The little beast's taste was nothing if not eclectic, thought Loofah, as Stubbington wrestled to drag the old lady from her deck chair. Like a faithful (though in truth very reluctant) bloodhound, Loofah had trailed him all the way round the village and they were now back at the cricket pitch, where the match was nearing its climax.
'Look, I promise I'll leave you alone,' he pleaded, without much hope, 'All you have to do is tell me—.'
'Just go away, you silly person,' hissed Stubbington, and then grunted as his valiantly struggling victim landed a white plimsolled kick on his right shin. Polite applause rippled through the surrounding deckchairs as the batsman eased the ball through the slips to take a comfortable two runs.
Loofah gave up and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. The old lady grabbed at Stubbington's beard and kicked out again, going for his groin. She was certainly a fighter, thought Loofah with approval; also, she wasn't going in for a lot of screaming and screeching, presumably because of the game. Despite her gallant efforts, though, it was hopeless. The little man, apparently oblivious to pain, hauled his victim out of the deckchair, which toppled over and crashed into her teacup and saucer on the grass beside. A fellow spectator frowned crossly at the disturbance while out on the field the bowler sprinted up to the wicket.
A ringing 'Howzat!' was followed by more applause as the outed batsman walked towards the pavilion. With some difficulty Stubbington was now dragging the still struggling old lady towards the score board behind the small crowd of spectators. Twenty-three to win and only two wickets still standing, noted Loofah—it was going to a close finish. He bent to retrieve the old lady's fallen Panama from the ruins of her deckchair and turned to watch the game.
His assessment of the potential prowess of the new man taking the crease was abruptly curtailed, however, for it was then he noticed a vast limousine prowling the perimeter road on the opposite side of the pitch, a black metal panther stalking its prey. The scoreboard shuddered, dislodging the last man's humble score and sending it rattling to the ground, and with a silent curse Loofah turned and fled—because he knew the identity of the prey this predator was stalking.
Sadly, he didn't see the second car until it was too late. This swerved to a halt in front of him—before he had even left the green—and disgorged its cargo of corporate life.
'And just where do you think you're going?' bellowed a familiar voice.
'If you must know, Miss Leggett, I am not a cricket fan,' replied Loofah, 'I find the brutish physicality of the game inappropriate entertainment for a civilised society. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be getting along—people to see, places to go, that sort of thing.'
But as he stepped into the road to circumnavigate the little gaggle of dark suits, the first car glided across like a smooth metal wall, cutting off his escape. More mousse-haired sales executives and pencil-skirted secretaries poured out, surrounding him in an impenetrable wall.
'I think you'll find the best seats are beside the pavilion.' Loofah smiled winningly into the ranks of semi-sentient corporate faces. 'A perfect view of both wickets and the slips.'
'We are not here to watch cricket,' said a stony faced Under Manager, pushing to the front of her cohort of underlings, 'As you well know, employees of the Company do not have time for such frivolity—our duties do not permit.'
Loofah noticed a neatly trimmed moustache among the blank faces and caught Sutton's eye.
'Then don't let me keep you,' he said, 'I have duties of my own, as a matter of fact.'
But as he moved towards the suited wall, it tightened against him, trapping him like a corralled mustang.
'You certainly do have duties,' said Miss Leggett, 'Duties that you seem persistently determined to disregard. Duties such as your obligations as a property owner.'
'What on earth are you talking about?'
'As you are well aware, you are the owner of a four bedroom family house in a desirable neighbourhood that is currently going to rack and ruin because of neglect. I needn't tell you that the Parish Council is most unhappy about the situation and is considering action under the local byelaws—.'
'Don't worry about the house, Miss Leggett,' said Loofah, 'Arrangements have been made.'
'Arrangements? What arrangements?'
