Where do the Rabbits go?

I’ve never kept a diary, nor have I ever claimed to be any sort of a writer. However, I felt that the events that befell me in the days leading up to my thirty-first birthday should be chronicled in some way or another. So, forgive me for rambling, to this very day I’m not entirely sure what happened to me, or if it happened. So, I ask you, please do not pass judgement on me until you hear my story…

It was an overcast day, grey and drizzly, just down right miserable. The kind of day when all you want to do is stay indoors, play records, read a book, or stare blankly at the wall thinking about lying in a field with the sun on your face. My wife had left for work as normal at eight-thirty and I had woken with her. We made slow, tired love: the only kind of love you can make at that time of the day. She would lie in bed with me and we’d hold each other until she’d pull herself away from me, knowing that if she stayed in bed any longer she would be late. I lay in bed watching her flit around the bedroom getting ready for work. She had the same routine every day, even when she worked on a Saturday when the rest of the office went in late. She would still be up and about at seven o’clock without fail. I closed my eyes and thought about the day ahead: no plans as yet. Maybe just a few more hours in bed. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. I heard the front door slam and lock. I decided to get an early start; I could really use a cup of coffee.

I was in the kitchen making my coffee and trying to decide if I was hungry. My morning paper hadn’t arrived yet, so I contented myself with a booklet that some door-to-door religious person had dropped off some three days previously, and which hadn’t yet found its way into the trash. I glanced at the leading article, ‘CHEMICLE WARFARE: YOU ARE AT RISK!’ Inside were numerous pictures of smallpox victims: there was rather a lot of oozing. I could be next, apparently. Not really what I wanted to see before breakfast. I decided to help it on its journey to the trash, as it would just muddle my brains before I had my morning fix of three strong, sweet cups of coffee. I contented myself with looking out of the window. The grass in the garden had gotten too long due to my laziness, combined with the dismal September weather. Staring at it for so long made me think of thousands of little green people waving at me from down below. My mind glazed over and I started to wave back. I suddenly realized what I was doing when I saw that a very beautiful woman was standing at the bottom of the garden, waving back at me. She gave me a half smile, a friendly but slightly nervous smile. She must have thought that I was waving at her. I turned away, blushing, and went on making my coffee. When I looked again, she was gone.

I took my cup to the sofa. Still no newspaper. I closed my eyes and sipped at my coffee. I tried to clear my head of all thought. I had gotten up too early and still had some residual tiredness left. Saturdays were usually spent tidying the apartment, doing the washing and waiting for a socially acceptable time to get a cold beer from the fridge. I looked at the clock: it had only been sixteen minutes since my wife left the house. Far too early for beer. I stood up and went to the front door. Still no paper. To pass the time, I thought I would take a walk. Maybe I’d buy a paper while I was out.

Stepping out into the gloom, I bounded down the steps and opened the gate. It was then that I realized that I’d neglected to pick up my wallet. I ran back up the steps and took out my keys. As I put the key in the lock the telephone started ringing inside. I entered the hallway and looked at the phone. I usually make a point of not answering the telephone before two o’clock on a Saturday, but something inside me said that I must answer it today.

On the end of the line was a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but before I had a chance to establish who it was, the voice introduced itself. It was my wife’s boss.

The cocktail hour incident

I had only met my wife’s boss once before. She had been working flat out to meet a deadline, spending every available moment scribbling down numbers and checking endless lists of figures. My wife’s firm had won an extremely large contract, worth a fortune, with a communications company in Osaka. Three fairly important Japanese businessmen had invited my wife, plus one guest, (requiring me, unfortunately, to buy a suit), to an elaborate party to celebrate the signing of the contracts. I, being one for the quiet life, was reluctant to go, but my wife can be exceptionally stubborn when she applies herself, and was thrilled at the chance to impress the overseas clients, so I agreed to tag along.

We arrived ridiculously early and stood around like spare parts while tables were being set up and the buffet was being prepared. I surveyed my surroundings. Everything in the room was either black or red. The floor: black marble effect. The carpet: red, (obviously). Even the food had a colour scheme. The only things that weren’t red or black were the plants, but I was certain that somebody, somewhere, must be working on that. Slowly but surely, people started to trickle in and by nine-thirty the party was well under way. It was becoming quite lively: people were milling around each other, enjoying the free food and drink. My wife was off being the social butterfly, so I went to the bar and took a stool. The bar was as long as the room itself. The bar top also had a black marble effect finish. It was buffed so much that I could see my reflection in it. A very young waitress came over to take my order. She was decked out in regulation colours: black skirt, red blouse and red and black striped apron. She was frighteningly thin, so much so that her head seemed way too big for her body. She wore her hair long, with one side, the left, swept behind her ear from which dangled a silver Macintosh-style earring. She had large, round brown eyes that bore no make-up and had a natural, intuitive sparkle. I felt myself becoming attracted to her. She smiled at me as she laid down a place mat and ashtray. Without browsing the menu, I ordered a Chivas Regal with no ice and sat with my back to the party, watching the young waitress as she slid from one end of the bar to the other. I was just about to order my second drink, when my wife came up from behind me and said that she wanted to introduce me to some people. She led me by the arm, through the masses of raptors gathered around the buffet, towards a group of people standing beside a very sad looking yucca plant that had obviously seen better days. The group comprised of four men, in tuxedos that put me in my off the peg jacket and vaguely matching trousers to shame. Three of the men were Japanese, obviously representatives from the firm in Osaka. The fourth man was American. My wife’s boss.

