Chapter II.12

The road was tiny and quiet, a band of undulating plastic running through a tunnel of beech. A red pillar box perched on a mossy bank under the spreading boughs, exactly as Dentressangle had described. All was dry now, the road dappled with sunlight, the air warm and echoing with birdsong and the happy buzzing of summer insects.

Loofah looked up and down the tunnel, but there was no sign of the Frenchman. This was no bad thing—he was tired and a short rest would be very welcome before the harassment he knew would come with the other's arrival. And in any case, he needed to think.

The pillar box grinned broadly as he crossed the road towards it. 'Wotcha, mate,' it said, 'Beautiful day for it, innit?'

'Er, yes, I suppose it is.'

An echoing throb grew quickly louder as a blue car sped towards them through the tunnel, gliding over the plastic surface of the road like a maglev train. It slipped past, engine purring like a contented cat, paint-work luminous in the woodland shade—he glimpsed a woman at the wheel and a handful of children gambolling over the back seats, and then it was gone, sliding smoothly away between the twin arcades of beech trunks.

'Wot've you got for me, then?' asked the pillar box.

'Sorry?'

'Letters, me ol' mate—missives, epistles.'

'Oh yes—I see.'

'Just shove 'em in. Next collection two hours ago, so you'd best get a wiggle on.'

'It's OK,' said Loofah, 'I haven't got any letters.'

'No letters?'

Loofah shook his head.

'Wot? None at all?'

'No. I'm just waiting for someone.'

'Well, not to worry. I do also take packets of printed papers, small parcels even, though for the bigger package I'm afraid it's down to your local Post Office. It's me slot, ya see—it can't take the really big ones, as the actress said the bishop. Hur, hur, hur!'

Another car sped past: a German-built executive's battle carriage this time, a speeding missile of arrogant aggression, its dark carapace throbbing with ostentatious wealth, its radiator grille styled into a sneer of smug contempt.

'Make sure everything's stamped, of course. First or second class, choice is yours. Basic price for up to sixty grammes—two ounces in real money, that is—with a risin' scale of charges for anyfink 'eavier.' The thing chuntered on, its flat estuary accent jarring harshly with the arboreal peace of the afternoon. 'Costs more for abroad, mind you. But y'd expect to pay a bit for "a broad", wouldn't ya? Hur, hur, hur! D'ja geddit? A broad—a woman. Hur, hur! Tsa goodun that, innit?'

'Very funny indeed,' said Loofah, sitting down on the moss bank beside it and wishing to God the bloody thing would shut up. He glanced up and down the road again: still no sign of Dentressangle, just another car at the end of the tunnel, expanding up the road.

'I've 'ad stuff goin' all over, I 'ave. 'Merica, China, Russia. Even 'ad a French letter shoved in once—made a right mess it did. Hur, hur, hur!'

The car was approaching incredibly slowly, patches of sunlight gently caressing its curved bodywork as it ambled unhurriedly under the arched vaulting of meshed branches.

''Course, ya've gotta be properly addressed 'n' all. Though with some of the totty round 'ere, properly undressed'd suit me better. Hur, Hur. Undressed—geddit? Hur, hur, hur!'

It was an older car—a mid-seventies Austin, Loofah guessed, with the performance of a milk-float and all the style of a pre-fab bungalow. It was, however, an immaculate specimen. The black paint-work glowed like burnished jade, the chrome glittered in the broken sunlight like a dowager's diamonds—polished every week for twenty years, one careful owner, speed limits never exceeded.

'But seriously, mate,' rambled the pillar box, 'Ya've gotta get the address right. Ya know—the place ya wannit to get to.'

The car crawled past. A middle-aged man crouched behind the wheel with his pudgy face pressed nervously against the windscreen and a bowler hat pushed down onto his greasy head—wearing a hat inside the car, if you please!

'Street, town, county—all the usual malarkey.'

Bowler hat, said Loofah to himself, very slowly. And even as the significance of the words registered in his consciousness, the car braked suddenly, squealing to a halt twenty yards down the road. Loofah jerked to his feet and the driver turned, peering back through the rear window.

