The Constant Rabbit

The Art of the Deal

Weasels still turned white for the winter, even though there was no reason to do so. They can get very crotchety either side of ‘the change’ but were actually a lot more agreeable as ermine. Most weasels took the winter off, and headed to the slopes, where they were competent – though not highly visible – skiers.

I say ‘walked’ but ‘burst’ might be a better term. I saw Flemming blanch and make a reflexive move to run away, but she checked herself and stayed put. Whizelle didn’t flinch, but instead looked annoyed. The timing was poor, and things can get badly out of hand when foxes take control.

Mr Ffoxe looked at everyone in the room in turn.

‘You can piss off,’ he said to Flemming, ‘and you, Weasel, can definitely piss off.’

‘It’s pronounced “Whi-zelle”.’

‘Whatever. Tamara, get in here.’

Miss Robyns stepped in, armed with a clipboard and holding three mobile phones.

‘Hello!’ she said in a chirpy fashion. ‘I work for Torquil now.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said.

‘What is this?’ said Whizelle, who I think was about the only operative in the Taskforce who could stand up to Ffoxe. ‘I am conducting this interview.’

‘Not any more you’re not. I have some new information that elevates our enquiry beyond a little bit of furry slap and tickle.’

‘I’d like to be briefed on this,’ said Whizelle.

‘And I’d like to share a glass of Pinot Grigio with Tilda Swinton,’ replied the fox, ‘but life is full of disappointments. Close the door on your way out, old boy.’

‘No,’ said Whizelle. ‘Knox might be weak-willed and a rabbit-fancying turncoat, but he’s a human, and we know what happened the last time you interviewed a human, don’t we?’

‘That is a disgusting and unfounded accusation,’ said Mr Ffoxe, ‘but when you run with the bun, you are scum like the bun.’

‘Look—’ began Whizelle, but Mr Ffoxe simply lifted a quivering lip and gave a low growl at the back of his throat. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck and Whizelle’s ears flicked back as he suddenly became utterly submissive.

‘I’m so sorry for my outburst,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

And he left the interview room with his tail firmly between his legs.

‘Well now,’ said the fox, seating himself opposite me, ‘tempers are a little fraught today, aren’t they?’

He leaned back in the chair while his small yellow eyes peered at me with an appearance of … actually, I’m not quite sure what. Disdain, I think, mixed with quiet confidence and a sense of arrogant superiority. He said nothing, removed a cigarette from a silver case, tapped it on the box and then lit it from a large gold lighter that Tamara held out for him. He took a deep breath, then exhaled the smoke in my direction and said nothing – for quite a long time.55

‘You’re not going to harm me,’ I said, unable to stand the silence any more. ‘And as I said to Whizelle and Flemming, nothing happened.’

The fox looked at me coolly.

‘Whether you did or you didn’t, old boy, it doesn’t really matter. And you know what? I believe you. But since we are so close to the Rehoming, I don’t think it’s in anyone’s best interest to be making waves. What’s more, because of your unique circle of friends and intimate associations, I can offer you a deal whereby all this goes away, you get full pension rights, a fifty-grand cash bonus and not a blemish on your record. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds like it has strings attached.’

‘Astute of you. Here it is: we have reason to believe Constance Rabbit has connections to the Rabbit Underground, and we think she is a bunnytrap, simply there to gain access to the Taskforce’s mainframe through you, the dupe.’

I’d not thought about this before. It didn’t sound true, and for one good reason:

‘I don’t have access to the Taskforce’s mainframe.’

‘The Underground don’t know that. I want you to work for us, working against them, together. They want to make Britain into a rabbit nation, with their laws, their heathen god, their aggressive veganism and quasi-rodent way of doing things. This sceptr’d isle, this green and pleasant land, is reserved for humans and a few foxes, not for a plague of vermin. And they can do that, they can make that happen, just by doing what they like to do best. They’re planning on outnumbering us. The LitterBomb. It’s on the cards, I know.’

It was all UKARP conspiracy-theory nonsense. Nigel Smethwick had been spouting similar stuff for years, and none of it remotely proven.

‘They’re just rabbits, sir. Herbivores. Compliant, trusting, hard-working. I’ve spoken to them, I think I kind of know them. I don’t believe they have any agenda at all. They simply want … to be.’

Mr Ffoxe laughed.

‘Knoxie, my old chum, that’s exactly what they want you to believe. The truth, my friend, is far bleaker: all that cute cuddly stuff – don’t be fooled. You saw Mrs Rabbit with that knife against my throat in All Saints?’