'My personal situation has changed—I have decided not to settle in this area after all.' Miss Leggett opened her mouth to object, but Loofah silenced her with a raised palm. 'And so I have put the house at the disposal of various local voluntary groups who care for some of the more disadvantaged elements of our society. I understand that it will be used as a drying-out centre for drug addicts and alcoholics, and as a half-way house for child molesters, reformed vivisectionists—' he flashed a conspiratorial glance at Sutton '—failed corporate executives, and other undesirable items of social jetsam.'
The Under Manager's face reddened and her eyes bulged, as if her skull was filling with superheated steam.
'Never!' she spluttered, 'The Parish Council would never permit such usage!'
'The Parish Council has been overruled,' said Loofah, 'My proposal has the full backing of the Secretariat.'
Miss Leggett blanched visibly and a gasp rippled quickly round the serried ranks of organisational clones.
'Now, if you'll excuse me.' But as Loofah again stepped towards the now wavering barrier, the Under Manager recovered her composure.
'Wait!' she cried, 'Don't forget you have other obligations—obligations to the Company, obligations to Mr Stobart!'
Loofah stopped, gritted his teeth, and then spun round to face her, the gall of indignation bubbling in his throat.
'Obligations to Mr Stobart?' he asked quietly, 'And what might those be?'
'You know perfectly well,' said Miss Leggett, 'You are to find the Two-Faced Witch for us, so we can get you back to where you belong and put an end to the foul ambitions of your foreign friend.'
'I have no foreign friends,' sneered Loofah, with a bitter surge of xenophobia, 'And as for finding the double woman for you…'
But as he rolled his eyes with contempt, a shaft of white light ricocheted off the curved panes of Sutton's spectacles and lasered clarity into the seething mass of his outraged grey matter. Suddenly calm, Loofah surveyed the impenetrable suited stockade of his prison—and smiled to himself.
'And as for finding the double woman for you,' he repeated, 'I've got that well in hand.'
The Under Manager opened her mouth to shout him down but, as the actual meaning of his words finally penetrated the thick casing of her skull, she hesitated and then closed it again, eyeing him with a strange blend of surprise and suspicion.
Loofah smiled his most winsome smile.
'Although to be frank, I do seem have just hit a tiny little hitch—ever such a small one, you understand, although it is proving to be somewhat intractable.' He paused. 'Actually, now I come to think of it, I could use a bit of help. Just to get things back on the rails, as it were, so we can wind this whole thing up for once and for all, and get you good people can back to your sales meetings and your half-yearly reports.'
Loofah's explanation of his problem did not take long and the fact of its (at least partial) truth added significantly to the assurance of his delivery.
'So you see, Miss Leggett,' he said, as he concluded, 'Until I can find some way of persuading Mr Stubbington to tell me what I need to know, my search for the double woman is effectively stalled.'
During his narration, Loofah had seated himself—with deliberate chutzpah—on the bonnet of one the sleek black limousines, one foot perched casually on the smug grin of its bumper. The corporate pack was now strung loosely across the road and the edge of the cricket pitch; some were standing around the car listening to Loofah describe his dilemma to their manager, whilst others chatted excitedly in small groups about promotion prospects, sales targets and company car grading. There was even a small group that, with the condescending bemusement of Western tourists at a tribal ceremony, was watching the closing stages of the cricket match.
'And you would like the Company's assistance in this exercise?'
'He's being very recalcitrant and I've got absolutely nowhere by myself.'
'Very well then,' said the Under Manager, 'Take us to this person—my Sales Team will undertake whatever persuasion is needed.'
Three young men stepped forward, flexing broad shoulders and gym-toned torsos under their sharp-cut suits. Loofah, however, shook his head.
'Mr Stubbington is a very stubborn man,' he said, 'and strong-arm tactics just wouldn't work. No, I'm afraid a more subtle approach is called for. The feminine touch, I think, is what we need.'
Miss Leggett raised a quizzical eyebrow.
'You see, our friend is something of a—what shall we say?—a lady's man. And while he won't play ball with me, I'm fairly certain that a woman would be able to convince him to spill the necessary beans—a woman such as yourself, Miss Leggett.'
Loofah caught Sutton's eye and fought to suppress a smirk while the woman in question bristled like an outraged porcupine.