'An' lastly but not leastly, wot mus'cha nevva forget?'

For an infinite moment—as shocked recognition dawned on two faces across twenty yards of tarmac—there was nothing but the quiet melody of birdsong, the buzz of insects and the harsh metallic chuntering of British engineering at its best.

'I said: what must ya never forget?' repeated the pillar box.

Then the driver spun back to his wheel. The engine revved painfully, gears crunched, and the car—like an old lady after a shot of amphetamine—lurched forward and hurtled precariously up the tunnel of trees. Loofah stepped slowly into the road, watching it disappear. His heart pumped fiercely and the demon of angst rampaged through his skull.

'Can—you—'ear—me—muther?' called the pillar box, in a cockney Lancashire accent.

Again Loofah scanned up and down the road—but still no sign of Dentressangle.

'Yoo-hoo! Anybody there?'

Damn that bloody Frenchman, he said he'd be here! Where the hell was he? Loofah kicked at the gravel at the edge of the road.

''Eh you—baldy—I'm speakin' to ya.'

The grating voice at last penetrated the pulsing veil of anxiety and Loofah turned to the pillar box.

'For God's sake, what do you want?'

'The post-code, dumbo, ya must never forget the—.'

'I've already told you I've got nothing to post,' snapped Loofah, 'Now shut the fuck up, will you? I'm trying to think.'

'Christ! Look at the tits on that, will ya?' it said from behind him. Strangely, it was indeed the pillar box that spotted her first, despite Loofah's vigilance. 'Ya don't get many of them to the pound—and that's for bleedin' sure!'

After the car had gone, he had been pacing the tarmac continuously, peering up and down the tunnel for some sign of the errant Frenchman. The longer he waited, the more vigorously the triple serpents of frustration, irritation and fear had writhed inside his skull.

'Like a dead-'eat in a friggin' Zeppelin race!'

The stream of garbage from Loofah's unwelcome companion had become an unrelenting but irrelevant backdrop to his nightmare wait, and so when it first started to enthuse about the new arrival he had just ignored it.

'Phwoar! Just look at 'er, mate,' it said, by now almost beside itself, 'I'd give 'er one any day.'

This time Loofah did turn round and—to his amazement—saw that stalking elegantly towards them through the woods opposite was indeed a woman, a young woman in a black fur jacket.

'Good Lord,' he whispered.

Her honey blond hair was piled up wantonly and decorated with fresh bluebells, village maiden style, and yet her face was like a Renaissance painting—elegant and haughty. As soon as Loofah saw her, something wiggled deep inside him, a nebulous ungraspable sense of déjà vu.

'Phwoar! Shouldn't be allowed, if ya ask me.'

The fur jacket hugged the slender curves of her body, completely covering whatever she was wearing underneath. Her arms were folded under her chest, up-thrusting the twin hemispheres of her breasts into vast curves of silky golden flesh that swept down from her collar bones to come together into tantalising apposition, before plunging away into the soft black fur. The hem of the jacket just covered the firm tightness of her buttocks, below which there was nothing but kilometre after kilometre of slender bare leg, the tanned skin like burnished copper. As she stepped off the verge onto the tarmac, she teetered a little on her five-inch spiked heels. Then she paused, half lowered her sultry eyelids, and smiled a smile of unalloyed invitation.

'Bonjour, monsieur,' she said, her voice husky and heavily accented.

'Fuck me ragged! This one's a goer and no mistake!'

Awareness that his jaw was swinging open penetrated into the warm sticky puddle of Loofah's brain—and he closed his mouth. She stalked towards him, swaying her hips, never shifting her half-lidded eyes from his.

'I am—how you say?—une protégée de Monsieur Dentressangle,' she said, 'He has a little of the lateness and he sends his most heartfelt sorries.'

'That's—that's—,' began Loofah, but the words dried in his mouth.

'Aw-wight, darlin'?' shouted the pillar box, not so tongue-tied.

'He said for me to help you relax,' she purred, 'after the fightings with the méchantes toilettes.'

'I—I—.'

'Ya can 'elp me relax,' interrupted the inevitable voice from behind, 'Nice little 'and job 'ud settle me down a treat.'

