humble bunny.
More
honest), Mr Leo Pathfinder, in all his neat and tidy well-groomed glory, could be observed –a new moth, glistening, fresh from its pupa –silently emerging from the cloakroom behind them.
He pushed the door wide and posed dramatically in its sweep, his hair preposterously bouffant, his moustache quivering, his index finger raised and pressed firmly to his smiling lips in gentle warning.
Bo –who was facing him –saw Leo immediately, yet gave Ted no intimation of his silent re-entry. His eyes barely flickered from their minute inspection of Ted’s benign physiognomy.
‘I don’t know…’ Ted continued, now utterly immersed in what he was saying, ‘I mean I’m not
certain
if it’ll help you, but early on, when we were still in the office, Wesley told me some fascinating stuff about pigeon farming. He said that people prefer to cling to the idea that factory farming is a very modern thing, but in actual fact the Romans used to keep pigeons –and I mean literally thousands of them –inside these huge, nasty, airless…’
Bo said nothing, just continued to stare at him, focussing on his nose, especially. Ted took his silence as a sign of encouragement and so kept on talking.
Behind him, meanwhile, Pathfinder was on the move. He began to tiptoe, exaggeratedly (holding up his hands, as if scalded, lifting his feet in a crazy goose-step, like a deviant Lipizzaner), very quietly, very deliberately, over from the far wall.
‘Sometimes they’d clip their wings and break their legs so that the birds couldn’t move around too much. I mean if you can only
imagine…
’
Four foot away. Three foot. Two.
Then all at once, like an industrial rubberized, burgundy-bewhiskered Zebedee, Leo sprang –emitting an ear-splittingly wild yet eerily pitch-perfect yodel –and landed, seconds later, with both his hands, stiffened into a terrifying, claw-like rictus, clamped down hard onto poor Ted’s shoulders.
Ted jolted, he bucked, his eyes popped.
‘
WAH?
’
He kicked himself backwards –his swivel chair pivoting –and as he spun, his jaw jerked insanely like a low-budget skeleton on a funfair ghost-train. The wheels continued rolling and twisting. Twice he almost toppled, nearly taking Pathfinder with him. Leo was agile though, and sprang out, sideways.
‘
YES!
’ he bellowed.
The chair finally stalled –it stopped spinning –but Ted’s jowls continued juddering, his usually sallow complexion now the exact same hue as a sweet potato skin.
‘Oh fuck me, Ted, your
face,
’ Bo cackled, bending forwards andplacing both his hands flat onto the desk again.
‘Was it good?’ Leo panted, scurrying around to Bo’s side to get a better look. ‘Did I
kill
him?’
Ted’s breath came in nasty gasps as his hands, white knuckled and shaking, clung onto his knees. His cheeks were hollow, his tie skewed. The material on his trousers, several inches below his right thigh, had mysteriously darkened. Moisture. A tiny patch of it.
Ted gulped, flattened his hand, covered the stain, pushed himself up, turned and ran –scalded, staggering –into the close, steamy privacy of the tiny back cloakroom. He slammed the door behind him.
Outside they continued laughing. Leo laughed so hard that his mouth grew gummy.
‘I need
water,
’ he yelled joyously, ‘right
now
Teddy.’
Ted heard Leo shouting, but he didn’t move immediately. What a small room this is, he found himself thinking. His back was still jammed firmly against the door; his head, his hands, his heels, his buttocks, all hard up against it.
It was solid behind him. And reassuring.
His breath returned gradually. His palms stopped sweating. His eyes moved down slowly from their temporary refuge in the uncontentious angles of the ceiling, and turned, ineluctably, to catch the pitiful half-formed blur of his reflection in the mirror.
He gulped several times –his trembling lower lip curling down clownishly –then he reached out his hand
More
honest), Mr Leo Pathfinder, in all his neat and tidy well-groomed glory, could be observed –a new moth, glistening, fresh from its pupa –silently emerging from the cloakroom behind them.
He pushed the door wide and posed dramatically in its sweep, his hair preposterously bouffant, his moustache quivering, his index finger raised and pressed firmly to his smiling lips in gentle warning.
Bo –who was facing him –saw Leo immediately, yet gave Ted no intimation of his silent re-entry. His eyes barely flickered from their minute inspection of Ted’s benign physiognomy.
‘I don’t know…’ Ted continued, now utterly immersed in what he was saying, ‘I mean I’m not
certain
if it’ll help you, but early on, when we were still in the office, Wesley told me some fascinating stuff about pigeon farming. He said that people prefer to cling to the idea that factory farming is a very modern thing, but in actual fact the Romans used to keep pigeons –and I mean literally thousands of them –inside these huge, nasty, airless…’
Bo said nothing, just continued to stare at him, focussing on his nose, especially. Ted took his silence as a sign of encouragement and so kept on talking.
Behind him, meanwhile, Pathfinder was on the move. He began to tiptoe, exaggeratedly (holding up his hands, as if scalded, lifting his feet in a crazy goose-step, like a deviant Lipizzaner), very quietly, very deliberately, over from the far wall.
‘Sometimes they’d clip their wings and break their legs so that the birds couldn’t move around too much. I mean if you can only
imagine…
’
Four foot away. Three foot. Two.
Then all at once, like an industrial rubberized, burgundy-bewhiskered Zebedee, Leo sprang –emitting an ear-splittingly wild yet eerily pitch-perfect yodel –and landed, seconds later, with both his hands, stiffened into a terrifying, claw-like rictus, clamped down hard onto poor Ted’s shoulders.
Ted jolted, he bucked, his eyes popped.
‘
WAH?
’
He kicked himself backwards –his swivel chair pivoting –and as he spun, his jaw jerked insanely like a low-budget skeleton on a funfair ghost-train. The wheels continued rolling and twisting. Twice he almost toppled, nearly taking Pathfinder with him. Leo was agile though, and sprang out, sideways.
‘
YES!
’ he bellowed.
The chair finally stalled –it stopped spinning –but Ted’s jowls continued juddering, his usually sallow complexion now the exact same hue as a sweet potato skin.
‘Oh fuck me, Ted, your
face,
’ Bo cackled, bending forwards andplacing both his hands flat onto the desk again.
‘Was it good?’ Leo panted, scurrying around to Bo’s side to get a better look. ‘Did I
kill
him?’
Ted’s breath came in nasty gasps as his hands, white knuckled and shaking, clung onto his knees. His cheeks were hollow, his tie skewed. The material on his trousers, several inches below his right thigh, had mysteriously darkened. Moisture. A tiny patch of it.
Ted gulped, flattened his hand, covered the stain, pushed himself up, turned and ran –scalded, staggering –into the close, steamy privacy of the tiny back cloakroom. He slammed the door behind him.
Outside they continued laughing. Leo laughed so hard that his mouth grew gummy.
‘I need
water,
’ he yelled joyously, ‘right
now
Teddy.’
Ted heard Leo shouting, but he didn’t move immediately. What a small room this is, he found himself thinking. His back was still jammed firmly against the door; his head, his hands, his heels, his buttocks, all hard up against it.
It was solid behind him. And reassuring.
His breath returned gradually. His palms stopped sweating. His eyes moved down slowly from their temporary refuge in the uncontentious angles of the ceiling, and turned, ineluctably, to catch the pitiful half-formed blur of his reflection in the mirror.
He gulped several times –his trembling lower lip curling down clownishly –then he reached out his hand
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