Mr Mallett faltered slightly, but then succumbed to Default Standard British.
‘My pleasure,’ he said politely, shaking her paw awkwardly, and with imperfectly disguised reluctance. ‘Welcome to the village. The choir is always looking for new members, the knitting circle are a friendly bunch, and you’ll find Peter and Pippa very generous neighbours.’
‘We have found Mr Knox to be the perfect neighbour,’ she said, smiling, ‘but I’m not convinced of your sincerity. Is this pamphlet something to do with you?’
She produced one of the leaflets I had seen Mr Mallett distributing, warning all and sundry about the ‘pernicious carrot-munching vermin in our midst’. Mr Mallett looked at it, then at me, then at Mrs Rabbit, who cocked her head on one side and stared at him impassively.
‘Oh,’ he said, looking like someone caught in headlights, ‘I think perhaps our message might have been … taken out of context.’
‘I see,’ said Connie, ‘and in what context would “pernicious carrot-munching vermin” be anything but grossly offensive and leporiphobic?’
‘Well,’ he said, suddenly recovering, ‘now you’re being offensive in calling me leporiphobic, which is a vicious and unwarranted slur of which you should be horribly ashamed – and which makes us all even. Goodness, is that the time? I am most hideously late for a meeting. So good to have made your acquaintance, Mrs Rabbit. Good day.’
And he walked away, wiping the hand that he used to shake Mrs Rabbit’s paw on his trouser leg.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Connie, placing a paw to her mouth as she gave out a couple of chirpy giggles. ‘I am so wicked. I really shouldn’t have put him on the spot like that.’
‘I tend to agree with you,’ I said, ‘as one of the few acquaintances you have in the village, I must tell you that Mr Mallett is the last person you should annoy.’
‘If you stay acquainted with us, Mr Knox,’ she said with dazzling directness, ‘the only acquaintance you may have in the village is us.’
‘I’ll … take my chances,’ I said.
She was now standing quite close, and I could sense her rich, loamy scent once more. It was the scent she’d worn all those years ago, something cooked up by the noted rabbit parfumier Gaston Rabbît. Whenever I’d smelled unwashed spuds it had put me in mind of her.
‘Jersey Royal Pour Femme,’ I said, suddenly recalling what it was called.
She looked at me and smiled.
‘You remembered.’
‘I remember a lot of things.’
We stared at one another for a moment, until she suddenly switched her attention to the randomly gathered items in my basket. ‘Well, well,’ she said, ‘incontinence pads, a tin of mushroom soup, Sun-Pat peanut butter and cocktail sticks?’
‘It’s for Mrs Ponsonby,’ I said quickly. ‘She’s my aunt. I do her shopping.’
‘The one who was ill the weekend I was expelled from uni?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘that was another one. I have three.’
‘I have sixty-eight aunts,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and forty-nine uncles, one of which was also my grandfather.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said reflectively, ‘it always made things a little awkward at family get-togethers. Will you accompany me to fruit and veg?’
I could feel us being watched as we moved down the aisle. Shoppers suddenly needed to be somewhere else when we approached, and once, when Connie paused at the fussy-eaters section, the three shoppers already there hurriedly moved away while making clucking noises of disapproval.
‘Someone said you had a small scene in Pulp Fiction,’ I said by way of conversation.
‘The high point of my lacklustre career,’ she replied with a smile, ‘was being edited out of a classic. The segment was originally called “The bunny incident”. Quentin was pretty cool over the whole rabbit issue, but there was pressure from the studios and my small part was reshot with a human. They changed the “good carrot juice” dialogue to “good coffee”. But if you run it again, it makes much more sense with Jimmy’s wife being a rabbit. We could travel to the States in those days,’ she added with a sigh. ‘You had to carry a non-pregnancy certificate and any stay was limited to half a gestation period, but even so – happier times.’
‘Missing out on the success of that movie must have been quite annoying.’
‘All part of the fun and joy of being an actor,’ said Connie philosophically. ‘My work was mostly commercials, a guest spot in Emmerdale, The Bill and one hundred and eighty-three episodes of How Deep Was My Warren as midwife Rachel Rabbit. Have you ever watched it?’