'You like my coat?' She wriggled sinuously inside the jacket. 'Pure minks.'

'It's, er, very—nice.'

'Sixty-nine,' she purred, massaging each of the evocative syllables with her full, gloss-wet lips.

'Co-oo-orr!' howled the pillar box, 'Any time ya like, darlin'!'

'Sixty-nine minks pour the making of my one coat,' she continued, 'Little babies, not even weaned—the fur is being so much the softer.' Elegant fingers stroked the fur over her left breast. 'You want that you feel?'

'Not 'arf!' screamed the pillar box, now completely beside itself.

'Did—did Norbert say how long he would be?' stammered Loofah, trying unsuccessfully to tear his eyes away from the mound of flesh that quivered enticingly under her gentle caresses.

'Only sometimes I get un petit bit too warm,' she purred, 'Especially when I am with—how you say—a beautiful homme.'

'Kerr-eye-st!' gasped the pillar box, 'She's gaggin' for it, mate, creamin' at the friggin' gash for it!'

'Perhaps it is best if I cool myself un peu.' As she spoke her long fingers slid down the lapels of the jacket and then slowly pulled it open to reveal what she was wearing underneath—which was absolutely nothing.

There was some sort of animal howl from behind, followed by a sound like a rupturing steam engine. But Loofah didn't notice—for him nothing now existed except the nakedness that flooded his vision, that stormed through his consciousness like an occupying army. First came the perfect curves of her magnificent breasts, acres of golden flesh that somehow managed to be firm and soft at the same time, each tipped with a dark nipple, pert and proud, then the flat sweep of her belly swelling slightly at the navel before curving down towards the soft, milky pillows of her thighs—and finally, snuggled between the pillows, a nest of raven curls, carefully trimmed into an immaculate heart shape.

'I am very beautiful, I think,' she whispered.

And indeed she was: a flawless sculpture in female flesh, which enveloped him in its warm softness, engulfing him like a hungry amoeba. Sure of her power, she smiled and swung her chest forward, proffering her left breast.

'Take—it is pour toi.'

And, without Loofah willing it, his hand reached out. As his fingers touched the satin smooth skin, a soft electricity fired up his arm and shot across his body, filling him with a buzzing sticky warmth. He watched helplessly as his hand caressed the perfect breast, aware of nothing but the giving flesh and the firm button of the nipple hardening under his palm. Noises as of a buffalo under torture exploded from behind, then some smoke and a few scorched envelopes blew across the tarmac past his shoes.

'You like?'

He liked. She moved closer and a blanket of scent slithered over him, smothering him in its musky eroticism; it was her perfume, distilled from the sex organs of species long-extinct.

'We lie down for a while,' she purred, 'You relax un peu, then perhaps you are thinking about the heart of blackness, yes?'

His eyes slid over her belly to the coiffured curls at the top of her thighs—he was thinking about it already. But, as she took his other hand and laid it palm down on her belly, her words seemed to trigger something that echoed faintly in his overheated brain.

'The heart of—?' he muttered.

'Enjoy first, then think.'

Now, however, his handed rested limply, without moving. For, in the honey-choked canyons of his mind, something was beginning to stir and again he felt that strange sensation of familiarity. She took his hand and pushed it down over her belly.

'You feel, explore. It is good, yes?'

There was an escape of pressurised steam behind him, then a series of high pitched hoots. The overheated circuits buzzed slowly, struggling to operate in the pool of sticky liquid that was his brain. At first there was nothing, though, just her body filling his consciousness, golden and perfect.

'Come, mon beau ami, do not be having of the shyness.'

Golden and perfect, swathed in the soft skins of the dead. Dead animals. Blood. Blood red. A blood red dress. His hand slid onto the fuzzy heart at the top of her thighs.

'My grotto of bliss,' she murmured.

And then, like a long buried artefact from a past era, dripping with slime and weed, the memory was dredged up from the hot swamp of his mind, of a woman in the red dress walking over a grassy hill with…

'You may come inside.'

A bellowing howl, another explosion and something sticky splattered onto Loofah's shoes. But a tiny black worm now wriggled in his belly and his own stickiness began to chill, coagulating like cold gravy.

