The Constant Rabbit

Senior Group Leader

Myxomatosis was used as an anti-rabbit bacteriological agent from the early nineteenth century, most notably in Australia in 1950. The disease initially affects the eyes and genitals, which may grow tumours or myxomata. Secondary infections of pneumonia soon follow, and the rabbit is generally dead within two weeks of infection. There is no cure.

When I got back to the office I found Flemming and Lugless at my terminal, going through my semi-choices and rejections of the morning. Flemming had an Admin password so could access all my work, which didn’t surprise me.

‘Not much luck, then?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long and tedious process,’ I said, ‘and can’t really be rushed.’

‘In that case,’ said Lugless, ‘I think what this project needs is an increased sense of purpose. We told him you’d drop in and offer up a progress report as soon as you got back.’

The warning bells started ringing.

‘Drop in and see who?’

‘Who do you think? The Senior Group Leader.’

I started. No one liked to meet the Senior Group Leader, especially if you were key personnel in an important investigation that had made no headway. I tried to think up a reasoned series of robust arguments that would bring everyone around to my way of thinking while also being cowed by my intellect and sharpness of wit, but all I could come up with was ‘Do I have to?’ in a whiny sort of voice.

‘Of course not,’ said Flemming, ‘but you will because I’m ordering you to. Oh, and you’re to drop into accounts on the way down. I think they have something they want taken to him.’

Flemming and Lugless both returned to their desks, the conversation over. I sighed, then walked slowly down the hall to where the head of Accounts was waiting for me with a bulging brown envelope attached to a petty cash form. I knew what it contained. The Senior Group Leader had many peculiar habits, and one of them was insisting on being paid cash for any ‘special services’.

‘Thanks for doing this,’ she said nervously. ‘I’d do it myself, of course, but I have a pressing dental appointment.’

She held her jaw and winced in a dramatic fashion to drive home the point, reminded me to get a signature for the cash and then vanished back into her office.

I made my way downstairs and into the main Taskforce office. The room was large, open plan and harshly lit by strip-lights. There were about sixty workers in the office, most of whom were either on the phone or hunched over their screens, figuring out movement orders, chasing up errant rabbits, keeping tabs on labour assignments, suspected spikes of criminality and rigidly enforcing the rabbit maximum wage.

As I walked slowly across the room, all eyes were upon me. It felt as though the entire office were heavy with doom-laden apprehension. No one liked the Senior Group Leader being here, and the arrival of someone with a fat brown envelope was good news all round. The sooner he was paid off, the sooner he would be away.

I didn’t have to state my business to the Group Leader’s assistant. He simply announced my arrival on the intercom and hurriedly waved me in. I stepped up to the door, took a deep breath, knocked and walked in.

The office was tidy and neat, the walls covered with photographs of the Group Leader along with mementos of his many achievements in vintage motor racing. There were trophies littered about, polished engine parts masquerading as clocks and ashtrays, and mounted on the wall was the spare bonnet of one of the Le Mans D-Type winners. The blinds were down so the interior was quite dark, and hanging in the air was a curiously fuggy blend of whisky, cigar smoke and Old Spice aftershave.

Sitting in the darkness was a figure only faintly illuminated by an orange glow as he pulled on a cigar. I cleared the nervousness from my throat and held up the envelope.

‘Agent AY-002 suggested I give you an update on the hunt for Flopsy 7770, and I’ve something for you from the accounts department.’

There was a pause, then:

‘Top notch, old boy, top notch.’

His voice was smooth and low and sounded well educated. It put me in mind of my English master at school, whose mellow tones were nourished by a long-standing yet ultimately fatal relationship with Monte Cristo and Glenmorangie.

‘Bono malum superate,30’ he added. ‘Be a good chap and leave it on the desk, hmmm?’

I bit my lip. I knew from office gossip that this was usually how it went down regarding the petty cash. Whoever delivered it tried to get the Group Leader to sign for it, and he always tried not to.

‘I have to have it signed.’

‘And you will, old boy, when I decide. Wait a moment, is that Mr Knox?’

I felt sweat prickle my back as he stood up and moved into the light.

The Senior Group Leader was impeccably dressed in a finely cut woollen three-piece suit of a handsome large check. He wore red socks inside brown leather brogues, and a scarlet tie was perfectly knotted and secured with a bejewelled tie-pin. He was a dark shade of orangey sandstone, over six feet tall, and his tail – sorry, brush – poked out from the back of his suit, where the white tip flicked the air in an impatient manner. There was also a lumpy hessian sack at his feet, which had dark stains in several places.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said. ‘You are Mr Knox? I can tell male from female, young from old and dumb from not-so-dumb, but that’s about as far as it goes.’

