Ignoring its pathetic squeaking, Loofah ripped open the bar's wrapper and bit hard, shattering through its bittersweet dark chocolate shell to the tender flesh within. The rich flavour of coconut broke over his tongue like a warm Pacific wave, transforming the village green into an aquamarine ocean over which distant white-clad seagulls sported. The shimmering tarmac of the road became hot silver sand and the busy housewives coming out of the shop were now island girls, flower garlanded and grass skirted, smiling tropical promise from black almond eyes.
Loofah swallowed, then grinned to himself before taking a second bite, allowing himself a brief inner pat of self-satisfaction: two birds with one exceptionally well flung stone, he mused. The warm breeze was fluttered with distant applause, this time sustained and with finality, as half of the seagulls flapped with triumphant delight under the restrained congratulations of the other half. Still basking in the private applause of his own triumph, Loofah finished the chocolate bar and tossed the empty wrapper into a litterbin. Then, as tropical paradise gradually reverted to English village, he turned away from the green and, following the little man's directions, headed down the small road beside the shop where he had bought the confectionary.
In no time he had left the village, passing the last outpost of shaved lawn and prim border before plunging down a rough bridle-way between unkempt eight-foot hedges of holly, stunted ash and hawthorn. Soon he was in what appeared to be young woodland, where the branches of adolescent beech sealed the narrow gap at the top of the hedges, cutting out the sunlight to form a submarine tunnel.
After a time he noticed that the weight of the ocean chasm darkness was pressing closer, trying to crush him with its shadowy mass. Loofah smiled to himself, amused by its childish attempts to intimidate. What had he to fear from a few pathetic bushes? he thought, sneering at the encroaching foliage: for, though he might be no more than a weak and feeble visitor, did not underneath this liveried tee shirt beat the sturdy heart of a victor, a Vanquisher of Enemies? As well as forcing Stubbington to divulge the route to the next phase of his quest, had he not also handsomely repaid the Under Manager for at least some of the humiliations—and worse—that she had inflicted upon him? And so, pushing out his chest and squaring his jaw, he strode forward into the gloom, afraid of nothing, ready for anything.
As he swaggered through the now somewhat abashed darkness, however, he felt the beginnings of a new sensation, a tingling unpleasantness that was boring into the oak shield of his confidence like a tiny but hungry woodworm. Then, very slowly, a strange sound separated itself from the bubbling birdsong and began to resonate painfully with the pumping of his heart—trickling down the tunnel from somewhere ahead was a sad whimpering, helpless and pathetic, the quiet ululation of a creature in dire distress. Pricked by the creature's anguish, Loofah's sense of well-being lost its firmness and began to deflate.
The whimpering got louder, swamping the birdsong, filling the darkness with pain. The tortured creature seemed to be pulling Loofah onward with its sorrow, as if reeling him in on a fishing line of misery. The hedges were now pure thorn, harsh and leafless; their barbed twigs jabbed into the narrow defile of the path to scratch at the leather of his jacket and the denim of his jeans, punishing him for the hubris of just minutes ago.
Just as he could bear no more of the pain, he reached a gap in the barbed wall, and there, in a narrow clearing in the undergrowth beside the path, he saw the source of all the misery: a little yellow puppy—a Labrador—sitting in a puddle of complete dejection on the forest floor. When it saw Loofah, the puppy held up a front paw and began to cry even louder, as if its little doggy heart would break in two.
At the sight of the fuzzy bundle of injured sadness, Loofah's throat tightened and his eyes moistened.
'It's alright, little puppy,' he said, stepping off the path to gather the distressed animal into his arms, 'I'll look after you, I'll make you poor paw better.'
As he approached the little creature, however, it seemed to be pulled away from him, gliding deeper into the undergrowth as if on a cushion of air. At the same time the thorn bushes closed in, jabbing at him with their hard vicious spikes. Loofah hesitated, but the puppy cried again, pleading with its sad brown eyes, again lifting its paw to show him. He stepped forward—and again the puppy receded and again the spiked walls closed in. Loofah turned sideways to narrow himself into the shrinking space, but still the thorns dug into his jacket and stabbed into his jeans—and still, at the end of the deadly spiked throat, the puppy whimpered, pulling at him with its misery, tearing at his soul.
