The car glided through the trees on a cushion of air.
'You'll like Synge Green—it's lovely at this time of year.'
'So I've heard,' said Loofah, 'By all accounts the Garden of Remembrance is not to be missed.'
Turning to him, his companion smiled affably. In a cosy sort of a way, she was an attractive woman, with dark page-boy hair and inexhaustible good cheer. He noted, with minimal concern, that the car seemed to be making its own way among the swirling trunks; she was paying scant attention to the windscreen in front and spun the steering wheel to and fro with random abandon. He hadn't once seen her touch the gear stick.
The car soon left the woods, bursting out into a blaze of brilliant sunshine. They chatted pleasantly about the weather and then she asked him questions about his home and family, being completely unfazed by his vacant non-answers. He noticed they were now on a road, a sluggish river of luminous grey channelled between the rolling fields by low hedges. The grassy hills shimmered like satin in the noon light while a herd of grazing dogs—black Labradors again—looked up with bovine indifference, chewing phlegmatically on mouthfuls of buttercup and clover as they watched the car slide past.
With the bright sun in his face, Loofah began to relax into the warm glow of his driver's unchallenging good humour. All was not lost, after all. He knew that there was a station in Synge Green; he might even be able to catch the very next train.
A pink car of fluorescent rubber appeared around a bend ahead, wobbling happily towards them. Like a friendly dog, their own car rushed straight towards it, but just before the two met in a cordial embrace, the pink car bounced off the road and into a hedge, apparently having pressing business in the field beyond. As he watched the last flash of pink rubber disappear into a rose-blush cloud of hawthorn petals, Loofah became aware that his companion was looking at him, her forehead crinkled with the unaccustomed effort of thought.
'Please don't think me rude,' she said, 'But haven't I seen you somewhere before?'
Loofah tensed suddenly; he shielded his eyes from the harsh dazzle as another car swerved into view, with death glinting off its night-black body-work.
'No, no, definitely not,' he stammered, turning away from her, 'You're thinking of somebody else.'
'Really? I was so sure it was you.'
'There is someone who looks a bit like me—perhaps it's him you've seen. A criminal, wanted by the police—him, I mean, not me—I do hope they get him soon. He's an evil man, a complete and utter fiend.' As the black car tore past, screaming hatred into the dazzle-bright day, he could feel his driver's genial eyes bored into the side of his face. Never touched a chain-saw. Love puppies, wouldn't dream of hurting one. And you can't blame me for what happened with the doll, it was all her fault, you see—.'
Squirming in his seat like an earthworm under torture, he trailed off into silence. Any minute now she would stop the car and angrily order him to get out. Already he could see her face, twisted with revulsion, and he could see himself standing in the road, watching the silver car disappear in a haze of dust.
But she didn't stop the car. Instead she smiled him another friendly smile.
'I had a dog once,' she said, 'A West Highland Terrier called Hamish, a dear little thing. The only thing was, he hated mirrors. Every time he saw one he'd go bonkers: barking at it, hiding from it and then rushing out at it, trying to bite the glass. It was as if there was some horrible big monster in there, grinning out at him.'
She glanced disinterestedly at the road and laughed. Through a gap in the hedge, Loofah caught a glimpse of a pair of ambitious bullocks sitting across a conference table, arguing over a spreadsheet.
'But of course it was nothing,' she went on, 'just his own reflection, getting crosser and crosser and crosser. Because if Hamish got cross, the reflection got cross too and so he got even crosser, and so on and so on. Wasn't he a silly-billy?' She started to laugh again, but then her face fell. 'Mind you, it all ended very sadly for poor little Hamish. One day he got so wound up that he completely blew his top. Ran straight into the mirror, smashed it and cut his throat on the broken glass.'
They sat in silence for a while, mourning the unfortunate but foolish dog. The car climbed to the crest of hill; on the right, a long wall of dark woods glowered ominously, whilst on the left, open fields rolled into the distance like mid-ocean waves.
'Oh dear,' said his companion, tapping at the instrument panel, 'we're nearly out of petrol—I'd better fill up pretty soon or we'll run out.'
The garage was at a cross-roads, opposite a black and white pub with a rusting farm implement on its front lawn. It was an old fashioned, rustic affair: the pumps were self-service, but there was no space-age shelter to keep off the rain and the small glass and metal kiosk offered no more than three different types of oil with the smallest selection of confectionery imaginable. Next to the kiosk was a green painted wooden workshop: 'Cartwright and Sons—Bodywork'.
The car slid to a halt beside one of the outermost pumps and his companion got out. 'K2 petroleum,' said the pump, 'Additive free—suitable for vegetarians'. An affluent looking woman emerged from the kiosk, pushing a receipt into her purse. She was heavily pregnant, though incongruously dressed in a body-cut business suit of brilliant blue. Loofah was struck by the expression on her face, which indicated a deep inner tranquillity and contentment—her fuel purchasing experience had clearly afforded satisfaction at every level.
