The Constant Rabbit

Cops & Kitten

‘Gregors’, ‘Greggs’ or ‘The Maccy-Gs’ are all rabbit slang for law enforcement agents, named after Mr McGregor, the villain in the Beatrix Potter Peter Rabbit books. In the dubbed-into-Rabbity version of Star Wars, Darth Vader is literally translated as ‘Mr McGregor’.

The Rabbits’ Dodge Monaco wasn’t in their drive when I got home, and Hemlock Towers looked empty. I let myself into my house, made a cup of tea and put the washing on the line. When I walked back indoors, Sally had dropped Pippa off and she was on the phone to Vodafone Customer Support.

‘Hey, Dad,’ she said once she was done, ‘how was work?’

She said it in a semi-sarcastic tone that I didn’t much like, but understood.

‘There’s something you need to know,’ I said, getting straight to the point, ‘about Harvey.’

I sat down at the kitchen table and I told her everything I knew. That I’d been on Ops and seen him work as a courier, and while he was as yet unidentified as a rabbit of interest, that probably wouldn’t last for long. I told her I’d seen his record, and his movements around the country coupled with the sighting in Ross suggested that he was heavily connected with the Underground.

‘His politics would indicate the same,’ she said, ‘but it doesn’t change anything. He and I just … connected in a way that’s difficult to describe. We talked about, well, everything, and he listened and responded and made me think about stuff, and I then made observations that he’d not thought of, and he liked that. Welcomed it. I really want to see him again.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to quit the Taskforce.’

She smiled, took my hand and squeezed it.

‘What will you do for a job? We need money, Dad. I’m training, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be selected for a job at the end of it. It’s better out there, but it’ll never be a level playing field.’

‘I’ve got it all figured out,’ I said, in the way people do when they’ve not really figured anything out at all, not even a little bit. ‘I’ll just make more and more mistakes until I’m deemed unreliable and they’ll have to let me go. I’ve been there a while, so I may even get a payoff.’

It was probably the least likely scenario I could think of, given that Mr Ffoxe had already threatened to leak my name to the Rabbit Underground, but delusive hope seemed to currently be my best plan of action. Pippa told me she was proud of me, which was about the best thing I’d heard from, well, anyone.

We heard the sound of a car pulling up outside.

‘Are you expecting someone?’

She shook her head and I walked to the kitchen window.

‘That’s odd,’ I said, ‘it’s the cops.’

‘Taskforce?’

‘No, HPD: Hereford Police Department.’

Expecting this to be a complaint regarding the rabbits, I opened the door warily. The ranking officer was DI Eastman, who had been in the year above me at sixth form college. Her number two looked more experienced than her by about ten years and thirty bar fights. Eastman introduced her as Sweet, but said it in the sort of way that made it sound as though she were sweet, rather than that simply being her name. But they weren’t here to speak to me or discuss the Rabbits next door. They had come to talk to Pippa – about Toby Mallett.

I invited them in.

‘Missing?’ I said once they’d explained. I’d noticed he wasn’t at work that morning, and come to think of it, the Malletts had mentioned something about it on Sunday. So far he’d left no trace: they hadn’t found his car, mobile phone – nothing.

‘I last saw him Friday,’ said Pippa, ‘and haven’t spoken to him since, although I may have texted him a couple of times before I lost my phone. He didn’t reply, but that’s not unusual. In fact, I was going to break up with him.’

‘Any particular reason?’ asked Eastman.

Pippa shrugged.

‘He’s a Mallett,’ she said, ‘and something of a massive tit.’

‘I see,’ said Eastman in an understanding manner. She’d been at school with the Malletts too, and knew them well enough. The cops might have left after that, but then, really without thinking, I said:

‘I saw him Saturday. He came round here looking for Pip.’

‘He did?’ said Eastman and Pippa at the same time.

There was a long pause in which I suddenly realised the implications of what I’d just said. I related my conversation with Toby as Sweet took notes. About how Toby had appeared, asked about Pippa, and I told him that she was at a rabbit party in Colony One. DI Eastman listened carefully, asked a few more questions, then said in a kind of weirdly accusative way that I was the last verified sighting. She then turned back to Pippa.

‘So you went to a rabbit party at Colony One?’

