Chapter II.7

At first he paced up and down the middle of the lawn, but the sun was at its zenith, a white hot hammer relentlessly pounding against his eggshell skull as if it were a half-forged helmet, and soon images of the naked garden-girl were ricocheting around inside in an incoherent maelstrom of golden thigh, dark-nippled breast, and raven curl. At the far end of the garden, away from the flower beds, a huge copper beech simmered in the sunlight, noble and valiant, heedless of the blast-furnace heat. Once in the shade, as dark and cool as a cave, his brains came off the boil and gradually the throbbing presence of the sleeping girl diminished, allowing other thoughts to squeeze in.

The first of these were the final words of the little creature, pulsing through his now rapidly cooling skull. So the Secretariat was right behind him, was it? That certainly made him feel a whole lot better, he thought, giving a low hanging branch the benefit of a precisely sculpted sarcastic sneer. First it had been Stobart and his loathsome company, and now it was the so-called government, with its mysterious memoranda and civil servants popping up all over the place like monsoon frogs.

He knew the self-styled Emergent Propensity was part of it, but what about the others who had been pestering him about the double woman? The schoolgirl dogs, were they officials too? And what about Mrs Frimpton's ill-humoured peg and the lascivious plastic doll? It did seem strange to have pegs and dolls on the public payroll, though perhaps equal opportunities legislation cast a wider net in these parts.

To be fair, and in contrast to the baleful Miss Leggett and her cohorts, none of these officials—if this indeed was what they were—had tried to do him any actual harm. But then again they hadn't done him any good either. And if they wanted his co-operation, why all the mystery? A hard pebble of irritation crystallised out of the mass and he kicked savagely at an exposed tree root.

He now found himself standing before the vast trunk of the tree, a monumental pillar covered in melted plastic bark, and for a moment was mesmerised by the swirling eddy-patterns that swam through his eyes, blending with each other, forming and reforming themselves on his retinas. A distinct image then slid around the trunk, swimming through the rippling surface; a golden youth carrying a revolver, naked except for a pair of sunglasses, smiling cheerfully out of the bark. The Frenchman had certainly claimed to be an official, and an important one at that. Somehow, though, he seemed different from the rest—it was hard to imagine the schoolgirl spaniels using drugged drinks and honey traps as methods of persuasion. The golden image darkened, its smile faded, and, as it began fingering its gun with unhealthy enthusiasm, a cold tendril coiled unpleasantly around Loofah's intestines.

Then suddenly the image turned and aimed. The revolver kicked in its hand and on the far side of the trunk a termite in a blue nurse's uniform convulsed and fell, clutching at the bark with dying feet. Loofah shuddered as for a split second he was back on the nightmare mountain of breasts, helplessly sucking himself towards oblivion. But he had been saved from that oblivion; the shudder was followed by a rush of relief then an upwelling of gratitude. The image brightened and turned to face him, smiling once more. And now the lips were moving, slowly and rhythmically, chanting the eternal mantra of the official, the portentous moniker that seemed to haunt him wherever he was.

A space opened in the bark and the Frenchman sank away, still chanting. Loofah watched the space, knowing who should emerge next and also knowing that the double-faced woman would remain as elusive as ever.

Then the bark shimmered briefly and indeed female figure did bubble through. This, however, was a woman with just one face, a beautiful creature asleep on a bed of autumn leaves, naked. Loofah's heart leapt into the air like a joyous porpoise and his blood pumped hot through his veins. He smiled to himself; for the moment at least, the double woman could wait—he had business of his own to attend to.

Swearing violently, Loofah hurled his jacket across the conservatory and aimed a savage kick at the door jamb. An artillery shell of pain fired up his leg and exploded in his brain. For a few moments he was blind with agony and tottered precariously on one foot, firing off machine gun volleys of expletives into the superheated air. For when he had returned from his garden musing, the sofa was empty: a few scatterings of dry leaves, but no garden-girl.

The pain ebbed and he slumped down in one of the easy chairs, removing his shoe to massage his bruised toes. It was then that he noticed a faint noise—a tiny tittering giggle—coming from the orchid bench. They were laughing at him, damn them; glutted on their own licentious excess, they were now mocking his thwarted desire. Loofah cursed again, stamping his injured foot onto the ungiving quarry tiles. He had had her in his arms, right there on the sofa, she had been his, and then—.

'Aagh!'