Now, however, Loofah's compassion was not unalloyed; at the back of his skull, beneath the swirling tide of emotion, a little grub of doubt was nibbling insistently at his dura mater. Again he moved forward, this time very tentatively—and yet again the puppy slid back down the extending spiked corridor, yet again the walls moved in, closing on him like a trap.
"Like a trap": Loofah gritted his teeth, cursing his gullibility. The thorn bushes were now pressing even closer. This time, however, he didn't flinch away, but pushed his chest out defiantly. Quickly scanning the ground at his feet, he spotted a fallen branch—beginning to rot but still sturdy enough for his needs—and when the puppy whimpered again, he smiled his most affectionate smile.
'There, there, there, little doggy, everything will be alright, you'll see,' Loofah cooed, inching towards the injured creature with the stick hidden behind his back. Then, as the puppy again began to pull away, he charged suddenly forward, whirling his weapon over his head, and without a flicker of hesitation struck hard down on the fuzzy yellow body.
Spattering green slime onto the forest floor, the puppy shrieked like a spitted banshee while the thorn walls convulsed in mute, vegetative agony. With steely resolve, Loofah again wielded his weapon, smashing the little body into the ground, and after the third stroke it was all over. The end of the stick was plastered with black gore and at his feet lay the splattered remains of a large flatworm. The surrounding undergrowth—hawthorn, holly and some laurel—now shimmered harmlessly in the submarine light.
'Vite! Vite!' cried a voice from behind, with theatrical urgency, 'We must cut away the nasty bushes. Our friend is in danger, we have no temps to perdre!'
Dentressangle and Georgette were both wearing leather gardening gloves and each carried a pair of brand new secateurs. They stared at Loofah with wide-eyed astonishment as he stepped out onto the path with the dead flatworm draped over the end of his stick.
'Do not be worried, my friend,' said the Frenchman, weakly, 'See, I am here—you will maintenant be in the alrightness.'
'Of course I'll be alright, Norbert—why shouldn't I be?'
Dentressangle grinned like an embarrassed sheep, looking from the dead worm to the normalised undergrowth. Georgette, equally confused, pulled at a laurel twig and snipped at the harmless rubbery stem with her secateurs.
'The bushes…' stammered the Frenchman, 'the bushes…'
'The path is certainly getting a bit overgrown,' said Loofah, 'Though isn't this a job for the Parish Council?'
Dentressangle looked blank. 'Pardon? I am understanding pas.'
'Path clearance, Norbert—normally something that's done by council people.' Loofah glanced pointedly at their gardening equipment. 'Or have you and Georgette developed an interest in topiary?' he added.
Dentressangle opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead he grinned again, then looked away and snipped a soap-sud burst of blossom off a nearby hawthorn. His former friend cut a sorry figure, thought Loofah; the once olive-gold skin was pasty and blotchy, the left cheek was twitching spasmodically, and the clothes—a shabby jacket with leather-patched elbows and moleskin trousers that sagged at the knees—would have disgraced an Oxfam clearance sale. Despite himself, a tiny pang of sadness pulled at Loofah's throat.
'Anyway, Norbert, I'm sorry but I really can't hang around, not this time. I'll catch up with you later—do enjoy your gardening.'
Making good his escape, however, was not going to be quite that easy.
'Mais, my friend—see!' cried the Frenchman with rather brittle enthusiasm, reaching into his jacket, 'I have our petit metal ami.'
'Hello there, so nice to see you again. How have you been keeping? I do hope—' said the ever polite but now rather battered Dudley, before being brusquely returned to an inner pocket in the style-starved garment.
'So, ici we are again, old friends gathered together,' gabbled Dentressangle, 'Is this not nice?'
'Very nice, Norbert, very nice indeed. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to your pruning.'
'I do like a little chatter-boxing, do you not? What could be plus agréable than chewing the gristle with an old ami or deux?'
'Quite—but as I say, I really can't stop. I have some urgent business to attend to.'
Dentressangle tensed suddenly.