Pippa shot a daggerish glance at me then raised her chin in defiance.

‘It’s not illegal.’

‘No,’ said Eastman icily, ‘not illegal. Would Mr Mallett have come looking for you?’

Pippa shrugged.

‘He might have done, but I couldn’t say for sure.’

The questions went on for another twenty minutes and, finally satisfied, they left, but only once DI Eastman had imparted some advice to Pippa: about while the rebellious spirit and animalistic attraction of the rabbit is well known, fraternisation can have a devastating effect upon one’s social and professional life.

‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.

Eastman ignored Pippa’s sarcastic retort and departed, and I shook my head at my own crass stupidity. It wouldn’t be long before the Taskforce got wind of all this, and if they thought rabbits were involved with his disappearance – as they surely would – there would be consequences.

‘Will they do a crime sweep of the colony to try and find Toby this close to the Rehoming?’ asked Pippa once the door had closed.

‘If they’ve got an ounce of sense, no,’ I replied, realising I shouldn’t have said anything at all, ‘but Mr Ffoxe might think it a useful justification to sow some terror – and get his hands on the Venerable Bunty, who’s in Colony One right now.’

The house phone rang and Pippa answered it, talked for a few minutes and then hung up.

‘That was Vodafone Technical Support,’ she said. ‘They’re reporting my phone is currently pinging from the local mast. Suggested I’d simply mislaid it.’

‘Have you?’

‘No.’

I looked out at Hemlock Towers opposite. The Dodge Monaco was still absent from the drive.

‘Wait here,’ I said, but she didn’t, of course, and followed me as I walked across to the Rabbits’ place. The curtains were drawn, the lights switched off, and the front door swung open with an ominous creak when I knocked. I stepped in, and Pippa followed, heaving to bump herself over the weather strip. Her tyres squeaked on the polished wooden floor of the hall.

‘Hello?’ I said.

Nothing.

‘Downstairs?’ whispered Pippa, gesturing towards where a sliver of warm light emerged from the partially open cellar door. Intrigued, I moved across, opened the door and a waft of cool air swept up from below, along with the smell of damp earth and dandelion brandy.

‘Hello?’ I said again.

I opened the door wider, glanced at Pippa, then walked slowly down the steps and on to the stone-flagged floor of the cellar. The large chamber was held up by stone vaulting. Evidence, apparently, that Hemlock Towers was built on the site of an abbey.

‘What’s down there?’ called out Pippa.

‘A home distillery for dandelion brandy,’ I called back, looking at two trestle tables that were covered by an array of glass retorts, beakers, empty bottles of surgical spirit, various vegetables, cough mixture, red ink and, disturbingly, a kitten pickled in a jar. I picked a bottle out of a crate that was on the floor near by, uncorked it, had a sniff – and the world seemed to reel about me.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘the Excise office would have a field d …’

My voice trailed off as I noticed that on the far wall the stones had been removed and stacked neatly on the floor. Beyond them an earth-lined tunnel lit by low-wattage light bulbs was leading out from the cellar, the tunnel walls scalloped and grooved by the committed industry of busy paws. They’d not been here long, so it was an impressive feat. I stepped closer and peered into the gloom. The tunnel seemed to go straight for about sixty feet or so, then turn abruptly to the right. As I was about to step inside and see where it led, a figure turned the corner in the tunnel. He was short, wore an ankle tag and carried a bucket in each paw.

‘Ah,’ said Kent, looking at me, then at the buckets of soil he was carrying, ‘would you believe me if I told you I was doing a soil survey as part of a school biology project?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Then you’ve got me bang to rights. You won’t tell Mum or Doc I’m burrowing, will you?’

‘They don’t know?’

‘They pretend not to – but I think they probably do,’ he said in a reflective manner as he walked towards me, ‘just in denial. Before the Event teenage rabbits weren’t much of a handful, but post-Event the problems reflect your own: when it comes to burrowing, I just can’t seem to help myself. I’ve been on countless rehab courses, but within a couple of days all I can think about is my next hole. Still, at least I don’t have a gambolling problem – that leads only to ruin.’

Compulsive gambolling in meadows could lead to excessive fatigue and a narrowing of career and social focus. Third to gambolling and burrowing as a social ill was ‘tripping the orange fantastic’, the slang for over-consumption of carrots.