'Actually,' he said, pulling his hands away, 'I don't think I can. In fact I really must be off.'

She seized the straying hands and pressed them back, one over each breast. 'Yes, yes,' she said, 'You must, I am wanting you to with such muchness.'

'Yes, yes,' gasped the pillar box, recovering its coherence and adding its support, 'ya must, ya've fuckin' got to!'

'I'd love to—but—but— ,' he stuttered, 'A dental appointment. That's it—I have a dental appointment.'

Again he pulled away, but again she held him.

'Not just pour moi,' she whispered urgently, 'but for Norbert, for the secrétariat.'

'And for me,' moaned the pillar box, 'give 'er one for me. Right 'ere, so's I can watch.'

She seized his jacket, pressing herself against him. But as her immaculate face loomed towards him, reaching for his mouth with groping lips, he saw a painted mask, exquisitely crafted but artificial—and deep in the sultry pools of her almond eyes there was something cold and predatory.

'Stop it, please, I must go,' he said, evading the hungry mouth.

'For Gawd's sake, ya daft cunt, just whang it in there,' urged the pillar box.

Again he tried to pull away, but she held him tightly.

'Yes, yes, you must do it. For the mission, for the liver of shadow, for La Femme Double.'

Pressed against the smooth plastic membrane of her skin and the silicone cushions of her breasts, enveloped in her luxurious shroud of sixty-nine murdered innocents, Loofah suddenly felt trapped, suffocated. With a surge of strength—half anger, half fear—he pushed her roughly away, breaking free from her clinch. She stumbled backwards, teetering on her heels.

'So sorry,' he began, after she had recovered her balance, 'I didn't mean to—.' But when he saw the cold fury blazing in her eyes the apology froze on his lips.

'You will do it! You will!' she hissed and, grasping her left breast like an offensive weapon with the gun barrel nipple aimed at him, she lunged towards him. But Loofah dodged out of reach—her scarlet talons brushed against the front of his jacket and she stumbled forward, again losing her balance. This time, however, she was less fortunate; with the pillar box howling in despair, her left ankle went over and its towering spike gave way—she toppled forwards onto the tarmac, magnificent breasts shuddering like blancmanges, grazing the perfect plastic knees. A torrent of Gallic venom spouted into the warm air, the words incomprehensible, the meaning very clear.

'So sorry, must dash,' said Loofah, and turned to go.

He walked briskly up the tunnel, easily stifling one or two nascent chivalric qualms about abandoning a maiden in distress. His brain was reeling with confusion and betrayal—for he remembered the woman, he'd seen her before. Although the memory was no more than a diaphanous shroud, trawled up from the depths time, he knew he wasn't mistaken. And in that case, how could she possibly be an associate of Dentress angle…? A cry of anguish cut through the air, followed by a collapsing series of sobs.

Was she following? thought Loofah anxiously—he guessed that without those stilettos she could move pretty briskly. He glanced quickly over his shoulder—and stopped. For there was no sign of her; the weeping pillar box stood alone on its mossy bank and, lying like a discarded dagger among the stained and scorched letters that were scattered across the tarmac, was a slender black heel. After scanning the sun-dappled woods for any sign of the missing siren, Loofah slowly retraced his steps. She had indeed vanished, as abruptly and mysteriously as she had appeared.

'I was gonna watch,' sobbed the pillar box, 'I don't see why ya couldn't 'ave, just a quickie—the slag was gaggin' for it.'

Loofah now turned to the crestfallen post receptacle, the last wisps of steam still escaping from a rupture crack along its base, and globs of some nameless goo dribbling from its posting slot and over its collection time panel.

'You,' he began, with measured contempt, 'are an absolute disgrace. Not only to the Royal Mail, but to the fine tradition of public service as a—.'

'My friend,' interrupted a voice from behind.

He spun round as Dentressangle stepped off the verge and onto the tarmac, having apparently appeared from nowhere.

'Norbert,' said Loofah, quietly, 'Where on earth have you been?'

Ignoring the question, Dentressangle reached out and touched his cheek, lightly.

