The red butterfly dipped, fluttering close over his nose. He jumped at it, but it flapped up over his head, tantalising him with insect cruelty. The butterfly did a couple more passes, driving him into a frenzy of barking, but then seemed to tire of the game and was away into the sky. He followed underneath until it disappeared over a hedge and then he stood yapping furiously until the memory of it fluttered out of his mind and his attention was caught by something new—and something much more interesting than any butterfly.
Sniffing the air with ears pricked, he followed the delicious wafting odour across the pavement and onto the grass verge, and there he found its source, nestling among the daisies, fresh and moist, glistening darkly. He held his nose close against it and inhaled the deep, mellow perfume; from a young bitch eating tinned foods of the better quality, he guessed, and no more than an hour old. He rolled the aroma through his nasal passages, analysing every nuance of the scent; she seemed to be a perky little thing and, if he wasn't mistaken, he detected both terrier and collie—not a pedigree, that was for sure. Still, he thought with a wry wag of his own perfectly pure-bred tail, he wasn't averse to a bit of rough from time to time.
Totally absorbed now, he nosed on through the grass. It was a treasure trove of delight—old smells and new smells; frisky young bitches and grizzled old dogs; Labradors, German Shepherds and tiny little Yorkshire terriers. With each new friend with whom he became acquainted, his level of excitement ratcheted up another notch until, when at last he reached the lamp post around which the olfactory symphony seemed to reach its ecstatic climax, he knew he had no choice: he simply had to make his own contribution, he had to add his own melody to the harmonious crescendo.
A middle-aged woman walked past on the pavement dragging a little girl. The girl grinned up at him and Loofah smiled back. The mother, however, pursed her lips and turned quickly away.
'Disgusting behaviour!' she hissed, hauling her giggling daughter up the street.
For a moment Loofah stood paralysed, stunned by her outrage. But what was that splashing sound, and the faint tingle in his groin? With a chill sense of dread, he looked slowly down.
'Oh my God!' cried Loofah, in an ecstasy of fumbling, as the zip jammed in sharp agony on slack skin and a warm trickle splattered down the inside of his left thigh.
At the end of the vigorous dash that put a good two hundred yards between him and the scene of his humiliation, Loofah found himself on a quiet lane that seemed to lead into the centre of a village. Pastel painted bungalows crouched coyly behind high hedges of privet and gold Leylandii, while prim retirees tended immaculate flowerbeds under the leaded bay windows of semi-detached mock-Tudor mansion-ettes. A scattering of children played on bicycles and a mother pushed a grizzling toddler in an oversized buggy. Now that he had slowed down, Loofah became aware of a foul odour wafting up his body—leaning on a bright red pillar box, he lifted his foot to scrutinise the sole of his right shoe, and then cursed.
While he was wiping his shoe on the grass, trying to get rid of the dog mess that clung to the sole like malodorous napalm, an unsmiling man in a blue tee-shirt approached; he was carrying an electric hedge clipper with what appeared to be shreds of dried flesh caught in the teeth.
'Lovely day,' said Loofah breezily, allowing a surreptitious hand to fall across his groin and hide the wet patch down his trouser leg. The man nodded curtly.
'Horrible, isn't it?' continued Loofah, indicating his soiled shoe, 'Shouldn't be allowed if you ask me.'
'It isn't,' said the man as he passed, and pointed to a small plastic sign on a lamp post.
'Fouling the footpath is a capital offence,' read Loofah, 'Hollyoak Parish Council, bye-law 13b.'
So—he was here in Hollyoak, the scene of the apparent 'immigrant problem'.
As he was pondering what to do next, a teenage girl trotted up to the pillar-box. She was wearing a pink frock and carried a white envelope; smiling sweetly, she pretended not to notice the smell.
'Excuse me,' said Loofah, as she went to post her letter, 'I wonder if you could help me. You see, I'm looking for someone. Actually, it's someone who is not from round here, an immigrant.'
She turned to him as he spoke, but suddenly screamed and pulled her hand away from the post box, spraying jets of arterial blood over the hot paving slabs.
'That was your fault!' she snapped, clutching the pulsing stumps of her amputated fingers, 'You distracted me!'
The pillar-box swallowed and then grinned, a trickle of scarlet meandering over the Perspex cover of its collection time panel.
