The Constant Rabbit

Rabbit Colony One

A three-dimensional mapping of the warrens beneath Colony One revealed a labyrinthine network of tunnels that were, astonishingly, more tunnel than soil, and instigated a new branch of mathematics that was later used to greatly improve shock-absorbing foam.

We sat in silence as we drove up and out of Hereford towards Ross-on-Wye, and I didn’t speak until we were past Harewood End.

‘That was really impressive in court,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said, ‘thank the Venerable Bunty and Mr Finkle. It was their overall plan. I just spoke the words, trippingly off the tongue.’

‘Are you going to study law for real?’ I asked.

‘Maybe,’ said Lance, ‘but it’ll take more than just rabbit lawyers – we need rabbit judges to see our point of view. When every legal system on the planet is skewed against any non-human animal group, it’s almost impossible to make any headway. We’d have liked to help – the Rabbit Way has a lot going for it – but maybe humans just aren’t grown up enough to be able to share the planet quite yet.’

‘Why help me out at all?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you could have just left me to my life sentence and it would be no down off anyone’s ears.’

‘That’s true,’ said Lance, ‘but the second circle of Lago is about restorative self-justice. Responsibility for one’s errors, choice-consequences and transgressions. You didn’t kill Mr Ffoxe, so you shouldn’t go to prison. Luckily, it’s relatively easy to outfox the British legal system. Your billionaires do it all the time. The way we see it, London is just one massive money-laundering scheme attached to an impressive public transport system and a few museums, of which even the most honest has more stolen goods than a lock-up garage in Worcester rented by a guy I know called Chalky.’

We chatted for a while and I learned that Lance’s appearance in court had only been his first criminal case, but not his first civil plea. Although there was not yet a ruling, the civil case revolved around whether a receipt from a pet shop for Blackberry, Lance’s Petstock forebear, could be considered proof of pre-Event residency, and if so, did that count as documentation and thus make the fifty thousand or so rabbits who carried the deBlackberry surname legally British.

‘Will it work?’ I asked.

‘It’s legally sound,’ he said, ‘but with UKARP’s shifting legislative goalposts, probably not.’

The cabbie had the radio on as we drove, and I featured prominently on the news. The general consensus was that a ‘shady rabbit lawyer’ had ‘exploited a loophole’ to ‘get me off’, a loophole which fox legal minds were currently trying to close – and there was even talk of appealing the judge’s decision as she had clearly promoted ‘an appallingly biased anti-human and pro-rabbit agenda’. Either way, it didn’t appear as though this was over.

As we approached Colony One we could see a huge military build-up had occurred. There were lorries and tanks parked amongst the trees, with artillery pieces positioned in the surrounding fields, gun crews at readiness.

‘This is as far as this old rabbit goes,’ said the cabbie, as the access road to the colony had been barricaded about a mile from the main entrance. There was, in fact, a good-sized crowd of humans present and a peace camp seemed to have been set up. Banners proclaiming equal rights for all animals and support for vegetarianism and sustainability were prominently displayed, and several others which were only passive-aggressively anti-fox, as it really wasn’t wise to piss them off. The police were present also, leaning on their riot shields and looking bored, while groups of foxes sat around on deckchairs, listening to Caruso on a wind-up gramophone, sipping Chianti and playing cribbage.

‘You need to take this in with you,’ said Lance, handing me a sealed cardboard box about a foot square.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, just supplies,’ he said, ‘but vital for the effort.’

‘OK,’ I replied, now uneasy. ‘But how am I going to get in?’

‘Go straight in the door,’ he said. ‘My guess is they won’t dare touch you.’

I squeezed his two paws with my two thumbless hands. It actually felt more comfortable and connected, as though our hands/paws interlocked more fully and completely, and with them, an understanding.

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ said Lance with an air of finality, ‘it’s been a lot of fun. I may see you on the other side.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

I climbed out of the car, which drove off without urgency, and walked up to the barrier, where several police officers were talking in a nervous gaggle. For the most part, they stayed separate from the Taskforce. When mud gets thrown around, the further you are away, the less likely it will stick.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the policeman in charge, a superintendent, I think, ‘no entry to Colony One at present.’

