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

Loofah stared at the computer screen in a state of rising panic. The whole might of the Company was bearing down on him and he didn't even know where to begin. He had already searched through the foggy corridors of his mind for inspiration, but without success. And so he gazed into the monitor-aquarium, wondering what it would be like to be a water snail or a piece of duck-weed and to live a harmless aquatic life free of the cares of corporate existence.

  The goldfish swam to and fro aimlessly and the sea-horses hovered, more like ceramic decorations that living animals. Three or four newts hung suspended in the water, perfectly still, gripping slender weed fronds with tiny suckered feet and watching the fish with bored dog-like faces. A large black tadpole wiggled up to the front of the screen and looked out at him.

  'Bloody… bugger,' it said in a high pitched electronic squeak with a distinct West Country burr, 'Bugger… bloody… damn and bugger.'

  'What's wrong?' asked Loofah.

  'Nothing's wrong. I'm the buggering cursor, aren't I?' said the tadpole with a titter, 'That's a good one, ain't it? I always likes that one.'

  'It is a good one. A cursing cursor – very funny indeed.' Loofah forced a laugh, for inane though it was, the tadpole did offer a tiny glint of hope. 'I wonder if you could help me,' he went on after the merriment had died down, 'You see I need some figures for Mr Sutton and I don't really know where to begin.'

  'No problem, my dear,' squeaked the tadpole. And suddenly the aquarium was gone and the image of a young woman appeared – circa 1964, Bond girl sex appeal, wearing nothing but a lurid pink bikini with yellow frills – mincing seductively forward, lips pouting and hips swaying. The scene froze with the screen completely filled with sun-tanned belly and confectionery breasts. Then, like an emergent tropical parasite, out of her navel wiggled the tadpole.

  'This what you wanted?' it squeaked, trying to suppress a giggle.

  'A figure – ha! ha! – I get it.' Loofah's grin was beginning to hurt. 'But I was actually hoping for some numbers.'

  'Numbers? Well, why didn't you just say?'

  They were back in the aquarium. Something was sinking slowly through the water: white shapes, like pieces of spaghetti. And indeed it was spaghetti, in the shape of numerals; there was even a slight tinge of tomato sauce in the water towards the top of the screen. The tadpole took a quick bite out of a passing '5', while an ill-fated '9' was savaged in a piranha attack by three of the goldfish. The newts looked on with haughty indifference.

  'That's great,' said Loofah as the tadpole chewed contentedly, 'But I think I'll need to do some calculations. You know, sums, stuff like that.'

  The tadpole swallowed and then peered out at him.

  'My dear, this is just the screen-save,' it said, as if speaking to a child, 'You can't do sums in the screen-save, now can you?'

  'Everything on target?' said a voice from behind, announcing the unwelcome return of the marketing executive.

  'Yes. Completely. One hundred percent,' said Loofah, grinning, 'Just working on a few… um… ideas.'

  'Ideas? Brilliant. I like ideas. Run 'em up the flagpole, see if anyone salutes, right? Right. The Company needs ideas, the lifeblood of innovation as I always say. And where do ideas come from? From our people, that's who. You and me. The team.'

  The computer screen was reflected in Sutton's glasses, hiding his eyes.

  'Only little ideas, mind you, nothing too – .'

  'But remember this: in my department we worship one god and one god only. The bottom line. That's where it all happens. That's all that counts. Sales. Targets. Results. You want to daydream, you do it in your own time. Clear? Clear.'

  Sutton flashed an assassin's smile, goldfish swimming across his eye sockets. Then, in a billow of aftershave, he was gone.

  When Loofah looked back to the computer, the tadpole too had vanished. Although it had been little if any help, now he was completely alone. And so he gazed into the screen, drifting gently among the ceramic sea-horses and inscrutable newts, attempting to apply the nebulous mist that was his mind to the problem of what to do next.

  Amazingly it was not long before a shaft of light, albeit a faint one, managed to penetrate the fog. Computer, screen, cursor: Loofah realised that there was a vague familiarity about the combination. Although wasn't there usually something else? He glanced down the desk. Ah, of course: keyboard. He'd done this before, he was sure of it now. Sensing his sudden surge of confidence, the screen cleared, the fish, the newts and the water all collapsing to nothing to leave a plain black background with a small blinking vertical bar in the top left-hand corner. Another tiny clear thought emerged from the swirling mists: 'log in'. Loofah smiled and started typing: 'HELLO. MY NAME IS – '.

  But the computer interrupted him.

  'I know who you are,' displayed the screen in sharp white lettering, 'Let's get going, shall we? We've got a lot to get through.'

  'Oh. Right,' said Loofah, taken aback by its assertiveness, 'Of course, let's get going.'

  He took his hands off the keyboard and waited.

