Chapter IV.6

'Um—sorry to bother you,' said Loofah as he caught up with the stocky little figure, 'but are you Mr Stubbington? I was told that you might in this neighbourhood this afternoon.'

'That is indeed my usual appellation. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm in rather a rush.'

And with this Stubbington strode away up the pavement. Temporarily stunned by the abruptness of his manner, it was a good half-minute before Loofah caught up again.

'You see, Mr Stubbington,' he panted, 'I have to find somebody and I've been told that you might know where to find him.'

'Yes, yes, but as I say I am bit pressed for time,' snapped the little man, accelerating his pace, 'I suggest that you ask someone else.'

'I am so sorry to trouble, but my enquiry is rather urgent and I understand that you are the only one who can help me.'

At this Stubbington stopped and turned to face him, frowning from under thick eyebrows.

'Is that so?' he said crossly, 'Well I'll have you know that I'm much too busy to get involved with this… sort… of…' The oily voice trailed away and the full red lips curled slowly into a lascivious grin. One hand absently twirled the end of his RAF officer's moustache then stroked the little brush of his goatee. The little black eyes, which now blazed with a hot clammy light, were fixed on something over Loofah's shoulder.

'I say,' purred the little man, his voice drooling and voluptuous, rolling out each word like a glob of warm honey, 'What a very, very fine chest.'

As Loofah turned to follow the other's gaze a woman in a summer dress cycled past, her ample bosom swaying in time with her peddling. A split second later Stubbington was after her, hurrying back the way he had just come.

'Please, Mr Stubbington,' begged Loofah, after he had finally caught up again, 'I won't take up more than a second of your time and then I'll be on my way without further ado.'

The much-admired cyclist was just turning into a driveway ahead and Stubbington seemed to have paused his pursuit for a brief moment of unhurried appreciation.

'Mmmm,' he purred, sotto voce, 'Just look at those buttocks, will you?—like a pair of badgers wrestling in a sack.'

The black-jewel eyes were glittering unpleasantly and again a hairy hand patted the little brush beard. This, like the moustache, was immaculately trimmed and the crinkled hair—dark, but greying at the temples—was slicked back and Brylcreem-stiff. The saloon bar elegance was complimented by the little man's choice of apparel: a silk shirt in pale lilac with a red paisley cravat tucked into the open neck, a navy blazer with brass buttons and a handkerchief to match the cravat flouncing from its breast pocket, and Oxford bags in cream cotton with razor creases and turn-ups deep enough to keep his wallet in. However, despite his dandified appearance Stubbington emanated a species of bestial power; the barrel of his chest strained against the delicate fabric of his shirt, his short hands were broad and strong, and the material of his trousers was so tight around his footballer's thighs that it looked as he were wearing padded plus-fours.

'You see, the Person I have to find is —.'

Stubbington, however, had ignored him and was already hurrying away up the pavement. With a sigh of mounting frustration, Loofah followed.

He caught up with the little man halfway up the cyclist's driveway. The bicycle was leaning against the side of a neat, detached house (early Thatcher, middle management rather than executive) while its rider lifted plastic shopping bags from the front basket. A man in his forties stood on the billiard table lawn hosing water onto a bed of thirsty begonias.

'Please,' panted Loofah, 'I won't keep you a minute, I promise—.'

'Will you please be quiet!' hissed Stubbington, 'I have some important business to attend to.'

With this he strode up to the householder and smiled politely.

'Good afternoon, sir,' he said, 'Delightful weather we've been having, wouldn't you say?'

'Plenty of sun certainly, though a bit dry for the garden.'

'Quite, quite,' said Stubbington, 'Tell me, sir, is your dear lady wife about? I wish to have a quick word with her if at all possible.'

'You're in luck—she's just this minute got back from the shops. Go right up, you'll find her in the kitchen.'

Stubbington seemed oblivious to Loofah dogging his heels as they rounded the back of the house; he was now quivering with a strange and focussed intensity. The kitchen door was open and the lady cyclist was unpacking tins of dog food and packets of cheese slices onto a melamine work surface. Her face was flushed from the exercise and she paused to push a loose strand of hair from her perspiration damp forehead. Her dress hung loosely over her buxom frame, the thin cotton fluttering over her generous curves as she moved to and fro between cupboards to stow her purchases. Stubbington's grin broadened as he watched her, while twirling his moustache and stroking his beard with trembling fingers.