'You have much of the paleness, my friend,' he said, with an anxious frown. The Frenchman had changed out of his hunting gear and now wore cream chinos with matching loafers, with a shirt in muddy red silk and a loose fitting coffee-coloured linen jacket. The obligatory sunglasses were pushed into his immaculately groomed hair: blonde this time, bouffant-style.

'Who was that woman, Norbert? And why did you send her?'

''E could've shagged 'er,' whimpered the pillar box, ''E could've fuckin' shagged 'er.'

'I think perhaps you are not in the full wellness, my friend.'

'There's something going on here and I want to know what.'

'Come—sit down,' said Dentressangle, indicating the mossy bank beside the pillar box, 'Be taking the weights off your legs.'

'You shoulda seen 'er, mate,' mumbled the pillar box, 'She was gaspin' for it, absolutely knickers-wet dyin' for it.'

'Please don't keep changing the subject,' protested Loofah, 'I'm very concerned about this. You must answer my questions.'

'I too am concerned, my friend. Now come, let me be helping you.'

Dentressangle took him by the arm and lead him gently to the side of the road.

'On a plate for 'im it was,' said the pillar box, 'Tits, fanny, the lot.'

'Norbert, I'm perfectly alright. I just want to know—.'

'You are not looking alright, my friend,' said Dentressangle, pushing him down onto the bank, 'In fact you are looking very, very distant from the alright-ness. Now, please—rest yourself.'

'And all quality gear, none of yer rubbish.'

'Look, why won't you just tell me—,' Loofah began, but stopped. To be frank, now the Frenchman came to mention it, he did feel a bit peaky.

'An' 'e pushed 'er away,' groaned the pillar box.

'Do I really look poorly?' asked Loofah, making a tentative prod at his belly. Dentressangle laid a cool palm on his forehead and, with sharp intake of breath, snatched the hand away as if scalded.

'C'est terrible!'

'Wha—what's wrong?'

'Just pushed 'er away,' groaned the pillar box, 'I can 'ardly fuckin' believe it!'

'You are on feu, my friend, a burning fièvre.'

'A—fever?' The tarmac started to sway in front of him like the deck of a storm tossed ship. His limbs were suddenly heavy and his clothes clung to his cold-damp skin.

'Infection with the germs,' said Dentressangle, 'We must call un docteur—before it is too tardy.'

''E's a pooftah, that's wot!' shouted the pillar box, 'A friggin' great pooftah!'

Loofah's pulse thundered like an artillery barrage in his steam-pressured skull.

'This could be the poisoning of the foods,' his concerned companion went on, 'Tell me, my friend, have you been eating of anything that has been in disagreement with you?'

There was the cola, thought Loofah, but that all been very amicable with not a hint of any discord. Then, however, he saw stained porcelain rubbing against his nose—and a wave of hot nausea rolled up his gullet.

'The toilet,' he gasped weakly, 'it must have been the toilet.'

'You have had toilet troubles?' said Dentressangle, 'Lequel? The diarrhoeaing or the constipations? Or perhaps both?'

'Turd-burgling weirdo, that's wot 'e is,' observed the pillar box, as Loofah groaned, clutching at his belly.

'The toilet in the woods, Norbert. It was very dirty.'

'In the woods? You mean you are—how you say?—cut small?'

'No, no, don't you remember? I had my head down the bowl and you rescued me.' Another wave of nausea rushed up Loofah's gullet, filling his skull with sick heat. He leaned forward, retching.

'Ah yes, the head down the bowl,' said Dentressangle, 'The vomitions, the sickness in the stomach. Very bad, very bad indeed. You were so lucky I was being there, or it might have been much worser.'

Loofah wiped a string of bubbly saliva from the corner of his mouth and looked up, his wan features creased with puzzlement.

'Sewer canoer!' said the pillar box.

A car purred up, slowing. It was a sleek black Jaguar, its patrician curves burnished with a lustre of assured affluence.

'Mais voici,' said the Frenchman, 'here is le docteur. Your troubles are now over.'

