The Constant Rabbit

Rabbit Riot

Rabbits are especially good at crowd-crunching calculations. Most of the team are used as memory, with key calculators doing sums, and three others dividing the mechanics of the calculation amongst the others. With a little practice, a team of two hundred rabbits can calculate the square root of any given four-digit number to fifty-four decimal places in under six minutes.

To be honest, it was only dubbed a ‘riot’ later, by the leader writer of The Actual Truth, UKARP and the Compliance Taskforce. To anyone else, the rabbit themselves and even a dispassionate observer, ‘super non-violent silent protest with maths’ would be closer to the mark. Outside the building were eight rabbits standing in a line and staring impassively at the Taskforce headquarters.

‘What’s up?’ I asked someone in the lobby.

‘Some complete and utter twat put Fenton DG-6721 on an arrest list, and it’s kicked off a riot. Pisses me off totally. The building will be put on lockdown, and I have the finals of the all-Hereford bell-ringing competition this evening.’

‘There’s only eight of them,’ I said, looking out of the one-way glass into the street, ‘probably just a flash in the pan. No, wait, I can see some more.’

To the right and left more rabbits were arriving, alerted over the grapevine as to what was going on. They’d dropped everything, tied the traditional protest bandana loosely around the base of their ears and taken their place next to their colleagues.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Whizelle, who had just appeared from the records office. The disappointed bell-ringer – I think he was from Ethics – told Whizelle what was happening and I decided to creep back to the office and keep my head down. My name was on this. I’d been stitched up by Lugless good and proper.

Toby was already watching the riot unfold when I got back upstairs as our office gave an unimpeded view down Gaol Street to the left and right. In ten minutes there were twenty rabbits and that doubled in another half an hour.

‘It will be impossible to get a decent cup of coffee in town right now,’ said Toby, who always thought of practicalities, ‘let alone a sandwich.’

Within an hour there were certainly a hundred or so, all standing in the road outside, ears flat on their backs. I could hear them murmuring, too, but not words – numbers. Rabbits weren’t fond of glib and pithy yet ultimately meaningless political slogans so used protest longevity as their chief tool. Since that could get very boring, they took to crowd-crunching extremely tricky mathematical calculations to pass the time, which was oddly disconcerting as the murmuring made little sense to non-mathematicians and at a distance sounded soft and restful, like falling water. The rabbits remained fairly motionless during a riot, but would eventually start to keel over from dehydration or lack of sleep after a couple of days. At which point they would be removed to a tent to be revived – and then replaced by a fresh rabbit, who would have been queuing patiently to have the honour of participation.

The longest riot in history took place in Runcorn over the arrest of two juvenile rabbits accused of stealing a packet of Ryvita, which might have ended without drama but for a stubborn regional commander who refused to give in. It lasted ninety-six days. Mass-arresting the rioting rabbits, waiting until they dropped or even using water cannon and tear gas made no difference – they were simply replaced by more rabbits. Even cordoning off the location of the riot didn’t work as the rabbits just shifted the protest a hundred yards to the left, and carried on as before.

The Runcorn Ryvita Riot was a resounding win by the rabbits and, as a mathematical crowd-crunching side note, led to the discovery of a fifteen-hundred-digit prime number that someone had missed. More importantly, it made the authorities concede, with great reluctance, that any rabbit riot had to be dealt with using dialogue and compromise if any useful resolution could be achieved.

The first mass email arrived within the hour, informing the building what we’d already been told fifty-five minutes before: we were on lockdown. The despondency soon gave way to a cheery school-end-of-term atmosphere, with everyone gathering in the corridors to look out of the windows, knowing that since they were semi-silvered, none of the rabbits could see in. While I tried to get some work done, we were interrupted by Dennis, the Taskforce employee who always organised the office sweepstakes: pick a rioter and if your rabbit falls over first, you win the kitty.

‘The only slots that are left are the fifth, ninth and seventeenth rabbit from the right,’ he said, a bag of tenners in one hand and a clipboard in the other. ‘Can I put you down for one each?’

Toby obliged but I didn’t. I made some excuse about having no cash.

After an hour of tantalisingly complex three-body gravitational mathematics, Patrick Finkle turned up with a Labstock that I recognised as Ansel DG-6721, a cousin of Fenton and the local representative of the Grand Council of Coneys. They both came to the front door of the Taskforce HQ and demanded the release of the four prisoners. They were told that this was quite impossible as, firstly, they weren’t ‘prisoners’ but ‘guests’, and secondly, the release would require confirming who was in custody – which would be a potential breach of the rabbit’s data protection rights. Finkle replied that if the Senior Group Leader wouldn’t negotiate within sixty minutes they’d have a thousand rabbits outside within twenty-four hours and five thousand within the week – and an unwanted and potentially embarrassing civil disobedience on their hands.

‘Do you think Finkle is kidding?’ asked Toby when the news filtered back to us.

‘No,’ I replied, having heard numerous tales of Finkle’s unswerving dedication to rabbits. It was rumoured he was in a relationship with one, but if he was, he kept it secret. Not out of shame, but because his partner’s liberty would rapidly become a bargaining chip. The Senior Group Leader was already on his way in, and arrived fifteen minutes after Finkle and Ansel’s ultimatum. I got the call I was dreading ten minutes after that, demanding I attend a meeting in the fox’s office.

