‘What did they do to you? Ironic taunts, sarcasm, species-shaming?’
‘No, more of a round-table discussion where they suggested I confront the shortcomings of my species, then told me how rabbit governance was not so much based on laws as we understand them, but a mutually agreed set of understandings and customs where non-compliance would be a suboptimal approach to peaceful coexistence.’
‘How did you feel about that?’ I asked, wanting to see whether Toby’s politics had changed.
‘Same old holier-than-thou rabbit bullshit.’
His politics, I noted, had not changed.
We accessed the building through the main entrance on Gaol Street, showed our IDs to the guard who diligently checked them as she’d done every morning, fifteen years for me, two for Toby, then opened the inner glass security doors, and we made our way past the Compliance Officers working on the large, open-plan ground floor. There were estimated to be just under a million anthropomorphised rabbits in the country, and only a hundred thousand or so had the legal right to live outside the fence. The rest, by well-established statute, remained inside the colonies, their rights to travel strictly controlled by a series of permits.
‘Have you heard if the Senior Group Leader is due in today?’ asked Toby.
‘I heard not,’ I replied, ‘but the word will get around if he is.’
‘He frightens me,’ said Toby.
‘I heard he even frightens Nigel Smethwick, and that must take some doing.’
This was indeed true. Even the most strident and voluble leporiphobics in the building regarded the Senior Group Leader as ‘somewhat inclined towards uncontrollable anger’. It didn’t seem to dent his general support, though.
Here at the Western Region Rabbit Compliance Taskforce we had responsibility for the 150,000 residents living on the hill above Ross, about twenty-five miles away. Rabbit Colony One was a large and sprawling warren of tunnels constructed beneath allotments, laundry rooms, sandwich-making factories and the ubiquitous call centres and assembly plants7 for electrical goods, the whole encircled by a rabbit-proof fence which the Taskforce declared was to ‘protect the most vulnerable rabbits from dangerous Hominid Supremacists’. No one believed them, least of all the rabbit.
We walked through the connecting corridor to the newer part of the building, up to the third floor and into our office, which was spacious and scrupulously tidy, walls painted a calming green shade, pot plants scattered about and a large framed poster of a mountain reflected in a lake in New Zealand that was meant to be ‘motivational’, but to me looked like a mountain reflected in a lake. Despite the large windows the office wasn’t particularly bright and airy. The windows didn’t open and the glass was semi-silvered to render us invisible to eyes outside. It was said they were bulletproof, too, installed when the concept of violent rabbit direct action groups had still been just about believable.
Agent Whizelle had not yet arrived but Section Officer Flemming was sitting in her office, one of the two glass-fronted cubicles that looked into the shared space, but which afforded her and Agent Whizelle privacy if required. Susan Flemming was smiley and good-looking, which made her appear considerably more pleasant than she actually was. Her strident views on hominid superiority mixed with an incurious intellect and moral detachment made her almost ideal for a long and successful career in the Rabbit Compliance industry. On her office wall was not a picture of family, but a picture of herself, Prime Minister Nigel Smethwick and the Senior Group Leader, presumably at the time Flemming was made Section Officer. But despite her good looks, Flemming had an expressionless demeanour and her one eye – she never explained how she lost the other – didn’t blink much or seem to have free movement in its socket; she rotated her head to look about, which reminded me of a poorly operated marionette.
‘Good morning, Mr Knox,’ she said.
‘Ma’am.’
‘You’re on Operations today,’ she said, without preamble. ‘The new Intelligence Officer is bringing an ongoing case with him. Whizelle and he have been planning it all weekend and I don’t want you to disappoint.’
I didn’t like the sound of this.
‘I have an exemption from doing Ops on account of my fallen arches.’
I swayed a little on my feet by way of confirmation.
‘Bullshit,’ said Flemming.
‘No, I really do. Signed by the Company Doctor.’
‘I wasn’t saying “bullshit” to you having the note,’ explained Flemming. ‘It’s the fallen arches that’s bullshit. Look, Toby doesn’t have the experience or the training, and no one else is available. RabCoT needs field-worthy Spotters, not ones who spend their days cooped up like chickens.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘—you need to step up to the plate, Knox. Some of us have the distinct feeling your enthusiasm for the job might be waning. If you don’t get out and about, we might decide on a performance review.’
‘I had one not two months ago.’
‘I was thinking more of a personal review from the Senior Group Leader.’
She tapped her long fingernails on the desk and cocked her head on one side.
This was different. A ‘performance review’ by the Group Leader was less of a cosy chat about one’s work, and more a sustained and very personal profanity-laden rant.
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would. He said you should drop by and discuss things if you refuse to go on Ops.’
I felt my palms go damp and a knot seemed to form in my stomach. No one liked to upset the Senior Group Leader. Operatives more senior than me had resigned rather than face a dressing-down, and bold men and women were known to come out of his office in a state of traumatic shock at his verbal threats and intimidation. Few but the brave even made eye contact, and I knew for a fact that Toby had taken a day off work after a particularly aggressive encounter in the elevator.
‘I’ll go on Ops,’ I said. I needed at least another ten years’ employment before I could even think about retirement.
‘Good,’ said Flemming. ‘You can meet our new Intelligence Officer in the briefing room at midday; he’ll tell you what he wants you to do.’
I sat down at my desk and was about to start work when Adrian Whizelle walked in.
The best you could say about him was that on a good day he was hardly obnoxious at all, which made him seem like Julie Andrews in comparison to the Senior Group Leader or Nigel Smethwick. He’d been co-opted into Rabbit Identity Fraud from the intelligence-gathering arm of RabCoT and had a useful coping mechanism in the often stressful compliance industry: a deep and very powerful loathing for rabbits.
‘Good morning,’ said Whizelle.
We returned his salutation, Toby more enthusiastically as the two of them played squash or racketball or something. Whizelle was tall and dark, as thin as a yard-broom with long arms and legs that gangled like those of a clumsy teenager as he walked. His pointed features gave little away and his small black eyes seemed to constantly dart about the room. He also had a massive twin-tracked scar down his cheek that ended in a wonky jaw, the result of a rabbit bite following a snatch squad op that went south; the rabbit’s teeth had been scaled up during the Anthropomorphising Event and now had a sharpness and muscular strength that could go through flesh as though it were wet paper.