Loofah clumped along the unmade track, stumbling in potholes and with sharp flints stabbing pain through the thin soles of his shoes. Fronds of cow parsley draped against his jacket, smothering him with the cloying sickness of their perfume, and tendrils of carnivorous bindweed tried to curl around his calves. He stared grimly at the jigsaw puzzle. The picture was beginning to form, and it was not the one he wanted to see. For although the body of the figure was lovely to look at, the face was not—it was now certain that it would the death-hungry velociraptor that grinned out at him from the completed image. Loofah's feet were lead weights and his blood ebbed and flowed like an oil-slicked tide, hardly pumpable by his torpid heart. The track began to fall away, descending towards dark and dreary woods.
At the edge of the jigsaw were some leftover pieces—little segments of a sharply dressed young man, sun-tanned and smiling behind his Italian polaroids, ready to leap out of the puzzle to snatch him from the jaws of death—and Loofah much preferred the image that these seemed to promise, however fragmented. But he knew now that they would not fit, that they were not part of the final picture, and with a sad sigh he swept them off the table and into the waste paper basket.
The main track turned to right, but he took the narrow path that forked off left and dived headlong into a dank mass of ash and adolescent beech. The path was steep, paved with fist-sized lumps of jagged flint that carved mercilessly into his metatarsals. High banks of moss lunged in on him, restrained only by the gnarled grip of ancient tree roots that twitched with sinister strength as they dug deep into the stony flesh of the earth. On top of the green parapets grew occasional bushes of holly—each leaf a torturer's tool—interspersed with clumps dying bluebells, their limp and fleshy leaves reminiscent of the genitals of spent debauchees.
Loofah's hand moved to his neck and stroked the vermilion silk, which wriggled against his skin, caressing his throat. A last memento from a lost friend—he had this, at least. He stumbled on, sliding into a sticky slough of despond. But who were his friends now? he thought, who would be snatching from the jaws of any future perils? A peg, a doll and an oversized flatworm—he couldn't lose, could he?
He reached another junction, where a smaller path led off to the left, out of the wretched gully. While an oil-strike at the base of his being pumped the black crude of despair through his soul, Loofah struggled to recollect the patrician cat's directions. Then, avoiding the clutches of the malicious old tree roots (thankfully slowed by arthritis), he clambered wearily up the slimy bank.
The new path wound along the top of a wooded slope that fell away to his right. It was more open here—the half-grown beech, young oaks and silver birch were keeping a respectful distance from each other—and the ground was smooth, with a soft carpet of dried leaves. But the dappled sunlight which now filtered through the less oppressive foliage failed to penetrate the black lake of Loofah's gloom. His misery-weighted legs swung like bags of sand and his progress was reduced to little more than a hobble. Eventually, paralysed by his despair-spawned fatigue, he stumbled to a halt. For a few moments he just stood and blinked as trees swayed around him, flowing in and out of focus. Then, with eyeballs sinking into his head like two lead balls in a pool of mud, the sandbag legs buckled under him and he collapsed onto the soft bed of the earth.
A huge brown beech leaf tickled his nose. Ribbed and curved, it resembled an empty hull, and behind it others jostled, a vast armada of deckless ships. Loofah watched dumbly as the fleet swayed gently at anchor, rising and falling on the oily swell outside the blurring portholes of the dark cabin of his skull, until from somewhere in the shadows an unseen steward reached across and drew the thick, velvet curtains.
At first he wasn't sure whether the isopod was part of a dream, crawling up a sunken log on her six stubby white legs.
She hauled the tiny white cigar of her body over ridges of decaying bark and ambled through forests of luminous green moss, moving slowly and patiently, without rush or urgency. Loofah could not help but to envy her: a simple, undemanding creature leading a simple, undemanding life.
He saw the assassin bug before she did; it darted forward from under a bark flake like a pouncing leopard and before she could react it had her in the iron grip of its forelegs. For a few moments she wriggled desperately, but then came the coup de grâce—with a fierce jerk, the bug thrust the short sword of its proboscis into her thorax. She squirmed in final agony as the bug devoured her, pumping in digestive fluids then sucking out the liquefied contents of her body as a child sucks milk through a straw.
