Beware the Little White Rabbit

by Various

  “You, fat rabbit with the droopy whiskers, fetch my PA and have her call Dana Duchess’s people,” she shouts. “I want confirmation on the temperature of the Swiss mountain mineral water in the limo we sent. You, Wonky Ears, go check on the rent-a-crowd for the red carpet shots. Make sure they’ve studied the new script. It’s ‘Maddy Hatter, we worship you,’ not ‘we love you.’ Got it? And someone take some more champagne and smoked salmon down to the pressroom, pronto. We want nothing less than glowing reviews from that lot, so keep them properly fed and watered. Everyone knows ‘launch’ is just ‘a lunch’ for fashion reporters who can’t spell.”

  A pressroom did she say? That sounds like the perfect place for me. Maybe I can rustle myself up a fake press pass while I’m at it: Alice Liddell, High School Reporter Extraordinaire & Future Girlfriend of Jason Hopper. Yes, I like the sound of that.

  Leaving the safety of my mirrored hiding place, I sneak round the edge of the store and through the doors at the back, into a long dark corridor. A single flickering strip light crackles and pings above my head as I peer through the gloom, trying to get my bearings. There’s a row of unmarked doors off to my left and what looks like a big stockroom to the right. And all the way down there at the end? That must be where the real models are, with their long, skinny legs and perfectly-proportioned heads.

  Hmm, on second thought, maybe this isn’t the way to the pressroom. If Ms. Hatter’s trying to impress the reporters, she’ll have put them somewhere a little classier than this, I imagine. Somewhere a little less behind-the-scene-ish. Which means that any photos I get will be genuine exclusives. This could be my scoop! REAL WONDERLAND REVEALED: THE GLOOM BEHIND THE GLITZ.

  I snap off a few pictures of grubby flooring and chipped paintwork, but to be honest, they’re not much to shout about. Not compared with naked Spanish teachers doing the backstroke. No, I don’t think Jason will be rushing to put these on the front page. Still, at least I’m out of the way back here, and I can lie low until the main event. Who knows? Maybe there’ll be a spare rabbit costume I can borrow behind one of these doors. A nice small one, preferably with an extra-large man-sized head.

  The first one’s locked – no chance of a bunny disguise in there – and the second one turns out to be a broom closet. Might be a useful hiding place in a hurry, I guess, but otherwise utterly useless. No luck with the third door either – that’s the staff toilets – and the fourth one opens into an empty room. Nothing there save for a battered old desk and chair. No, wait a minute. It’s not completely empty. There’s a small stuffed rabbit sitting on the desk, staring back at me with sad yellow eyes. Must be a forgotten prop for the launch – heaven help the poor soul in charge of stuffed rabbits if old Fox-Features finds out – or maybe it’s an escapee from one of her berets!

  “You’re late,” says a squeaky voice as I turn to go.

  I spin round in surprise, but there’s no one there.

  “You’re late, you’re late, you’re late.”

  Okay, this is a bit weird. “Who said that?”

  “Me,” sniffs the rabbit. At least that’s where the voice sounds like it’s coming from. It must be one of those awful talking toys like my sister’s Portia Puppykins. Man, I hate that yappy thing.

  “Er…sorry,” I find myself saying. “I think I must’ve gotten the wrong room.” Hang on a minute. Why am I explaining myself to a battery-operated bunny?

  “No, this is definitely the right room,” says the rabbit. “Just the wrong time, that’s all. Like I said, you’re late. The others are all waiting for us downstairs.”

  “Others? Downstairs?” Repeating words at random seems to be the best I can manage all of a sudden.

  “Yes. Hurry up and shut that door behind you,” orders the rabbit. “We haven’t got much time.”

  “Er…okay.” This obviously isn’t happening. I must have knocked my head on the top of the broom closet and not noticed. Yes, that’s it. I knocked myself out cold and my body’s still slumped out there in the corridor while my subconscious carries on without it. Because that’s pretty much the only explanation that makes any sense right now. Trust my brain to give me a bossy talking rabbit fantasy, though. Why couldn’t I be dreaming about Jason Hopper instead? A nice cozy dream about my Maddy Hatter story getting taken up by the national press, while I get taken up by Jason’s strong editorial arms.

