The One Who Is Two (Book 1 of White Rabbit)

by Stuart Oldfield

The pistons of his legs pumped furiously against the tarmac. The man was behind him, closing quickly. He ran faster, straining every fibre of his being.

  And yet he was hardly moving; the hedgerow crawled past a leaf at a time and the tarmac slid under him in languorous slow motion. He was suspended in a clear syrup, fighting against the inertia of the viscous liquid – and he could already feel the teeth of the hedge clippers tearing through the leather of his jacket, biting into the skin of his shoulders. Every muscle strained to breaking point and his lungs screamed for mercy. He gazed up the endless tunnel of road and hedgerows, and all was still, like a picture. Motionless now, he was held – helpless – in an invisible spider's web of stalled time. The whirling metal fangs sprayed fountains of blood and shredded flesh across the hot tarmac.

  It was hopeless, he was doomed. Chest heaving and staggering with exhaustion, he stopped struggling and turned to face his fate.

  But there was no righteous father's fist to meet him, no avenging garden implement to rip into his bowels. The driveway was far behind him, a tiny gap in the distant bank of hedgerow, and there was nobody following. He laughed with sudden relief, panting hard and hot with the exertion of his escape. An ascending roar from behind announced the approach of another car. As he stumbled onto the verge it hurled itself past like a metal angel of Hell, all flashing steel and glinting paint-work, belched fumes and gratuitous aggression.

  It then that he realised why he was hot – his jacket was done up to his throat. As he stepped back onto the tarmac, he undid the zip and opened the front, cooled by the breeze through the thin cotton of his tee-shirt.

  What a nasty little girl, though, trying to make out that he didn't know who he was. Loofah. A name to be proud of; it was so distinguished, so elegant, so… imaginative. Not like Peony – fancy being called after some silly garden flower! Or Chantelle – an Essex doll's name if ever there was one.

  It was odd, though, very odd. The doll had talked about a woman looking two ways, as had the little schoolgirl spaniel. Who was this strange creature? he wondered. A circus act, or perhaps the unfortunate result of some genetic experiment. Or possibly she was something to do with a road safety campaign, although wasn't he a bit old for that sort of thing?

  'Coo-ee!' A elderly lady was standing by a gate in a white picket fence, smiling and waving across at him.

  'What a lovely day!' she called. With cotton-wool hair and a floral print dress, she beamed dizzy kindness through Mary Whitehouse spectacles.

  'Delightful, isn't it?' said Loofah, crossing the road, 'Could you tell me, am I right for the village?'

  'I've just put the kettle on,' was the reply, 'Can I offer you a cup of tea?'

  'I'd better not, actually. I have to get to the village, fairly quickly I think.'

  But she was already ambling slowly up her garden path. He hesitated for a moment, worrying in a foggy sort of a way about continuing his journey, and then followed, drawn by her simple niceness, so refreshing after the woman in the wood and nasty little Peony.

  The front garden was as neat as a new pin, with a billiard table lawn and tidy beds of flowers, their colours and patterns glowing and flowing in the sunlight. The house was of ancient brick with a red-tiled roof, and clematis and honeysuckle twisted and coiled around the solid timber porch.

  'Do make yourself at home,' the old lady said, pushing open the front door and beckoning Loofah in ahead of her.

  'I really shouldn't stop.' As he walked through the porch, a tendril of honeysuckle lashed viciously at his throat.

  'Come through to the kitchen while I make the tea.'

  The hall was an oasis of pleasantness, with rose patterned wallpaper and a faint scent of lavender and cleanness in the cool, still air. He noticed a mirror mounted in a gold-painted wrought metal frame and a pot of dried flowers on a decorative glass shelf.

  'Oh, just look at him,' said the old lady as she passed the staircase, beaming a shaft of pure love at a fluffy ginger cat curled up on the fourth step. Wanting to be polite, Loofah forced a fond smile.

  'You're a cat lover. I can tell, you know.' The cat watched him with green-eyed indifference. 'Why not say hello while I get the tea?'

  As he leaned over to stroke the cat, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. And then looked again. It seemed to be him – there were his glasses and his tee-shirt – but his face was not as he remembered it. The death-white skin was wrinkled like old parchment, the eyes were ogling and bloodshot, filled with malicious lust, and the nose was swollen and veined with excess.