A tearing pain ripped across his abdomen—he doubled forward, clutching at his belly. The tea—had it been poisoned? But then he felt something pushing at his hand. Another searing tear. Oh God, something was coming out of his belly. A bursting tumour? An alien space parasite? With shaking hands he pulled up his tee-shirt, dreading what he was about to see.

'My man!' squeaked the little animal, as it finally pushed through his navel, straightening out its blood-damp ears with a quick shake of its head.

'You've—gone—too—far—this—time,' gasped Loofah, fighting back tidal waves of nausea.

'Wot?' it giggled, 'I thought you liked a larf?'

'Is this—supposed to be—funny?'

'Come on, my son, lighten up!' squeaked the Propensity, with a cheerful twitch of its whiskers, 'Where's your sense of humour? You take everything far too seriously, if you ask me.'

'I don't—believe I'm—hearing this.'

'Something's bothering you, I can tell.'

'Bothering me? Of course something's bothering me!' Loofah snapped, 'Because apart from ripping my guts open, you've also completely buggered up the best chance I've had since—since—.'

'You mean the widder-woman? Left you in the lurch, has she?' it squeaked through a fit of giggles, 'That'll teach you to go sniffing round our women!'

Loofah clenched his teeth, glaring down at it with pure hatred. He was about to smack it across its silly little snout—but remembered the delicacy of his position and decided against.

'Anyway,' it continued, 'You ain't got time to be fraternising with the natives—you've got a job to do.'

'Piss off.'

'Well, that's gratitude, I must say. And after all I've done for you. I've a good mind to leave you to stew—.'

'But you won't,' interrupted Loofah, 'Because you need me to go hunting after this fucking lousy, two-faced woman of yours.'

'Tut, tut, tut. That's no way to talk about a lady,' admonished the creature, with a shake of its head.

'Maybe not, but I've had it up to here with this particular lady. So if you and your bloody Secretariat want her, go and find her for your damned selves.'

'No can do, mate, you know that,' it chirped, 'It's got be you; you're the—.'

'The fucking Seeker: yeah, yeah, yeah—I've heard it all before,' Loofah sneered, 'And if I find her, I can back to where I came from. And I'll be happy, and you'll be happy, and the whole fucking world will be just hunky dory.' The words spilled out in a raging torrent; the little animal stared up at him, wide-eyed with amazement. 'Or so you say. But others are telling me different. As far as I can see, everyone's pushing me this way and that as it suits them, and I haven't got a fucking clue what's going on. I've been arrested, I've been drugged, I've been attacked by domestic appliances and a phone box—not to mention an almost successful attempt on my life—and still you keep telling me: "find the woman, find the woman, find the bloody fucking double woman".'

At last he ran out of steam and stopped, panting for breath.

'You are upset, aren't you?' squeaked the animal, quietly, 'I can tell.'

'Bloody right I am.'

For a few seconds it just looked up at him from its perch in the middle of his belly. When it spoke again, it was in a serious and conciliatory tone.

'Look, mate, maybe we have been a bit hasty here. Maybe we have bounced you into this without a proper briefing. Let's all just a take a couple of steps back, shall we? Calm ourselves down a bit—and then try again.'

Loofah fought with his breathing and slowed it, gradually cooling his flaring temper.

'Look, I know you're only doing your job and I know I shouldn't take it out on you. All I want is to do what's best, for me and for everybody else. And if that means looking for the double woman, then fine, I'll look for her. But I need more to go on, surely you can see that? I mean, how do I know you lot aren't just pissing me about—same as Miss Leggett and Mr Stobart?'

'I see,' said the animal, pensively, 'You want to be put in the picture, is that it? You want to be fully genned up, so's you can make your own mind up?'

'That's exactly it,' sighed Loofah.

'Then I know what you must do.'

'You do?' As if from nowhere a tiny, fragile bubble of hope had unexpectedly appeared.

The creature nodded in solemn affirmation. 'You must find your heart of darkness,' it said.

'My—what?' cried Loofah in dismay, as the short-lived bubble burst.

'You must look within,' squeaked the Propensity, in an almost mystical tone.

Loofah opened his mouth to object—but a searing bolt of pain forced out a scream instead. And when he had recovered the creature had gone, leaving nothing but a few drying blood smears around his poor, bruised navel.