  The rabbit’s having none of it, though.

  “Good,” he squeaks as the door clicks shut behind me. He sniffs the air thoughtfully, stretches out his back, and then leaps smoothly off the desk to land by my feet. “Now then, follow me, and no dawdling.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, as the rabbit hops across the room toward a solid wall.

  “You’ll see. Press that button to your left and stand well back.”

  “Button? What button?” I scan the wall a second time, but there’s nothing there except for the red fire alarm box.

  The rabbit sighs. “We’re wasting precious time. Can’t you read? ‘In case of emergency, break glass. PRESS HERE,’ it says. And trust me, this is an emergency. Press the glass and let’s get going.”

  Now I’m not stupid, I know what happens when you break the glass in one of those things. It’s all screaming alarms and sprinklers systems and mass evacuations. That’s not really the undercover reporter look I’m going for here. But then, I wasn’t really counting on talking rabbits either and it is only a dream, after all. It has to be. Any minute now I’ll wake up back in my body, back out there in the corridor, with a broom closet sized lump on the top of my head.

  Why not go along with it for now? There’s something rather tempting about emergency fire buttons, don’t you think? With those little arrows pointing into the middle shouting PRESS HERE. PRESS HERE. GO ON. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. WE WON’T TELL ANYONE IT WAS YOU. I mean, I’d never do it in real life, obviously, but it’s not every day you crack your head and have a weird out-of-body dream experience.

  I might as well make the most of it. And besides, I’d feel kind of mean saying no to a fluffy white rabbit. Especially one with such sharp front teeth.

  I do it.

  I press the button like he says and wait for the wailing to start.

  Only it doesn’t. No high-pitched alarm or water squirting down from the ceiling or the sound of screaming models rushing for the nearest fire exit. No, what happens next is much more exciting than that. An entire section of wall opens up, spinning round on itself like something out of a film, to reveal a secret passage. Yes, I kid you not, a real life, genuine secret passage, with spiral stairs and everything. Top marks, subconscious. I really didn’t see that one coming.

  The rabbit’s already halfway down the stairs. I trot after him, the wall easing back into place behind us.

  Round and round we go. Down and down, the rabbit muttering to himself the whole way. “It wasn’t my fault. She was late. And now I’m late. Oh my ears and whiskers, whatever will they say? I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.”

  “Are we nearly there?” I ask, trying to take his mind off his time-keeping issues. Not that I have the faintest clue where there is, but I’m guessing reaching the bottom will be my cue to wake up again, like when you dream you’re falling and you land back in your bed with a start. I hope so, because after a promising start this is turning into a rather tedious hallucination. Just stairs and wall, on and on, round and round.

  “No time for talking,” snaps the rabbit, picking up speed. “We’re late, we’re late.”

  “Okay, yes, I get it. We’re running slightly behind schedule. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you even know? I mean, how does a rabbit tell the time?” Ha, that sounds like the start of a joke. I say, I say, I say. How does a rabbit tell the time? Why, my dear fellow, he swallows a dandelion clock, of course…

  The rabbit carries on as if he hasn’t heard, disappearing from view round the final twist of staircase. Hooray! At last!

  Here we are then. That’s the last step well and
truly stepped, and I don’t seem to have woken up yet. Actually, I’m feeling surprisingly out of breath too, given that this is all in my imagination. You’d think I could have made myself some longer, fitter legs for the occasion, or snuck in a crafty pair of wings to make life easier. I could’ve dreamt myself an elevator, come to think of it.

  Oh well.

  Just as long as I get back to reality in time for the launch, and don’t end up in the hospital with a concussion. That’s not the story I’m after: KLUTZY CORRESPSONDENT CRASHES PARTY AND CRASHES OUT, though I suppose I could do some selfies in the ambulance to go with it.

  “Come on, Alice,” squeaks the rabbit as I follow him into another long, gloomy corridor. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Wow, will you look at that? This place is exactly the same as the corridor upstairs: same row of doors, same flickering strip light above my head, same everything. Honestly, you’d think my brain could come up with something a little more original, wouldn’t you? I mean, Mrs. Forrester gave me an A for my creative writing portfolio just last week.