There were several cars on the forecourt, each parked alongside its own bank of pumps. Loofah watched without much interest as the woman with the next car, a shimmering orange saloon, unlocked her fuel cap and lifted the pump nozzle out of its holster. She held it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to fill her tank or not. Then the thing moved, the loop of black pipe curling against her calves. The motorist smiled, obviously pleased with the attention, and ran her hand over the pipe, stroking it like a pet snake as it coiled around her, caressing her thighs and buttocks.
He quickly averted his gaze—which immediately alighted on another lady motorist on the other side of the forecourt standing beside her car with a loop of the black pipe curling between her legs and pushing up under her skirt, while the metal pump nozzle hovered in front of her face as she caressed it lovingly with her fingertips. Something smooth and silky and not altogether pleasant wriggled to wakefulness in Loofah's head and he shuddered.
The woman with the orange car had now released her pump, which now hovered expectantly as she leaned back against the boot of her car. She lifted her skirt and, as the nozzle edged forward under the hem, she lay back over the car, stretching out her arms and closing her eyes.
Again Loofah looked away, but this time his eyes were snagged on the side mirror, where a middle-aged lady was spread-eagled over the bonnet of a family estate car with the black pipe coiled under her skirt, pulsing rhythmically. He tried not to watch, but failed, as the digits on the pump advanced steadily and the woman writhed and twisted, gripping a wheel arch with one hand while rubbing maniacally at the paint-work with her other.
A hard thud against the windscreen shattered his trance. His own driver was lying on her back across the bonnet, rolling her head from side to side, striking out with her hands. Her parted knees were visible above the heaving horizon of her bosom, together with a coil of black pulsating pipe.
He tore his eyes away, only to have them fix again, again on the driver of the orange car. She was now beating a clenched fist against the right rear light assembly and clutching at her rapidly distending abdomen as it strained against the light cotton of her top. Loofah forced himself to examine his fingernails, but was soon inexorably dragged back to the side mirror. The middle-aged woman with estate car had now rolled over and was sitting up on her bonnet. The hose's pulsations were slower and she was calmer, contentedly stroking the growing taut roundness of her belly.
A shriek from in front indicated that his own driver was anything but calm. She was twisted round, staring into the car but seeing nothing, with her mouth fixed in a rictus of frenzy. While the silky creature slithered frantically over the sulcate surface of Loofah's brain he squeezed his eyes closed and struggled manfully to blot out images of throbbing black tubes and swelling bellies. A knocking on the window beside him penetrated the seething mélange. Another lady motorist losing control in the throes of refuelling, no doubt—he didn't look. Then more knocking, rapid and impatient. Eventually he opened his eyes.
The window was filled by a pair of blue overalls, heavily soiled with sump oil and engine coolant. The mechanic bent down and peered into the car; his thin creased face was as oil-grimed as his overalls and a limp roll-up was stuck to his lower lip. Loofah wound down the window.
'Check you oil, mate?' asked the mechanic, without any apparent interest. The estate car cruised past behind him, the driver smiling with placid fulfilment as she headed for the exit.
'Erm… I don't think so, thank you,' said Loofah.
The mechanic did not react; the roll-up dangled while the dead eyes in the grime-creased face studied Loofah with supreme indifference. The driver's door opened and slammed as Loofah's companion got back into the car.
'Are you sure, mate?' said the mechanic, the roll-up jiggling precariously on his lip as he spoke. Loofah nodded weakly, just as the engine revved into life and gears crunched.
'Straight on for Synge Green,' said the mechanic, as they pulled away, 'You can't miss it.'
Spraying gravel, the car screeched out of the forecourt and into the road. Loofah was thrown against the door and grabbed onto the dashboard for support. Hedges and trees tore past in a green blur and a throaty roar throbbed out from the engine compartment. She was driving much faster now, spinning the wheel like a roulette croupier to throw the car into bends and braking either at the last minute or not at all. He also noticed that she was in a state of some disarray—hair ruffled, face flushed, dress rumpled around her thighs—and with a distant glaze across her eyes. It was quite apparent that refuelling had not brought her the degree of inner tranquillity that the other motorists had seemed to glean from the experience.
'I only got half a tank,' said his companion, as if by way of explanation, absently stroking her semi-swollen belly, 'It's so expensive at these little country places.'
As the vehicle continued to accelerate, Loofah noted with alarm that her driving technique was even more eccentric than before. She now holding the previously ignored the gear stick, absently massaging the knob with her palm—and this seemed to be responding to her attention, the shaft thickening and pushing up from its mounting in the floor console. With her right hand she caressed the steering wheel, which became pliable in her grip, a smooth hoop of coiling firmness.
She swerved the car around a tractor, crashing Loofah first into the passenger door, then across the seat towards her, then finally back into the door. The steering column was now reaching towards her and she rubbed her half-gravid belly against the hub, sighing with pleasure.
The car banked into a right-hand corner, the wheels thudding into the verge. She wriggled down into her seat and gripped the steering column between her knees, with the flexible rim of the wheel pressing into her lap and the hub against her chest. Her left hand was now tightly gripped to the swelling gear lever, pulling at it rhythmically. Loofah's own hands were clamped—wet palmed and white knuckled—onto the dashboard as he stared through the windscreen into the epicentre of the deadly vortex of speed.