'Out of the question,' she blustered, 'I'm far too busy to get involved in this sort of nonsense. If you feel that you really must have the assistance of a female member of staff then my secretary will do perfectly well. Sharon, come here!'
A sun bed tanned tabloid fantasy tore herself away from the appreciative leers of the Sales Team and teetered across the tarmac on white stilettos. Loofah cast an admiring eye over the tightly filled top, the skin-tight pelmet skirt, and the three kilometres of nylon clad leg—and then again shook his head.
'I'm sure that Sharon is the very essence of competence,' he said, 'But I'm afraid this job calls for a more experienced hand. I'm sorry, Miss Leggett, but there's no alternative—it's got to be you.'
The Under Manager bristled again. 'I would remind you that I am the Company's managing executive for this entire sector, and I am not prepared to act as a lackey for the likes of you. I have already offered you the services of my Sales Team and my secretary, and as far I can see you're now just being typically obstructive.'
Loofah shrugged.
'Very well, Miss Leggett,' he said, 'but on your head be it. I just wonder what Mr Stobart will have to say when he hears that the Company's search for the double woman has had to be aborted—because of the refusal of one of his senior staff to co-operate.'
For a few seconds Miss Leggett seemed to girding herself for a violent riposte, but then she seemed to hesitate and instead stared at Loofah mutely, squirming with indignation. Her underlings had now lost interest in the cricket and were drifting back to the car, eager ears pricking. The Under Manager made a few grunting noises and ground her teeth.
'Show me where this person is,' she hissed, 'and be quick about it—urgent matters elsewhere require my immediate attention.'
Her two pig-like eyes were twin lasers of loathing that were drilling pure hatred into Loofah's brain. And these baleful beams projected forgotten images onto the inside of his skull, of malign police officers with invented crimes, of a blasphemous vicar spewing sulphurous fire into a sacred place, and of himself sent forward, ignorant and deceived, to destroy—himself. Loofah glanced from the fuming Under Manager to her preening secretary and back.
'Just one other thing, Miss Leggett,' he said, 'Mr Stubbington has rather unreformed views on female apparel. I think our chances of success would be greatly enhanced if you were to wear something that showed off to better effect your, um, not inconsiderable womanly attributes.'
The Under Manager stared at him with frank astonishment. Behind her back, two of the Sales Team covered guffaws with a splutter of coughs and throat clearing.
'You must change clothes with Sharon,' said Loofah, 'I'm afraid it's the only way.'
'Don't be ridiculous!' snapped Miss Leggett.
As Loofah reached the scoreboard, it shuddered into silence and a moment later a middle-aged woman teetered out from behind, clutching a torn frock against her violated bosom. At the front of the board she picked up and replaced a dislodged numeral before staggering away towards the pavilion to finish preparing the sandwiches and tea. The scattering of deckchaired spectators clapped tensely as the game edged towards its thrilling climax.
Behind the scoreboard Stubbington was panting hard and mopping his perspiring brow with a torn pair of white cotton knickers. When he saw Loofah the sensuous lips twisted into an animal snarl.
'Why don't you just go away and leave me alone, you wretched man?' he hissed, 'I tell you I've got no time for you.'
'It's alright, Mr Stubbington,' said Loofah, with an appeasing smile, 'I haven't come to ask you anything, not this time. It's just that an acquaintance of mine would like to meet you.'
Stubbington grunted dismissively.
'A lady acquaintance, that is,' added Loofah.
The little man looked up, his eyes now lit by a hot glow.
'A lady?' he purred, oleaginously.
'A rather attractive young lady, actually. But of course if you're too busy…'
'Too busy? Who said I was too busy?'
'Really? You can spare a minute or two just to say hello?' As he spoke Loofah reached into his jacket pocket, feeling for the little glass bottle. 'You're too kind, Mr Stubbington, too kind.'
'Nonsense, old chap,' said Stubbington, rubbing his paw-like hands together, 'If a man can't show a bit of politeness towards a member of the fairer sex, what can he do?'