  'Well?' displayed the screen, eventually.

  'Well what?'

  'Jesus!' – the expletive flashed briefly – 'Look, just get on with it, will you? I'm a very busy machine, I haven't got all day.'

  'Oh. Sorry,' Loofah stammered, then struggled to remember what he was supposed to be doing, 'Of course, that's it. I need the figures. The figures for Mr Sutton.'

  The computer's cooling motor changed pitch in a sigh of exasperation and it blinked the cursor on and off as if drumming its fingers on the desk. The screen, however, remained blank.

  'The figures?' Loofah repeated, very tentatively.

  'I don't believe this,' the screen flashed, apparently to itself, then adding, 'Haven't you ever used a computer before?'

  'Yes, of course I have. Lots of times.'

  'Then you should know that you can't talk to me.'

  'Oh, yes. Sorry.'

  'And do you know why that is?'

  'Um…'

  'Because I'm a fucking machine, that's why. I haven't got any ears, have I? I can't fucking hear you.' It paused to let the words sink in, before finishing, in bold capitals, with: 'USE THE KEYBOARD, WILL YOU?'

  Loofah did not like this machine one little bit. Now completely flustered, he could hardly think straight, and yet he had to keep going; the marketing executive would be back soon and progress with the required figures was minimal to say the least. And so he struggled with his swimming thoughts, like a manic fisherman groping for eels in a muddy pond. Soon he felt something slithering past his fingers, grabbed it and pulled it, wriggling, into the daylight. It was a clear, concise sentence, right there in the front of his brain ready for typing: 'Please let me have the figures for Mr Sutton'. Sighing with relief, he reached for the keys.

  'PLEASE – LET – ME – HAVE – THE – ,' he typed, the words flashing neatly onto the screen. Suddenly – in a reflex – he jerked his hands away. Teeth snapped shut, missing his fingertips by millimetres. It was only then that he noticed that the keyboard was non-standard, not a Qwerty model. In fact it was a huge grinning mouth, with two rows of yellowing tombstone teeth, flecked with saliva and rimmed with purplish lips, the full lips of dissolution, a Sybarite's lips that quivered in excited expectation.

  An angry beep came from the machine and under his half-finished sentence, the words 'What? Let you have what?' appeared.

  'The fig – ,' Loofah began aloud, but stopped himself. He looked down at the keyboard. The teeth glinted in the light from the screen, waiting for him.

  'For God's sake, get on with it,' flashed the screen, 'or I'm shutting down.'

  Oh no, he couldn't have that. The keyboard smirked ominously, but he didn't seem to have much choice. He stabbed at a tooth near where 'F' should have been – and to his delight the screen showed an 'F'! Hardly believing his luck, he went for 'I' – and got an 'I'. Then a 'G' and a 'U'. Then a…
the teeth snapped suddenly, brushing his fingertips as he snatched his hands away. The mouth grinned up at him, enjoying the joke.

  '"PLEASE LET ME HAVE THE FIGU" – What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' flashed the screen.

  Loofah looked from the screen to the keyboard, and then back to the screen, squirming with repressed panic.

  'Right. That's it,' flashed the screen after a few seconds, 'I'm shutting down. You'll find paper and a pen in the top drawer.'

  'No, wait,' Loofah cried, but then – quickly recollecting – he dived for the keys, managing to type out 'RES' before the teeth snapped again.

  '"RES?"' flashed the screen, blankly, 'Not a command I know. If it's Fortran or Cobol or anything else from the Dark Ages, forget it. I'm state of the art, me, I'm not pissing around with any of that dinosaur crap.'

  Loofah tried again, pecking out the letters on the snapping teeth: 'FIGURES'.

  'SYNTAX!' flashed the screen in bold capitals, adding for its own benefit, 'What a fucking game.'

  Loofah sighed deeply.

  'PLEASE LET ME HAVE THE FIGURES,' he typed, nearly losing a finger after the fourth word.

  'What? Any figures? Be more specific, will you? I'm a computer, not a mind reader.'

  'THE FIGURES FOR MR SUTTON.'

  There was a pause and then the hard disc engaged, whirring hopefully for a second or two.

  'No can do,' flashed the screen.

  'I don't believe this!' muttered Loofah, slumping into his chair like a melting jelly.

  'Don't get shitty with me. It's in another programme, that's all.'

  'Which programme?' he snapped.

  'Key – board,' it flashed, in a sing-song sort of way.

  'WHICH PROGRAMME?' he typed, still dodging the teeth, which never seemed to tire of their jolly little game.

  'Syntax.'

  'GIVE ME THE PROGRAMME WITH THE FIGURES FOR MR SUTTON.'

  The hard disc engaged briefly. 'Specify a path.'

  'WHAT?' typed Loofah, exasperated.