'You'll like Synge Green,' gasped his companion, 'It's lovely at this time of year.'
'Yes, I know,' said Loofah, through gritted teeth, 'The Garden of Remembrance—.'
'I was thinking more of the emergent propensities,' she interrupted. She had now wrapped her thighs around the skin-like plastic moulding of the steering column, and to his consternation Loofah noticed that wires and cable ties appeared to growing out of the column and were coiling, like the vigorous tendrils of some tropical creeper, around her legs. An oncoming car loomed across the windscreen and swerved onto the verge with a screeching of tyres. From somewhere behind came a wailing howl.
'Emergent propensities? What emergent propensities?' asked Loofah, as soon as his clenched jaw muscles would allow.
But as a reply all he got was long, ululating moan. Coloured wires and plastic bands were now wrapped around the bare flesh of her thighs, binding her into the extending steering assembly, and now he saw that the indicator and wiper stalks were reaching round her body like insect mandibles. She cried out again, writhing into the machinery and pumping the accelerator with blind vigour.
Why, oh why hadn't she filled up? thought Loofah, remembering the placid contentment of the other garage customers. The siren was closer now, coming up fast on their tail.
A hedgerow hurtled towards the windscreen—it was a sharp bend, but the car seemed to accelerate rather than brake. Suddenly tyres shrieked in panic and foliage thudded against the bodywork. Invisible fists punched him from one side to the other, then everything ended in a blur of whirling hedge and twisting tarmac, and a blaze of white pulsing fear, pure as ice.
Then stillness.
The car had stopped, slewed across the road. The siren pulled up behind and died in a falling howl.
Silence. Silence and stillness. He was alive and he breathed again, the fear leaving him in a long exhalation, pale and clammy.
He heard a car door open and close behind them; this was followed by three quick cries from his companion and then footsteps on the tarmac, coming towards them. Loofah unclipped his seat-belt with shaking, sweat-slippy fingers, fumbled for the door handle and climbed out, coming face to face with a policewoman, her small angry eyes blazing out from under the peak of her cap, her uniform tight over the ample flesh of her heavy body.
The Under Manager glared at him without speaking, allowing the cold fury in her eyes to chill his soul. Then a low shivering moan came from inside the car and she bent down to peer through the open door.
The lady driver was thrust back in her seat, writhing slowly with her pale legs wrapped around the pulsating trunk of throbbing metal, plastic casing, and cable that was once the steering column. It was now difficult to tell where woman ended and car began, for the snake's nest of coloured wires that tied her legs to the column seemed have grafted themselves onto her, and the steering wheel and indicator stalks were now fused into the flesh of her thighs, their black plastic blending seamlessly into her white skin. Indeed, even as they watched, sheathed cables were extending from the column and feeling their way under the loose material of her dress before plugging themselves into the soft tissue of her chest and belly. She rolled her head slowly from side to side and moaned again, eyes closed in silent ecstasy, tightening her thighs around the pulsing metal and plastic of the steering column as this grew itself into her, fusing her to the car in an unholy union of flesh and machinery.
With a grunt of profound disgust, Miss Leggett slowly shook her head.
'It's nothing to do with me,' Loofah blurted, 'Honestly it's not.'
The Under Manager did not reply, but eyed him with hostile scepticism.
'It just sort of happened, After the petrol station. She didn't fill up, you see, it was too expensive.'
Still no reply. Loofah was aware that his cheeks were beginning to feel hot.
'It wasn't me, it really wasn't. I'm innocent. Honestly.' His babbling trailed away under her relentless gaze and he looked down at his feet, a second sun burning in his face.
'You've failed again, haven't you?' said Miss Leggett, eventually.
'I have?'
'You were supposed to be in the next town by now. Instead I find that yet again you've been—' she glanced quickly towards the open car door '—distracted, and that yet again I have to spend the day chasing after you.'
'But it wasn't my fault,' Loofah whined, 'You see, I saw it from the train and I went after it.'
'What on earth are you talking about?'
'I saw it from the train and got off to chase it.'
'It?'
'The thing, the creature. I chased it.'
'You chased it?' repeated the Under Manager in frank disbelief, 'And did you catch it?'
'It was somebody else,' Loofah mumbled, examining his fingernails.
'Somebody else?' she exclaimed, 'How could you possibly make a mistake like that?'
'He was in disguise, dressed like me… I mean like it.' His voice faltered as he mentioned the creature. 'It was that little fat man.'
Her eyes narrowed suddenly. 'Little fat man?' she repeated quietly.
Loofah nodded. 'He's always popping up, wanting to take me off somewhere or other. I've no idea who he is.'
'Wears a suit and a bowler hat?'
'Usually, though this time he was dressed like it—to get me off the train, I'm sure of it. Do you know who he is, then?' She did not reply, but stared distractedly over his left shoulder, her brow creased with worry. Loofah persisted. 'Please tell me who he is, Miss Leggett. And why does he keep trying to stop me?'
'Get in the car,' she snapped, turning abruptly away.