The Constant Rabbit

Ross & Rabbits

Rabbity was the English word for the rabbit language; the rabbit word was ‘Niff’, one of the few pronounceable words in the rabbit language. Dismayingly, Niff could also mean, depending on context: ‘rabbit, life, wholeness, carrot (straight), warmth, sky, ratchet screwdriver, aeroplane, wagon, carrot (curved), Wensleydale cheese, hopscotch and sleeve-valve engines.’

Ross-on-Wye had a pre-rabbit population of eight thousand, all human. Today that had risen to twenty thousand, chiefly rabbits. Most were long-term residents, part of an early experiment in rabbit/human integration undertaken in the seventies by RabToil, which had initially been set up as an NGO to find employment for rabbits, but had grown and darkened over the years to control all rabbit employment and was now integrated into the Ministry for Rabbit Affairs.

The Ross integration experiment, while hugely successful at the time and still regarded as the gold standard for peaceful inter-species coexistence, was never rolled out further owing to a concerted smear campaign by UKARP, who despised the concept of integration and instigated numerous complaints about the rabbit’s ‘bacchanalian nature of rampant promiscuity that would surely corrupt the nation’s youth’. Despite no evidence that the nation’s youth needed any outside forces to help corrupt itself in the least, UKARP succeeded in casting doubt over further integration and were as surprised as anyone when their plan succeeded, and integration plans were abandoned. They used it as a springboard to further pursue their anti-rabbit agenda. No one could have foreseen that they’d actually lead the nation four decades later.

‘Before Ross we had only failure,’ said a spokesman for UKARP, ‘afterwards, only success.’

Despite the leporiphobic rhetoric, the once sleepy market town of Ross was now a bustling centre of commerce which encompassed trade, crafts and literary and artistic pursuits, as well as two centres for higher learning that revolved around philosophy, high cuisine and sustainability. While a few residents initially complained about the rabbits, all were won over by the vibrant nightlife, friendly upbeat manner of the newcomers and, of course, the trading opportunities. Although rabbits were not paid well, they liked to spend what they earned quickly. The gourmet lettuce bars did particularly well, as did the numerous greengrocers, a thriving bookstore and several hookah dens where rabbits discussed politics, economics and carrot hybridisation issues while their hookahs bubbled and puffed with the aromatic scent of a variety of rabbit tobacco: dock leaf, catnip, burdock, celeriac and dandelion. Mornings in the hookah dens were reserved for performance readings: the one we passed had a reading of The Hunchback of Notre Dame going on all week.

More relevant to the Rabbit Compliance Taskforce, Ross was by local statute an ‘Open Town’ commercially, residentially and – crucially – for those on a day permit from Rabbit Colony One, eight miles to the east. Thanks to a well-intentioned by-law passed forty years before, busloads of rabbits could move between the two locations without identification checks, something of a headache for RabCoT as it made potential free movement of those in the banned Rabbit Underground that much easier. None of the other colonies enjoyed such freedoms, so it had long been assumed that Colony One was where the movement was based.

It was now half past three, and Lugless AY-002 and I were sitting in his Cadillac Eldorado on the opposite side of the road from the post office.

‘Where are you now, Fudd One?’ asked Lugless, who was wearing an eyepatch and a large tartan tam-o’-shanter stuffed with newspapers to disguise his earless state.The officer in question reported that he was across the street from the post office, standing in the doorway of a shop that repaired light bulbs. All the Compliance Officers were deployed in various places in the locale, either drinking acorn coffee at a sidewalk café, having an animated conversation on a mobile or simply waiting out of sight, ready to amble past and pounce when Flopsy 7770 made his move.

‘Copy that,’ said Lugless into his mic, acknowledging a message from Sergeant Boscombe that a Labstock carrying a briefcase was approaching from the north. Lugless checked his watch, then asked the officer tailing the post office van for an ETA. We received the reply that the van was still twenty minutes away. Having acknowledged both reports, Lugless then dug a carrot out of a brown-paper bag and crunched it up noisily.