Just as his grin was threatening to split his face in two, the little man stepped through the doorway, his leather soles clicking on the vinyl floor. The woman spun round, her eyes wide with surprise.

'Madam,' he said, advancing towards her with controlled stealth.

'Can I help you?' she asked.

'You most certainly can.'

The words flowed out like warm sump oil and blurred into a deep purr as a fat mollusc tongue slid out over the pink, Sybarite's lips. The woman's jaw fell open and a tin of butter beans slipped from her hand. The clatter of metal on vinyl seemed to act as a starting gun and—with a wild boar grunt—Stubbington lunged forward. She screamed and leapt back, but he was on her. They wrestled, badger-like, as Stubbington grabbed one flailing wrist and tried to force her to the ground. Unable to resist the power of his hard little body, she stumbled backwards, crashing open the door into the dining room and collapsing onto the carpet beside the beech-wood Ercol chairs, with Stubbington coming down on top of her.

At first these violent scenes flickered across Loofah's retinas like cinematic images; he followed the events with rapt but detached fascination, moving with the struggling pair like a cameraman keen to get the best shot. He now stood in the doorway getting a perfect high angle view as, to a chorus of shrieks and frantic kicking, Stubbington wrenched open the front of his victim's cotton dress and pawed at its now unfettered contents. As Loofah zoomed in for a close-up, however, the woman's scream smashed into his brain. Jerked violently back to reality, he seized the ravisher's blazered shoulders. But under the neatly tailored cloth the muscles were like iron pistons. Loofah wrenched and pulled, but he might as well have been flapping at the stocky back with a feather duster. Stubbington was now panting hard between grunts, pawing at her chest with one wire-hairy hand while pulling at the front of his trousers with the other.

'Your wife!' cried Loofah, 'The kitchen! It's awful!'

The man of the house turned calmly to face him, holding his hose against a fine stand of dahlias.

'But it's horrible!—horrible!'

'I know,' said the concerned husband with a sad shrug, 'Dreadful, isn't it? I don't know how she puts up with it, I really don't.'

Loofah blinked twice and released his frantic grip on the man's shirtsleeve.

'Aren't you going to do something?'

The other's phlegmatic brow furrowed with affront.

'Of course I am—that is if it's any business of yours,' he said, 'They're coming next week.'

'Next—week?'

'To measure up. We're going fully fitted this time, with a breakfast bar and solid hardwood frontages. Mary's absolutely delighted—she can't wait to be rid of all that awful old Formica.'

'Solid hardwood?' intoned Loofah, staring blankly at his companion.

'So much better than veneer, don't you think? And we've had to go for English beech of course, none of your tropical rainforest stuff.' He turned his jet onto a packed bunch of gladioli and irises which frolicked like children in the rainbow spray. 'A big fuss over nothing if you ask me, all this environment malarkey, but it's worth the extra just to keep Natalie happy. Natalie's my daughter, by the way.'

'Hello, Daddy!' called a cheery voice, as if on cue. A teenage girl in a mint striped skirt was scampering up the drive towards the house, waving at them. Again Loofah grabbed her father's sleeve.

'Stop her! Don't let her go inside!' he cried.

'No, no, leave her be—she's got homework to do,' said the other, watching fondly as, with a final flick of ponytail, his daughter bounced out of sight round the side of the house, 'Anyway she's never been one for helping her old dad out in the garden.' He shook his head indulgently. 'Kids, eh?'

'Please, you must—.' But Loofah was interrupted by a scream.

'Got any of your own? Yes? Then you'll know what I'm talking about.'

The girl appeared at the side of the house, the front of her tee shirt rent to her navel. She screamed again as an unseen hand dragged her back out of sight. Still musing fondly, her doting father jetted his hose onto his herbaceous border and the modest rockery beyond.

'You don't understand!' cried Loofah, 'Your daughter is in very serious trouble!'

The other turned to face him, letting the water arc out over the emerald lawn. He shook his head.

'I know her grades weren't as good as she'd hoped,' he said, 'but it's not as bad as all that—she can always retake, you know.'

Loofah opened his mouth for further exhortation, but no words came—and so he shut it again.

