The Constant Rabbit

‘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.’

‘Dear Jocaminca can be a little fearsome at times,’ said Smethwick. ‘Policing actions like these can be very confusing to the man in the street, and although the UK’s citizenry is generally on our side, public opinion can be a fickle beast. Do you think you can get the rabbits to return to the negotiating table?’