Loofah had liked the harmless little isopod and his heart cheered when the wolf spider pounced from behind a golden frill of fungus. The eight seta-furred legs formed a lethal tent frame over the hapless bug as it struggled helplessly in the arachnid's powerful palpi. There was a satisfying crunch as the spider's chelicerae shattered through the bug's exoskeleton, releasing the nutrient nectar of its body fluids. The isopod was still feebly twitching, impaled on the proboscis of the now doomed bug, but she was too far gone to derive much satisfaction from the ruin of her own terminator.
The spider's triumph was a short-lived, however—the hunting wasp came in like a diving red kite, landed neatly on the frame of the spider's legs and, with gymnastic panache, swung in with her abdomen—livid red, like an elongated drop of blood—to deliver the paralysing sting. The spider convulsed once and then relaxed, slumping onto the rough bark with the dying bug still struggling weakly in its paralysed jaws.
The tiger beetle—as big as Loofah's thumb—ambled along the bark with leisurely nonchalance. He was a beautiful creature, all emerald green with matching pairs of dazzling white spots across each half of his elegant carapace. The wasp had thrust her ovipositor into the paralysed spider's abdomen and was laying busily when this arthropod Beau Brummell appeared over the curvature of the log. The beetle saw the wasp and she saw him. There was a nanosecond of dead stillness while simple neuronal pathways synapsed and processed—then the handsome coleopteran charged. The wasp struggled desperately to extricate herself from the flaccid tangle of the spider but in vain—she was still impaled when her enemy was upon her, tearing cellophane wings, amputating frantic legs, plunging his jagged green mandibles into the jewelled hemispheres of her compound eyes to bubble the yellow slime of her cerebral fluids onto the paralysed legs of her own victim.
In its turn, the beetle fell to a snakefly, the jolly eccentricity of her roller-coaster body belying her lethal disposition. She floated silently out the air on parachute wings and, with the headless wasp still thrashing in his jaws, pierced the beetle's thorax with her dagger-like proboscis. Her wings, however, did not save her from the ladybird larva. Loofah started as this creature—not much smaller than a domestic cat—charged past the top of his head and tore into the fly's undulating thorax with pincer mouth parts, splattering her viscous endolymph over the emerald wing cases of the dying beetle. As she herself expired, the snake-fly's legs scrabbled impotently on the bark and her wings flapped against the larva's body, a bloated cigar of black rubber tyres that writhed in obscene peristalsis as it feasted.
The crab spider—a gigantic pink petal with legs—came from nowhere, landing beside the log in a scatter of dried leaves and cracking twigs. As the huge arachnid bit deep into its leathery cutis, the cigar-larva convulsed violently, thrashing the crumpled snake-fly against the forest floor. Though the death throes of the larva were horrifying to watch, the spider herself was a visual delight; starting white with a hint of rose, as she sucked at the fat fruit of the dying body she changed from pastel colour to creamy pastel colour, as if being painted and repainted by an indecisive decorator.
There was a sudden burst of leaf noise from behind—but as Loofah twisted round to see the next arthropod behemoth before it was upon him, a stilettoed foot swept past his face and landed a firm kick on the feeding spider, sending her rolling down the slope in a flailing tumble of pastel legs and half-eaten invertebrate life.
'Norbert,' said Loofah, clambering quickly to his feet, 'Back so soon?'
Dentressangle smiled with blatant allure, allowing her elegant hands to slither swiftly over her body like a pair of sexually aroused planarians.
'Bonjour, mon petit,' she cooed, 'Were you having the little sleepy-by?'
