The Odd Bunnies

The Odd Bunnies

Sam Cullan

Copyright Sam Cullan 2014

First Published 2011

Smashwords Revised Edition 2014

All Rights Reserved

About The Odd Bunnies

This is a true story based on fictitious events - a love story with funny bits and the odd mystery.

There, you won’t need to read it now.

Legal Stuff and a Warning from the FBI

The Odd Bunnies

All Rights Reserved. Copyright Sam Cullan 2011-2014.

Any unauthorised broadcasting, public performance, copying or re-recording will constitute an infringement of copyright.

This story is fictitious and any resemblance to persons and rabbits, dead or alive, is entirely coincidental. Place names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty and the nonplussed.

A Warning from the FBI

The Federation Bunny Internationale (FBI) insists I add this warning: Do not approach wild bunnies. Do not interfere with the daily goings-on of wild bunnies. Penalty for improper approach of, or interfering with, a wild bunny is a large fine and severe telling-off.

Dedication

For

Kota

Preface

Sam Cullan is a pseudonym, chosen because Sam is a unisex name and people won’t know if she’s a man or a woman. He was educated, but not so as you’d know it. After a long career in cold storage and driving precious packages around badly, she decided to do take up doing nothing.

When doing nothing got quite tedious, he decided to write a book based on all the jobs she hasn’t told anybody about. The prequel to this ‘test’ book, which he hasn’t written, will follow if lots of enthusiastic people with lots of money ask her nicely. He has already outlined plots for seven sequels, and would very much like to contribute to a film script, providing she gets a say in the casting of the central characters. Other than that, he’s not fussy what happens to the plot.

She hates reading, and would prefer someone to do it for him. Not having read a book since 1984, Sam has only guessed at the writing procedure. Typing words for other people to read seemed like an easy way to get famous. Sam shuns publicity, and never gives interviews. However, she is open to offers in the region of £5,000.

Sam has no friends to thank, and thankfully no agent. However he would like to mention all those writers who have inspired him over the years: Douglas Adams.

Sam has no partner, civil or otherwise, has no dependents and currently resides in Torbay where he mostly enjoys tickling tractors and taunting tramps.

December 5th, 2011

Introduction

It is a widely held belief in many cultures, that rabbits hold the key to a long and fruitful life with lots of rumpy-pumpy.

It is widely believed that the last of those cultures died out in 1973.

Chapter One

Who's there?

The girl halted and reversed into the darkness, her eyes straining to cut through the cold, damp night air. Below her, the path snaked round to the right for a few yards before plunging into a black abyss beyond a steep flight of steps, the grey limestone abraded by centuries of wear into smoothly concave treads. A solitary street light shone from high above the dank, crumbling stone walls, casting downwards an anaemic orange glow that cast into perverted relief the myriad of mysterious forms on the wall facing her, but fell some way short of illuminating the freshly laid black tarmac.

As she retreated further into the inky shadows, the girl’s senses were engulfed in her own anxiety, her vacant eyes, pounding heart and stifled breaths masking the world around her. Edging closer to the wall her sense of smell overtook all others, as the pungent odour of stone and mortar and dirt - mutated by centuries of damp and decay - filled her delicate nostrils.

She had failed to see the protruding hands poised menacingly close to her exposed cheeks. With a sweeping flick a cold, slimy finger embraced the soft white flesh. She flinched and brushed the fern aside, wiping her neck with a gloved hand and unwittingly letting out an audible shriek.

Are you alright?

The girl’s cover was blown. I'm OK, just got molested by a plant. The tone was artificially light, masking her annoyance. She eyed the approaching figure as it climbed the steps and shuffled into view.

Sorry. Will squinted as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, but the stranger’s white face was enveloped in a bubble of her own mist and his glasses were corrupting the meagre light. He caught only fleeting glimpses as she hovered on the edge of darkness. I thought someone was stalking me. The cheesiness of his puerile quip was not lost on either person.

Oh, I see - well you don't have to worry about me. The girl forced a well-rehearsed grin.

No, no - you don't look dangerous. Will laughed.

I'm totally harmless. She allowed herself a wry smile.

American, right?

You got me. It was a deliberately feeble attempt to hide the tedium that she wanted to introduce into her voice.

You look familiar … sorry, that sounded creepy.

The girl agreed that it was creepy, but she was used to it. No, sorry. Just moved here, never met you. Sorry. She expertly delivered one last, extra-tedious grin to convey that it was time to terminate this brief encounter.

Will was the sort of guy who was impervious to signs. He stood and stared for fully five seconds before correctly interpreting the silent grimace as chilly, and not because of the weather. He felt uncomfortable now, but also intrigued because the girl looked so familiar.