‘So,’ I said, trying to ignore the carrot-munching, ‘you’re an AY-002?’

‘Yup,’ said Lugless, neither wanting nor expecting to expand upon the subject.

Since he carried the alphanumeric surname he would be descended from the three laboratory rabbits anthropomorphised at the Event. The DG-6721s were the most numerous with the MNU-683s not far behind. They all suffered ongoing health issues owing to experimentation pre-Event, aside from the AY-002s, whose ancestor, to their constant shame, had been a ‘control rabbit’ in the lab and subjected to no tests at all, something that gave them huge residual guilt that often manifested itself in antisocial behaviour. That, in itself, wasn’t enough to justify cropping. Lugless must have done something seriously unpleasant. Either improper sexual conduct or doing what he was doing now. Rabbits despised a collaborator as much as they despised those who extracted favours by coercion.

We sat for another five minutes in silence.

‘Am I here on some sort of test?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lugless without looking up from the crossword he was attempting. ‘Are you?’

‘I was on the Dylan Rabbit arrest detail,’ I said. ‘The Senior Group Leader wanted me to concur on an ID and I wasn’t sure but was overruled. But I was right after all, and the shit hit the—’

‘Is there a point to this story?’ asked Lugless. ‘Because you’re getting kind of whiny and self-pitying in that uniquely human way.’

‘I guess not,’ I said, ‘but an innocent rabbit was jugged because I didn’t stand my ground, and I thought that was a good—’

‘Look,’ said Lugless, ‘there are no innocent rabbits. There are simply those who have drifted into criminality, and those that will. You heard Whizelle and Flemming: there is an extremely good chance that the rabbit community might be planning to kick off a LitterBombing campaign that will outnumber Fudds in this green and pleasant land by at least three to one in under five years. Do you want to be outnumbered in your own country?’

‘Well, no, obviously.’

‘Right, then,’ said Lugless, ‘so why don’t you shut your trap, do the spotting that a quirk of fate has bestowed upon you, and leave broad strategy to Nigel Smethwick and the Senior Group Leader?’

I fell silent. The notion of Reproductive Weaponisation had been the pet conspiracy theory of UKARP for over three decades, but given the rabbit had been here fifty-five years and barely numbered a million, ‘commendable restraint’ would be a more realistic appraisal of their reproductive habits.16

My earpiece crackled into life.

‘Flopsy 7770 with you in one minute,’ came the voice of Boscombe, followed by a report that the post van was heading into the town centre to do the teatime pick-up. Lugless shuffled in his seat and peered intently up the road, as did I, and within a short time a Labstock rabbit turned the corner and walked towards the postbox with the curious gait that anthropomorphic rabbits possessed – upright and on two legs but with an uncertain and almost comical waddle. He was holding a leather briefcase that was chained to his wrist and dressed in a practical tweed shooting jacket over a checked shirt and tie. Perched between his ears at a jaunty angle was a matching flat cap.

‘Recognise him?’ asked Lugless.

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Get out there for a closer look.’

Although Labstocks were the hardest to ID, up close it often became easier – the wrinkles on the nose, a distinctive mark on the iris, whisker placement. If I manoeuvred down-sun of him I could view the capillaries in his ears for later reference, but I’d have to be lucky with my timing – the sun had been in and out all day.

I swung a leather satchel around my shoulder and placed a flat cap on my head. Since rabbits were as poor at identifying humans as the average human was at identifying them, they took cues from clothing and manner, so RabCoT agents either affected an odd walk, or, more usually, disguised themselves as regional or cultural stereotypes. I had opted to pose as a Yorkshireman. For the next half-hour I’d be Eric Althwaite, a mill worker from Harrogate.