  The sybaritic lips parted in horror – was this vision of loathsome depravity really him? And even as he looked, the image was degenerating further, the nose growing in rubicund bulbosity and the foul mouth twisting into a debauched leer, with warts and chancres sprouting like weeds. A dull sickness crawled through his brain. He watched, stunned, as he decayed in front of his own eyes, rotted out from inside by the corruption of his putrid, stinking soul…

  A sudden flash of pain cut through his horror-trance – Loofah snatched his hand away as the cat raked its claws through his skin.

  'Get your filthy paw off me, you fucking piece of shit,' it hissed, eyes glowing with a pale green venom.

  'I can see you two are getting along like old friends,' the old lady said, standing in the kitchen doorway, 'If only they could talk, eh?'

  'I think maybe I should be getting along,' said Loofah, clutching his injured hand.

  'Would you mind just giving me a hand with the tray? I'm not as nimble as I used to be.'

  'Actually…' he began, but she had already turned away.

  Entering the kitchen was like stepping into the sky: white walls, blue painted cupboards with white porcelain knobs, blue and white floor tiles. His hostess stood by the fridge, taking biscuits from a willow patterned tin and laying them carefully around the rim of a plate.

  'Could you pour the water into the pot?' she said, 'The kettle's just boiled.'

  An old-fashioned hob kettle, shining like polished chrome, stood on a gas ring with wisps of steam forming intricate patterns in the air around its spout. Beside this, a round blue tea-pot waited expectantly on the scrubbed pine work surface, three crisp tea-bags nestling in its dark depths.

  'I do like a cup of tea and a nice little chat, don't you?' the old lady said, 'People these days are always rushing around, no time for anything.'

  Loofah reached over to lift the kettle from the hob. But as he touched the wooden handle, a jet of steam spat from the spout, scalding his wrist. He pulled his hand away with a cry and the kettle sneered with delight, a glint of malice in its mirrored shine.

  'Of course it was different in my day, we had time for each other then. How are you doing with that tea?'

  'Um…'

  'Got to let it brew properly. We don't want it all weak and wan, do we?'

  He reached for the kettle again. It spat another jet but this time he was on his guard. He snatched his hand away – and a drawer at his waist shot open, crashing into his hip bone with a thud of pain and a clutter of cutlery.

  'Looking for teaspoons? Next drawer along.'

  The first drawer snapped closed and the second opened, revealing a tray of silver teaspoons that glinted like treasure. Reaching in to take one, he realised his mistake a split second too late; the drawer slammed shut, trapping his fingers.

  'Mind you,' his hostess continued, taking blue china cups from the cupboard above the fridge, 'I've always been the neighbourly type.'

  Gritting his teeth against the agony, Loofah wrenched at the handle with his free hand. The drawer started chewing, grinding his fingers against the edge of the work surface. With blood spurting from under his nails and searing jolts of pain firing up his arm, one by one his knuckle bones were cracked and crumbled to gravel.

  '"Open house" my Billy used to call it – people popping in and out all day long.'

  With a final, desperate effort he managed
to haul the drawer open and pull his hand free. Blind with pain, he clutched his ruined fingers while the drawers – three of them in a row – grinned at him, mocking his agony.

  'Ready for pouring, is it?' the old lady said, crossing to the cooker, 'Oh, you've not made it yet!'

  She smiled him an understanding smile. 'You men. All the same, aren't you? Don't know one end of a kitchen from the other.'

  As she took the kettle from the hob, there was a roar behind him. Loofah spun round; the washing machine was shaking with insane wrath, murder blazing from its control dial and powder slot, and from the spinning fury of its window. It lurched at him with a savage metal growl and he staggered backwards, nearly falling into the fanged jaws of the dish washer, which snapped closed, missing him by inches.

  'Be ready in a couple of minutes,' the old lady said, putting the lid on the tea-pot.

  'Actually, I really must be…'

  But he was interrupted by a low, gurgling growl from the washing machine. Its spinning had now slowed and through the round glass he could see its contents: purple loops of bruised intestine, torn shreds of liver, a spongy lobe of lung, all churning in a soup of blood, urine and gut fluid.

  'Oh look, there's the washing just finished. I'd better hang it out before I sit down.' She pressed the machine's door-catch. 'Got to get the best of this glorious drying weather, haven't we?'

  Loofah watched with rigid fascination as the door swung open and out flowed… two sheets, a pillow case, and a pale yellow bath towel.