The harsh squawk of a macaw cut through the heavy air and in the far distance howler monkeys called to each other through the hanging festoons of jungle creeper. Giant ferns with computer pattern leaves and towering banana plants, gravid with over-ripe fruit, flourished in the tropical heat.
The conservatory was probably Victorian, of ornate cast iron and glass with a quarry tiled floor. Bent cane furniture with floral cushions crouched nervously under the wet-leather foliage, and potted orchids, gaudy and sinister, squatted on a slatted pine bench beside the garden door. Loofah sweated uneasily in the shower-bath heat, waiting for his hostess to return with refreshments. A faint guilt about the girl nagged at his brain like a tireless grub.
He disliked the depraved excess of the tropical plants and he noted, with a twinge of disgust, that the orchids seemed as inclined to lasciviousness as the garden succulents. However, on a wrought iron table beside the garden door was a small collection of cacti; neat and restrained, these seemed more suited to his Protestant temperament.
The cacti were indeed a pleasure to behold: little spiked cucumbers and green pin-cushions, with brilliantly coloured flowers that flashed open and closed, or spun across the fleshy surfaces of the plants like tiny Spanish dancers. What appeared to be the centre-piece of the collection was a pyramidal pile of squashy-looking spheres, pale green in colour and covered in a light fuzz, each with a single tiny papilla protruding from its surface. Hover-flies buzzed around the plant, darting to and fro in the humid air to suck at the drops of cloudy sap that were exuding from some of the papillae. Incongruously, the bodies of the flies were a lurid pink, and as Loofah looked more closely he saw that each one was a tiny baby, a pudgy Rubens cherub in miniature, carried in the air by a diaphanous blur of wing between their shoulder blades, and with facetted insect eyes.
Despite its apparent cuteness, the scene resonated unpleasantly, stirring up clouds of dark ordure in Loofah's memory. As he quickly turned away, a large insect flew past his left ear and then buzzed around his face. It was one of the garden flies, the swollen folds of its body dangling unpleasantly in front of his face, wafting him with waves of its rotting fish perfume.
'Bloody pest!' he spat, swatting at the fly.
''Ere,' it squeaked angrily, 'Wot's your game?'
The squeak had a familiar ring to it and sure enough, with the insect hovering unsteadily in the liquid air, the turgid folds of its abdomen now parted and out squeezed the little brown head.
'You certainly pick some places!' said Loofah, with a wince of revulsion.
'You ain't seen nothing yet, as they say!' squeaked his friend, 'Now then, what was it that's bothering you?'
'What was bothering me? Oh yes. It's this woman, The Woman Who Looks Both Ways.'
'What about her?'
'I don't know anything about her.'
'Can't help you there, I'm afraid.'
'But I thought you were in the government—.'
'Shh! For Gawd's sake!' hissed the creature, looking anxiously around.
The fly then hovered closer, buzzing inches from Loofah's face. 'Look,' whispered the Propensity, 'I don't know nothing 'cept what's in the official records—and that ain't much.'
'Then how on earth am I supposed to find her?'
'You're The Seeker, aren't you?'
'Apparently I am, but—.'
'So you'll find her. Certain as eggs is round things that come out of hens.'
'So you say—but what if the others get there first?'
'No-one else is in with a chance, mate,' it squeaked, 'Has to be The Seeker. It says so in black and white: official—.'
'Memoranda,' interrupted Loofah, 'Yes, I know. But what about the—' he shuddered '—the other one, the one who looks like me? Can he not find her too?'
The creature rolled its eyes impatiently. 'What did I just say?—of course you can find her.'
Loofah stared at it in blank confusion as dark, creeping things stirred inside. A door opened behind him and teacups rattled.
'I'm sorry,' he began, 'I don't think I under—.'
'Oops! Looks like you've got company,' squeaked the little head, 'Best be off—don't want to be a gooseberry, do I?'
The repellent insect flew once around Loofah's head then buzzed away towards the banana plants, no doubt intent on slaking its depraved appetite with one of the dangling yellow fruits.
'Were you talking to somebody?' asked the garden-lady, as she set down her tray on the cane coffee table.
'Just one of the flies,' said Loofah, flicking a spec from his jacket.
'That's nice. Now, how do you take your tea?'
His hostess smiled as she poured the golden brown tea from a rose patterned tea-pot into a matching bone china cup. Loofah sank back in his easy chair, struggling to find an oasis of peace in the turbulences of the afternoon.
'Say "when",' she said, holding the milk jug over his cup.
Struggling, though without much success—for the little animal had unbottled strange miasmas—.
'When,' he obediently responded, once his tea was a nice turbid beige.
—And now a spectral figure haunted the dark corridors of his mind and the damp air of a newly opened grave was wafting through his soul.