Loofah watched the girl teeter away on her platform trainers, leaving a trail of red drips behind her. Then the pungent envelope closed over his face and he looked unhappily down at his shoe. The pillar-box sniffed pointedly, but thankfully made no comment.
He skirted close to the hedge, giving the lamp post a wide berth. The body spun slowly on its creaking noose, following him with its crow-pecked empty eye sockets, grinning at him with lipless teeth. It had once been a woman—her blue dress was now stained by abdominal leakage and bird droppings. Her offending pet—a Jack Russell—dangled from her left foot, strung up by its own lead and choke collar with the dried remnants of its last evacuation smeared over its withered tongue. If Loofah had ever doubted that the Parish Council intended to enforce its public hygiene regulations, he doubted it no more.
As he hurried past the grisly mobile, something moved in the corner of his eye—a black and yellow shape gliding across a gap in a laurel hedge—though when he turned it had gone. A burst of grating laughter cut through the quiet of the day, dying slowly into the viscous heat.
A little further up the lane, Loofah paused at the driveway of a pale yellow bungalow to admire the herbaceous borders surrounding the front lawn. While he was standing, entranced by the glorious display of swirling colour, a blackbird darted across his field of vision. To his surprise, however, as it passed between two ornamental rowans on the immaculate lawn, it stopped suddenly in mid-air, wings spread, bouncing to and fro four feet above the ground. A moment later, a ginger cat appeared from the foliage of the nearest tree and crept swiftly along the gossamer strands of its web. The poor bird flapped desperately, but only succeeded in winding itself in the sticky threads. Then, after a sickening crunch of hollow bones, the emerald velvet of the lawn was decorated with ruby droplets from its yellow beak.
But the drama was not yet over—for, just as the cat was beginning its meal, something careered round the corner of the house. The size of an armoured car, the Rottweiler charged silently, an avenging angel as dark as the sins of the damned. The cat looked up but too late; it was still scrabbling across the web when the dog leapt. A screech like tearing metal shattered the peace of the afternoon and, with razor claws raking crimson furrows on its lather-flecked muzzle, the great beast tore through the web with the cat in its mouth. As it hit the ground, iron jaws bit down with shark-bite pressure and the ginger belly burst, squirting a jet of intestine into the dog's throat like the innards of an over-ripe tomato.
As Loofah turned quickly away he noted the bundle of bloody feathers plastered to the dog's terrible flank by strands of the torn web. He that lives by the sword shall die by the sword, he reflected ruefully, leaving the cat to its fate.
When he reached the end of the pleasant little lane, Loofah found himself at the edge of a generous green, across which he thought he could see the heart of the village itself. At the very corner of the lane was a fine old inn, the sign for which depicted what was apparently a favourite local sporting activity.
Loofah allowed himself a few minutes staring up at the pub sign, enjoying the sporting prowess of the batsman. Wearing Victorian whiskers and a stove-pipe top hat, he was knocking a series of balls from an invisible bowler all the over the car park, and even into the emerald waves of the oceanic village green on the other side of the road. But just as Loofah was beginning to think that the batsman's wicket was unassailable, a slow spinner bounced under his cover and the bails fell. It would have been nice to see how the next fellow fared, but time was pressing and so Loofah crossed the road and set sail on the gently lapping waters of the green.
A soft breeze filled his sails and soon he was far from the shore, tacking smoothly across the open grass as swirling formations of tiny ripples hurried to meet him then scattered away under his gliding feet like frightened chickens. Wisps of white cloud floated high in a clear blue sky, and tiny plastic model houses and bonsai trees clustered around the horizon. A fat man with a red tie lumbered towards him like an old steam tug, trying to keep up with his equally obese old Labrador, while on his starboard side a little girl in a white dress ran in circles, her pink balloon bouncing behind her like a faithful rubber puppy.
It came from nowhere, a Stuka stooping out of the sun with folded wings. Swinging out of its dive feet from the grass, the bird hit the girl at full velocity and then was away, flapping hard to regain height.
'They nearly died out, you know,' the fat man explained, as they watched the great raptor climb steadily into the wide blue sky with its prey struggling impotently in its grappling-iron claws. 'Because of chemicals it was—though of course they're protected now. You can tell what it is by the forked tail.'
The abandoned balloon bounced up to them and the old dog nudged at it half-heartedly with a greying muzzle.
'I may as well take that—my sister's lad might like it.' The fat man bent down—not without effort—and picked up the balloon. 'Unless you want it, of course,' he added, suddenly remembering his manners.