I climbed out of the car, popped the live whippet under my arm to augment my disguise and, clasping several postcards, walked across the road in a confident manner, telling random passers-by I was from Yorkshire.17 Flopsy 7770 was already waiting at the postbox, and I wended my way through the pedestrians – nearly all rabbits – who were either lolloping, walking or half-hopping along the street. I was feeling nervous as perhaps never before, but knew I couldn’t make it show. The future of my career and earning potential was weighing heavily upon me. I needed to get this right.

My timing was quite good because I could see the bright red post van driving down the road towards us. If Flopsy 7770 was nervous, he didn’t show it. He didn’t check his watch, didn’t turn to observe the van approach, didn’t seem to do anything at all, in fact – just stood there in a relaxed manner, his nose twitching, his expression blank. Annoyingly, there weren’t enough distinguishing marks for me to recognise him if I saw him again, so I moved closer and bought some stamps from the vending machine, then nonchalantly stuck them on my postcards. At that moment the sun came out, and I turned to look at the Flopsy, thinking my luck had changed, but it hadn’t – the post van had placed itself in between the sun and the Labstock. Unless he moved forward, I would not be able to see the fine network of veins in his ears. I could sense the other agents near by, too – dressed variously as a Village Person, a Pearly King and a Scotsman – and ready to grab him the moment the postman unlocked the pillar box and the Flopsy made to deposit his satchel of post. But as I watched, something unusual happened. Three more Labstocks appeared from nowhere, all similar heights and build and dressed identically with briefcases also chained to their wrists. Lugless’s plan had been compromised: the Underground had been taking precautions. They probably knew that a snatch squad typically had three agents – even if they could arrest three they’d not manage four – and all were Labstock to confound any potential Spotters.

I heard Lugless swear in my earpiece, and then the order:

‘Take them. Take them all.’

The agents made to arrest the Labstocks, which could have a very different outcome if the rabbits decided to bring violence into the mix – a kick from the hind legs would be powerful enough to break bones and rupture internal organs, as well as catapult the victim at speed through a shop window, while a well-aimed bite would be fatal in as long a time as it takes to bleed out.

None of this happened because rabbits had a generally more robust relationship with consequences than humans, and the agents’ commands to halt were met with a series of giggles from the Labstocks, who mingled briefly to confuse us before running off in separate directions as though it were some sort of jolly game.

‘Don’t just stand there like a twat, Knox,’ came Lugless’s voice in my earpiece, ‘get after the fourth.’

I had until that time been stunned into inactivity by the sudden turn of events. I was, after all, a Spotter – not a Field Agent. This wasn’t what I did. Even so, I looked around and saw the fourth Labstock walking in a relaxed manner towards the ancient Market House at the top of the main street.

‘Look,’ I said into my microphone while pretending to rub my mouth, ‘I’m not trained for this. I’m not sure I even have the power of arrest.’

‘I don’t want you to arrest him, idiot,’ came Lugless’s voice, ‘I want you to get a good look at him.’

This seemed reasonable so I walked up the road in the direction the Labstock had gone, lost sight of him as he walked to the right of the Market House, then caught another glimpse of him walking up the steps to the churchyard once I’d reached Rossiter’s bookshop.18 When I got to the churchyard I just caught sight of him as he vanished in through the door. I walked in an unhurried pace towards the church, acutely aware that the only people near me were rabbits. And although they weren’t looking in my direction, the rabbit’s peripheral vision was so good, it’s safe to assume that if you can see a rabbit, they can see you.

I stopped to tie the whippet to the foot-scraper and took the opportunity to whisper into the microphone.

‘Flopsy suspect in the church, but this could be a trap. The whole set-up might simply have been to bag a Spotter.’

This could indeed be true. Spotters were forbidden to go on-colony for that very reason, though my identity and job at the Taskforce were well guarded: hence the accountant cover story.

‘Of secondary consideration,’ came Lugless’s voice. ‘I want every single one of those fat furry bastards in the clink before teatime.’