He was a short man, wearing, I’d noted, a tux that oozed style and money. On the lapel of his jacket was a badge that signified that he must be in some sort of fellowship. Probably one that requires a salary on a par with the Queen of England, except he lives in a bigger house. He was balding and his face was marked by what must have been horrendous adolescent acne. He took my hand in a vice-like grip and told me how proud I must be of my wife. I smiled and tried not to look too intimidated. After exchanging small talk and the how-do-you-do’s, we got to the inevitable awkward silence that occurs when you meet someone else’s acquaintances, with whom you have nothing in common, for the first time. He asked me what I did for a living and I gave him my stock answer, which is that I’m an accountant. This usually kills any inane career conversation stone dead, for which I am thankful. I’m probably doing myself an injustice saying that. What I actually do is investigate into anomalies in tax returns. Certain companies will pay quite handsomely to have their chief executive’s name cleared and have some office drone take the rap. In other words, I stitch people up for money. I know it’s not a great way to make a living but I, like you, have to live.

On hearing my stock answer and feigning interest, my wife’s boss saw someone over my shoulder, raised his glass and bulldozed past me as if I never existed. I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed a little. I was pleased not to have to think up any more pointless conversation pieces. The businessmen started to file away and my wife went off with one of them to be introduced to a nervous looking man with a briefcase and an overcoat tucked under his arm. He looked like he had just come from work and was looking rather bemused at the sight of all the drunken people. My wife saw me looking lost and called out that I should meet Linus: ‘He’s one of our most respected clients.’

The prospect of making even more pointless conversation with someone who looked even less interesting than my wife’s boss and his friends made me feel nauseous, so I declined and headed back to my still-empty stool at the bar. Instead of the slightly odd but pretty waitress was a young man, also in regulation red and black. He was around six feet tall with long hair tied back into a ponytail and a large mole on his left cheek. He wore a towel hanging out of his apron which he was randomly polishing glasses with. He came over to take my order. I ordered a beer and surveyed the party: people were becoming increasingly inebriated as it got closer to midnight. People were starting to pair off and make their exit. It was then that I noticed that my slightly odd but pretty waitress had taken a seat at the end of the bar. She was smoking a cigarette and looking at her feet with a strange intensity. She had a black overcoat on over her uniform, in order not to be mistaken for being on duty. I sat and watched her smoke from the end of the bar. Each time she inhaled she would close her eyes, as if to savor every single draw. Watching her do this made me want to light up myself, even though I hadn’t had a cigarette for over three years and I knew my wife would kill me if I ever smoked again. She had issued me with an ultimatum: I had to choose whiskey or cigarettes. She didn’t realize that the two went hand in hand.

The slightly odd but pretty waitress looked up, caught me looking at her and smiled bashfully. She held up her cigarettes to offer me one. I raised my hand to decline her offer. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away, sipping at a coke. I stood up to go over and talk to her. When I was about six feet away one of the expensively suited businessmen cut in front of me and sat down next to her. He whispered something in her ear and smiled. The slightly odd but pretty waitress sat stony-faced, staring directly ahead. The expensively suited businessman smiled again. He put his hand on her knee. This still didn’t get a reaction from her. He whispered something else in her ear and she flinched with embarrassment. At this point she looked around to her superior for support, but he just kept watching the bar and polishing glasses, although he was blatantly aware of her predicament. The expensively suited businessman’s hand went from her knee to her inner thigh, then under her skirt. It was at this point, when the slightly odd but pretty waitress’s expression changed from slight annoyance to one of panic, that I knew I couldn’t just stand and watch this take place in front of me. I don’t know whether it was anger or just the Chivas Regal kicking in, but I knew for my wife’s sake that I had to stay as calm as possible and try to defuse the situation quietly. As calmly as I could, I walked over to the end of the bar. ‘Excuse me miss, would it be at all possible to have that cigarette now?’

