‘Has anyone looked for a link between the Events,’ I said, ‘to get an idea of what is causing it?’
‘Nothing concrete so far,’ said Kent, ‘just bundles of speculation. In that manner it’s a little like trying to explain Lost.’
‘There could be another reason for the move to MegaWarren,’ mused Connie, ‘that is nothing to do with incarceration, population control or the exploitation of the rabbit workforce.’
‘Such as?’ I asked, playing my part as best as I could, given that we were being listened to by the Taskforce right now.
‘Clearing the colonies will flush the Venerable Bunty out, but they don’t want her so the other rabbits will fall into line – they suspect the Venerable Bunty might be behind the Events. That she’s a physical manifestation of the Ancestral Earth Mother Gaia, here to cause trouble for the dominant species, who, let’s face it, have been getting a little too big for their own frontal lobes recently.’
We all fell into the sort of silence one adopts when a friend previously thought of as sober and clear-headed suddenly announces that the world is flat.
‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Doc in a scoffy sort of voice. ‘Gaia is a myth, sweetheart, like Zeus and Bacchus and Loki and Yoda and—’
‘And Lago?’ said Connie.
Doc fell silent.
‘Faith and religion and spiritual belief are one thing,’ I said, ‘but creating anthropomorphised animals out of thin air is quite another. You think all this was somehow divinely inspired? It doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘Actually,’ said Kent slowly, ‘if you think about it, talking rabbits spontaneously anthropomorphised have a chance-factor ratio of around 1 x 1089, which, while not totally impossible, is about as likely as the universe spontaneously turning into cottage cheese. The fact that we’re here suggests that tremendously unlikely things can happen – which would make Gaia reappearing to tweak a few things for the better not so very daft at all.’
‘You’re formulating a mathematical proof for the existence of the primordial earth mother based on talking-rabbit probability?’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t that make everything possible?’
‘Within the multiverse,’ said Kent, ‘everything is possible.’
‘That … is … enough!’ said Doc, jumping to his feet. ‘This conversation is just getting, well, too, too … metaphysical.’
And he stormed out of the room, muttering something about the standard model.
‘Doc is more of an empiricist,’ explained Connie, then added: ‘Kent, darling, would you put on the kettle for coffee?’
Kent dutifully went off to the kitchen.
‘Listen,’ said Connie in a quiet voice, ‘the Venerable Bunty is key to the Rehoming. With her at liberty, a stand-off between the rabbit and the Taskforce would be a long and torturously expensive affair. There’s lots of food: half of the colonies are laid to market gardening, and the growing season is only half done. We can keep the Bunty moving around, but ultimately they’ll find her – which is why we have formulated … a plan.’
‘A plan?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t elucidate further as Doc had walked back in, his half-finished apple crumble a greater draw than talk of impossibilities. Connie didn’t mention the Venerable Bunty again, but didn’t need to. I think she’d said what she wanted, and to the audience she wanted to hear her – not me, but Whizelle and Ffoxe and Smethwick and anyone else who was listening.
‘Well,’ said Doc, once the dinner things were washed up and I had said that I should probably make a move, ‘it’s still early. Do you want to have that swift bevvy in the Unicorn so we can talk about … y’know?’
I was hoping he’d leave the subject alone for longer, but pre-mating season wife appropriation issues were a big thing to rabbits.
‘Are you sure you want to go to the Unicorn? Despite indications to the contrary, we’re still both social pariahs in the village right now.’
‘And a swift bevvy with the locals,’ replied Doc cheerfully, ‘will be just the ticket to change it. Wait there and I’ll get my coat.’
Cordiality Collapse
… Even after eight years, I am still undecided whether the rabbit were the instigators of the Event, victims of it or simply part of a larger plan laid by a higher power. Even now, there are more questions than answers …
The sun had long sunk below the horizon when we stepped out of Hemlock Towers, and the skies were a deep navy blue, the stars bright, the air clear – a perfect summer’s night. We walked down the lane in silence, took a left and then a right into the main street. Doc chatted amiably about how when in the forces he was always popular on forward operations as he could bounce vertically upwards about twenty feet, good for reconnaissance, although not without mishap as it made him a target – albeit a brief one – for enemy snipers.
‘See that one here?’ he asked, pointing at a bullet hole in his ear that was smaller than the others.
‘Tikrit?’
‘Kidderminster. Saturday nights can get pretty insane. Hang on.’
His mobile phone had just rung.
‘That’s odd,’ he said, staring at the screen, then putting the mobile to his ear. ‘Yes, Honeybounce?’
He listened intently for a while, looked at me, then hung up.
‘You go ahead,’ he said, ‘mine’s a pint of Rancid Bishop,58 and get me some Tyrrells – sea salt flavour.’
And he bounced back off in the direction of his house. I stood there for a moment, hesitant, but carried on since I’d come this far already. A few minutes later and I was in the lounge bar of the Unicorn, all seventies decor, beer-stained carpets and Constable prints on the walls faded to pallid variations of the colour green.
Worryingly, it all went quiet as I walked in. If someone had been playing the piano, it would have stopped. There were about a dozen people present. Victor Mallett was sitting with his brother and a couple of others I only vaguely recognised. The room was staring at me silently. The recent entente cordiale seemed to have evaporated as swiftly as it had arrived.
I walked up to the bar.
‘A half of Guinness and a pint of Rancid Bishop, please, Janice.’
‘Right-o.’
She began the slow pour of the Guinness and then started to pull the Rancid Bishop.
‘Who’s the Bishop for, Peter?’ asked Norman from the other end of the bar.
‘Your new parish councillor,’ I replied.
‘That post was rescinded eight minutes ago,’ said Victor, ‘as was minding the bottle stall at the village fete.’
‘We negotiated up from bottle stall to judging the vegetables,’ I pointed out.
‘Whatever. It doesn’t matter, Peter old chap. I could have promised her the tombola and the opening ceremony – she was never going to do any of it.’
I felt the chill in the room. Villagers stuck together; it was what they did. That would have been all well and good if it was about the church roof fund appeal or the Spick & Span awards, but not if you were the recipient of their combined outrage. I took the bugged Parker pen out of my pocket and placed it on the counter.
‘Major Rabbit won’t be joining you,’ said Norman. ‘Pour the ale away, Janice.’
Janice looked at me. She and I went back a long way. I’d let her copy my schoolwork when we were nine, because I knew she was having a rotten home life.
‘Pour it, Janice.’
Janice continued to pour the ale, and a dull, portentous silence filled the room.