Chapter 3: The Bunny Man

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height


I rose and looked to the far garden fence. In the field beyond, I'd noticed that very morning a horse-drawn gypsy caravan had been parked. It was now gone.

"The bunny man," Edith said.

"Henry," I said, grabbing my master's arm. "Did you employ any entertainers for children?"

He looked confused.

"Magicians, puppeteers, performers, that sort of thing?" I clarified.

"No, no," he replied. "My children were to be in the nursery and—"

I caught Mr. Dickens' eyes. He and I knew of the depravity that seeped out of London and that young girls, protected and cherished by the likes of Henry Liddell, were nothing more than commodities to others.

"I'll check the field," I said, urgently.

"And I the river," declared Dickens, moving more swiftly than his bulk should allow. "Flowing water holds its own dangers."

"Gentlemen," protested Henry, urging us to stay. "She wanders off, and comes back by her own clock."

He wasn't wrong. On more than one occasion, I'd come to visit the family only to find Alice gamboling in the grazing field among the Spring lambs. But now the field was empty.

No animals.

No Alice.

I pushed through the crowd, gently at first and then so forcefully as to earn several tutts, one, "my word" and even an "I never."

Dickens followed closely behind and we reached the low wooden fence between the manicured Liddell garden lawn and the rambling field.

I placed both hands on the rough wood and vaulted over the fence. Dickens heaved himself over with little grace, but no less determination.

As I ran towards the river, hoping that Alice simply decided to take the rowboat out in a spurt of independence, I stopped suddenly.

"What is it?" asked Dickens.

The wild grass was indented in two parallel lines.

"These tracks," I said. "There was a gypsy caravan in here this morning."

Dickens glanced along the tracks. The dented grass ran parallel with the river, across the field that abutted four more estates until it met the London road. The fence there had a swing gate to give the livestock entry and leave.

"Check the river," I ordered with a forcefulness that I was unaccustomed to. "I'll follow these tracks."

I walked, and then ran, between the parallel lines, noticing hoof prints and dodging one dropping of horse manure. The swing gate at the road was hung open. The caravan had left in a hurry and its driver had made no attempt at polite custom to close it behind him.

The indented grass curved left and the tracks were just about visible on the road, over the brick bridge.

As I reached the apex of the small bridge, I glanced to my left to see Dickens thrashing through reeds on the shore.

"Mr. Dickens," I called out. "Any sign of her?"

He looked up and shook his head.

"I'm going to follow the tracks," I called. "Have Henry send for the constables!"

I crossed the bridge and ran. I must've been a sight, dressed in my morning suit finery and running at a clip. But I cared not. I only wanted to find her.

A horse and buggy approached from the east and I waved it down.

"Y'coulda been run down there, sir," said the coach driver in a rolling, west-country accent.

"I'm sorry," I said, though I was not. "Have you seen a caravan, a gypsy caravan, light green I believe, on the road?"

"Aye," he said. "'Bout two miles d'wn road. Bloody thing wouldn't give way."

I did not thank him, but ran past his horse and his carriage as fast as my bones would take me.

I was not athletic and was quickly overcome with cramp. The stitch in in my side felt like a knife, turning in my soft flesh. I tried to ignore the pain, but could not. Instead, I channeled it. I imagined little Alice in pain, being hurt, and used the pain to propel me faster than before.

My leather shoes were barely up for the task, but I persevered over the loose gravel and was careful not to lose my footing. My breath was heavy in the heat and my heart pumped with exertion that quickly bordered on exhaustion. But I did not stop. I knew roughly that two miles was just past the White Swan hitching post and once I reached that landmark, I felt a new energy come to my aid.

I briefly considered stepping inside to recruit the patrons to my pursuit, but wished for no more entanglements or delay. Instead, I stole the strongest-looking steed that was tied up.

I've never been a recreational rider, but I knew how to handle a horse and reckoned I'd rather face the constabulary for horse wrangling than for failing to find Alice.

The horse I chose was black and well groomed. The leather saddle was well crafted and clearly expensive. This was a gentleman's horse and most likely used to the Hunt.

I untied him, climbed into the saddle and pointed the animal south-east along the London road.

The height provided a vantage to scan the countryside and the speed afforded me a chance to catch up to the caravan.

We rode for miles, perhaps three or four, before I noticed a glint of green behind a copse in a field to my right. It was the caravan; a garish green decorated with an orange floral pattern. It was obscured from view, but not invisible.

I trotted into the field and tied the horse to a tree.

The noise must've roused the occupier, because the rear door opened and a short, ginger man emerged. He was wiry and unkempt in farmhand overalls.

"What's the bother, there?" he said in an Irish lilt.

"Curiosity," I replied.

"Leave me alone then," he scoffed. "Ya freakish rake."

"Where you not parked up in Oxford, just this morning?"

"'Tis no business of yers."

"I'm here to make it my business," I said. "Did you see a little girl this morning?"
"I've seen girls. Boys. Men. Ladies. I'ze seen nearly everything in my travels. But nah, I didn' see no lil' girl."

Just then, a blur of white scampered between his feet. A white bunny sprang from the open door and bounced down the steps and into the field towards me.