  Unless…yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe they’re identical for a reason. Perhaps if I hit my head on this broom closet door, I’ll wake up back upstairs as if none of this had ever happened. It has to be worth a try. Second on the left, wasn’t it? Look, someone’s even left the door open, ready for me. My subconscious probably. Aren’t I thoughtful?

  The rabbit’s one step ahead of me, his tail already bobbing through the open doorway into…no, not a broom closet after all but a…well, I don’t know exactly. What would you call this place? It’s big – surprisingly big – with cages running the entire length of the room. Cages stacked on cages stacked on yet more cages; row after endless row of them. And in every single one of those cages is another white rabbit, staring out at me with sad yellow eyes.

  “You’re late,” they all squeak together. “You’re late, you’re late, you’re late.”

  Okay, this is getting a bit much now. I think I’d like to wake up, please. Maybe if I pinch my arm really hard. That’s what they always do in books, isn’t it? Ow! Maybe it’s the other one, then. Ow, ow, ow! So much for that. Now I’ve got a roomful of resentful rabbits and two sore arms.

  “Are you sure she’s the one?” comes a doubtful squeak. “She doesn’t seem very bright to me. Why does she keep pinching herself?”

  “I’m certain of it,” says the first rabbit, or my rabbit as I’m starting to think of him. “Look at the size of her head. It’s massive.”

  Hang on a minute. I didn’t follow him down hundreds of stairs into some weird rabbit prison just to be insulted.

  “Can she talk? It’s no good if she can’t say anything.”

  “Yes,” says my rabbit. “Annoying questions, mainly, but she can definitely speak.”

  “Excuse me,” I cut in. “I can answer for myself, thank you very much. And yes, for your information I do know how to talk. That’s pretty much a given where I come from. Humans talking, rabbits less so.” Which is why a secret underground warehouse filled with back-chatting bunnies would be an amazing scoop. INTREPID STUDENT REPORTER REVEALS RABBITS’ SPEECH SECRET. If only this were real.

  “Well, that’s something,” says the second rabbit. “Now then, human, what we need you to do is this. Are you listening carefully?”

  “I’m Alice.”

  “Well, Malice,” squeaks Number Two, “I need you to concentrate, because we haven’t got long. The first job is to let us all out of our cages, obviously. The doors are computer controlled. It should be a simple case of hacking into the system and operating the release switch. Then you need to disguise yourself as a hat model and gatecrash that hideous woman’s launch party so we can show the world what a murderous fraud she really is. I’ll be playing the part of the dead rabbit, but the only beret we could get our paws on is from last season’s extra-large men’s range. That’s where you and your oddly oversized head come in.”

  “What do you mean ‘murderous fraud?’ They’re not real rabbits, you know, just clever models. Maddy Hatter’s famously anti-fur. In fact, she’s the honorary president of three different animal rights organizations.” I’ve done my journalistic homework. I know what’s what. She might be a horrible harridan of a woman who bullies her staff, but the self-proclaimed Mistress of Millinery is no critter killer.

  “Huh!” scoffs Number Two. “Try telling that to my cousin Robert. He spent his entire life crammed into one these little prison cells, only to end up robo-stuffed and sprayed and stapled onto an early prototype. Stapled! Right through his poor dead feet.”

  “It’s true,” pipes up my rabbit. “This place is a one-woman killing shop. One day it’s a plumping vitamin dose coming down the feeding tube, and the next it’s a lethal shot of rabbit relaxant. Good-bye first three rows of cages; hello new batch of hats.” A shiver ripples across his fur. “I used to have nightmares about rabbit stew, but now it’s the beret terrors every night.”

  “That’s awful! Look, I’d love to help, really I would, only I’m more of a hack” (that’s another word for a journalist, right?) “than a hack—er. I wouldn’t know the first thing about breaking into a computer system.”

  Rabbit Number Two sighs. “Terrific. You’d think there’d be a bit more brain in a head that large, wouldn’t you? Okay, you see that big computer screen there?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the big flashing ENTER PASSWORD sign?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. That’s where you need to enter the password.”

  Now I’m being patronized by a talking white fur-ball. This really isn’t what I signed up for. “And what is the password?”

  He sniffs. “How should I know? I’m a rabbit.”