‘You crushed her niece’s head in your jaws.’

‘Well, woop-woop,’ he said, ‘one rabbit down is not any kind of a loss. It was just my very good fortune that I didn’t become another victim of rabbit-on-fox violence.’

It was a stretch that even Smethwick would have been hard-pressed to make.

‘She wouldn’t have killed you,’ I said, ‘not with the likely reprisals.’

He stared at me coldly.

‘Reprisals are vital to maintain order,’ he said. ‘Besides, sixty seconds of what the rabbits jokingly call passion would soon make up those losses. Now: I can make everything go away and give you your pension and some cash, or we can bump the charges up from simple association to lending material support to the Rabbit Underground – which is a banned disruptionist movement. It’s a minimum ten years.’

‘Wait, wait,’ I said, ‘material support?’

‘Sure. Were you paid to get Harvey McButtercup into the MegaWarren, or were you simply pulling a solid for your furry woodland friends?’

‘I … I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Sure you do. How do you think Lugless managed to leave his car in the car park when he arrived in the coach? The rabbit masquerading as Lugless was with you when we spoke at MegaWarren. I smelled the fear on him. I’d met Lugless before and he didn’t fear me at all. I liked him. The best kind of rabbits are furry on the inside.’

‘That’s the evidence of your nose against my eyes, Mr Ffoxe,’ I said, feeling braver externally but not within, as a nasty churning feeling seemed to be going on inside, and my mouth felt dry.

‘There’s more,’ said Mr Ffoxe. ‘When Lugless was cropped they would have kept his ears. They always do. It’s a religious “going to rabbit heaven complete” sort of deal. Trouble is, they preserve them in hot sand which tends to turn them into hard leather.’

Tamara chucked an evidence bag on to the table containing Lugless’s rolled-up ears, badly charred but more or less still extant.

‘If we had the forensic boys unroll these I’d bet my foxy left nut we’d find a pattern of duel-holes that exactly matched AY-002’s. He fought a lot of duels. Liked the ladies. A little too much, as it turned out.’

‘Perhaps he carried his ears with him, as, I don’t know – a memento?’

‘Cropped rabbits are denied their ears. That’s the point. No, I think Lugless swapped with Harvey in exchange for his ears and an honourable death. I think you were the one who used Lugless’s computer to look up Harvey McButtercup, and you vouched for Harvey when he inveigled his way into MegaWarren. You’ve seen him out there in the real world. Where, I don’t know. But I’ll find out.’

This was all annoyingly excellent detective work. You can’t outfox the fox.

‘Conjecture,’ I said.

In an instant I was on my back with Mr Ffoxe on top of me. He had moved so quickly it seemed like someone had snipped two seconds out of time. While Tamara moved to the door to ensure no one entered, Mr Ffoxe stared deeply into my eyes, and I felt fear. Not your ordinary run-of-the-mill worry about being late for an important meeting, or a funny lump that turns out to be nothing at the doctor’s. This was pure, unadulterated, mortal fear of one’s imminent demise. And what’s more, that one’s end is inescapable, inevitable and will be protracted, and painful.

Mr Ffoxe said nothing and slowly pressed the point of a single claw into the side of my left eyeball. My vision blurred and greyed out, and the pain was intense – yet I hardly dared breathe lest my added movement caused my eyeball to burst.

‘Now listen,’ he said in a soft whisper, his breath reeking of rancid meat and claret, ‘I’m going to ask you once again, and if you don’t tell me the full and complete truth first time out, I’m going to take out your eye, and then I’m going to eat it.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ I whispered.

‘Ever wonder how Flemming lost hers?’ he asked. ‘We had a disagreement a while ago. I think it was over company policy – or who was the best Batman. I forget which, but she’s totally on board now.’

I think I started to sob then, quietly and without moving.

‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Now: are you going to be a good little human and tell me what I want to know? In return, you get a pension, fifty K, and you get to keep both your peepers.’ He paused, then added: ‘This is where you say, “Yes, Sir, Mr Ffoxe, sir, Mr Knox agrees with the fox, Sir”.’

‘Yes Sir, Mr Ffoxe sir,’ I whispered.

‘Close enough.’

And in an instant, I was suddenly alone on the floor with Mr Ffoxe back in his seat. I climbed shakily to my feet, sat down and placed the monogrammed handkerchief the fox handed me to my eye.

‘So,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘talk to me.’

And I did. I told him everything.