The pink sphere patted lightly against his forehead, then sprung out to end of its string. Catching it on the recoil, Loofah bounced it back onto his head and face, then giggled with delight and became the red kite, racing round in circles with outstretched arms, the balloon bobbing behind his left wing as it desperately tried to keep up with his eagle swoop. Although engrossed in his game, he seemed to be heading towards a children's play area at the far corner of the green, vaguely drawn by the luminous plastic slides and swings, by the distant shouts and infantile laughter, by the cosy sight of little groups of mothers chatting among themselves.
Suddenly he was brought up short, face to face with a little boy. With a dirty tee-shirt, sturdy knees covered in scabbed grazes, and a pugnacious scowl under a mop of unruly red hair, he was clearly a ruffian.
'Gimme that,' commanded the boy, holding out his hand.
'Shan't,' replied Loofah without conviction, staring at his shoes.
'Then I'll scrag ya,' snarled the boy.
Loofah blinked away tears as the fickle balloon bobbed away, following its new owner into the play area. For a time he just stood and watched, while a noxious brew of sorrow, humiliation and a burning sense of injustice churned through his young heart. Soon, however, though still smarting from his bereavement, he was pulled by the solace offered by the fun-coloured playthings and the rolling ripples of children's laughter, and ambled slowly after them.
He paused at the gate, kicking at the turf and nervously looking in. Two little girls were spinning on a green roundabout, scooting themselves faster and faster in a gale of giggles, while a young mother pushed her toddler on one of the swings. A boy in new jeans was clambering up the steps of the bright blue slide and three women sat on a wooden bench beside the far fence, smoking cigarettes and exchanging gossip. Perhaps now that he had given the rough boy his balloon he would let him join his gang, thought Loofah, restoring his spirits—and then he wandered in.
Hanging tightly to the hand bars, the roundabout riders giggled wildly as they continued to accelerate—it did look rather dangerous and Loofah was not tempted to join them. His new friend was standing beside the seesaw; he was holding his penknife blade to the balloon and was sniggering at its whimperings and its feeble efforts to escape. Loofah ran forward a few steps, but then hesitated, too shy to approach. The toddler's swing whipped high into the air and then back so fast that the child's mother had to dodge to avoid being hit. Surely that was a bit scary for such a little boy, Loofah was thinking, when something moved beside the climbing frame, catching his attention—a huge roll of wet jelly, yellow and black, was sliding out from behind the hedge.
As the roundabout spun faster still, the laughter of its riders became shrill and intermittent, then faded into grim silence. The swing had also increased its momentum, although apparently of its own accord—presumably for her own safety, the toddler's mother had now moved well out of range of the flying wood and metal seat, and was now merely an observer of the proceedings. Indeed, the sweep of swing's arc had now reached the full three hundred and sixty degrees: it slowed as it approached the zenith, nearly tipping the screaming infant from his inverted seat, and then dropped over the top to complete the circle, winding its chains around the metal cross-piece. Meanwhile, the boy in jeans had reached the top of the slide and now launched himself onto the slippery metal chute.
For his part, however, Loofah was only half-aware of these other events of the playground, the main focus of his attention being the great jelly-thing—this was now gliding smoothly across the tarmac towards the centre of the play area. The length of a car, it was an elongated lancet flattened against the ground, with two broken stripes of livid yellow running down its smooth, jet-black back. The head-end was widened into a flat diamond that moved from side to side, sensing its environment.
The boy in jeans shot down the slide with his arms in the air, grinning with glee. But as he reached the bottom, the run-off suddenly curved upwards into a ski-jump—his grin lost its merriment as he swept up the launch ramp and into the air, sailing over the play area with flailing limbs, an airborne starfish. The front of the giant worm twitched as it sensed the boy with the balloon and changed course without pausing.
The swing was now going round in ever decreasing circles as its twin chains wound themselves around the bobbin of the cross-piece. The toddler's squeals had become a continuous shriek and, although his mother watched anxiously for a while, she seemed to realise that there was little she could do. And so, with a philosophical shrug, she strolled over to join her friends on the bench by the fence. At the centre of the playground, the roundabout accelerated with grim malice, becoming a cylinder of blurred speed with two pairs of bare legs spun out horizontally from its hub.