The girl grasped the hood of her cape with both hands and pulled it purposefully upwards over her fine, blonde hair and down over her forehead to cover her perfectly manicured eyebrows, feigning a cold-induced shudder so as not to appear too rude.

OK, well, better get along. Take care. Will had picked up the falling penny.

She nodded and made word shapes with barely-parted lips, but no perceptible sounds reached Will's ears. She pulled a phone from a pocket in her voluminous cape and gestured that she needed to use it. Will returned a nod and continued his climb, leaving the girl now staring into the large colour screen, a faint digital glow highlighting her delicate features. Will found this vaguely creepy, but also alluring.

Nevertheless his concern was genuine. Broadford was by all accounts safer than your average big city, but here on the outskirts between the University and the wide river it was dark and thinly populated. This narrow, winding passage had been cut deep into the side of a hill by generations long-forgotten, and over the years the walls on either side had been built up until, in places, they were some twelve feet high. In the dark, the tunnel-like qualities of this ominous void repelled all but the bravest souls.

During the day, however, this was a popular short-cut for people working in the industrial area by the river and for rail travellers using the mainline station, or just for those wanting to escape the noise and dirt of the congested city centre to stretch out on the green banks of the river. Not that it was especially quiet by the river - accompanied as it was by the London to Penzance railway line on one side, and Broadford ring road on the other. All round it there were small industrial units, mostly independent traders who’d been forced from prime locations in the city and major trading estates by spiralling rents. A pub next to a foaming weir was a popular lunchtime retreat for students and office workers, but after dark was mostly patronised by trendy, wine-and-foodie types.

Many of these points raced through Will's head, as he was always alert, always calculating risks and planning escape routes. Some would say he was paranoid, but he was of the opinion that it was always better to be prepared. He had assessed the girl as minimal risk - possibly a honeytrap, maybe a psychopath. Her age and accent suggested a student, one unfamiliar with the risks he’d calculated one might expose oneself to when negotiating the back-alleys of Broadford late at night. Then again, students – especially American students – probably carried pepper spray, or knives, or guns.

Satisfied that the girl was not at risk but he might be, Will strode more purposefully toward the top of Satan's Crack - a name he had given to the path because he thought the actual name 'Nancy's Passage' (after a local girl of loose morals who plied her trade there) did not fully convey the sense of foreboding one ought to feel when entering such a dark, creepy alley. It seemed to him like a scar cleaved deep into the earth, just as one might imagine the Devil might cut in order to trap unwary souls.

Will was out of breath, sweating, and his leg muscles burned. At 37 he'd suffered a back injury which meant he'd spent much of the past seven years on his backside. Drugs, to ease the pain he felt in his back and legs, made him lethargic and increased his already commodious appetite. He was overweight, a smoker (though he had quit three times in five years, a statistic he would generously impart to all smokers who said it was near-impossible to give up) and he had driven everywhere since passing his test at 18. Being a talented cross-country runner up to the age of 18 was perhaps the only reason his well-developed heart and lungs were able to subsist.

Stopping momentarily to let his lungs fill with the noxious concoction of mist and exhaust fumes that passed for air in the city and for his heart to slow to a sub-critical rate, he turned and looked back along the passageway. The silhouette of a girl was still just visible some 20 yards away. Still a little concerned for her safety, he scanned the area for muggers and rapists. The road was busy with traffic, and on the opposite side there were herds of students making their way into town for the evening session. His finely-tuned instincts told him there were no muggers or rapists in the vicinity, and he could leave the girl with a clear conscience. He took a deep breath and prepared to climb up St Nectan's Road. It was then he noticed two rustic-looking gentlemen bearing down on him.

You'mz puffin' hard, bay, mumbled one.

Ar, eez jus' cum up Nances Passage! squawked the second, and they both descended into howls of inebriated cackling, no doubt pleased with the slickness of their well-worn routine. Will wondered if they’d spent very much time loitering here, eagerly accosting every hapless soul who happened to emerge from the steep alley of unfortunate appellation. He flinched as the stale alcohol-laden air assaulted his freshly 'oxygenated' nostrils, but politely cackled back at them as if to acknowledge the wondrousness of their collective comedy routine, before hurrying on.

It was a few hundred yards from the comedy duo to his car, left in a quiet side street while he had met up with an old college friend at the Foaming Weir pub. Nigel was in town for a talk at the university's 'Classics and Ancient History' department, and had staggered back, in what he believed to be the approximate direction of his campus digs, to write a speech. Will's principles and lack of cash prohibited him from paying car parking fees and he had become adept at finding the few remaining free, non-resident spaces left in Broadford. This inevitably meant walking further than one of such indolent tendencies found agreeable, but it was at least a reason to exercise.