Mr Ffoxe was already there when I arrived, still dressed in his Sparco overalls as he’d been track-testing his racing Bentley when he got the call. He didn’t look very happy. Lugless and Whizelle had been called down to join us along with heads of departments, Legal, Sergeant Boscombe and the local representative of RabToil, the government-owned company that oversaw the many work contracts the rabbit fulfilled. Nigel Smethwick was also there – coincidentally, as it turned out. Although he was prime minister, his constituency had always been Hereford East, and he still liked to maintain strong links with his core supporters.

His physical appearance, I noted, was at odds with his power and influence. He was a small and ineffectual-looking man without height, charisma or any memorable features. The sort of person you’d fail to recognise if you met him out of context, the sort of person who was pushed around a lot at school and who classmates remembered – if they could at all – as ‘the quiet one’. These days he was about as cold and calculating as anyone you would ever meet, and his quiet demeanour and outwardly vanilla presence hid a steely commitment to task. He spent years at UKARP in the policy unit and barely anyone knew his name until he’d wrested control of the party in a surprise coup.

‘So what are the numbers?’ asked Smethwick who was accompanied by a small retinue of staff which included Pandora Pandora,40 the Taskforce’s public relations guru. She was tall and thin, habitually dressed in black and with her blond hair pulled aggressively tight into a ponytail. She had the sort of cultured voice that can only be acquired through wise investment in parents, and her assistants – she had many – all looked pretty much the same: blonde, slender, dressed in black. I think they popped them out of a factory somewhere in Shoreditch.

‘We’ve got about three hundred outside right now,’ said Pandora Pandora, consulting an iPad, ‘and with a disgustingly aggressive threat from the Grand Council of Coneys and that loser Finkle to mobilise a thousand of them within twenty-four hours if their demands are not met.’

‘Can they do that?’ asked Smethwick.

‘Almost certainly, Prime Minister,’ said Whizelle. ‘From Colony One via the free movement rule. I think we’ll have to hunker down for a long wait given Fenton DG-6721’s popularity. Of all the rabbits to arrest, Fenton was probably the worst choice of all.’

‘The way in which he was detained might be interpreted by an unsympathetic judge as illegal,’ added the in-house legal representative, ‘and to the left-leaning public at large as extrajudicial overreach. They’re not human, which is legally useful, but they’re cuddly with big eyes, something the otherwise apathetic general public often finds irresistible. We’re keeping a careful eye on the platforms to see what develops.’

‘Social media?’ said Lugless with a sneer. ‘Balls. This morning it was something about a celebrity insulting another celebrity, at lunchtime it was a video of a piglet in gumboots. By this evening it will be someone you’ve never heard of saying something vaguely controversial on a subject that until now you knew nothing about. The hashtag #rabbitinperil barely trends at all these days, and every bunny outside on the street mumbling about standard deviation is one less bunny causing trouble.’

Smethwick had been staring at Lugless, probably because he hated rabbits and here, standing closer than he’d ever been to a rabbit, was a rabbit who also hated rabbits. I think it was kind of confusing for him.

‘Why was he arrested anyway?’ asked Smethwick. ‘Even I’d think twice about having Fenton detained. Justin Bieber and the Dalai Lama follow him on Instagram for Christ’s sake. None of this will play well with the leftie press, who are already winding themselves into a lather over MegaWarren.’

‘It was part of an ongoing investigation into the Rabbit Underground,’ said Flemming, who, like her or loathe her, looked after her team. ‘The threat of a LitterBomb has been raised to Alert Red status, and Labstocks recently came under suspicion.’

‘Whose investigation?’ asked Smethwick.

Lugless put up his paw and Smethwick, who I think was about to hand out a serious bollocking, decided not to. I think it wasn’t so much that he hated rabbits, than he was frightened of them.

‘Oh,’ he said instead, ‘and what evidence do you have Fenton actually is involved?’

‘He was identified by one of our Spotters as a rabbit of interest, Prime Minister. One who might have Underground connections.’

And Lugless turned to face me. All eyes swivelled in my direction and my mouth went dry. I wanted to make a run for it, but I didn’t think I’d get very far. I’d seen how fast Mr Ffoxe could move.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Smethwick. It was the first time he had acknowledged me, even though I had seen him on numerous occasions, and been introduced twice.

‘Peter Knox – Spotter Grade V, fifteen years’ service.’

Pandora Pandora tapped a note into her iPad.

‘Oh yes?’ said Smethwick, unimpressed. ‘And just how sure are you that Fenton DG-6721 was the same rabbit as that involved with the Underground? Give me a figure,’ he added, as he knew how Spotters worked, ‘a percentage likelihood of identification.’

I paused, then:

‘Less than two per cent,’ I said, truthfully enough.

‘Two per cent?’ he echoed. ‘That’s it? We’ve arrested a prominent rabbit rights activist on a lousy two per cent? What other evidence do you have?’

The silence in the room was palpable, and I shivered as a cold sweat seemed to run down my back.