‘Y-yes,’ I stammered, and then watched with increased nervousness as he raised his lip to reveal a large canine that had been filed to a point. There seemed to be a clump of hair stuck between his fangs, to which there was attached a pink sliver of gristle.

‘Yes … what?’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Ffoxe, sir,’ I said, ‘that’s my name – it’s Mr Knox, sir.’

Rabbits had not been the only animals caught up in the 1965 Spontaneous Anthropomorphising Event. There had also been six weasels, five guinea pigs, three foxes, a Dalmatian, a badger, nine bees and a caterpillar.

The badger and the Dalmatian, after numerous failed careers as chat-show hosts, royal reporters and pool hustlers, embarked on a career as comedy duo Spots and Stripes, whose routine, while variable in quality, was certainly unique.

The guinea pigs had all been male, which was problematic for any long-term survival possibilities. They were pretty much inseparable, and after a failed career in novelty cake baking had formed a crime syndicate dubbed ‘Pig Iron’ by the press. After a series of gangland-style hits, bank jobs and jewel heists, their luck finally ran out when their getaway car was boxed in by the police on the M4. But instead of going quietly, they elected to shoot their way out using an array of automatic weapons and even a rocket-propelled grenade launcher while yelling clichéd statements such as: ‘No bastard copper’s gonna bung me in chokey’.

The battle was described by a seasoned front-line firearms officer as ‘the most terrifying half-hour of my life, and substantially worse than anything we faced in Iraq’. After a protracted gunfight, two car chases and a twenty-seven-hour stand-off in a KFC, the two surviving guinea pigs were arrested and eventually handed a twenty-six-year sentence each.

The weasels all worked in the intelligence community and in what could be described as either nominative determinism or simply playing up to their own stereotype were weaselly sorts of creatures. The only one I knew reasonably well was Adrian Whizelle, who had tried to sapienise his name31 to appear less weaselly.

The caterpillar, in contrast, had taken to the Event badly and immediately formed into a chrysalis from which s/he was yet to emerge. S/he is currently hanging up in a large cupboard inside the Natural History Museum; you can view her/him on live webcam.

No one knows what happened to the bees.

‘How’s that delightful daughter of yours?’ asked Mr Ffoxe, his comment relating to the ‘bring a child to work day’ that soured soon after his unplanned arrival in the office. Pippa had been fourteen at the time and became the focus of Mr Ffoxe’s attentions, which were inappropriately suggestive and, had he been human, grounds for instant dismissal and possibly a criminal investigation.

‘She’s well,’ I said, trying to seem cold and disdainful but actually sounding plaintive and apologetic.

‘Is she still exceptionally pleasing to the eye?’ he asked. ‘We must reacquaint ourselves now those tiresome consent rules are past us.’

His small yellow eyes bored into me, and a dribble of saliva oozed from the side of his mouth. ‘Repellent’ couldn’t even begin to describe him.

‘I think I can speak for Pippa when I say she despises you,’ I replied.

He grinned again.

‘Quite the little minx. Well, her loss.’

Owing to small litter sizes and an impenetrably long and complicated mating ritual that required Michelin-starred dinner dates and visits to Glyndebourne, foxes had not reproduced nearly as well as rabbits. From the two vixens and a dog at Event Zero there were now a shade under six thousand individuals. They had become increasingly urbane over the years and insisted on sending their cubs to public schools, quoting Latin in a fatuous and pretentious manner whenever possible and respelling their surnames with a dazzling array of ridiculous affectations. There was plain ‘Mr Fox’, then about forty other permutations that included: Foxe, Ffoxe, Phocks, Phoxse, Forcks, Fforkse, Fourks, Fourxe, Foix, Fux, Foxx and Phourxes. All, without exception, were pronounced ‘Fox’.

Unlike the rabbit, the foxes had secured British citizenship on the dubious legal grounds that the then Home Secretary liked ‘the cut of their jib’, but they also retained, in a unique legal ruling, dual taxonomic status. They were legally human but also allowed to be fox when the mood took them, or the job required it. They were also notoriously, painfully, cunning. There was a saying: you can never outfox the fox.

‘So,’ said Mr Ffoxe, ‘let’s have the cash.’

I handed him the receipt for signing and he withdrew an expensive pen from his top pocket and signed the docket before handing it back, and I passed over the cash.

‘OK, then,’ he said, stuffing the cash in his breast pocket, ‘let’s talk about the operation in Ross. Lugless tells me you haven’t been embracing the sort of enthusiasm we like to see in our staff. With the Rabbit Underground threatening to upset the peaceful status quo of this green and pleasant land you need to try a little harder. Whizelle says you’ve been staring at pictures of Labstock for several weeks and haven’t fingered a single one.’