The Frenchwoman had excelled herself this time; the lace suspender belt and the straps of her black sheer stockings were clearly visible under the diaphanous silk of her negligee, which—apart from the wet-look high heels and the black satin knickers that teetered on the edge of non-existence—was all that she wore. Loofah sensed danger and he snapped to full awareness as the last fuzzy tendril of sleep vanished from his brain. There was a slight tremor at his neck as the scarf coiled under his jacket collar, strangely alarmed by the reappearance of its previous owner.
'Er, yes, I think I was,' he replied, pushing up his collar to hide the frightened scarf.
'Ah, it is not good for un beau homme to sleep alone, not while there are les belles femmes to be keeping of the company.'
She sidled towards him, hands on hips. Emerald eyes smouldered under the copper tumble of her hair and naked breasts quivered beneath the dark mist of the negligee, the nipples jutting out through the gauzy material with the brash assertiveness of a pair of double glazing salesmen.
'It was very comfortable, Norbert, really it was. You know me—always happy with the simple things. A few dry leaves for a mattress, a bit of moss for a pillow.'
'You have rested well, this is good. And so now you are filled with the energies, the virile energies of the man.'
Dentressangle breathed warm desire in his face. Her perfume—a sultry musk that curled around his face, caressing his senses and sending a warm buzz through his flesh—smelt of danger. Loofah looked down to avoid the deadly eyes, but fell into the soft snare of her chest.
'Um, Norbert,' he stammered weakly.
Somewhere along the way she had picked up his hand. She now slipped this up the front of her negligee, cupping it over a silky mound.
'Come, my friend,' she moaned, her lips trembling, 'give to me what I am desiring, give to me what I am needing so much.'
'But Norbert,' Loofah managed to get out, 'I've found the horse.'
'Ah, the riding of the horses—so manly, so brave; the great mass of cheval, bucking and fighting between the muscular thighs.'
Sharp nailed fingers pulled at his belt.
'No, no—I mean the Horse of Rain.'
'This is good—but you must be so careful not to be getting wet, or you will be catching the poorliness.'
Loofah tensed suddenly, his hard fingers digging into her soft flesh.
'Aah,' she moaned, rolling her eyes with pleasure.
Then the belt fell open and she began fumbling at the front of his jeans.
'Norbert, have you seen Dudley?'
He sensed a momentary stiffening of her fingers against his zip.
'Dudley?' she said quickly, 'Ah oui, I have seen him yesterday.'
'Oh—and how was he?'
'Très well, très well indeed. He is sending to you his most fulsome regards.'
'That's nice. Did he say if he'd passed his driving test?'
'Yes, yes,' she purred, reaching inside the now opened zip, 'with the swimming colours.'
Scalpel nails probed at Loofah's softest parts. A memory sliced through the jelly-flesh of his mind and he winced with remembered pain.
'You are liking this, yes?' she cooed, pressing herself against him.
Loofah swallowed hard, fighting to control his trembling muscles. His jaws clenched tight and a red fire throbbed in his chest.
'Et maintenant my lovely one, enough of this chitter-chattering—let us be doing what we know we must be doing.'
As she spoke a shaft of sunlight ricocheted off a black jewel on a fallen log and hit Loofah between the eyes, blazing a tiny splinter of pure white light into the smouldering mist—and he saw what he must be doing.
'Alright, Norbert,' he said quietly, 'As long as we can do it—how you say?—comme les chiens.'
'You naughty, naughty garçon!' she purred, squeezing his groin like a fruit, 'So adventurous… at least for un Anglais!'
As the Frenchwoman was getting down onto her hands and knees, Loofah sidled round to the fallen log and surreptitiously picked what he needed from the wet moss of its rotting bark.
'Come, my sweet potato,' called Dentressangle, 'I am ready for your little gift.'
And with this she pushed her rump into the air and wiggled her buttocks. Mesmerised by the curving hemispheres of tanned flesh that were being offered up to him and moving like a decerebrate zombie, Loofah stepped up behind her and hooked trembling fingers into the top of the sliver of black satin that covered her modesty. In his other hand the teardrop of slimy muscle curled crossly, outraged at having been removed from its home among the wet moss. It was at this point that a tiny cloud scudded across the overheated sun-blast of Loofah's mind: could he be sure of the desired effect with this half of the whole?