As Loofah's new friend prodded at the balloon, grinning with childish spite, the worm glided silently up behind him, unnoticed. Loofah opened his mouth to shout a warning—but then remembered the theft of his rubbery pink toy and instead maintained a vindictive silence. With a falling wail one of the roundabout riders sailed over his head, coming to ground with a sickening crunch against the red steam engine with the smiley face. A split second later her friend also lost her grip and flew off in the opposite direction, her trajectory leaving a tunnel—decorated prettily with tags of cotton dress—through the top of the hawthorn hedge.
The rough boy turned quickly as the huge worm's head slid over his ankle. Dropping penknife and balloon, he opened his mouth to protest, but the worm glided forward like a silent steamroller and he went down under it, his face a mask of outrage and confusion. At the far side of the play area, the swing had completely wound itself around its cross-piece; the toddler's howl reached a crescendo then began to fail as the tight bands of rusty chain squeezed his small body against the metal tube. His mother looked up briefly from her conversation, then took a cigarette packet from her handbag and offered it generously to her friends.
The worm paused briefly over the engulfed boy. There were some muffled crunching sounds, and then the head twitched again and it slid forward, turning towards the broken girl by the smiling engine.
After the worm had moved on Loofah skipped forward nervously to retrieve his balloon. The creature left no trail, the only sign of its passing being a patch of sticky redness on the tarmac and two empty shoes, their laces still tied.
'Is that your balloon, matey?' screeched a harsh voice from behind.
The speaker was a bird perching on one of the handles of the see-saw. Grey and black, with a big thick beak, it looked like an oversized, though rather down-market, kingfisher.
'Yes it is,' said Loofah, holding his prize to his chest.
The bird darted forward, its beak an arrowhead. Space exploded between Loofah's hands and he was left clutching fresh air.
'Well you can keep it, ya big pansy of an over-grown kid!' screeched the bird, soaring into the air and bursting into the laugh of an exuberant hyena that echoed around the play area long after its owner had disappeared over the high hawthorn hedge.
'Did the nasty birdie pop your nice balloon?' asked the toddler's mother, coming over to Loofah with a look of protective concern.
He held up the piece of limp pink rubber and his lower lip began to tremble. But the last traces of the bird's cackle were still clearly audible and with a wince of embarrassment Loofah remembered its derision.
'Indeed it did, my good woman,' he then said with as much hauteur as he could muster, handing her the burst balloon, 'And what of it?'
As he left the play area Loofah passed the slide-boy draped over the top of the wrought iron fence. Unlucky break, he thought, noting the row of bloody metal points jutting out through the back of the boy's tee-shirt—if the fence hadn't been spiked the lad would have probably got away with a few bruises and a cracked rib.
'You lost your balloon then, have you?' asked the fat man, pulling a fistful of bread from the loaf and throwing it onto the pond.
'Balloon? Oh, that balloon. Actually, I gave it to a small child. Children like that sort of thing, you know. It was nothing to me, really it wasn't.'
The man nodded in a noncommittal sort of a way and stuffed stale bread into his mouth. The barrel-shaped dog sat patiently at his feet, waiting his turn.
The pond was a little circle of scummy water, edged with cracked mud and decorated with empty crisp packets and coke cans. A number of green and brown ducks were splashing around, squawking furiously and fighting over the fat man's bread. At the far side, beside a patch of dead reeds, the body of a drowned toddler floated face down in the shallows; his striped tee-shirt billowed with trapped marsh gas and his head bobbed lightly in its floating halo of yellow hair as tiny fish pecked at his submerged face.
'As a matter of fact, I haven't got time to play with children's toys,' Loofah went on, 'You see, I have to find someone, someone rather important.'
As the inscrutable dog swallowed its fist of bread, the ducks flapped to edge of the pond, clearly outraged at being denied what was rightfully theirs.
'Share and share alike,' said the fat man, indicating the angry ducks, 'It's time they learnt a few manners, if you ask me.'
'Actually, I was wondering if you could help me. I'm looking for an immigrant of some sort and I was told that this might be the place. Do you happen to know if there is such a person living in the village?'
The fat man stiffened briefly, then lobbed his next handful into the pack of ducks; these exploded into a cacophony of screeching and piled on top of the bread in a three-deep scrummage.
'This is a quiet little place,' said the fat man, coldly, 'and round here people keep themselves to themselves. We don't like trouble in this village—and in particular we don't like outsiders who cause it.'