  I sit down in front of the computer and count out the number of asterisks. ******* So I’m looking for a seven-letter word. M-H-A-T-T-E-R, maybe? It has to be worth a try.

  Your password has not been recognized. Please try again.

  Okay then, something else. R-A-B-B-I-T-S? No. F-O-R-T-U-N-E? No. H-A-T-K-I-N-G? This is getting me nowhere. E-V-I-L-C-O-W? Come on, brain, think. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with Maddy Hatter. I mean, if this is my dream then maybe it’s something I’d have chosen. W-A-K-E-U-P-!? All right then, how about I-L-O-V-E-J-H? Man, I hate having to think up passwords. Is it any wonder so many people choose stupid ones like 1-2-3-4-5-6-7? Wow! That’s it. I’m in.

  From there on in it’s plain sailing. There are only a handful of options available, the last one being OPERATE RELEASE MECHANISM. I select that box and double click on the mouse.

  “She’s done it,” squeaks Number Two as the cages swing open. “We’re free.”

  “Hooray for Malice!” chorus the other rabbits as they come hopping out of their cramped little boxes to stretch their legs. Soon the entire floor is awash with white fur, and I hardly dare move for fear of squashing someone.

  “Now for the next part of the plan,” calls Number Two. Or at least I’m guessing it’s him. It might be Number Six Hundred and Fifty-Three for all I know. They all look the same. “Peter – our rabbit on the outside – has hidden the beret in the old broom closet upstairs. You need to fetch it out, put it on that massive head of yours, and then help me climb up on top. Then it’s just a simple case of crashing the party, spilling the beans, and putting an end to Maddy Hatter’s hateful hattery once and for all.”

  “Fine,” I agree, though as brilliant plans go it sounds a bit rushed to me. “Whatever you say.” It doesn’t really matter because I know what else I’m going to find when I reach that broom closet. Me. And then I can wake up and carry out my own brilliant plan instead. As soon as I’ve had a chance to make one, that is.

  Back up the stairs we go. Up and up and up and up. It seemed pretty endless on the way down but going the other way? Wowzers. My heart’s hammering so hard I’m worried I might not make it to the waking up bit. What happens if you keel over and die in your dream? Does that mean you’re dead in real life, too?

&n
bsp; “Hurry up,” squeaks the rabbit, bounding on ahead of me. “We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.”

  Finally. I’m so puffed now I can hardly think straight. The wall swings back round as if it’s been waiting for us all this time, and I tumble through into the empty room. It’s still empty. That’s good. No dream security guards waiting to carry me off. Just a desk, a chair, and a door leading back into the corridor.

  Looks like the coast is clear. There’s no one around out here either. Not even me. Someone must have discovered my poor lifeless body and carted me off in an ambulance. The real me must be lying in a drug-induced coma in some hospital bed, dreaming strange drug-induced dreams about talking rabbits. Hmm, I wonder if Jason will come visit.

  “Open it up then,” orders the rabbit. “We need that beret.”

  I do as I’m told – who knew bunnies were so bossy? – and fish out a slightly dusty red beret. It’s big and baggy and the perfect fit for my giant head.

  “Right,” says the rabbit. “Lift me up on top, and for goodness sake keep still. It’s very hard playing dead when you’re bouncing around all over the place.”

  His fur is soft and warm against my fingers, and if he wasn’t such a sharp-toothed crosspatch, I’d be rather tempted to tickle his tummy. But I follow his orders and put him down gently on top of the beret. He’s surprisingly heavy for such a little guy. I guess Maddy takes all the weighty organs and things out before she stuffs and mounts them. It wouldn’t do to give her exclusive celebrity clientele headaches, would it?

  “You!” snaps a voice. I look up to find a human-sized rabbit glaring down at me. Is that the doorman from earlier in there or one of Maddy’s other minions? Whoever it is, he sounds furious. “What are you still doing out here? The other models are already waiting backstage for their grand catwalk entrance. Get up there at once. And lose the cell for goodness sake. If I can see it sticking out, then so will the audience. You know the rules – no personal effects that might detract from the hat.”

  With that he snatches my phone out of my pocket and bungs it into the broom closet. I feel strangely naked without it. Well, naked and overdressed (in a balancing-a-rabbit-hat-on-my-head kind of way) all at the same time.