I swallowed nervously.

‘I haven’t found him yet. These things take time.’

He moved closer, the heavy scent of Old Spice cologne suddenly filling the air like fog. Foxes used it to disguise their scent from rabbits as they moved in for the kill. And foxes were permitted to kill rabbits. At the High Court in 1978, Fox v. Rabbit established that a fox killing a rabbit – while taxonomically a fox – was legally defensible on the grounds of ‘long-founded predation of historically natural prey’. It gave legality to their job as rabbit enforcers, and although it was legal for a rabbit to kill a fox in self-defence ‘once all other avenues of escape had been exhausted and the law’s definition of proportionality as it appertained to rabbits had been tested in the courts’, rabbits rarely did, owing to … reprisals.

Reprisals were seen less like mass murder and more a useful tool of deterrence, and began when a particularly unpleasant individual named Jethro Phox ventured on to Colony Five for ‘a little sport’ and was found face down two days later in a muddy ditch just outside the wall. The coroner found enough cocaine and alcohol in his body to kill a small horse, but the actual cause of death was asphyxiation due to ‘a small carrot lodged in the windpipe’. While the coroner said this did not immediately suggest foul play on the part of rabbits, his brother foxes interpreted it differently. When the fur had settled, six hundred random rabbits had been killed, tortured and partially eaten in the most sadistic manner imaginable. It was so unpleasant that even then Prime Minister Tony Blair – a long-time supporter of fox rights – had to warn the fox community that any more ‘overreach of this sort’ would result in a repealing of Fox v. Rabbit.

This didn’t stop the reprisals – the foxes just found the acceptable limits. A hundred dead rabbits per dead fox, as it turned out, effectively making foxes all but untouchable. But despite Fox v. Rabbit, foxes used right-to-kill sparingly to keep the culling fees disproportionately high.

‘You haven’t found him yet because these things take time?’ he echoed. ‘How much time?’

‘Well, about as—’

‘Give me some names,’ said Mr Ffoxe, interrupting me. ‘Labstocks who look a bit like Flopsy 7770 – even if nothing else than to sow a bit of discord amongst the cottontail.’

‘I’m … not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘Why?’

‘We should try to avoid another Dylan Rabbit debacle,’ I said, my mouth dry. ‘It brings the Taskforce into disrepute.’

I could hear my voice crack.

‘The public has moved on since then,’ said Mr Ffoxe with a dismissive shrug. ‘The whole Dylan Rabbit wrongful death nonsense lives on only in the deluded minds of the irredeemably self-righteous. To maintain the high efficiency of the Compliance Taskforce we are going to have to make a few mistakes here and there, and Mr Smethwick agrees with me that it is a price worth paying. Now: I want you to go back over your list of Labstocks and select four to be brought in for questioning.’

‘I have no names,’ I implored, ‘not a single one.’

‘That’s not my problem,’ said Mr Ffoxe, fixing me with a menacing look. ‘It’s yours. Four names. To show the Underground we mean business.’

‘Then why not choose four from the Labstock community at random?’ I said, a terrified warble in my throat. ‘They’ll be as guilty as any I can choose …’

My voice trailed off as his small yellow eyes stared at me coldly.

‘You’re an excellent Spotter,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘one of the best. Your strike rates are off the chart. But if you don’t align yourself a little more with policy, we’ll have to talk about letting you go.’

I swallowed nervously again. I needed this job.

‘You can’t fire me for not supplying you with random names.’

He smiled and patted me on the arm.

‘My dear fellow, we’re not going to fire you. Heavens above, no. It’s just that there have been a number of intelligence leaks in the Taskforce, and those leaks can often have grave consequences.’

He stared at me with a faint smile and I felt hot and uncomfortable. Mr Ffoxe had leaked Dylan Rabbit’s name to TwoLegsGood, who then jugged him. It was quite possible he could leak my name, too – but to rabbits with more on their minds than carrots, dandelion leaves and reruns of How Deep Was My Warren. He chuckled, and I knew he wasn’t kidding. He placed his paw on my shoulder and spoke softly, close to my ear.

‘Like it or not, Knox, you’re one of us. You’ve taken the dollar, dipped your toes in the effluent. I’m not sure the rabbit would see your complicity in anything but a …’ he paused for thought ‘… unfavourable light.’

He was right. There were many incidents that, while seemingly accidental or unrelated, definitely benefitted rabbits. Like the sudden departure of Smethwick’s deputy to a Buddhist retreat in Bhutan without explanation, or the higher-than-average fatal car accidents that involved foxes and weasels, or the Spotters who abruptly left the business, or just went missing without adequate explanation. There was a very good reason we kept our profession secret.