He stomped across the deserted lawn with his jacket slung over his shoulder. The velvet smooth grass shimmered in the sunlight and swirled around his feet, trying to soothe him with the most intricate and attractive patterns it could manage, and the herbaceous border flashed and twisted in a dazzling display of botanical pyrotechnics, desperate to distract him and lull his boiling thoughts. But he would not be soothed, he would not be lulled. Damn that blasted little animal, damn it to hell. It had promised to put him in the picture—and had left him more in the dark than ever. And, what's more, he still hadn't forgotten its little contribution to the garden-girl affair.

He found the path and stamped down the damp little steps, nearly pulling the old gate off its hinges as he wrenched it open. As he stepped out into the road, a roar ripped through the afternoon and a mechanical beast tore past, blazing pure aggression from its metallic finish paint-work and glittering chrome. But the car didn't scare him, not one iota; he shook his fist as it disappeared around the corner, taunting it to turn and fight.

Powered along by pressured steam, he hardly noticed as two little boys rode past on bicycles with huge erect phalluses jutting out from the tops of their tee-shirts where necks and heads should have been. A young woman was pushing a pram on the other side of the road; she stopped when she saw him and with a grin lifted her skirt, showing him what appeared to be an oversized purple flower with swollen petals the size of cabbage leaves. Loofah gritted his teeth and, feeling a strange mixture of disinterest and revulsion, turned away. He'd been in this damned village too long, he thought to himself, time to move on.

Suddenly from behind came a rising throb accompanied by a rush of hot air and the squealing of twenty cats under torture, and—as if reading his mind—a double-decker bus pulled up alongside, its pneumatic doors hissing open. The driver peered out at Loofah from behind tortoiseshell spectacles and a massive black beard that seemed to be growing lopsided on his chin.

'Top of the morning to you,' he called, in a flat Home Counties voice, 'Begorrah, begorrah.'

'Where are you going, driver?'

'Where do you want to go, me ole china?'

'Anywhere, really, as long as it's away from here.'

'Hoots mon the noo. Anywhere away from here? No problem. All we've got to do is move forward, right?' The driver pushed the left of his beard up his face. 'Then all objectives achieved and targets reached. One hundred percent and ten performance all round. Clear? Clear.'

Loofah nodded in uncertain agreement.

'See you, Jimmy,' added the driver, to no apparent purpose.

Just as Loofah was stepping up through the doors, a voice called out from behind: 'Wait for me!' A buxom young woman was running for the bus, waving and shouting. Her dishevelled dark hair was decorated with plant debris, and tendrils of foliage trailed from the tattered remains of her white tee-shirt. There was no sign of her shorts and a torn pair of knickers swung uselessly around her left ankle.

It was Georgette—alive, well and disentangled! The small splinter of guilt that had festered at the base of Loofah's brain since her disappearance burst in a spark-shower of relief. He reached down to pull her aboard, but as he did so the doors hissed closed, nearly amputating his arm.

'Open the doors, driver!' he shouted.

'No can do,' said the driver, as he engaged his clutch and the bus jolted forward.

The girl banged desperately on the glass, a bare nipple jiggling inches from Loofah's face.

'But you must—there's another passenger!'

'Sorry, cobber. Full already, absolutely chock-a-block. Begorrah.'

Georgette was now running along beside the accelerating bus, screaming incoherently.

'No, it's not,' said Loofah, stepping forward angrily, 'There are plenty of seats. In fact I can't see anyone else on board!'

'Regulations, by gum. Can't exceed the legal limit, can I—um—buddy?'

Loofah watched with heart rending dismay as the girl fell back, stamping her trainers on the tarmac and bursting into tears.

'But I'm the only passenger,' he said, himself nearly crying with frustration, 'What on earth are you talking about?'

The driver pointed to a sign above the windscreen.

'Licensed to carry 72 passengers seated and 18 standing,' it said. But the '72' had been crossed out with a felt pen and a '1' written above it; the '18' had been similarly replaced by a '0'.

'Right? Right.' said the driver.

'No, not right, not right at all. The proper numbers have just been crossed out.'

'Not crossed out, me old cock—adjusted. Local bye-laws. Clear? Clear.'

'What?' exclaimed Loofah, in frank disbelief.

The driver turned to him and flashed an icy smile through his steadily tilting beard.

'Very strict on safety in these parts,' he explained, adding two more 'begorrahs' as an afterthought.

When his exchange with the driver had finally reached its ultimately fruitless conclusion, Loofah staggered up the jolting aisle and swung down into a seat near the stairs. The image of the girl's half clothed body sprinting along the verge was seared into his brain and his frustration seethed like a bag of snakes. Jobs-worthy bloody—.