‘My name’s Peter Knox,’ I said, ‘I need to speak to the fox in charge.’

The superintendent either hadn’t followed the breaking news, didn’t see how it might be relevant or couldn’t care, so he simply repeated what he had said a little more forcefully: that the colony was closed.

Luckily for me there were also military personnel standing just a little way off and the ranking officer, a brigadier, strolled over and asked the superintendent for a word. It was several words in the end, for they were chatting for five minutes, and eventually the superintendent made a call on his mobile, nodded several times and then walked back to me.

‘You’re allowed in,’ he said, ‘under military and not civilian escort. They’re sending a car for you.’

He then leaned closer to me and said in a quiet voice:

‘Off the record, sir, but if I were you I’d turn around and go back where you came from. Don’t look back, don’t hesitate, don’t stop until you are back safe with your family.’

‘I don’t have any family. Not out here, anyway.’

‘Then I suggest you find some. What’s in the box?’

I looked down at the cardboard box Lance had given me.

‘I don’t know.’

He took it off me and then gave it to an officer who opened it, had a look and then resealed it and returned it to me.

I stood there until the car arrived, a military four-by-four with two armed men in the back who looked like Special Forces, or how I imagine Special Forces to look – draped with weapons as a Christmas tree is draped with tinsel. But they weren’t moody or philosophical, they actually sounded quite chirpy.

‘It’s Peter Knox, isn’t it?’ said the first, indicating my hands. The dressings had been off for a week, but the skin was still pink and the scars, stitched up finely at A&E, looked like thin red zippers.

‘That’s me,’ I replied.

‘Outfoxed the fox, I heard,’ said the second. ‘Hats off to you. What’s in the box?’

‘I don’t know.’

I turned to look back at the checkpoint we’d just left, and noticed that the police were hurriedly withdrawing to their vehicles and the military were moving in to take their place. I could see where several tanks had just fired up their engines, as large clouds of black smoke erupted from where they were parked.

‘We’re go for Operation Cottontail,’ said the first soldier, who had been listening to his earpiece.

‘Cottontail?’ I asked.

‘Forcible Rehoming,’ said the soldier, and gave me a wink.

‘In what?’ I said, looking around as we drove into the large car park outside the main entrance to Colony One. There wasn’t a bus in sight. Not up here, not farther down the road. With a shudder, I realised that there wasn’t going to be a Rehoming, and that had never been part of the plan. I felt a sudden chill, even though the evening was warm.

The four-by-four pulled up beside more armoured vehicles – personnel carriers this time, manned by foxes – and, more ominously, several bulldozers. I was escorted towards a massive tent with Forward Operations Post written on a sign outside. As we walked, I could see more civilians and police officers getting into their cars to leave, while just behind the forward OP there seemed to be a junior officer throwing papers on to a fire inside an oil drum. I was escorted into the tent, the cardboard box Lance had given me was checked and returned to me again, and I was told to wait. I took the opportunity to look around. There was a large map on the wall of Colony One with an overlay of the warrens beneath the ground, so far as they were known. In a small gaggle I could see Nigel Smethwick talking to several foxes and a few high-ranking military officers. The fox who seemed to be in charge looked across at me, then beckoned me to approach.

‘Jocaminca fforkes,’ she said, shaking my hand. ‘Your outfoxing skills compel me to grant you the smallest amount of respect.’

To me, there wasn’t much physical difference between her and Mr Ffoxe – shorter by an inch, perhaps, and a little redder. In a helpful nod to assist in gender identification, vixens wore a flower behind their ear that I could have sworn was identical to the ones you could buy in Claire’s Accessories for under a pound.

‘You dodged justice this time,’ said Smethwick, ‘but this isn’t over by a mile. What are you doing here?’

‘I was asked to be here.’

‘Why?’

‘To help out, I think.’

Ms fforkes and Smethwick looked at one another.