‘None,’ I said, hoping Lugless would say that he had put the name up, but knowing he wouldn’t.

Smethwick stared at me for a moment then turned to Pandora Pandora.

‘Can you think of a suitable term that I could use to describe Knox?’ he asked.

‘How about “a low-grade moron”?’

Smethwick snapped his fingers and smiled.

‘Spot on. You’re a complete moron, Knox. I don’t give a tuppenny shit about rabbits who think they can manipulate the liberal media into making us look like a bunch of reactionaries, especially with the Rehoming in the air, but we need public support, Knox, and after all the careful PR work we’ve done over the past two years, arresting Fenton is just beyond stupid. How many prominent rabbits did we not arrest that we wanted to arrest, Pandora? Ones we let go so as not to rock the boat ahead of MegaWarren?’

‘Probably hundreds,’ said Pandora Pandora while gazing at me with a special level of deep loathing.

‘Exactly. Hundreds. What in hell’s name did you think you were doing?’

‘I … don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? You put the Rehoming in jeopardy and that’s the best you can do? Well, you’re finished. Fired for gross incompetence, which we can bump up to criminal negligence and contravention of Taskforce guidelines – which means we can save a bit of cash on pensions, too. Hell’s teeth, am I surrounded by idiots? Now—’

‘One moment, sir.’

It was Mr Ffoxe. He had moved to my side with lightning speed and laid a paw on my shoulder. It couldn’t possibly be friendly consideration for a subordinate, so he clearly had a play to make.

‘Yes?’ said Smethwick, suddenly interested.

‘I think this could work to our advantage, Prime Minister. I say we leave the bunnies for twenty-four hours, then tell everyone there has been a terrible mistake for which we are hugely sorry, then act contrite and pretend we have fired half a dozen people for incompetence. The rabbits, hoping to gain a PR victory out of this, will have the rug pulled from under their hind paws. The riot will be seen as a knee-jerk reaction as befits a creature that wastes no time in milking outrage by resorting to the aggressive spectre of civil disobedience. I’ll even lead the apologies, which should be worth a few column inches, especially if I can squeeze out a tear.’

Smethwick stared at him for a moment, wondering whether this was a good idea.

‘I’m with the fox,’ said Pandora Pandora. ‘A climbdown now makes us look small, sitting it out makes us look weak, attempting to break it up makes us seem like bullies – but an apology in twenty-four hours will appear magnanimous and even-handed.’

‘Sounds like a good plan,’ said Smethwick at last. ‘Without knowing it, Knox might have done us a favour. That’s what we’ll do. Twenty-four hours.’

‘So … I’m not fired?’ I asked.

‘Far from it, old chap,’ said Smethwick, ‘you could be in for a citation. Just be a little more certain in future, hmm?’

And he clapped his hand on my back. The meeting might have adjourned there and then but for a voice.

‘I need a word.’

It was the representative of RabToil, and he was holding a mobile phone to his ear.

‘No, I think we’re done here,’ said Smethwick, eager not to prolong the decision-making process any more than he had to, and eager to get back to schmoozing his constituents.

‘The CEO of RabToil wants you to halt the demonstration right now.’

I saw Smethwick blanch, and he swapped looks with Mr Ffoxe and Pandora Pandora.

‘He does?’

‘Yes. The potential loss of rabbit work-hours would not be conducive to productivity as there is a large order for electric foot spas that we need to fulfil. We currently have thirty thousand rabbits on our workforce at Colony One, and a riot will likely reduce that by seventy-five per cent.’

He paused to let this sink in.

‘Do what you need to do by all means, but causing unnecessary distress to our manufacturing clients solely because RabCoT don’t know what to do with a few recalcitrant bunnies might cause … nervousness amongst foreign investors eager to bring their manufacturing projects to the UK.’

Mr Ffoxe stared at the ground, and Smethwick looked at Pandora Pandora for support.

‘We’ll need to hear that from the CEO himself,’ she said.

‘Sure,’ said the rep, ‘he’s on the phone right now.’

He held up the receiver, but no one took the call. Despite Smethwick’s power and agenda, when it came to the bottom line, RabToil – and in effect, big business – called the shots. Commerce was everything.

‘Do it,’ said Smethwick, ‘let them all out immediately and issue a press release explaining that the rabbits in question were arrested owing to a … regrettable and wholly avoidable administrative error.’

‘Shall I add the empty platitude “lessons have been learned”?’ asked Pandora Pandora. ‘And: “we can do better and will do better”? Those lies always play well when the tech companies use them.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Smethwick. ‘You could also put in something about how we are “reviewing procedures” – that’s another massive porker that always goes down well.’

Everyone laughed. Mr Ffoxe asked Pandora Pandora to jot down her press release as quickly as possible, and picked up the phone to order the rabbits to be released. I had been slowly backing towards the door as this happened, hoping my fortunes would not once again be reversed, and once outside the door I slipped unseen back upstairs. Within half an hour every single rabbit had vanished from outside; the only evidence they had been there at all were seventy-six bandanas tied around a lamp-post and the cube root of nineteen chalked on the road – to twenty-eight decimal places.