  'You must specify the path for the programme you require, giving the correct Directory, any Sub-Directories and the appropriate file-name. Please ensure you use the correct syntax at all – .'

  'Just give me the bloody programme, will you!' he shouted, nearly banging his fists down on the keyboard – though thinking better of it.

  The screen swam with indignation. Loofah immediately regretted his outburst; it was going to leave him high and dry. And indeed after a few moments of silent seething, the machine became deadly calm.

  'Programme requested: Skylight 3.4,' it flashed coldly, 'Operating system closing down. Have a nice day.'

  'No, wait…' But it was too late – the screen cleared and was then immediately filled by a cheery looking window, framed by floral curtains. The view out of the window was of a trim little garden, with rolling green hills, blue sky and fluffy white clouds in the background. Two bluebirds sang in the hedge and lambs gambolled in the nearest field.

  But despite the pristine prettiness, Loofah cursed silently. A nice view was all very well, but without the figures he was done and he knew it. Squirming with frustration, he searched the screen, hunting desperately for some clue. And then, with a quick flood of relief, he saw it, floating in the sky just above the bird table: a tiny little pictograph comprising some symbolic numbers superimposed on each other and under this the crucial identifier: 'The figures for Mr Sutton'.

  Loofah prodded the screen hopefully, touching the icon. Nothing happened. Perhaps it needed a typed command. But as he went down for the keyboard, he saw that the whole mouth had closed and vast pair of lips was now smirking up at him like some warped cosmetics advert.

  It was then he noticed something else on the screen, poised over a rose bush to the left of the lawn: an ornate Gothic arrow. Of course, the pointer! – it was all coming back to him. Problem solved… well, nearly. Oh no, not 'nearly' at all – for how was he going to move the pointer? As his tiny flame of hope guttered, he looked glumly from the Playschool screen to the depraved keyboard.

  And there beside it, sitting on a neat pad in grey plastic, was a large brown rat.

  It was squatting on its haunches with its skin-and-gristle tail curled behind it, cleaning its front paws. It paused briefly when it noticed Loofah watching, cast him a disinterested glance, and then returned to its grooming.

  Somehow he knew what to do.

  With a hard swallow, he gritted his teeth, then reached out and snatched hold of the surprised animal. Squeaking furiously, this struggled frantically to get its head round to bite him, but Loofah was too quick for it and held its head between thumb and forefinger so that it couldn't turn. As he eyed with distaste the vicious yellow teeth, impotently bared, and felt the hot wriggling body in his hand with the coarse greasy coat against his skin, a wave of giddy nausea rolled languorously up his gullet. Modern technology isn't all it's cracked up to be, he thought, grimly. Then, fighting his revulsion, he swept the indignant animal over the plastic pad, guiding the pointer across the screen towards the 'figures' icon.

  Which promptly dodged out of the way, sliding down across the sky and coming to rest on the lawn. Loofah sighed with exasperation. The rat again struggled to escape, but he tightened his grip and swept it back over the pad. But again the elusive icon skidded away across the screen, this time ending up under one of the lambs.

  And so he gave chase. To a chorus of angry squeaks, he swept the outraged rodent to and fro, pursuing the icon across the lawn, into the hedges, and back into the sky. He chased it around the bluebirds, through a rose bush and across the window sill. At one point it even hid behind the curtains and he had to flush it out, probing blind with the pointer.

  At last, as the icon hovered at the edge of the lawn panting for breath, he saw he had it cornered. Loofah eased in a little closer and then, with an anguished howl from the rat, he hurled the pointer across the grass. The icon dodged – he swung to intercept – it dodged again, but this time it had no escape. As he pounced, certain of success, it hurled itself back into the edge of the screen…

  And slid off the glass onto the plastic casing of the monitor, leaving the pointer quivering uselessly on a flowerbed.

  Loofah watched, flabbergasted, as the errant icon slid down the side of the computer and down onto the desk. In a last effort of desperation he tried to swat it with the rat itself, dispensing with the stranded pointer. But he missed and the icon skidded effortlessly across the white wood veneer of the desk and down a metal leg onto the floor, before skating across the carpet between the legs of a passing secretary and away into the depths of the office.

  Sudden pain stabbed in Loofah's left thumb; the rat had finally managed to get its head free and had sunk is yellow incisors into his flesh. Stifling a cry, he dropped it onto the desk, while the secretary stared at him with puzzled disapproval.

  'Technical problems,' he said, grinning sheepishly. With a contemptuous flick of her bob, she turned and stalked away.

  As he sucked at his injured thumb, there was an insistent purr from the desk behind him. He turned to answer it, but it was a fax machine not a telephone. The ringing stopped and the machine began chuntering to itself, spewing shiny paper onto the desk.