'Two sugars, did you say?'
Loofah nodded and two glittering heaps of crushed diamond slid into the steaming liquid. The clink of silver spoon on china echoed through the still air as she stirred.
A wisp of whiteness, sunshine whiteness, drifted into the darkness. Desperately, he grasped at its goodness, but the wisp eluded him and instead coiled itself fondly around the baleful spectre—he shrivelled inside.
'Thank you,' said Loofah, taking the offered cup and saucer.
But how could she—with such a monster?—with one capable of such foulness?
'Biscuit?'
Loofah would have preferred a chocolate finger, but with the fly still hovering somewhere in the banana plants, it seemed safer to plump for a reassuringly round digestive.
'This is nice, isn't it?' said the garden-lady, and Loofah nodded absently.
He sipped his tea, seeking comfort in the hot sweetness. But as he crunched into the biscuit, a gleaming axe head suddenly buried itself in a fuzzy yellow skull and a chainsaw howled in his ear. Loofah jumped, slopping tea onto the saucer; the images of the other's crimes were as clear and as brutal as when he had first seem them—on the cinema screen, in the police photographs.
'I do like a cup of tea in the afternoon—it's so relaxing.'
Loofah forced a distracted smile then laid the cup down on the table, hoping his hostess wouldn't notice the spillage. Cinema screen, police photographs—he stared hard at the shimmering surface of his tea—Miss Leggett's cinema, Miss Leggett's policemen. And then, deep within the churning pool of mud that passed for a brain, something clicked into place. As he sighed inwardly—a dark and heavy weight had been lifted from his soul. As the cool wave of relief washed gently over him, a distant voice trickled into his reverie. The garden-lady was leaning across the coffee table, speaking to him.
'I'm so sorry,' said Loofah, 'I was miles away.'
'Oh, don't apologise—I'm a great dreamer myself.' She smiled sadly. 'Mind you, at my age, and with my dear Geoffrey gone, there's not much else for me to do.'
'Have you lived here long?' he asked, a little uncomfortably.
'We moved here soon after we were married. Look—that's us in our first year here.'
Loofah's hostess pointed towards a framed black and white photograph standing among the orchids. A tall man in shirt sleeves and baggy trousers linked arms awkwardly with a young woman with raven black curls in a white sun dress, who smiled out at the camera with full and sensuous lips.
'Strange to think that's me. Although of course I was younger then.'
'You're only as old as you feel,' said Loofah, to console her.
'Is that so?' she said, brightening, 'Well, I feel very young today.' An incongruously sly smile crept onto her face. 'You know, you do look a bit like dear Geoffrey—in his younger days, that is.'
Loofah looked away and coughed unnecessarily.
'It's so nice to have a man about the place again—after all these years.'
Staring assiduously at his left hand, Loofah smiled awkwardly. The lining of his jacket clung to his flesh like hot cling-film.
'I do so like a bit of male company. It makes me feel so—sprightly.'
'I'm a little warm,' said Loofah, hoping to change the direction of the conversation, 'Do you mind if I take off my jacket?'
'Of course not. We don't stand on ceremony here.'
Rising to his feet, Loofah hauled the heavy leather off his perspiring skin.
'What a good idea!' exclaimed his hostess, also getting up, 'I'm a little warm myself.' She turned her back towards him. 'Would you do my zip?'
'Oh dear.'
'I can reach myself, though it's a bit of a struggle.'
Loofah surveyed the grey curly head and the plump back encased in pink cotton with a mounting sense of despair. Insects buzzed and the sickly perfume of the orchids clogged his mouth and nostrils like saccharine-sweetened vomit. Then, without really knowing why, he reached out and pulled down the zip. She turned to face him, smiling; blue-veined breasts like bags of suet strained inside a cream brassiere.
'That's much better,' she said.
'I think I'll drink my tea.'
'I feel thirty years younger, you know, being with you.'
'And then I'd best be off.'
'No need to rush. Come and sit next to me on the sofa, relax a little.'
'It's been very nice, but I really must—.'
'I'll just get this silly thing off,' she said, reaching round her back.
'No—please—.'
The bra loosened and the heavy dugs slumped earthwards.
'Stop!' Loofah's shout shattered the scene like a rifle shot. The garden-lady's smile froze. 'I'm going now,' he said, firmly.
'But you haven't finished your tea.'
'I don't want my tea.'
Her face fell, crumpling with hurt. 'I thought we were having such a nice time together.'
'Look, it's getting late, I really have to go,' said Loofah, aware that some of the solidity had gone from his tone.
'I'm just a silly old woman, aren't I? Fat and ugly.' She folded her arms over her breasts, suppressing a sob. 'And there I was, thinking I was young and attractive again, just because a handsome man comes and drinks tea in my conservatory.'