‘Do we understand one another?’ he asked.

I felt a cold sweat creep down my back.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, we understand one another.’

This was typical of how foxes operate. Cajole, bully, threaten, diminish, divide, disseminate and eventually, as far as rabbits were concerned at least, murder. It was in their blood, it was in their DNA. More than that, they actually enjoyed it. Many of them considered inviting a fresh-found foxy friend on a rampage through the colonies as little more than a cracking first date.

It was time for me to leave. I mumbled that I was wanted elsewhere, and turned towards the door to find Mr Ffoxe waiting at the door. He had moved so blindingly fast it seemed as though there were two of him in the room, and I had to look back to check.

‘Mr Knox, sir, not so fast, sir. Did I say that you could go, sir?’

‘No, sir, no, sir, Mr Ffoxe, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘What else should I do, sir?’

He placed his muzzle close to me and inhaled deeply.

‘Oh-ho,’ he said, suddenly distracted, ‘you’ve been near a female rabbit recently.’

I thought of Connie in Waitrose.

‘I stopped at Ascari’s on the way here,’ I said, ‘there was a rabbarista behind the counter.’

I stammered slightly as I said it, and Mr Ffoxe knew instantly I was lying.

‘Well, how about that?’ he said with a laugh. ‘Little Knoxie’s been beguiled. What was it? The eyes? The bobbling cottontail? The inexplicable and utterly inappropriate sexualisation of an otherwise unremarkable lower mammal? Who was she? Your new neighbour?’

‘No—’ I stopped as I realised what he’d said, then: ‘How did you know I had rabbits as neighbours?’

He smiled.

‘Don’t let yourself be tempted by the bun’s mild temperament and apparent peaceful nature,’ he said without answering my question. ‘That “cute and cuddly victim of human’s domination” stuff they do? It’s bullshit. It’s not sunny meadows, warm burrows and dandelion leaves they’re after, it’s majoritisation, assimilation and domination. And they could win out, if left unchecked. Promiscuity is not just their raison d’être, it’s their secret weapon. A LitterBomb is a very real and present danger, and once the supply chain of stockpiled food is successfully coordinated by the Underground, the word will go out. Before you can say Lapin à la cocotte you’ll be outnumbered, outvoted in your own nation, working for a rabbit, taking orders from a rabbit, worshipping at their altar and living the lapine way – it’ll be lettuce for supper, dinner and tea. Do you want that?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Then we’re totally together on this, because that’s what Flopsy 7770 and the rest of those treasonous bunscum are up to.’

‘Really?’

‘You’d better believe it. So look, here’s what you’re going to do about your neighbours: be wary, but stay friendly. Do what you have to do to gain their confidence. We’ll tell you what we want you to do in due course.’

‘So I want to keep them in the village?’ I said, thinking about the Malletts’ moving-out fund.

‘If you can. Infiltrate, make friends and report back. The Taskforce will be grateful. I will be grateful.’

Mr Ffoxe patted me on the shoulder in a patronising manner, and then, without me noticing, snaked a paw into my jacket and deposited a small yet very fresh fox turd in my inside breast pocket.32 He then smiled.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, indicating the bloodstained hessian sack in the middle of his office carpet, ‘want a couple of haunches for the pot? Tasty and nutritious.’

I finally found a voice.

‘This isn’t compliance,’ I said, ‘it’s …’

My voice trailed off.

‘You can speak your mind here, Knox. I give you permission. This one’s on me. A free pass.’

‘It’s … murder,’ I said, indicating the hessian sack.

He took a draw on his cigar and chuckled.

‘Can you even begin to understand the level of that statement’s hypocrisy coming from you? Cruel as we are, foxes are amateurs next to humans. I may be a little harsh on your furry woodland friends, but exitus acta probat,33 Knox. But here’s the thing: it’s not me and my foxy chums currently and without even a flicker of collective guilt precipitating an unprecedented extinction event on the entire sodding planet.’

He glared at me for a moment and I shifted my weight nervously.

‘And don’t say you’re not personally responsible,’ continued Mr Ffoxe, ‘because you are. Your tacit support of the status quo is proof of your complicity, your shrugging indifference a favourable vote in support of keeping things exactly as they are. I’m not the murderer, Knox, you are – you and all your pathetic little naked primate cousins with their silly hairstyles and gangly limbs and overdeveloped sense of entitlement and self-serving delusion.’

I felt myself grow hot under his glare.

‘And now,’ he said in a low voice, ‘you can piss off back to the upstanding and necessary work you are paid handsomely to do. Four names, on my desk, by sundown.’

I needed no second bidding and hastily left the room.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Toby when I got back to my desk.

‘No,’ I said, ‘not really. In fact, not at all.’