Stubbington finally emerged from the back of the house some minutes later, still tucking his shirtfront into the top of his trousers.

'Get what you wanted?' called the man of the house, who had now finished his watering and was neatly winding up his spent hosepipe.

'Delightful woman, your lady wife,' purred Stubbington, smoothing a few stray crinkles of hair back into Brylcreemed discipline, 'Absolutely charming.'

Loofah had been staring blankly at the freshly watered flower beds, his traumatised synapses mesmerised by the light flashing through the million liquid diamonds scattered across the grateful foliage. Now the reappearance of the little man jolted him back to full awareness. With a shudder of distaste, he hurried down the drive to catch up.

'Mr Stubbington, please, if you could just spare a minute—.'

'I do wish you'd stop pestering me,' hissed the little man, 'I've got far too much to do to be bothering with you, far too much.'

And with a parting wave to the phlegmatic garden enthusiast, he was out of the drive and away down the street.

'I do think you're being very unreasonable, Mr Stubbington,' said Loofah, dodging a lamppost as he struggled to keep up, 'I don't like to keep bothering you, but I really have no other choice if you won't tell me what I need to know.'

The little man grunted with annoyance and accelerated his pace. They spun round a privet-hedged corner and Loofah tugged at a neatly pressed sleeve.

'Just a minute of your time and then I'll be—.'

'Damn you, sir! Just go away, will you? I'm far too busy, far too busy.'

With this, Stubbington spun round and wrenched his sleeve free, pushing Loofah into the spiky cushion of the hedge. But as he went to hurry away, the little man's pace faltered and died.

The three sixth form girls were ambling slowly towards them, giggling amongst themselves, eating crisps and drinking lo-cal soft drinks from garishly coloured tins. An ominous purring sound gurgled in Stubbington's chest as he stroked his beard with a short strong hand and feasted his coal-hot eyes on the six bare thighs in their short grey skirts, and on the three amply filled blouses that peeked out through the open fronts of the lime green, orange trimmed blazers.

As they got closer the girls seemed to sense the baleful intensity of the bestial gaze and their carefree giggles faded to silence. For a few seconds predator and prey faced each other across ten yards of warm pavement—then a distant car backfired and they were off, the girls fleeing across the road like a gaggle of scared geese with Stubbington, the vicious terrier, in hot pursuit. Temporarily stunned by surprise, Loofah got a slow start but then was away, doing his best to catch up.

There was never any doubt as to the outcome of the chase and the gap closed rapidly. As the screaming girls spun into a side road in a shower of crisp fragments and fizzy liquid, the little man was grunting close at their heels. Some yards in the rear, Loofah banked into the corner—and nearly cannoned into the towering cliff of a uniformed policeman.

'Whilst not actually prohibited under local by-laws,' said the policeman, in a flat monotone, 'running on the pavement is strongly discouraged.'

Behind the blue-clad cliff, the chase disappeared between a gap in a beech hedge just as Stubbington's paw closed over the flapping hem of the first blazer.

'Look!' shouted Loofah, pointing, 'It's terrible! You must stop it!'

With the ponderous inertia of a supertanker, the policeman turned. The hedge was now shaking as if being butted by fighting buffaloes, and was emitting a stream of screams and bestial grunts.

'Absolutely outrageous,' droned the policeman, 'Now that is against the by-laws.'

'Then do something!' shrieked Loofah.

'I will.'

And with infinite slowness the policeman stepped forward, bent down and picked up a discarded drink tin.

'Cherry cola,' said the policeman, grimly, 'This is more serious than I thought.'

Then, with quiet deliberation, he dropped the foaming can into a self-seal plastic bag, splattering his mirror-shined boots and trouser cuffs with droplets of fizzy liquid.

'What are you doing?' asked Loofah as wave after wave of shrieks rolled through the afternoon stillness.

'Collecting evidence, sir—vital for bringing the perpetrators of this foul crime to justice.' The policeman laid a reassuring hand on Loofah's shoulder. 'Don't you worry, sir, littering on this scale will not go unpunished—not on my beat.'

And together they stood, sadly surveying the trail of crisp crumbs, cellophane packets, and spilled drink that lead across the pavement to the shuddering, hysterical hedge.