Obstructing the Course of Cold Rabbit

Obstructing the Course of Cold Rabbit

The knock came at 6.15 in the morning.

I certainly wasn’t expecting a call. Three plainclothes policemen stand on my doorstep. I was unaccustomed to social calls, at any hour, and drew my knowledge of criminal matters from watching the occasional TV police procedural. They wanted to know where my flatmate was.

I don’t know, I told them.

Can we check, they asked.

They hardly waited for an answer.

The week before my flatmate and I had discussed what meals we could eat over the festive season. He was several borders away from his family and I was estranged from mine. So, to make it through the season of goodwill, we decided to eat well. His choice was rabbit; a tradition in his country and something I had never tried. He convinced me it would be a great addition to our culinary repertoire; although he’d never made the dish before.

All three policemen entered my flat. I pointed to my flatmate’s room; not knowing if he was there. I felt violated, angry and under suspicion myself.

The rabbit had been purchased, at a very reasonable cost, from the local butchers. We needed a bigger pot and I got lucky finding one in a sale. It was a dish with lots of vegetables plus plenty of herbs, along with a condiment that my flatmate used in everything. I was on sous chef duties, although in theory I had an idea how I would cook the rabbit, based on a number of wild game dishes I had seen on TV; brown the meat, sauté onions, add red wine, making a deep jus…flatmate did none of this.

The policemen entered my flatmate’s room. He wasn’t there.

They asked me his whereabouts.

I said I wasn’t his keeper and didn’t know. They told me to call them when he returned.

Of course I would, I said … not.

I hadn’t anticipated the whole rabbit, skinned of course, was just going to be plonked into the pot — less its giblets — which made me irrationally squeamish. It was to be simmered slowly. The idea being we would be able to eat it over a number of days, cold, between the two of us. I am accustomed to cooking for one; my flatmate is catering for an entire village.

I phoned my flatmate and explained what had happened. He didn’t say much.

I asked what I should do if the police return.

He didn’t offer anything constructive. I forgot to ask about the rabbit.

The police called again, next morning, a little earlier this time. They were less convivial and simply barged past me, heading upstairs towards my flatmate’s room.

I knew he wasn’t there. They searched his room; asked if I knew his whereabouts.

I shrugged.

They didn’t ask about the rabbit. ‘Obstructing the course of justice is an offence,’ was their parting comment.

The huge pot of cold rabbit was still on the hob. It took me days to finish it. The taste still lingers…

[Kindly note that this is part of a wider collection titled ‘Just Crumbs’ — Please refer to the ‘foreword’ page for an explanation.]

As a precursor, I invite you to listen to … Run, Rabbit, Run! — Flannagan & Allen

I had this tune in my head constantly while writing this crumb.