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

by Stuart Oldfield

The track was heavily pot-holed and, especially in the deep gloom under the spur road bridge, he had to take care to avoid puddles. After this the way rose steeply; it was still rough walking on thin soles, but dry. At the crest of the ridge the track turned sharp left to run along the top of the motorway cutting. There was now no barrier from the road and the monotonous roar intensified.

  Out of the lee of the ridge he was exposed to the full bitterness of the wind. Shivering, he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. He felt something: the crumpled wrapping paper of Laura's present. But there was no sign of the bottle. He stopped, checking the inside pocket and then his jeans. Nothing. It was gone. There was another uprush of self-pity; he had lost it already, his only birthday present, the only sign, paltry though it was, that any creature on earth was aware of his existence. He touched the skin behind his left ear and then held the finger under his nose, smelling the residual perfume of the geranium leaves. For some moments he stood staring at the pitted concrete of the path, gutted by sorrow.

  After a hundred yards or so, at the start of the woods, the track joined a narrow farm road that swung in from the left. He walked slowly now, like a mourner at a funeral. Why had he let all of this happen? this was the big question. For he had let it happen, watching blankly, like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, as the whole thing fell apart. His marriage and his children and his home, and now his business, each slipping through numbed fingers and crashing, one by one, to the cold concrete floor.

  It was strangely peaceful in the woods. The stately beeches soared skywards like gothic pillars, their branches meshing over the road like vaulting. The manic roar of the traffic, though undiminished in intensity, seemed to lose its relevance in the cathedral calm. The air here was still, though he could still hear the wind in the high branches of the trees, far, far above. As he walked the tree trunks loomed out of the half-light, vast impassive sentinels, aware of his presence though indifferent to it.

  Whatever it was that had done for him, it had crept up on him like a murderer in the night, unnoticed and unrecognised. It had led him away from the path into the dark, dark forest, where he now stumbled blindly forward with a quiet panic screaming through his skull. He stopped and stared up at the swaying branches far above, clawed silhouettes against the grey sky. He felt suddenly severed from his life and a strange calm flooded over him. A scrap of floating seaweed swept along by the currents and tides, carried by the blind forces of the ocean, he had lost control of his life.

  He reached a junction which he did not recognise: he had come further than he intended. The road itself swung right, heading out of the wood, back into the fading light of the afternoon. An unmetalled track branched off straight ahead, leading on through the trees. Cadwallader followed the road, feeling suddenly exposed as he left the sanctuary of the woods.

  After fifty yards, the road crossed a single lane bridge over the motorway. Here the roar reached a manic crescendo, the scream of the engines and the thunder of tyres on concrete like a never-ending onrush of enraged beasts, bellowing their fury into the gloaming. He stared down at the two-way river of light – white flowing towards him, red away – which stretched to infinity, winding away over the distant hills like a luminous snake. The brief peace of the cathedral had dissolved in the corrosive acid of misery; he had lost everything, every single thing that had mattered to him, and in return he gained nothing but anguish. And now he was trapped: even if he saw a way out the mess, he knew that he wouldn't have the strength to take it.

  So what now? He hadn't a clue, not a single scintilla of an inkling.

  Leaning forward against the metal parapet, he allowed himself to sink into the endless flow of lights, relaxing into his misery as into the arms of an old friend. In a strange way he liked it here, flowing with the lights, his thoughts numbed by the incessant roar. Perhaps he could stay forever, gazing down onto the motorway, shielding himself from pain until death finally carried him away.

  'Don't jump.'

  Although the voice was smooth and soft, like velvet, he heard her clearly above the traffic noise. And oddly he was not surprised, as if he had been expecting her. He turned slowly.