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, then pushed open the door and stepped inside the church. It was a good size, imposing but not overgrand, and boasted a double nave and tall stained-glass windows. A vicar was humming to himself while tidying the leaflets, postcards and guidebooks that were arranged on a small table.

I looked around to see whether I could spot my quarry. There were two rabbits inside, one Wildstock, one Labstock – and both were dressed in the sort of pale blue tabard that befits a church volunteer. I thought it was a different Labstock, but then I noticed an identical shooting jacket to the one 7770 had worn hung on a peg in the vestry, and it was still swinging from being hurriedly placed. I was just going to wander over to the Labstock on the pretext of studying several old tombs when the vicar caught my eye.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

‘Good afternoon,’ I replied genially. ‘I see you have our furry friends19 as volunteers.’

Although the rabbit religion had no issue with where and when you worshipped, nor who, it was still unusual to see them in a church, probably because churches were as far from a cosy moss-and-fur-lined warren as you were likely to get.

‘Yes indeed,’ said the vicar. ‘Saint Mary’s is a church that accepts everyone through its doors, irrespective of taxonomic classification.’

I wasn’t going to get any closer to the Labstock without conversing at least a little to allay suspicion, and the Labstock did not seem to be in a hurry to leave.

‘Back home in Harrogate where I come from as I am a Yorkshireman, we have no rabbits,’ I said. ‘What is the Church’s view?’

The vicar nodded his head thoughtfully.

‘The Church’s opinion is divided. Although we here on the ground consider rabbits as just one of many of God’s blessed creatures, the official line is that they are a lower animal, and when they arrived they were viewed as an abomination – the sinful product of a satanic union. When that was disproved from the DNA evidence, our stance softened. I think the problem is that while humanlike, they are not actually humanful, and according to scripture and teaching, mankind was made in His image, as they were in their Grand Matriarch Lago’s. Church policy is that we don’t allow them to participate in church matters but we will not exclude them from our house – so long as there is no crunching of lettuces from the pews and pellets are kept to an absolute minimum.’

He paused for thought, then recited his next comment as though learned from a crib sheet.

‘We must love all God’s creatures, but allow change and acceptance to happen slowly and at a pace commensurate with acceptable norms and customs.’

‘I see,’ I said, and after making some excuse about wanting to view some particularly fine statuary, moved towards where the Labstock was still dusting. If he knew I was from the Taskforce he made no sign of it, and even nodded a greeting. But of distinguishing marks on his coat or whiskers or eyes – there was nothing.

‘With you in five, Knox,’ came Lugless’s voice in my ear. ‘Confirm to me suspect still in church.’

I tapped the microphone twice on my wrist, and stared with feigned interest at the impressive array of tombs, glad that the other agents would take the burden of action from me. I had done a fair job, and should not be poorly thought of. My career might very well still be secure.

I heard the doors to the church open on both sides, and turned, expecting to see the agents arrive. But it wasn’t them, it was more rabbits – and all of them Labstock. Nine all told, and they hastily grabbed volunteer tabards that the vicar was handing out. Within a few minutes they would all be hopelessly mingled. I looked across at the target Labstock, who was staring back at me with a smile on his placid features. He was definitely the one we were after, and once the other Labstocks had moved in and around him, I would have no way of pointing him out, or even finding out who he was.

But I was wrong, for at that moment the sun came out, and shone through the church window, transfixing Flopsy 7770 in a shaft of white light that perfectly illuminated his ears. There, on his left, about two-thirds of the way up, was a unique pattern of capillaries that looked like a squashed Tudor rose.

I didn’t have time to make comment as the influx of bustling Labstock church volunteers gathered in a clump around us, moving and whirling and mixing so that within a short space of time I had no idea who was who. I was impressed. 7770 had been smarter, and quicker, and one step ahead of Lugless. There was definitely a Rabbit Underground, and the Labstock – whoever he was – had been part of it. And if I saw him again I’d know exactly who he was.

So long as he had a bright light behind him.