was still pink and the scars, stitched up finely at A&E, looked like thin red zippers.

‘That’s me,’ I replied.

‘Outfoxed the fox, I heard,’ said the second. ‘Hats off to you. What’s in the box?’

‘I don’t know.’

I turned to look back at the checkpoint we’d just left, and noticed that the police were hurriedly withdrawing to their vehicles and the military were moving in to take their place. I could see where several tanks had just fired up their engines, as large clouds of black smoke erupted from where they were parked.

‘We’re go for Operation Cottontail,’ said the first soldier, who had been listening to his earpiece.

‘Cottontail?’ I asked.

‘Forcible Rehoming,’ said the soldier, and gave me a wink.

‘In what?’ I said, looking around as we drove into the large car park outside the main entrance to Colony One. There wasn’t a bus in sight. Not up here, not farther down the road. With a shudder, I realised that there wasn’t going to be a Rehoming, and that had never been part of the plan. I felt a sudden chill, even though the evening was warm.

The four-by-four pulled up beside more armoured vehicles – personnel carriers this time, manned by foxes – and, more ominously, several bulldozers. I was escorted towards a massive tent with Forward Operations Post written on a sign outside. As we walked, I could see more civilians and police officers getting into their cars to leave, while just behind the forward OP there seemed to be a junior officer throwing papers on to a fire inside an oil drum. I was escorted into the tent, the cardboard box Lance had given me was checked and returned to me again, and I was told to wait. I took the opportunity to look around. There was a large map on the wall of Colony One with an overlay of the warrens beneath the ground, so far as they were known. In a small gaggle I could see Nigel Smethwick talking to several foxes and a few high-ranking military officers. The fox who seemed to be in charge looked across at me, then beckoned me to approach.

‘Jocaminca fforkes,’ she said, shaking my hand. ‘Your outfoxing skills compel me to grant you the smallest amount of respect.’

To me, there wasn’t much physical difference between her and Mr Ffoxe – shorter by an inch, perhaps, and a little redder. In a helpful nod to assist in gender identification, vixens wore a flower behind their ear that I could have sworn was identical to the ones you could buy in Claire’s Accessories for under a pound.

‘You dodged justice this time,’ said Smethwick, ‘but this isn’t over by a mile. What are you doing here?’

‘I was asked to be here.’

‘Why?’

‘To help out, I think.’

Ms fforkes and Smethwick looked at one another.

‘You can try and help out,’ said Smethwick with an unpleasant smile, ‘but if you go in there and it all kicks off, you – along with all the other humans inside – will be deemed to be unlawful combatants in that you offered material support to an illegal insurrection, where extreme violence was perpetrated upon a taskforce eager only to assist in a legal Rehoming.’

‘You’re going to kill them all, aren’t you?’ I said, with a surprising amount of bravado. ‘All one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’

‘We’d so hate to do that,’ said Ms fforkes without an atom of sincerity, ‘but once Colony One has fallen, the other four will soon fall into line. Rabbits are like naughty children, Mr Knox, and occasionally need to be punished. MegaWarren is a social and economical win-win for all concerned, and it will be implemented.’