'Business? Quel business is this?' he said quietly. A predatory glint now flashed in the worry-worn eyes.
'Oh, just some things I need to do—nothing much really.' To his chagrin, Loofah noted a defensive edge to his tone.
'You have found the woman, I think.' The Frenchman dropped his secateurs and seized the front of Loofah's jacket with both hands. 'Yes, you have found the magic woman, I am knowing it.'
Loofah backed away with a shudder as the velociraptor's face loomed towards him, its rows of lethal teeth flashing in the arboreal darkness.
'No, Norbert, I still don't know where she is, I prom—.'
'You lie! You lie!' Droplets of lizard spittle spattered against Loofah's face and the Frenchman's cheek muscle went into manic spasm. 'You will take me to her, you will take me to her now! You must, I am commanding it!'
The predatory jaws lunged closer, threatening to amputate the front of Loofah's face, and he flinched instinctively. As the words of a suitable evasion were forming in his brain, however, he saw something in the staring eyes, something behind the carnivorous fury—it was panic, sheer animal panic. Loofah looked from the twitching, drawn face to the shabby shapeless jacket and the trembling, gardening-gloved hands scrunched at his throat. Then he flinched no more.
'Monsieur Dentressangle,' he said with deadly calm, 'I would remind you of who I am—no-one commands The Seeker.' The lizard face swam with surprised confusion and the once-threatening jaw swung weakly up and down. 'Now kindly remove your hands from my jacket.'
Loofah stared steadily into the twitching eyes. For a second the Frenchman hesitated. Then, however, the velociraptor's lips curled into an appeasing grin and the gloved hands released their grip.
'Please, my friend, do not be getting the humpback whale avec your pauvre ami,' said Dentressangle in what was little short of a whine, while smoothing down the front of Loofah's jacket, 'For it is only that he is concerned for your safety. The world here is so strange to you, there is being so much horrible danger, and I am very worrying that—.'
'Yes, yes, I'm very touched,' said Loofah, brusquely, 'Now, I hope you won't think me rude, but I really must dash.'
But again as he went to go, the Frenchman stopped him.
'My friend,' said Dentressangle, tugging humbly at a jacket sleeve, 'I think that you are forgetting quelque chose—yes?'
'What is it Norbert? I really am in a most dreadful rush.'
'The scarf that I have given to you, the lovely garment that you now wear about your gorge.'
This time it was Loofah who was wrong-footed—he looked blankly at the Frenchman and blinked twice.
'You have said that you would be giving him back to me,' continued Dentressangle, in a pleading whine, 'You have said this the last time we have been meeting.'
'You want—my scarf?' As he struggled to think what to say, Loofah instinctively covered the pig's gift with his hand.
'Just for a small number of minutes, just so I can, um, be feeling once more the silk Chinoise against ma peau. Then I am giving him back and you are going on your way once more.'
'But, Norbert, I—.'
'You have promised, my friend,' whined the Frenchman, then grinned and held out a supplicating hand.
Loofah saw no sign of the velociraptor now, only this worn and harassed figure that cringed on the path in front of him. With a shrug he unwound the scarf from around his neck.
'There you are, Norbert,' he said, 'In fact you can keep it if you like. I'm not really cold any more and I think your outfit could use a little extra—how you say?—chic.'
Dentressangle snatched the scarf with relieved delight. But as soon as he held the slippery fabric, the smile fixed and a cloud of angst darkened the haggard visage.
'Everything OK, Norbert?'
Dentressangle pulled at the scarf with panicked fingers, staring with horror at the innocent silk.
'It's not dirty, is it? Perhaps I should have washed it before giving it back, but I never know what to do with silk. Even dry-cleaning can spoil—.'
'It is différent! It is not the same!' There was a quaver in the Frenchman's voice, as if he were about to burst into tears.
'I think you'll find you're mistaken, Norbert. A vermilion scarf in finest Chinese silk by John Galliano—look, there's the label. What's different about it?'
Dentressangle opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and sunk down into his shabby clothes, crushed.
'It's a very beautiful scarf and I'm very grateful for the loan of it,' Loofah continued, 'But now I really must go, I can't stay a moment longer.'