The duck-scrum was quickly becoming a general riot, a boiling, screeching fury of wings, beaks and mud. Once again, Loofah squirmed with discomfort.
'No, of course not. I'm so sorry to have troubled you. I won't keep you any—.'
'But even in a decent place like this, I'm afraid we do get a bit of bother from time to time.'
As he spoke the fat man indicated, with a slight inclination of his head, a little scene that was unfolding on the other side of the road. Two ladies were standing on the pavement in front of a tall privet hedge, trying to converse. Both middle-aged and with an air of intense respectability, one carried a white plastic bag of shopping, while the other had a black poodle on a lead, this a pompomed masterpiece of canine topiary that was sniffing enthusiastically around the bottom of a lamp post. Unfortunately it was apparent that the ladies' otherwise pleasant chat was being spoiled—one or both would periodically look angrily up into the branches of an overhanging beech and Loofah could now hear scraps of abuse in a familiar voice drifting across the road—'… pair of fat old sheilas blockin' the road… face like a wallaby's arsehole… Chroist, it's enough to curdle the milk…'—each offensive outburst being followed by the jack-ass laugh that echoed unpleasantly inside his skull.
'Bloody foreigners, coming here and upsetting everybody,' muttered the fat man, 'It's always them that cause the trouble, you know, never the locals.'
Back in the pond, three green headed drakes were holding the head of a flapping fourth under the water while a little gang of juveniles stormed up the muddy bank towards the impassive Labrador.
'Is that the immigrant, then?' asked Loofah.
The fat man, however, was now chewing on his share of bread and didn't reply—and at that moment Loofah's attention was caught by a shape that he recognised emerging from a driveway behind the lady with the poodle. The two women were talking again, trying to ignore their avian tormentor, and neither seemed to notice as the giant black and yellow worm slid out onto the pavement and headed directly towards them.
'… great big poofter of a pooch, all done up like a tart's powder-puff …'
This time it was the poodle that looked up into the tree; it barked crossly, clearly affronted. Loofah winced and ground his teeth as yet again the bird burst into laughter.
The old Labrador watched with contempt as angry ducks pecked at its feet and tail, and fought for the crumbs that fell from its mouth. As Loofah turned to go, the fat man was shaking his head sadly. He threw the rest of the loaf onto the troubled water, his attempt at bringing a little etiquette to the pond an unequivocal failure.
Loofah waited at the edge of the road as three or four rubbery cars in luminous pastel colours wobbled slowly past with giddy grins. On the pavement opposite, the wave of jelly rolled over the poodle, cutting it off mid-bark, while the two ladies battled on under a torrent of abuse and raucous hilarity. The worm paused for a few seconds before gliding away up the pavement. The two women glanced at it without much interest as it slid past and then, finally giving up their struggle with the offensive bird, they went their separate ways.
When at last he was able to cross the road, Loofah found that the sun-dappled pavement had been decorated with an abstract work in brilliant red with four black paws arranged elegantly around its perimeter.
'Hey, it's the big kid!' yelled the bird above his head, 'Why aren't you playing with yer toys, croi-baby?'
Loofah gritted his teeth and looked up into the tree.
'Am I correct in thinking that you are an immigrant?' he said, with as much disdain as he could muster.
Suddenly the laughter stopped.
'Immigrant? Me?' The bird's tone was suddenly edgy. 'No way, cobber. Chroist, what gave ya that idea? I'm a pommy, mate, just the same as you.'
'Are you sure? You don't sound English.'
''Course I am. Lived here all me life I have, man and fledgling. You ask anyone.'
Then it was off, diving into the garden behind the hedge, and without so much as a hint of a giggle.
When Loofah finally caught up with her, the poodle's owner was striding purposefully towards a parade of shops, dragging the limp dog lead behind her.
'Excuse me,' said Loofah, catching her up, 'That bird that was bothering you—do you know if it's from round here?'
'Good Lord, no,' she replied, 'Our local village birds are generally very polite. That rude creature is an outsider.'
'I thought I didn't recognise the species. Do you happen to know what it is?'
'I'm told it's a kookaburra. But whatever it is, it has no business being in this village.'
She lifted up the lead, stared blankly at the empty collar, then shrugged and pushed it into her handbag. On the other side of the road, a tabby cat hovered mid-air between a lamp post and a pillar box, munching quietly on a polite village sparrow and eyeing Loofah with baleful suspicion.