"My pet!" the man exclaimed. "Catch him!"

I stood perfectly still, not wanting to spook the rabbit and waited for it to hop close to my feet. In my motion, I swept down with my hand and scooped it up.

"Thank you, thank you," the man said. "Give him 'ere, will ya?"

The bunny was kitten-soft in my hands, and I caressed its fur. For a moment, I was no longer standing in a field, opposite a complete stranger, but back at home, as a boy, holding a rabbit that was to become supper.

"You kill it then skin it," ordered my father. He was a stern man who had neither the time nor the inclination for sentiment. Life was matter of fact; and rabbits were food not pets.

I couldn't have been much more than eight, about Alice's age, but Father figured a boy must provide labour to the family to be useful and my role in the household was the murder of animals for our familial consumption. Father preferred the 'chinning' method of dispatching rabbits; a two-handed technique that quickly and quietly broke the neck of the bunny.

"No, no, please don't" called the man, shaking me from my memory.

Without thinking, I'd placed the hind legs of his bunny in my right hand and circled its neck with my thumb and forefinger of my left hand. It was a muscle memory, an echo of my childhood forced to kill the animals I wanted to cuddle.

"He's my...pet," the man pleaded. "My friend, in fact."

His bottom lip quivered in desperation. It was as if I was about to take away his entire world.

"I've lost a friend," I said. "Her name is Alice Liddell. She's this tall, with golden straw hair, and loves animals, like you. She is especially fond of bunnies. In fact, I spied her this morning chasing a white rabbit just like this one. And then she was gone."

"Give 'im back," he whimpered. "Please, sir, just don' hurt 'im."

"I'll skin it alive if you don't tell me what you saw; what you...did."

"I didn't do nothing," he said. "I not seen your lil' un."

I paused, examined the Irishman, and for a brief moment pitied him. But I didn't believe him. "What's your name?"

"Kieran," he replied.

"And your surname?"

"Don' have much use for un," he said. "Think it was O'Reilly."

"Kieran O'Something," I said, still holding the animal. "I'm going to look inside your caravan. I can snap this rabbit's neck in less than a second. So I don't advise you attempt anything offensive in nature."

"I walked past him and climbed the four steps to the rear hatch of the caravan. As I opened the fabric door, a waft of sweet tobacco hit me. The air was stale and smoky. I spotted a still-lit pipe in a tray, smoldering on what passed for a table.

Kieran's mobile home was as unkempt as he was. It was a jumble of chattel. In a swift sweep of my eyes spotted an small animal cage, two iron kettles, various bronze pots, and a cache of tools no doubt stolen from the work-sheds of area farmers. But no Alice. I pushed further forward, where his makeshift bed laid under a jumble of clothes and rags. And that's when I saw it; Alice's white apron.

It was rumpled in the corner and stained with dirt, but her embroidered initials, A.L., told me it was hers.

"Ya see," called Kieran from outside. "No girl, no nobody. Just me livin' here."

I placed the rabbit into its cage and locked it shut.

"You're right," I called back. "There's nobody here."

I picked up Alice's apron and rolled it into a ball. On my way out of the caravan I surveyed the tools and choose my weapon. The flat spade would work well.

As I emerged from the fabric house, I threw the balled-up apron at Kieran and he caught it on instinct. In that moment, he knew that I knew. He looked at me with guilty eyes as I swung the spade into his face.

He collapsed instantly. It was a blow to immobilise, him not to kill him. If I were to find Alice, I would need him alive. I retreated back into the tobacco tent to retrieve the rope.

Kieran was writhing on the ground, moaning in pain. The bottom half of his right cheek had been cut clear off and the piece of flesh lay on the grass beside him. I imagined that the local insects would take not a moment to discover it as a food source.

I grabbed Kieran under his arms and pulled him to the tree. He could barely stand, but I forced his hand behind the tree and tied them together. He half-slumped, unable to collapse but not fully able to stand.

"You lied to me," I said. "You've seen the girl and I suspect you had her inside."

He nodded, looking down at the grass. He trembled and let out a cry. I suspect he spotted his cheek.

"Tell me where she is."

"I...I...I don't know."

I swung the spade into his gut. He leant over, choked up blood.

"Tell me where she is."

"They took her," he said. "I don't know where. All I was to do was get her from the field, hand her off."

"To who?"

"No names. They give me an order, I deliver and they don't kill me. Are you going to kill me?"

The truth was I hadn't yet decided. The man was half-broken, bleeding from the face and mouth. I could have left him languishing against the tree, but his cries would have eventually attracted attention and then he'd be able to identify and report me to the local authorities. If I was to find Alice, I couldn't afford incarceration. I would have to kill him. But then the question became, 'how?'

I'd never killed a man before, but to me this man was less than an animal; a child-snatcher who took the innocent for profit. He didn't deserve a humane kill.

Since I'd skinned many rabbits for the crime of hopping through the woods, I decided that my prisoner deserved a fate no better. But since he had committed a crime against innocent Alice, it would not be enough to render death as an end to his suffering. No, his very death must come with the maximum amount of suffering. He must endure such pain that he would beg me for death.

And that's when it struck me. To make him pay for his part in Alice's disappearance, I would skin him alive.

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net