‘No,’ I said, truthfully enough, as the multiple and intertwining plot threads were of such labyrinthine complexity that a single twenty-minute episode contained the same amount of drama as an entire season of West Wing. A few humans claimed to be able to follow it, but they were very likely lying.
‘Not many humans have,’ replied Connie, ‘but here’s a part of mine you might remember: do you recall the animated rabbit in the Cadbury’s Caramel adverts?’
Oddly – or not so oddly at all, really – I had always thought of Connie when watching the adverts, even though the cartoon rabbit, while possessed of Connie’s curves as much as my imagination allowed, didn’t actually sound like her, despite sharing a similar West Country accent.
‘That was you?’
Connie waved a paw dismissively.
‘I was filmed so the animators could copy the movements, so yes, as a body and movement reference – long before the days of motion capture.’
‘But not your voice, was it?’ I said.
She smiled.
‘Very perceptive of you. I didn’t have an Equity card back then so Miriam Margolyes performed in my stead – but I was there in the recording studio to coach her. Lovely woman; her Nurse in Romeo + Juliet was the best ever.’
‘Ever done any Shakespeare?’ I asked.
‘A two-week run playing Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream but I think I only got the part on account of my ears. Actually, do you know what?’ she said as we reached the fruit and veg section. ‘I don’t really need to do any shopping.’
‘No?’
‘No. I’m having an affair and I wanted to make a call without Clifford overhearing. It’s with Rupert Rabbit. He’s a cousin on my father’s sister’s daughter’s husband’s mother’s side.’
‘I’m … I’m not sure you should be telling me this.’
‘If you’re a rabbit,’ she said with a sigh, ‘it’s sometimes difficult to find someone who isn’t your cousin.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I mean I’m not sure you should be telling me about your marital infidelities.’
She picked up a stick of celery and sniffed at it expertly.
‘You were always someone I could trust, Pete. I told you stuff, things you might have repeated but didn’t. Are you going to tell my husband?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘So that’s why I’m sharing. Mind you, I’m not so sure about Rupert. Not quite rubbish enough.’
‘Not rubbish enough?’ I asked, taking an interest after all.
‘Clifford is a wonderful husband. Upright, tall, intelligent, ambitious and driven – but if I’m having another litter, they probably shouldn’t be his.’
I asked her why not, and she said it was ‘a rabbit thing’. She lingered over the iceberg lettuce, then sniffed at some romaine before picking up a twin-pack of Little Gem lettuces.
‘Technically they’re actually miniature cos,’ she said, something of an expert, ‘and have a good resistance to root aphid. Did you know the ancient Egyptians considered lettuce a symbol of sexual prowess and fertility?’
‘I know it now.’
‘Is anyone watching?’ she asked in a mischievous tone.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Is there?’
I looked around.
‘No.’
She took one of the Little Gem lettu
ces out of its cellophane.
‘My second husband and I used to pop a Little Gem during … y’know. It increases the chance of ovulation.29’
Then, without pausing, she downed the Little Gem in a single gulp.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then shivered until her light brown fur stood out in a low ridge down her back. She held her breath, then exhaled a lungful of salady breath with a low sigh.
‘Zowzer,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘The Soil Association lettuces give the biggest hit. Look, you’d better have this.’
She handed me the remaining lettuce.
‘If I come home with a Little Gem missing out of a two-pack, Clifford will be insanely suspicious. Oh-oh. Trouble.’
I turned to look behind me and could see the security guard deep in conversation with two of the disapproving shoppers, who were looking our way and pointing. I turned back to say something to Connie but she’d slipped away.
‘Was that rabbit anything to do with you?’ asked the store guard as he strode up.
‘Which one?’
‘The one who handed you the half-opened Little Gem – because it would make her husband jealous if she didn’t.’
‘That happens a lot, does it?’
‘More than you might think. So: was that rabbit anything to do with you?’
‘Well, no, not really – we’d just met.’
He grunted and moved away. I walked up and down the aisles trying to find Connie and eventually spotted her outside, walking briskly through the parking lot towards her car. I watched her climb into the Dodge, then reverse out of the car park and away. When at uni I’d liked her off-kilter character mixed with her utter directness, and I liked it now, too. I also knew that sooner or later, by accident or design, she’d find out about my role in the death of her second husband, Dylan Rabbit – and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
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 Stri
pes, 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.
The Constant Rabbit Page 9