'Well, if you're sure? My friend will be delighted, she really will.' Holding the bottle out of sight, Loofah carefully twisted off the plastic cap. 'Tell you what, Mr Stubbington, why don't you just wait here and I'll send her over? Then you can have a private chat, you as it were, just the two of.'
'A private chat? Capital, absolutely capital!' The little man was now hopping from one foot to the other, grabbing at the front of his trousers and pulling frantically at his beard.
'Right then,' said Loofah, 'I'll be off.'
And then he jerked the bottle forward, splashing the geranium-scented liquid all over the demented little man.
'What was that?' demanded Stubbington, doused back to his senses.
'Oops. I seem to have spilled my aftershave. Sorry about that.' Loofah flashed a quick grin while surreptitiously replacing the bottle's cap. 'My friend will be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail—don't go away, will you?'
The little man lifted his jacket sleeve to sniff, his brow creasing with puzzlement. Then he shrugged and rubbed his hands together, leering again with lecherous anticipation.
The Under Manager emerged from the ladies toilet, tottering uncertainly on her high heels like a drunken stilt walker. She pulled helplessly at the hem of the absurdly short skirt in a vain attempt to cover up at least some of the acres of blue-blotched bare thigh that were squeezed out below. The flimsy material of the top was struggling heroically to restrain the bursting folds of her belly and chest, with each button clinging to its buttonhole with the desperation of a man hanging from a windowsill by slipping fingertips. As she teetered forward a few steps, swaying like a storm tossed sail-mast, a button gave way with a rifle-shot pop; the Sales Team collapsed into a spluttering pile of suit and moussed coiffure while the rest of her staff just stared open-mouthed. Although it seemed as if she were about to topple over, she held her balance with windmilling arms, and then stood with her legs apart, broadening her base for improved stability. In a last-ditch effort to save their careers, the guffawing Sales Team scuttled out of sight, followed by a pair of snorting secretaries.
Once stabilised, Miss Leggett glared round at her stunned staff with a lighthouse beam of icy fury. Her complexion was whiter than whiteness itself, the only colour being a neat disc of blusher on each cheek—carefully applied by the thoughtful Sharon to match the skirt—and the lurid lipsticked gash of her mouth. Apart from a spasmodically twitching jaw muscle and the cold-boiling eyes, her face could have been carved from alabaster.
'Mr Stubbington is waiting behind the scoreboard,' said Loofah, with forced insouciance, 'He is expecting you'.
And so, brushing aside an offer of assistance from an obsequiously ambitious accounts executive, the Under Manager began her teetering journey, followed—at a respectful distance—by those of the corporate party who felt sufficiently confident of their self-control.
Even so, when at last the unlikely figure tottered out of sight behind the scoreboard, a tidal wave of giggles and snorted laughter burst broke across this normally sober group as the dam of pent-up mirth finally burst.
'Shh! Please!' hissed an elderly spectator, leaning out of his deckchair, 'This is the visitors' last wicket and they only need three to win.'
'Between you and me, Dave, I'm a teeny-weeny bit worried,' whispered Loofah to the marketing executive as they both tried to concentrate on the last critical balls of the game, 'If she messes this thing up, then the whole project's scuppered—and what'll the Chief have to say about that?'
The batsman stabbed at a weak ball, tickling it past the wicket keeper to take an easy single. Tense applause: only two runs needed.
'Won't be happy, right? Won't be happy at all. Heads might have to roll, right?'
'Not heads, Dave,' corrected Loofah, 'A head—singular.'
The bowler caught the returned ball, rubbed it against his groin and started his lolloping run towards the wicket. Buzzing synaptic pathways flickered behind the marketing executive's lenses and eventually a smirking sort of glee slithered over his features.
'Chop the one who fouls up, leave the rest. Right? Right.'
'And when the one head has gone, the Chief will need another to take its place—if you get my drift.'