'Please don't get upset,' he said, edging towards the garden doors, 'You're not ugly at all, I think you're very nice. It's just that—.'
'I'm too old?', she sobbed, 'But I can be young again, with you I can be young again, I know it.'
As she stood before him, her sad eyes filled with pleading, a wave of hot guilt washed over him.
'Must you really go?' she went on, in a small voice.
He looked miserably at the pale folds of flesh, at the sagging breasts and the flabby thighs.
'Stay just a little longer.' Sensing his hesitation, she unfolded her arms and smiled quietly.
Less than an hour ago he'd been walking in the sun-dappled lane with the young, firmly-curved Georgette—and now…
'Just a little longer, then,' he said, struggling to keep the resignation out of his tone.
Lying back on the sofa beside his hostess, Loofah stared up at the brilliant rectangles of light overhead, and tried to decide which particular bit of England he was supposed to be thinking of. Her hand slid under his tee-shirt.
She smiled at him and closed her eyes, clearly expecting a kiss. But the kindly old face reminded him of elderly relatives and he just couldn't do it. As a diversionary tactic he reached for a breast, cupping the heavy hot flesh in the palm of his hand. She sighed; he squeezed and she sighed again, and then, conquering a powerful urge to pull away, he began to massage the doughy mass.
Soon the garden-lady was moaning quietly, biting her lower lip, while Loofah, kneading the flesh without any pretence of finesse, was torn between his desire to foreclose on foreplay as soon as it was polite to do so—and his dread of the next item on the agenda. But then, as his despair mounted and he began to pummel the sagging mass to and fro with a vigour driven by exasperation, he suddenly noticed a livid pink ellipse that had appeared down the middle of her sternum. Suppressing an involuntary gasp of disbelief, Loofah blinked twice and looked more closely. There was, however, no doubt about it; the ellipse was a split in the skin, as neat as a surgical incision—it seemed as if his hostess was tearing!
He had obviously been too rough with her, he thought with yet another uprush of guilt, though he'd never realised old people were so delicate. Hoping she wouldn't notice, he quickly pushed the breast back into place to close up the tear—but as he did so, the skin ripped down the other side and another gaping crack opened up.
'That's lovely!' moaned the recipient of his attentions, her eyes closed in ecstasy.
The skin now also started splitting across the top of the breast, as if after all these years of strain the fatigued supporting collagen had given way under the relentless weight of the heavy flesh. With a surge of cold panic flooding his veins, Loofah fumbled at the slumping mass with both hands, trying desperately to hold it in place—but his fingers sank into the friable flesh, oozing pink serum, and with a grunt of revulsion, he snatched his hands away.
'Ooh!' she cried, 'Don't stop!'
Even as he watched the disintegrating mammary gland was now tearing itself off its mountings, sliding down her chest under its own weight. When it fell, slopping down onto her thighs, Loofah strangled a cry of horror and turned away.
'Aah!' sighed the garden-lady, blissfully.
He hardly dared look, dreading the sight of an exposed rack of ribs, with her heart pumping away inside its gleaming white cage. When he did turn back, however, he saw none of these things—for instead of grisly carnage, under where the fallen flesh had been was another breast, this one full but unsagged, its skin taut and smooth. As he stared, struggling manfully with the implications of what he had just witnessed, he noticed that a large rip was now rapidly opening up across the top of the other old dug, which, a few seconds later, slid away and fell to reveal the first new breast's pert-nippled twin.
The curious pair, wet and slippery like new born babies, sat incongruously among the tattered shreds of decaying skin and flesh. The garden-lady now opened her eyes and, smiling up at Loofah from slumping features, took his hand in hers and guided it gently towards her chest. At first Loofah resisted, fearful of touching this strange virgin skin. The neonatal breast felt, however, as it looked—the firm yet soft flesh of youth in its prime. A warm silky worm stirred his skull and his pulse quickened, while his lover giggled and snuggled closer.
As he stroked the breast, he saw that the flesh on her belly was rapidly disintegrating and slid his hand down over the smooth new skin, pushing away the remnants of decaying flab. Her thighs too seemed to be falling apart, with a mesh-work of tiny crevasses spreading across the puckered skin. Hooking a finger into a crack at the top, he ripped down to her knee, dividing the rotting flesh as if with a surgeon's scalpel. She lifted the new leg clear of the crumbling husk of the old… the thigh was smooth and round, the skin satin soft. She laughed with delight and part of her wrinkled cheek slid away to dangle from her jaw. As he joined her in her mirth, Loofah pulled his hands across her face, ripping the rotting mask from her nose, her, lips, and her eyes, and then slid back the old grey haired scalp like a second-hand wig to reveal the raven black curls, glistening with mucous, beneath. And finally there she was, the girl in the photograph, with smooth cheeks, full lips, and clear shining eyes.