'Now, big boy,' moaned the Frenchwoman, wiggling again, 'maintenant, maintenant, maintenant!'
Rubber surgeons' fingers closed over Loofah's throbbing groin and a delicate blade of cold steel brushed over the soft skin, dividing the flesh. She pushed her knees apart and thrust herself out to him, revealing the glistening pink oyster that was now his. An exquisite thrill of sharp agony coursed across his belly. Mollusc to mollusc, he thought, and pressed the slug between the tops of her thighs.
'Aah,' sighed the Frenchwoman, 'that is so-o-o nice!'
Loofah stepped away from her and watched her writhe, with an ecstatic tingling running up and down his spine like a racing shoal of excited eels. Eyes closed and with her face filled with sensual delight, Dentressangle twisted her thighs together emitting a short burst of sighs and gasps.
'Ooh, I am feeling your tongue, you méchant, méchant boy,' she whimpered, 'And it is so stiff and so wet and so—' she suddenly stopped wriggling and the ecstasy froze on her face '—cold?'
Dentressangle opened her eyes and saw Loofah standing beside her.
'How's the medical work going?' he asked innocently, 'Done any interesting operations lately?'
Three nanoseconds of dreadful silence—and then the world was savaged by a banshee's scream. She hurled herself onto the ground, kicking and twisting in a storm of dried leaves, tearing at her groin. A shredded satin rag flew into the air and—with a shriek of revolted fury—the slug followed, bouncing into the leaf mould at Loofah's feet like a slimy squash ball. Two sides of the same coin, he thought to himself with some satisfaction—he had indeed achieved the desired effect.
Now she was on her feet, facing him across the sun-dappled wood, spitting Gallic obscenities like a cobra's venom. Her dark veiled breasts jutted out at him, their beady nipples eyeing him with cold fury, and the black triangle of her violated crotch seethed with loathing. With her face twisting into a lethal snarl, she crouched low, an enraged predator lusting for death. Remembering the savaged police dog, Loofah shuddered.
'No-one treats Norbert Dentressangle in this way,' she whispered, stalking forward on her five-inch stilettos, 'and lives.'
But as she readied for the death-pounce, Loofah snatched up the long-suffering mollusc from the pile wet leaves and held it in front of himself like a vampire hunter's crucifix. The Frenchwoman's eyes widened with sudden animal fear and she backed away, spitting with frustrated fury.
'Fancy the great Monsieur Dentressangle being scared of a harmless little—' Loofah stabbed at her with the mollusc and she leapt back with a hiss '—slug.'
For a few moments she just glared at him with the purest of loathing, growling and spitting like a deranged tiger. Then, standing to her full height, she seemed to be seized by a convulsive fit. Every muscle in her body tensed and her jaws clenched. Then, with eyes rolled back into her skull, she began to grunt as if straining against a pernicious attack of constipation. Her face twisted into something that wasn't human and a trickle of foamy saliva dribbled over her chin.
A tendril of guilt began to uncurl and Loofah glanced anxiously at the slug—had he gone too far this time?
As she shuddered and moaned, her skin began to melt, crumpling into congealed strands like a plastic bag on a hot plate, pulling away over her flesh. Though what was revealed wasn't flesh—Loofah's guilt was swamped under a rolling wave of nausea—but a sea of white grubs, an insane ecstasy of wriggling life that covered every inch of her body. The copper mass of her hair had also metamorphosed and was now a waving mass of blood-red wireworms, and, like her skin, the negligee congealed, the melting strands coalescing into flat strips of glistening jelly that hugged closely to her infested flesh. Loofah recognised the lanceolate bodies and diamond heads: flatworms.
Then, as the body convulsed and shuddered, the wriggling mass began to shift. Battalions of the grubs now migrated across the surface, changing positions like a synchronised dance team, to flatten her chest, slim her hips and bulk out her arms and shoulders. The flatworms too began to move, sliding over her seething legs and her torso, and the red worms on her head burrowed deeper into her skull—if she had a skull—leaving only their tails exposed.