'Ticket,' snapped a curt female voice beside him, cutting into his internal diatribe.

'Sorry, I haven't got a ticket,' he said turning to face her, 'The driver wouldn't—.'

And then he stopped, feeling the blood drain from his face.

'You,' said Loofah, letting his lips shape the syllable with quiet distaste.

'And anyway,' Loofah snarled, 'what have tickets got to do with anything?'

The Under Manager towered over him, her open hand thrust under his face while an undersized bus inspector's uniform strained precariously to contain the thick folds of her body.

'As I have just informed you,' she said, 'Members of the public are not permitted to travel on Company transport without first paying the appropriate fare. I repeat: show me your ticket.'

'And as I've just informed you, Sutton wouldn't sell me one. Something about local bye-laws not permitting trading on a Sunday.'

Hearing his name, the now beardless marketing executive flashed Loofah an icy grin in the rear-view mirror.

'Then you should have purchased your ticket in advance,' said Miss Leggett, 'Preferably on a day of the week when such a transaction would have been permitted.'

'Yes, but I didn't know I was going to travel until today, did I? Until about five minutes ago, in fact.'

'I find this disorganised and irresponsible attitude so typical of you,' she sneered, 'But the fact remains that if you are unable to present a valid ticket I shall have no choice but to eject you from the vehicle.'

'That suits me,' said Loofah, getting to his feet.

'Sit down!' she snapped, and pushed him back into his seat, 'Alighting between stops is not permitted.'

He glared up at her. 'If I want to get off this bus, then I will.'

'You're going nowhere. Not until I have a full explanation of your repeated failure to follow instructions.'

Loofah drew breath. 'You mean my repeated failure to get myself killed, don't you?' he then said, quietly.

His words seemed to take her off guard and she hesitated briefly before carrying on with her castigation.

'Never in all my years in the Company's service have I come across such incompetent and disgraceful—.'

'Didn't you hear what I said, Miss Leggett?'

'—Behaviour. Mr Stobart is deeply disappointed in—.'

'Don't you understand?' Loofah interrupted, now raising his voice, 'I don't give a damn what Mr Stobart thinks. Mr Stobart can rot in hell for all I care. Mr Stobart is a manipulative, lying bully.'

As Loofah spoke her jaw dropped, her eyes widened, and her pudgy cheeks blanched.

'And so are you, for that matter,' he added.

For what must have been a whole minute she just looked at him, opening and closing her mouth like a distressed goldfish.

'I—I—I don't know what to say,' she stammered, slowly recovering her momentum, 'I've never heard such—such horrible things. Mr Stobart, good and kind Mr Stobart—.'

'A murdering bastard.'

'Such disloyalty—it's unbelievable. And after we have given you every opportunity—.'

'To blow myself to smithereens on your behalf? I'm very grateful to you, I really am. Miss Leggett, the game is up. I know what you were trying to do, I know what would have happened if your plan had succeeded.'

The Under Manager seemed to stagger slightly, as if struck by an invisible blow.

'Who has told you all this?' she asked.

'It's none of your business.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'You've been with that filthy foreigner, haven't you?'

'Will you please stop the bus and let me off.'

'I can hardly believe it, even of you—mixing with degenerate scum like that. Is there no end to your treachery?' Her face had now returned to full colour—and beyond—as her indignation came to the boil. 'And if the operation does involve certain risks, what of it? Sacrifices have to be made; no price is too high to prevent a threat to Mr Stobart's good work.'

'Miss Leggett—.'

'And in this case,' she added, with a contemptuous curl of her lip, 'the sacrifice would have been small indeed.'

Loofah breathed deeply, determined not to rise to her abuse. 'Are you going to let me off this bus or not?' he demanded.

'I most certainly am not. You have your duty to perform—and you know it. I have just had word of another sighting; Truscott and Meadows are already at the scene and we'll be there very shortly.'

'You seriously expect me to go along with this, even now?'

'When we reach our destination, you will be directed into position and—.'

'Miss Leggett, you're barking mad. I am not going anywhere near him.'

Again she stared at him in stunned disbelief. 'Am I to understand that you are refusing to cooperate? To do your duty? Let me remind you that I hold you personally responsible for the depraved crimes of this foul creature. Do I need to show you the photographs again?'

'The photographs are fake.'

'But the puppies…?'