Sutton's cheek twitched as realisation clicked into place. The bowled ball sailed down the wicket and bounced in front of the crease as the batsman lifted his bat and stepped forward for the strike.
It was at that precise moment that the air was split by a terrible shriek and all heads but one spun towards the scoreboard. The exception was Loofah, who watched calmly as the ball slipped under the distracted batsman's defence and neatly clipped the offside wicket, sending both bails tumbling. Only then did he turn to see the screaming figure tear out from behind the board, hair dishevelled and clothes ripped.
And just feet behind the terrified Stubbington was his pursuer, carving into the turf with knife-stab heels, whilst tearing open her blouse in a staccato popping of buttons and howling like a deranged banshee with her face twisted into a grimace of naked lust. With an ambulance-siren scream, the little man spun round the front of the arrayed deckchairs and out onto the pitch. But though he ran like a jack-rabbit, the Under Manager had the advantage of stature and was closing fast.
She caught him just short of the wicket and the pair went into a sliding fall under the amazed eyes of two cricket teams and their spectators, together with half the staff of the Sector Office. Pinned onto the turf by her shuddering bulk, the little man squealed and scrabbled in vain to escape as, shrieking with equal vigour, Miss Leggett groped desperately at the front of his trousers.
'This is outrageous!' shouted an elderly spectator, climbing unsteadily from his deckchair to shake an indignant fist.
'That poor man!' whimpered his wife, 'Can't somebody help him?'
Suddenly galvanised into action, the cricket players surged forward as one, heading for the rescue.
'It's too awful—I can't bear to watch!' cried a lady spectator, turning away from the distressing sight with a sob.
Amusement had now been swamped by alarm in the corporate ranks—Sutton and the IT manager reached the struggling pair at the same time as three of the fielders.
'No! No! Let me go!' wailed Miss Leggett as they hauled her off her whimpering victim. With a cry of desperate desire, she lunged forward again, sending Stubbington cowering away into the protective arms of a batsman. The deranged Under Manager, however, was held fast, kicking impotently with her fleshy legs as the unappealing contents of her rent top spilled out over the restraining hands of her staff.
'This is disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful!' cried an umpire.
'That woman needs locking up!' agreed his colleague.
Once she had been dragged out of Stubbington's baleful envelope of aromatic scent, Miss Leggett began to come to her senses. The mania faded from her face, her struggles eased and then ceased, and her ample body slumped lifelessly, like a slain walrus, into the arms of her underlings. Solicitous players and spectators now gathered round the terrified little man to offer comfort and concern, whilst tutting crossly amongst themselves about his dreadful ordeal.
One member of the party, however, was clearly beside himself with delight.
'We're eyeball to eyeball with a PR disaster,' Sutton smirked happily, 'The Company's reputation in utter ruins, years of community relations work down the tubes. Bound to have negative effects on long term sales, right?—right.' He paused, with unfettered glee twinkling behind his fishbowl lenses. 'The Chief's not going to like this,' he added with forced solemnity, 'The Chief's not going to like this one little bit.'
Then, handsomely cloaked in his newly acquired authority, the triumphant marketing executive shepherded his team back to their cars. As she was being carried away, the Under Manager stared blankly at Loofah, still unable to comprehend what had befallen her. For his part, the architect of her downfall allowed himself a small grin of satisfaction before hurrying over to the two fielders who were helping the shocked little man towards the pavilion.
'I think they're going to replay that last over,' he said, 'I can take over here if you like.'
Stubbington opened his mouth to protest as Loofah took his trembling arm, but it was too late—the fielders were already away, running across the pitch to take up their positions for the final few balls of the interrupted game.
'Now Mr Stubbington,' said Loofah, steering the little man towards the pavilion, 'about the little matter I was asking about earlier.'
'No, no, no, I'm far too upset. Why can't you just leave me alone?'
'Miss Leggett isn't my only lady acquaintance, you know,' said Loofah in a quiet, velvet voice, 'Shall I introduce you to a couple more? I just know they'd be delighted to meet you.'