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

Loofah sat on a small swivel chair at a desk wedged between two padded room dividers. Brutal fluorescent light had turned his hands into poor quality plastic mouldings, blue and purple. A computer hummed to itself on the desk in front of him, with goldfish, newts and sea-horses swimming aimlessly in its aquarium monitor. He was in the midst of a swirling sea of room dividers, desks and busy people, all jagged and flat under the white flickering light. The air was a stifling buzz of urgent exchanges, air conditioning, and business machines.

  He sat uselessly, acutely aware of his own unworthiness, struggling to prevent an explosion of panic or a slide of despair. The Under Manager's castigations jabbed through his brain again and again, tearing at the anxious veil of his consciousness like a leopard's claw. He cringed under a broadside of guilt – could he really be as awful as that?

  People rushed by: the men all identical with immaculate hairstyles and razor-creased trousers, the products of some junior executive cloning kit, and the women either hard-faced viragos in shoulder-padded suits or painted floozies in tight tops and short skirts. They cast him silent looks as they passed, their mannequin faces masks of hostile curiosity.

  Then the interminable nagging in his head changed its script: 'The other one – the pair of you – the other one – the pair of you'. Loofah convulsed with cold dread and his mind veered away in desperate avoidance. Shrinking into his seat, he stared into the screen-saver fish tank, blanking his thoughts and wishing himself into a newt, wriggling happily behind the glass.

  'Settling in OK?'

  Loofah spun round to face a tall young man with dark hair, a neatly trimmed moustache, and a sunset-red tie.

  'Um… fine, Mr… er…'

  'Sutton. David Sutton. Dave.'

  'Pleased to meet you. My name is – .'

  'Yeah, right. We don't stand on formality here. Do the job and do it well, and no-one will care how you do it. Initiative. Individual responsibility. Results count, not appearances. Clear? Clear.'

  'That's great… er… Dave.'

  'Mr Sutton to you. I run a tight ship in this department. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that.'

  'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean – .'

  'Just remember who's in charge round here. As long as you're on my manor you do what I say and you do it exactly how I tell you to. Jump to it, ask no questions – got me? You want to do things your way, then say so now – and sling your hook. Clear? Clear.'

  Fluorescent light glinted unpleasantly on the lenses of the marketing executive's window-sized tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.

  'Clear as crystal, Mr… um… Sutton,' said Loofah, with an appeasing smile.

  'That's great – let's keep it that way. And if you have any problems, just ask. You're one of the team now. Part of the family. Know what the Chief says? "Our biggest asset is our people", that's what. Just think about it.' The marketing executive paused to flash a greasy smile. 'Now – how are you doing with those figures?'

  For a good five minutes Loofah stared blankly at the twin anxious faces that peered out of him from Sutton's eye sockets.

  'W – which figures?' he eventually managed to stammer.

  'The figures for the Pre-Strategy Planning meeting… that I needed two hours ago.' Sutton leaned forward menacingly, wafting him with aftershave: petrochemical, like an industrial accident. Loofah grinned, trying not to scream.

  'Well?' Sutton demanded, when no response was forthcoming.

  And then, to Loofah's amazement, his mouth opened and he started to speak.

  'Oh, those figures,' he said, not recognising his own voice, 'No problem, no problem whatsoever. Already in hand. Ready in no time.'

  'Great. One hundred and ten percent performance. I like it,' said Sutton, 'But never forget that nobody's indispensable. That means me. That means you. You're not up to scratch, you're out. No arguments, no second chance. Clear?'

  'Er… I think so – .'

  'By the way, you got any ties?'

  'You mean… a family?'

  'Informality. Initiative. Results, not appearances. But wear a tie, OK? The Chief can't stand shabbiness. Sloppy dress equals sloppy work, right? Right.'

  'Oh, I see. But I haven't got a – .'

  'Cup of coffee?'

  'Yes please,' said Loofah quickly, the flint-faced receptionist flashing through his mind.

  'Brilliant,' said Sutton, 'Go to it.' And he was gone.