'The puppies are probably tucking into their Pedigree Chum even as we speak. And as for the chain-sawed children—if anyone's depraved it's you, for making up something like that. Now for the last time, will you let me off this bus? I have to go and find someone—someone rather important as a matter of fact.'

'Who?' she asked, in little more than a hushed whisper.

'You know damned well who.'

Her cheeks again drained of colour and she swayed slightly as if about to fall. 'Not…?'

Loofah nodded and the Under Manager slumped down on the seat opposite, pole-axed.

'You're one of them, aren't you?' she stammered, 'Working against us, trying to destroy us. Total betrayal—total betrayal.' She paused, staring into the middle distance. 'I don't know what to do,' she added, almost inaudibly, 'I just don't know what to do.'

'You can let me off this bus for a start.'

She looked at him blankly, then slowly shook her head. 'No—not possible. You're too dangerous to be at large, much too dangerous.'

'This is outrageous, you have no right—.'

'Mr Stobart—he'll know what to do. I must speak to Mr Stobart.'

'Miss Leggett, I demand to be allowed off this bus,' said Loofah, starting to stand up.

But suddenly the Under Manager seemed to recover herself. 'Shut up and sit down,' she snapped, then pulled herself to her feet. 'Change of plan, Sutton,' she called to the driver, 'Back to the Office—and fast!'

Loofah stared out at the shimmering fields and the undulating hedgerows that slid past on the other side of the bus window: scenes of unbearable beauty, scenes of freedom, scenes he was once part of—but no longer.

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not recognised the smarmy marketing executive in that absurd disguise? Loofah cursed himself quietly, and then sighed. For now there was nothing he could do. He couldn't even try to rush the Under Manager, who was standing guard by the doors at the front; for as Sutton had pointed out, it was against safety regulations for passengers to fight with staff during transit, and he had enough problems as it was without having the bus company on his back as well. So he all he could do was sit there, powerless under the baleful gaze of those piggy little eyes, and be carried to his fate like a lamb to the slaughter.

The bus trundled inexorably onwards and Loofah stared out at the passing world, his heart sinking steadily into a pool of clammy despair. What he would have given to be back with Dentressangle and his dryads, even being drugged and harassed, or to have his little furry friend pop its head out from somewhere, profoundly infuriating though it was. Or best of all…

Ping!

Both Loofah and the Under Manager jumped as the bell rang. So there had been another passenger all along, obviously on the upper deck.

And indeed, while Miss Leggett stared down the bus, eyes wide with surprise, discreet footsteps now tapped down the steep stairway. A pair of white court shoes appeared first, then slender legs in white stockings, a white skirt and matching jacket, an elegantly manicured hand clutching a white leather purse. And although she looked very different—with immaculate make-up, Rayban-shielded eyes, her dark hair in a tight bun—when the girl smiled, a sunburst of happy relief flooded Loofah's heart with golden light.

He started to get up to greet her, but as he opened his mouth to speak the nymph put a warning finger to her lips and he looked quickly forward and sat down.

'Next stop please, conductor,' she said, stepping off the stairs and into the aisle.

'Yes,' mumbled the dumbfounded Under Manager, 'Of course.'

As the bus jolted along a winding lane between fields, then past houses at the edge of a village, Loofah sat bolt upright, hardly daring to breathe, sharply aware of the girl standing next to him as she waited for her stop. For her part, Miss Leggett just stared at her newly appeared passenger, her dull features swimming with confusion.

Suddenly there was something in the road in front, a blurred flash of whiteness. Brakes squealed and the girl shrieked. Loofah was thrown forward, canoning into the seat bar in front, while in the aisle the nymph tottered and swung onto a metal pole to stop herself from falling. The bus juddered to a halt as two small white dogs—West Highland terriers—chased each other playfully across the road.

Miss Leggett had been thrown against the windscreen and now pulled herself up, glowering out at the dogs and muttering to Sutton about the gross irresponsibility of pet owners.

'Quick,' whispered the nymph, 'Get up.'

As Loofah stood, she wrapped her arms around his neck and then, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the still distracted Under Manager, she locked her mouth over his.

His frank amazement at this seemingly inappropriate show of affection in what was a crisis situation barely had time to register before being subsumed by a rapidly rising tide of warm, soothing bliss. For now he was safe; a thousand Miss Leggetts couldn't touch him now, not in the soft citadel of her arms. As he melted into the wet heaven of her lips, he felt the bus fall away, disappearing towards the fringes of reality. The fading throb of the idling engine became the pumping of their hearts, blending together to beat as one.