As he approached the red Rover, he felt inside his jacket pocket and pushed his thumb against the plastic key fob. The Rover's lights briefly lit up the dark street and the door locks whirred reassuringly. He pulled the door open and collapsed ungracefully into the driver's seat, groaning at the anticipated pain of contorting back and legs. He settled into the soft velour and groaned again, before quickly exiting the car and snatching the paper leaflet from under the wiper blade. Straining to see in the light filtered from a distant street lamp, he made out the words ‘Have fun, get fit, make friends, feel safe. Come to Broadford's only licensed Krav Maga class. Money-back guarantee – if you get mugged, we will refund you in full.’

Will's first thought was along the lines of what the hell? His second was ouch, followed by an audible Ow! followed by a third thought, what the hell? He heard a second thud, coming from somewhere behind his ears, and promptly passed out before he could think any more.

Chapter Two

What the hell? This was Will's first thought on waking up, quickly followed by ow and then what the hell? He felt the lump on the back of his head. Ouch. Will didn't like waking up at the best of times; having been beaten over the head, and feeling sore and confused, this was an especially unwanted waking-up.

With blurred vision (which wasn’t so unusual on waking-up) he groped in the fuzziness of his bedside shelf and found his glasses. Putting them on brought the room into focus, but his focus was still cockeyed. Hmm. This was his bedroom, unless he had been transported to a parallel universe. His eyes focused on the face to his right. Staring down at him, Sarah Michelle Gellar wore her slightly coy, closed-lip smile; the smile of a powerful yet playful woman, as if to say 'you can play, but I make the rules.' To her right, Sarah Michelle Gellar looked rather more serious, with a stern frown on her face and a hint of blood-lust in her eyes, clearly saying ‘go on punk, make my day’. He ignored Christina Aguilera, who was merely covering a patch of flaky paint.

"I'm tired and I just don't wanna go out," chirped the girl, "Woo-hoo." Will knew how she felt. He didn't want to get out of bed, but he needed answers. He wasn't sure what the questions were, but he wanted them answered. "Just one more thing I can do without, Woo-hoo, I'm tired and I just don't wanna go out."

And that was Nerina Pallot with ... Will jabbed a finger at the radio 'off' button. Bob Barker would be too much for his fuzzy brain right now. He rarely woke early enough to listen to The Breakfast Show anyway, and this morning he needed answers, not jabbering tittle-tattle. He groaned in disbelief at a familiar, if muffled, babbling. Now he'd have to get up - to turn the downstairs radio off.

Groaning as he manoeuvred aching muscles and tired bones, he tossed the duvet in the general direction of Christina Aguilera and swung his legs over the side of the bed. At least I don't have to get dressed. He stood and ambled slowly toward the window. A twist of a bar with his thumb and forefinger, and the blinds reluctantly flicked open, dribbling weak sunlight into the room. Weak sunlight dribbling was the best he could hope for, as his bedroom window faced due north. Peering downwards through the slits, the familiar shape of a bright red Rover saloon stood out against the uniformly bleak expanse of grey tarmac and brown fencing.

Strange. Strange the car was here, as he really couldn't remember driving it home. Strange. It was parked with the front end facing the fence, and Will always reversed the car in - mainly because that meant the driver's door was very close to the front door of his house. It was also a lot easier to drive out in a forwards manner than mess around with reversing, but mainly he parked that way so he would be very close to the front door. If it was raining, as it probably would be, that extra 12-foot walk could be significant, or so he'd convinced himself.

Will was feeling happier. Happy that his car hadn't been stolen, or trashed. Not that anybody would choose to steal a twelve-year-old diesel Rover, even if it was a comfortable and reliable car. Happy that he wasn't dead – or worse, in intensive care, a vegetable. Happy that there was no discernible brain damage, but aware that his semi-conscious state might be masking it. Happy that the sun was shining, even if he couldn't actually see it.

Not so happy. His thoughts returned to the previous night, and the lump on his head. He hadn't had that  much to drink and he hadn't got into a fight – at least, not a mutually-agreed fight. Confused. Need answers. Need to turn that babbling DJ off. Need coffee. Need sugary snack. Need a fag.

Will's brain was only beginning to come round - some twenty minutes after his body, as usual. With some trepidation he turned away from the window and reached for the door handle. He had felt safe, if confused, whilst the door was shut and he was cocooned in his cosy bedroom with Sarah, Christina and the blonde girl riding a scooter. He stopped to admire the scooter rider’s poise, and mused that she must have been riding it in a very hot country, for she had neglected leathers in favour of shorts and a t-shirt, which presumably she'd borrowed from her much younger and smaller sister.

He wondered if his attacker was downstairs. He wondered if his attacker was merely taking a break from attacking him, maybe getting a coffee and a cigarette. He wondered why his attacker had put him to bed, switched the radio on (and how his