A middle-aged man in a dark suit stepped crisply from the vehicle. The dark hair greying at the temples suggested a subtle blend of youthful energy and the maturity of age. And of course he carried a black leather case, the essential accoutrement of medical men since the dawn of time.

'Uphill bleedin' gardener!'

'The patient?' said the doctor, addressing Dentressangle. The Frenchman nodded. Another cool hand was laid on Loofah's forehead, followed by another sharp intake of breath.

'Is it serious?' whined Loofah.

'Shirt lifter!' spat the pillar box.

'I suspect peracute pleuritis, with pancreatic complications,' said the doctor, still talking to the Frenchman.

'Wha—what does that mean?' asked Loofah, looking up at the two men who towered over him. In the far distance he heard an ululating wail, as from an orphaned seal pup.

'The adrenal glands may also be involved, with osteomyelitis as a possible sequelum.'

'Bum bandit!'

'And what is your prescriptions, monsieur le docteur?' asked Dentressangle, his face a picture of concern.

For a moment the doctor appeared to consider the options. The wail was getting quickly louder, echoing down the tunnel of trees.

'What's going on?' said Loofah, looking anxiously from one to the other as they discussed his fate.

'Shit stabber!' yelled the pillar box.

'We have no choice, Monsieur Dentressangle,' said the doctor, 'Immediate surgical intervention is required.'

There was a sudden scream, then a dying howl as the ambulance screeched to a halt beside the Jaguar. With discretely darkened windows, its white paint-work carried the obligatory red cross—and blue flashing lights stabbed the air.

'S—s —surgery?' stammered Loofah, 'You mean—an operation?'

'Fudge packer!'

The back doors of the ambulance clashed open and three young men leapt out carrying a stretcher and drip giving sets; their clinical blue tunics oozed ruthless efficiency.

Dentressangle shrugged. 'You are knowing of the best,' he said to the doctor, 'You must be doing of what you must do.'

Loofah struggled to his feet; already the waves of nausea were receding like a falling tide.

'Ring-piece fuckin' Romeo!'

The doctor crossed to the Jaguar and opened his case on the bonnet.

'It's OK,' said Loofah, his thumping pulse slowing and his fevered blood chilling down like a crisp, dry Sancerre, 'I feel much better already.'

The paramedics laid the stretcher on the tarmac and the doctor snapped open a vial of blue liquid and picked up a syringe. Loofah stretched his arms and breathed in a huge lungful of country air.

'Brown hatter!'

'Look! Fit as a fiddle!' cried Loofah, 'No need for any surgery—bit of fresh air and exercise is all I need.' And with this he stepped forward—into the unyielding arms of two of the paramedics.

'If you ask me,' advised the pillar box, ''is sort wants lockin' away.'

'N—no,' said Loofah, 'I think you're making a mistake.'

'Monsieur le docteur has spoken, my friend,' cooed Dentressangle, as firm hands led Loofah towards the stretcher, 'There can be no mistake.'

'But Norbert, I think I'm going to be alright.'

The doctor was beside him, pushing the jacket sleeve up over his left forearm.

'Of course you are going to be alright—you are in the très bestest of hands.'

'Death's too good for 'im.'

A sudden shock of cold spirit on warm skin, then the syringe advanced.

'Norbert…'

A sharp stab, a barb of cold metal into his flesh…

'…I really don't…'

…a red flower bloomed in the clear blue liquid…

'…think I…'

…and then collapsed into the needle, flowing up the tiny metal tube into the warm river of his vein…

'…need an…'

…up his arm to join the Nile of his vena cava, once through the sinewy caverns of his heart and out to the delta beds of his lungs…

'…oper…'

…back to the heart, up the throbbing hose of his aorta…

'…ay…'

…and then—finally—into his brain.

'…sh—sssh—uh…'

A sledgehammer thud of fog, then a skull full of hornets, buzzing in syrup. Blurring colours tingled through his limbs and a heaviness tugged at his retinas—a taste of voices filled his mouth, while salty sweetness trickled across his ears.

'…uh—uh—un,' said a voice inside him, carried forward by its own momentum.

'String 'im up, it's the only language 'is sort understands,' declaimed the pillar box from the edge of infinity—but nobody was listening.