The expensively suited businessman turned and looked me up and down. As he addressed me he shifted uncomfortably on his stool. ‘Ah, you. The accountant. I’ve been talking to your wife tonight. Lovely girl, she’s going to go far in this company, I can tell you. Now, leave me and my friend here alone. Or I’ll buy your wife and make her my housekeeper.’

At this, he turned back to the slightly odd but pretty waitress, who had sat unmoving in her seat. I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned round with a look of intense anger, stood up in front of me and pushed me. I fell heavily against the bar. I stood up and brushed myself down. He started advancing on me. It was then that I noticed the erection bulging from his expensive trousers. Well, I’ll say the red mist descended and I aimed a kick at the expensive bulge. It connected: the expensively suited businessman crumpled into a heap on the floor. The slightly odd but pretty waitress’s face matched that of every one else in the crowd that had gathered around us: absolute shock and confusion. I searched those faces for my wife’s, and then I saw her. She was sat in the corner, next to the tired looking yucca plant, with her head in her hands.

My second conversation with my wife’s boss

’Sorry to bother you this early on a Saturday, but would it be at all possible for me to speak with your wife?’

Puzzled, I explained to him that my wife had left for work, as normal, at eight-thirty and should be there by now.

’Oh. It’s just that she hasn’t checked in at the front desk and that’s highly unusual for your wife. She’s always in first, even before me.’

I asked him if it was possible that he had just missed her.

’Definitely not. Especially not today: she was to come to my office immediately. You see, today is going to be a special day for her. Despite her puzzling choice of husband, we think your wife is very special. We are making her chief executive assistant. She knew all about this. Today we were to sign the contracts and move her to her new offices. There’s a hell of a lot to sort out and we can’t really afford to waste any time. Did you know anything about this?’

I let his comment about my wife’s choice of husband slip by and told him that I didn’t know anything about it. He was silent for a moment. ‘Hmm. Okay, then.’ He hung up without any goodbye.

Well, we’ve come this far and I trust you, so I suppose it’s about time I leveled with you. When I told you about my wife and I making love this morning, it wasn’t true. We didn’t make love this morning or any other morning. Since the cocktail hour incident, I haven’t even seen her in the evenings. She’s just coming home late and sleeping in the spare room. We hardly even acknowledge each other now. I know she wants to leave me as soon as she can, I know she is just biding her time. With this promotion and a severe increase in her salary, I’m sure she will be able to finally leave and buy herself a new place. I do know her, though, and I know that she wouldn’t miss this meeting for anyone or anything.

I sat down on the sofa to go over my wife’s journey. She takes the bus at eight thirty-five a.m. She arrives at her office building at eight forty-three a.m. Checks in at the front desk at eight forty-eight a.m. She is in her office, armed with coffee and filofax, at eight fifty-two a.m. No one else arrives at the office until nine-thirty, as they keep to late hours, but my wife is so intent on getting to the top she puts double the hours in every day of the week. I was a little worried, but there was nothing I could do other than call the office later to see if she had turned up. It seemed too early to call the police. They would only tell me that she’d probably just missed her bus and to call them again in twenty-four hours if she hadn’t returned. I walked into the hallway and noticed that the post had arrived, though there was still no paper. I picked up the small bundle of mail and quickly scanned through it. Three for my wife, a couple of bills, a pamphlet addressed to ‘the occupier’ and one small handwritten envelope addressed to me. As I never get mail, I was quite intrigued. I was just about to open it, when I heard sirens in the distance. Something must have happened close by, I thought. We never get news round here. The idea of news reminded me that the paperboy must have forgotten me today, so I decided to follow my original plan and go and buy a paper. It was only a ten-minute walk to the newsagent and maybe I could pick up a packet of cigarettes while I was there. Just a couple this afternoon, with my first beer. Surely it wouldn’t hurt. I stepped out into the street. It was still quite gloomy, but you could tell the sun was trying to break through. I walked, lost in my own thoughts. When I turned the corner into the street where the newsagent was, I saw two ambulances and three police cars. The police were keeping back a crowd of people, while two sets of paramedics worked on two very badly injured people. I jogged across the road and asked one of the bystanders what had happened.

’There was this boy on a bike, going past the bus stop. He wasn’t watching where he was going. There was a woman, who must have been late, as she was trying to catch the bus that was just pulling away. The boy crashed into her and they both fell under the bus. It was horrific!’ When did it happen, I asked. ‘Oh, about twenty minutes ago. Yeah, around twenty-five to nine.’

It didn’t bear thinking. I pushed past the police cordon and ran to the paramedics. I looked at the two lifeless people on the ground. My heart sank as I recognized one of the bodies – it was my favorite paperboy. I knew then why I hadn’t got my paper that morning.