As the flesh-grubs nestled into their new homes, they began to secrete fibrils of fine silk over the surface of the reshaped body, which they quickly wove into a cocoon-like silvery membrane. The new skin gradually thickened, hiding the mass of grubs, and developed an attractive tan. Loofah also now saw that, while the grubs had been at their work, the head-worms had darkened to glossy auburn, becoming a moussed coiffure, and the flatworms had been expanding to cover most of the newly re-skinned body, their integuments losing their slime and taking on the appearance of pressed linen in a subtle ochre hue. The planarians—clearly the Paul Smiths of the invertebrate world—then began to fuse into each other, forming themselves into the styled elegance of a two-piece suit. With a final gasp, Dentressangle's shudders ceased—and the transformation was complete.
'And fancy the great Monsieur Le Seeker,' said the Frenchman with a sneer, as he reached inside his jacket, 'being scared of a harmless little—Berretta Cougar huit mille.'
A thin smile crept from under the mirrored shades as Loofah looked from his own weapon—the tightly curled slug—to the Frenchman's snub-nosed revolver, the black sunlight glittering balefully on the polished barrel. Dentressangle's smile broadened and his finger tightened over the trigger.
'If I were you, Norbert, I wouldn't do that,' said Loofah, just managing to keep the quaver from his voice, 'You know that without me the other one is useless—and who will find her for you then?'
Like the sun behind thunder clouds of sudden fury, the sinister smile vanished—and for a moment Loofah thought that Dentressangle might cast his ambitions to the wind for a brief ecstasy of revenge. But then the handsome face disfigured itself with a grimace of loathing and the gun barrel was lowered.
'I'll be back,' said the Frenchman, in the quietest of whispers.
The scarf relaxed and nestled against Loofah's skin, purring silently. He patted it absently as he watched the elegantly suited figure glide easily away down the slope before vanishing among the trees.
'Ooh, that showed her, the wicked baggage!'
The speaker was the crab spider, who was standing on a rotting birch trunk rubbing her bruised abdomen with one of her back legs.
'That kick hurt, I can tell you. I can't abide cruelty to animals—anyhows, not when I 'appen to be the animal in question.'
She was pale green now, white with a hint of apple, like a sugared almond with legs.
'Edna Fulbright,' she went on, offering a foreleg, 'Late of Blackburn. Lancashire, that is—although you wouldn't know it from listening to me, would you? Be down here thirty odd years now. My Bert got work in Slough, you see, after the Ackroyd mill closed. That Ted 'Eath were in then—or were it Wilson?—I can never remember.' She paused. 'Of course my Bert's gone now, passed away these ten years since. 'E were in't rag trade, as if you hadn't guessed. Niftiest set of spinnerets this side of the Pennines had my Bert—in his younger days that is.'
'Pleased to meet you, Mrs, er,' said Loofah, shaking her spiky appendage.
'Fulbright. Though of course that's only me married name—I'm a Postlethwaite by breeding, one of the Clitheroe Postlethwaites. You might have heard of me great grandfather. He 'ad a spinning shop over Darwen way—sold it just before 't Great War.'
'It's just that it might be a bit dangerous round here if he comes back. And there's somebody I need to—.'
'Ay, I know who you're after,' she interrupted, 'I were just on me way there me-self. I'll walk with you if you don't mind. I'm partial to a bit o' company, I am.'
'Oh, you know—?'
'I do for him, as they say: a bit o' cleaning, a bit o' cooking—keep house, like. I've been with him for years: since my Bert passed on, as a matter of fact. You'll not have met him, will you? 'E's a crusty old stick and no mistake, but 'is bark's worse than 'is bite.'
She scrambled off the birch trunk and set off along the top of the bank.
'Have you ever been up Blackburn way? Of course it's changed a bit these last thirty years, what with all 't mills coming down and that.'