'No! You cannot go!' cried the Frenchman, spurred suddenly back to life by another sharp jab of panic.
'Oh? And why's that?'
'Parce que… parce que…'
'Because?'
'Because—because I will come with you—' Dentressangle brightened suddenly '—yes, that's what I will be doing, I will come avec you. It will be like old times, n'est pas?—just the deux of us, dear and aged friends, travelling together to find la femme double.'
But Loofah shook his head. 'Not possible, Norbert,' he said.
'Pourquoi?' whimpered the Frenchman, again crestfallen.
'Because you have important business elsewhere.'
'I do?'
'Of course you do, Norbert, you always have important business elsewhere. Isn't that so Georgette?'
They both turned to the forgotten girl, who was absently cutting laurel leaves into rubbery teddy bears with her secateurs. For a few moments she looked blankly from one to the other and then, smiling her most winsome smile, she nodded in uncertain affirmation.
Loofah nearly jumped out of his skin when the brambles spoke, hissing in his ear.
'My old friend certainly cuts a sorry sight now – a joy to behold!'
The familiar top-hatted mirage shuddered against the foliage, as if convulsed with laughter. Watching Dentressangle and his lovely assistant disappear up the path back to the village, Loofah had to agree. It had been surprisingly easy to persuade the Frenchman to depart, particularly given the discovery of the scarf. He had of course suggested that Georgette remained to keep Loofah company, but even that idea had crumbled quickly under Loofah's firm insistence that the elusive Horse of Rain was pathologically shy. 'Taking candy from a baby,' he thought, not without a pang of regret for the Dentressangle's broken spirit.
'And I see his latest trick failed to deceive you,' giggled the thorns, 'You seem to the learning, at long last.'
Loofah glanced down at the splattered remains of the flatworm-cum-puppy, and shuddered.
'The puppy, the silk scarf, even his own body,' said Loofah, 'Norbert certainly seems to have a fondness for invertebrates.'
'Creatures of slime and mire: suitable helpmates for the person of slime and mire, wouldn't you say? The foreigner has learned to utilize them for his foul purposes since his great betrayal—yet another manifestation of his descent into total corruption.'
His beautiful ex-friend was now reclining among the hawthorn spikes. The Frenchwoman was naked, her gorgeous body festooned in flatworms and nematodes of all shapes and sizes that were slithering over her belly and around her thighs. She smiled at Loofah with familiar invitation, her sultry eyes smouldering under the dazzling white garland of wriggling maggots that crowned her golden brow. A moment later, however, the flawless face twisted in unearthly terror and she cringed back into her spiny bed. She was staring, wide-eyed, at a rough patch of dock that was somehow managing to scrape a precarious living among the bramble; on one of the glossy green leaves was a tiny cream-coloured teardrop, its two stalked eyes bobbing innocently to and fro as it moved slowly along on a ribbon of silver slime.
'And yet he's so scared of slugs,' mused Loofah, 'That seems very strange.'
'Oh—so you haven't been told about Mrs Turner's curse?' whispered the aquarium undergrowth, 'I thought these government people were supposed to be keeping you properly briefed.'
Loofah laughed bitterly. 'What government people are supposed to do and what they actually do do are rarely the same thing—at least in my experience.'
The dry hawthorn shimmered with what could have been empathy.
'Then I shall endeavour to compensate in some measure for the shortcomings of our public servants,' it murmured, 'There is a story, you see, that just before she—left us—our noble leader made a little prediction, a sort of prophecy if you will.'
'A prophecy?'
'That the shell-less gastropods would somehow be involved in her betrayer's downfall.' The foliage quivered with frank scepticism. 'It sounds ridiculous, of course—what danger could there possibly be in a harmless little slug?—and most now believe that the so-called curse was never made, that the whole thing is just a bit of silly hearsay. But whatever the truth may be, the verminous traitor has been terrified of the creatures ever since.'
Loofah peered through the gloomy undergrowth and again saw the naked Frenchwoman among the trees, this time bereft of her invertebrate cohorts; she was standing, shivering and pale, at the centre of a circle of black glistening shapes, a circle that was closing in on her, slowly but inexorably.