'I knew I could be young again,' she murmured quietly, 'for you.'
Loofah ran his hands over her shoulders and arms, stripping away the last clinging ribbons of old flesh, a pile of which now lay around her on the sofa, drying and withering in the tropical heat.
'You're beautiful,' he whispered.
With a smile, the garden-girl wrapped her arms around his neck and he slid forward into the soft wetness of her kiss, losing himself in her new body, with his eager hands drinking in her arms, her breasts, her belly, and her soft round thighs.
There was, of course, one part of her he had not yet touched, one last treasure chest to be opened and savoured. He took hold of her old person's knickers and swept them down over her legs, scattering drying bits of buttock onto the tiled floor. Gazing up at him with a secret little smile, she lay back and allowed her legs to fall open. Loofah slid his hand over her knee and slowly up the inside of her thigh. She gasped lightly as he reached his goal and then closed her eyes and sighed as his hand cupped her and his fingers began to explore.
Suddenly the girl's eyes snapped open and she let out a cry. Then she screamed and something moved under Loofah's palm.
'Hey! Gerroff!' squeaked an all too familiar and apparently angry voice.
They both looked down and there between her open thighs, ringed by black curls, with its fur glistening with mucous, was the little brown head.
The garden-girl looked at Loofah with a puzzled frown; he smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
'What d'ya think you're doing?' squeaked the animal.
'I—er—I was just—.'
'Well, whatever it was, stop it—you nearly had me eye out there.'
'I am sorry, but if you will keep popping out of these ridiculous places.'
'Only doing me job, mate, no need to get all shitty about it.'
'What on earth is it?' demanded the girl, clearly somewhat put out.
Loofah grinned sheepishly. 'It's nothing really,' he whispered, 'just something to do with a—a project I'm supposed to be working on.'
'Well for goodness sake, can't you get rid of it?' hissed the girl, with obvious impatience.
'Look, I don't want to be rude,' said Loofah, addressing the creature, 'But now isn't really the best time for me and—.'
'Listen, mate,' squeaked the Propensity, 'I'm not doing this for the good of my health, you know. I'm trying to help you out here.'
The garden-girl rolled her eyes and lay back with a cross sigh. Loofah felt his own frustration well up inside like an oil strike.
'Is that so?' he snapped, 'Then you're not doing very well, are you? In fact on the practical assistance front you're doing very badly indeed. Now, please, why not go away and come back a little later?'
'Don't get all arsy with me. Just 'cos I spoiled your fun with your friend here.'
It nodded up at the girl—who was now glaring up at the banana leaves, with her arms folded tightly over her delightful chest.
'It's not just that, though, is it? I can't stand all this mystery about the double woman. I don't know why you can't just tell me where she is and have done with it.'
'I would—if I could—' it chanted, nodding its head to the rhythm, '—but I can't.'
Loofah clenched his jaw. He was tempted to tell the girl to close her legs—that would scupper the little pest.
'Then maybe I'll just go and find somebody who will tell me.'
'Forget it, sunshine. If anyone had the info, it would be us. After all, we're the—.'
'Yes, I know—the marvellous, all singing, all dancing government.' He glanced at the girl; she now had her eyes closed. 'Tell me then,' he went on, with an exasperated exhalation, 'How exactly am I supposed to find this woman, when nobody seems to know where she is?'
'Look, don't get your knickers in such a twist. Chill. Hang loose. You're The Seeker, you'll find her.'
'So you keep saying—but how exactly?'
'I'll tell you how—keep your nose clean, toe the official line and listen to what you're told—that's how.' It paused. 'And whatever you do, don't worry—this thing's getting top priority, the whole Secretariat is right behind you. As soon as we get any info, we'll pass it on—and that's a promise.'
And with a wet plop the creature slipped out of sight. As soon as it had gone, the girl sighed deeply, closed her legs and rolled onto her side, snuggling into the sofa cushions and sending drifts of dry leaves onto the floor.
They were alone at last. With almost magical immediacy, Loofah felt his frustrations concerning the double woman ebb away—and a different set of sensations concerning a particular single woman well up to take their place. In the thrill of rapidly rekindled anticipation his heart started to thump against his ribcage and hot oil flooded into his veins. He reached over her, cupping a soft breast in his palm. The garden-girl smiled, but didn't open her eyes.
'Vere tired, Geoff,' she murmured, wriggling softly.
He squeezed gently, but got no response. She was asleep, curled among the golden autumn leaves like a faun. Tentatively, he touched the satin smooth skin of her arm, but the girl didn't stir. He thought of waking her but he didn't have the heart: being reborn must be pretty tiring, even without government officials popping out of one's bodily orifices. No, he would bear his soul in patience—she wouldn't sleep forever.