‘You can try and help out,’ said Smethwick with an unpleasant smile, ‘but if you go in there and it all kicks off, you – along with all the other humans inside – will be deemed to be unlawful combatants in that you offered material support to an illegal insurrection, where extreme violence was perpetrated upon a taskforce eager only to assist in a legal Rehoming.’

‘You’re going to kill them all, aren’t you?’ I said, with a surprising amount of bravado. ‘All one hundred and fifty thousand of them.’

‘We’d so hate to do that,’ said Ms fforkes without an atom of sincerity, ‘but once Colony One has fallen, the other four will soon fall into line. Rabbits are like naughty children, Mr Knox, and occasionally need to be punished. MegaWarren is a social and economical win-win for all concerned, and it will be implemented.’

‘Dear Jocaminca can be a little fearsome at times,’ said Smethwick. ‘Policing actions like these can be very confusing to the man in the street, and although the UK’s citizenry is generally on our side, public opinion can be a fickle beast. Do you think you can get the rabbits to return to the negotiating table?’

From what I’d learned about rabbits over the past two months, the answer was a resounding no. But I wanted to get in there, and this seemed as good a way as any. I was kind of flattered, too, that he thought I might somehow be a player.

‘I can give it my best shot.’

‘Excellent!’ said Smethwick, passing me his card. ‘If I’ve not had a call from you by twenty hundred hours then I’ll hand over control to the foxes. I am sure you can appreciate what this means, given that foxes have a historically loose relationship with the concept of restraint.’

He patted me on the shoulder, then tapped the cardboard box I was carrying.

‘What’s in the box?’

‘Something for the rabbit, I think.’

He beckoned over a Taskforce officer, who removed the box to a small table, had a look inside, resealed it and then brought it back.

‘So,’ said Ms fforkes as she walked me across the open area in front of the main gates, ‘what exactly was Torquil Ffoxe doing in the Rabbits’ house that evening?’

A single sentry was guarding the twin gates of the imposing main entrance, but the admin buildings either side were dark and empty. I checked my watch. It was just past six. There were two hours to go until Operation Cottontail began.

‘He thought Constance Rabbit was involved with the Underground and would know of the Bunty’s whereabouts.’

‘Did she?’

‘Probably not.’

‘We’ll have the VB in custody by dawn,’ said Ms fforkes, ‘you have my word on that.’

‘You’ll never catch her,’ I said, ‘she’s been three steps ahead of you every time. I didn’t outfox the fox, she did – and she’ll do it again. Your days are numbered, just like Mr Ffoxe’s. And you know what? You’ll never see it coming.’

For a fleeting instant, somewhere deep beneath the brash confidence of a well-evolved carnivore, I saw a glimmer of doubt cross Ms fforkes’ features. A sense of … mortality.

‘Balls,’ she said, her confidence swiftly returning. ‘Do what you can to bring about peace. The attack would be a lot of fun, and the per capita death payments would make all of us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams – but in the broader picture, a culling benefits no one.’

‘That’s an oddly charitable viewpoint for a fox.’

‘Not at all. A culling in Colony One will only strengthen the rabbit’s resolve in the other colonies, not weaken it. So we’ll have to kill them, too. And if this all goes to Smethwick’s plan and we cull the lot, do you really think that humans will welcome us into their society and offer us a cosy retirement package? No. We’ve only been invited to top table to do the dirty work, and if things go tits-up – which they eventually will – there is a convenient bogeyman at which to point the finger. Human guilt, as always, will be abrogated to foxes, or circumstance, and eventually to history.’

‘Is that really Smethwick’s plan?’ I asked. ‘To eradicate them all?’

‘If the Rehoming doesn’t work out and there’s a general strike, then yes. But listen,’ she continued, ‘I like to kill rabbits as much as the next fox, but compliance rather than eradication is the winning business model for us. So oddly, yes, I want you to try and achieve a peace. You’ve got two hours. Good evening, Mr Knox.’

After checking through a peephole, the guard threw the bolt and opened the small wicket door set into one of the large double gates. I took a deep breath, paused for a moment and stepped for the first time into Colony One.