‘Burrowing is actually a lot of fun,’ said Kent, who seemed to have suddenly warmed to me. ‘Do you want to have a go?’

‘I’m not sure I have the nails for it. But if the village finds out it’ll just give them another reason to hate you all.’

‘I’m not sure they need any more reasons than they have already,’ said Kent as he reached up to pull down his left ear. He sniffed at it absently then released it; the ear shot back up with a twang. ‘Just being different is enough. Will you tell them about the burrowing? The village, I mean?’

‘No,’ I said, after a moment’s thought.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he replied with a smile, and stepped forward to select a bottle of dandelion brandy.

‘Have a bottle, but be careful – it’s concentrated so has a specific energy potential equal to rocket fuel. Top fuel dragsters use it as an alternative to nitromethane. Dilute one part to nine with water, unless you want to go blind.’

‘Does it really have pickled kitten in it?’ I asked, pointing at the jar on the desk.

‘No – I just needed some formaldehyde, and you can’t buy it neat as a rabbit. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘We came over to look for Pippa’s mobile phone.’

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that makes sense. Let’s go up top.’

We climbed back up the steps to where Pippa was waiting for us.

‘Hello, Kent,’ she said.

‘Hello, Pip,’ he replied, pushing the door closed with his hind paw. ‘Bobby put the word out that you were a friend of hers and someone pushed the phone through the letterbox this morning. Bobby’s like that. Sort of popular. Can’t see why; she seems a bit of a bossy twit to me. There you go.’

He retrieved the mobile from where it was lying next to the coat rack by the door and handed it over.

‘Thank you,’ said Pippa, wiping off the dried earth.

‘So,’ said Kent, ‘what did the Maccy-Gs want?’

‘When?’

‘Just now. Over at your place.’

‘Oh – a missing person,’ I said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Bobby, pulling out some tangerine-sized earpods as she bounced out of the living room. We told her about Toby.

‘We’re of the opinion he might have followed Pippa into Colony One,’ I said, ‘and he’s not been seen since.’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said Bobby without any sort of urgency in her voice. ‘Rabbits go missing all the time. They’re usually seeing an aunt. We have a lot of aunts and all need visiting. Your Toby was probably doing the same. He’ll turn up.’

This was tricky. I took a deep breath.

‘You don’t get it,’ I said. ‘I think – we think – Toby’s a Spotter for the Taskforce.’

Her sunny disposition vanished and she looked at both of us in turn, then pulled a mobile phone from the front of her pinafore and dialled a number. The inference wasn’t lost on her: with a Spotter missing in Colony One, the Taskforce would be going in – no matter what.

‘I know a rabbit who knows a rabbit who knows a rabbit,’ she said, waiting for the call to connect. ‘How do you know he’s a Spotter?’

‘Loose talk on the pillow,’ said Pippa before I had a chance to say anything dumb. ‘He might not be Taskforce at all, of course – Toby is a Mallett, and they all like to brag.’

‘Ah,’ she said, then, on the phone: ‘It’s Bobby … Roberta … Like in The Railway Children … no, the other one … I’m fine, thank you. Looks like we’ve a potential shitstorm on our hands. Wait one.’

She put her hand over the mouthpiece.

‘This’ll take a while,’ she said to Pippa, ‘and, look, Doc’s off in the Middle East right now, so do you want to come to the flicks tonight to see the latest Dwayne Johnson film? He has a big following in the colonies.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘He just does,’ said Bobby with a shrug. ‘How about it?’

Pippa said she wanted to get an early night, but then Bobby gave her a broad wink and said it might be a really good idea if she came, and Pippa got the message and changed her mind.

‘Good,’ said Bobby, ‘pick you up at seven.’

She then started to chat on the phone, but this time in Rabbity.

‘Well,’ said Kent with a broad grin, ‘this has been fun. Drop around to have a scrape if the mood takes you, but not a word to Mum and Doc, yes?’

‘So long as you don’t dig out anyone’s foundations.’

‘On my honour,’ he said, making the sign of Lago by hopping on one foot. It was an unusual gesture of veneration, but not illogical: rabbit scriptures report that Lago, the Grand Matriarch, died when caught in a snare leading her warren to safety – that was the reason their faith used the sign of the circle.