Sinking into her kiss, he felt a gentle power pulse out of her mouth and into his, and then out across his face and down his neck into his body. First his head filled with swirling oil, then his blood became molten lead and his bones liquefied. Next she sucked, as on a milk-shake straw, and he felt his lips sliding between hers, into her mouth. Then his cheeks, his face, his head—with a wave of giddiness, his limbs crumpled and deflated as he was sucked out of them. He was liquid and she was drinking him.

He opened his eyes to see her face loom massively over him before his vision dissolved into a blurred kaleidoscope of flowing images: the ceiling of the bus, a seat, the pink darkness of her mouth, a swirl of black redness as he melted out into her body, trickling through the sponge cushions of her lungs and over the writhing coils of her intestines, seeping through her flesh like warm lymph.

Then, slowly, light coalesced out of the darkness and the inside of the bus swam into view, with Miss Leggett still gazing out of the windscreen. Although he could see, this was not vision as he knew it, for he felt as if he was peering through a pair of heavily lensed swimming goggles—which did not belong to him.

Suddenly his arm moved without his willing it and swam into view—and with a slim, manicured hand he pressed a red button on the metal pole. The bell echoed inside the skull which seemed to contain his brain. Miss Leggett turned and he began to walk forward, legs that weren't his moving of their own accord.

His larynx resonated and a voice echoed in his head, a girl's voice. 'I think this is my stop,' it said, while the strange vehicle of the body that wasn't his glided up the aisle.

As the Under Manager loomed close in the twin portholes of his eyes, she peered around him down the bus, her eyes widening in sudden panic. 'The man, the man in the black jacket—' Miss Leggett's voice echoed in tumbling descants inside the skull he shared '—where did he go?'

'I'm not altogether sure,' said the girl's voice, 'Perhaps he went upstairs?'

He felt the body jolt sideways as Miss Leggett barged past, then it steadied itself and carried on towards the front of the bus. Sutton swung into view and the lips that weren't his flashed a smile full of sweetness.

'Thank you, driver,' said the voice and the marketing executive grinned like a schoolboy.

The doors hissed open. Strange legs stepped down and out of the bus, and he felt the warmth of the sun on his borrowed skin. And then he was gliding smoothly up the pavement—pedestrians loomed out the brightness, smiling as they slid by, an old man tottered on a bicycle, cars engines echoed through his skull.

A shuddering throb came up from behind. As the bus swayed past he could see the pallid face of the Under Manger peering anxiously from the rear window of the top deck. The hand that wasn't his lifted itself into the air and waved pleasantly.

As soon as the bus was out of sight, the body stopped walking. Both hands were lifted to his face, looming into his portholes huge and pink, and then his lips pursed out to kiss the palms. Again he began to melt, his own body deflating inside the one that wasn't his, coming away from the sides. As the hands moved away, drawing him out through her mouth, his vision peeled off her retinas and his limbs were pulled out of hers. He was sucked upwards, spewing out between the open lips; black and red swam in his vision, then an arch of blue sky and half a roof.

Expanding and solidifying, Loofah felt first the hardness under his feet, his own feet, and then something in his arms—a girl's body—and against his face—her lips.

A soft padding against his calves: laughing, she broke the kiss and bent down. He was in a village street with his nymph kneeling in front of him, petting two little white terriers, one of which was jumping up at him, wagging its tail and panting for attention.

'Good boys,' said the girl, ruffling the excited heads.

While she was fastening matching leads onto the identical tartan patterned collars, a rich purr throbbed at Loofah's side and a kilometre of cream paint-work and gleaming chrome slid alongside. The white suited chauffeur leapt crisply out of the open-topped limousine and opened the back door. After the little dogs had bounced up onto the scarlet leather upholstery, the nymph kissed her fingers and pressed them to Loofah's lips.

'You look hungry,' she said, 'You should get something to eat.'

Then she climbed into the huge car. As it pulled away—with the elegance of a racing yacht setting sail—she turned to wave, and was gone. Loofah stared up the empty road for a few seconds, as a sharp pang of regret bubbled up and then ebbed quickly away.

Was he hungry? To be frank he wasn't certain. There was a strange lightness in his stomach that could have been hunger; also he couldn't remember doing a lot of eating in the recent past. So, yes, perhaps he was hungry.

And, coincidentally, right there on the other side of the road was a shop: 'Village Superstore' announced its sign: eight 'til late—food, news, and DVD rental.