The Constant Rabbit

From what I’d learned about rabbits over the past two months, the answer was a resounding no. But I wanted to get in there, and this seemed as good a way as any. I was kind of flattered, too, that he thought I might somehow be a player.

‘I can give it my best shot.’

‘Excellent!’ said Smethwick, passing me his card. ‘If I’ve not had a call from you by twenty hundred hours then I’ll hand over control to the foxes. I am sure you can appreciate what this means, given that foxes have a historically loose relationship with the concept of restraint.’

He patted me on the shoulder, then tapped the cardboard box I was carrying.

‘What’s in the box?’

‘Something for the rabbit, I think.’

He beckoned over a Taskforce officer, who removed the box to a small table, had a look inside, resealed it and then brought it back.

‘So,’ said Ms fforkes as she walked me across the open area in front of the main gates, ‘what exactly was Torquil Ffoxe doing in the Rabbits’ house that evening?’

A single sentry was guarding the twin gates of the imposing main entrance, but the admin buildings either side were dark and empty. I checked my watch. It was just past six. There were two hours to go until Operation Cottontail began.

‘He thought Constance Rabbit was involved with the Underground and would know of the Bunty’s whereabouts.’

‘Did she?’

‘Probably not.’

‘We’ll have the VB in custody by dawn,’ said Ms fforkes, ‘you have my word on that.’

‘You’ll never catch her,’ I said, ‘she’s been three steps ahead of you every time. I didn’t outfox the fox, she did – and she’ll do it again. Your days are numbered, just like Mr Ffoxe’s. And you know what? You’ll never see it coming.’

For a fleeting instant, somewhere deep beneath the brash confidence of a well-evolved carnivore, I saw a glimmer of doubt cross Ms fforkes’ features. A sense of … mortality.

‘Balls,’ she said, her confidence swiftly returning. ‘Do what you can to bring about peace. The attack would be a lot of fun, and the per capita death payments would make all of us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams – but in the broader picture, a culling benefits no one.’

‘That’s an oddly charitable viewpoint for a fox.’

‘Not at all. A culling in Colony One will only strengthen the rabbit’s resolve in the other colonies, not weaken it. So we’ll have to kill them, too. And if this all goes to Smethwick’s plan and we cull the lot, do you really think that humans will welcome us into their society and offer us a cosy retirement package? No. We’ve only been invited to top table to do the dirty work, and if things go tits-up – which they eventually will – there is a convenient bogeyman at which to point the finger. Human guilt, as always, will be abrogated to foxes, or circumstance, and eventually to history.’

‘Is that really Smethwick’s plan?’ I asked. ‘To eradicate them all?’

‘If the Rehoming doesn’t work out and there’s a general strike, then yes. But listen,’ she continued, ‘I like to kill rabbits as much as the next fox, but compliance rather than eradication is the winning business model for us. So oddly, yes, I want you to try and achieve a peace. You’ve got two hours. Good evening, Mr Knox.’

After checking through a peephole, the guard threw the bolt and opened the small wicket door set into one of the large double gates. I took a deep breath, paused for a moment and stepped for the first time into Colony One.

Endgame

It was dubbed ‘a battle’ to make it sound as though the opponents had been equally powerful and that there had been some sense of doubt over the outcome. A more realistic word would have been ‘slaughter’ had the engagement gone the way it had been intended.

But it didn’t.

I paused inside the gate, suddenly aware that I had stepped into a world that until recently had been closed to me. I still felt a stranger, and knew I could never belong, but I also knew that somewhere close by would be Connie and Pippa, and that I was not alone.

I looked around, expecting to see a massed group of rabbits or something, all armed with whatever was to hand, but there was nobody. The area between the first gates and the second, a place usually reserved for where articulated lorries brought components in and trucked completed goods out, was deserted. I walked towards the second set of gates, which I noticed were ajar.

‘Hello?’ I said as I put my head around the door. There didn’t seem to be anyone around so I stepped inside. To my left and right were the call centres and factories, and straight on was a single thoroughfare that led on to rows and rows of allotments under which there would be a network of tunnels. Beyond this the ground rose to the top of May Hill itself, where a circular grove of trees punctuated the skyline. On the air was the heady scent of meadowfield stew, and on the breeze I could hear the distant strains of jazz.

‘Is that Peter Knox?’ came Doc’s voice from somewhere close at hand. ‘Your shape and walk give me only a 42% cenrtainty.’