He rubbed his eyes and stared closely at one of the three signs, but was still unable to decipher anything, not one single word. There were certainly letters there – he could see an 'S' and at least three 'E's – but they just seemed to swim around in front of his eyes, like alphabetical tadpoles.
As with the tee-shirt, he decided to be systematic, to read one letter at a time. And indeed, when he looked carefully at the first, it was as clear as day, a nice crisp 'T'. He moved on to the second and saw an unambiguous 'F', then the third, a definite 'Q'. But as he focussed on the fourth letter, a tiny doubt whispered sharply in his ear: what place name in England begins 'TFQ'? Perhaps he had made a mistake. He went back to check the beginning – but this time the first letter was a 'G' and the 'T' had moved, he could see it about four letters on. Then, as he watched, the 'F' swapped places with the 'Q' which barged into the 'G', pushing it off the end of the sign – and once again the whole thing was all a complete mess.
'This is ludicrous,' he muttered, 'What on earth is the good of a signpost that won't say where it's pointing? The other one might have been rude, but at least it knew what it was doing. You're just pathetic.'
He was about to turn away in disgust, but then noticed that the swimming letters were quivering sadly, as if the sign were about to burst into tears. A needle of remorse jabbed at his conscience.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. But signposts do normally show place names. It's their job, you know.'
The sign trembled with silent sobs, its letters running like wet ink. He sighed, wishing he had kept his big mouth shut.
'Look, there's no need to get upset. I'm sure you could do it if you wanted to.'
It seemed to brighten a little. Maybe that's all it needed, a bit of encouragement.
'Go on, give it a try. It's not that difficult, really it isn't.'
It now had an air of eager expectancy, like a dog waiting for its next command. He pointed to one of the roads.
'Where does this one go, for example?'
The sign looked puzzled, its letters swimming anxiously.
'Go on, then,' he encouraged, 'All you have to do is tell me.'
He waited, but nothing legible appeared. The sign began to tremble, again on the verge of tears.
'Please don't get upset again,' he said, 'What if I make some suggestions and you tell me which is right? Do you think that would help?'
It brightened again.
'Alright then, we'll start with this one.' He pointed to one of the three directions. 'Now let me see – where could this road possibly go to?'
He thought hard, struggling to apply the turbid swirl of his mind to the geography of the area. Words that could have been place names swam around enticingly, each trying to tempt him with its topographical pertinence.
'Does it go to Manchester?' he asked, grabbing the nearest. And within a split second, 'MANCHESTER' had appeared, in crisp neat letters. On its own initiative, the sign had added a tidy little '2½m' at the end.
'Brilliant!' he exclaimed, delighted with the accuracy of his intuition. The sign quivered with pride.
'What about this one?' He pointed to the next road. 'Blackburn, perhaps?'
And there it was – 'BLACKBURN 3m' – in clear black and white. So he'd been right twice: not bad, considering he didn't know the area. But then he always had been good at getting his bearings.
'Now, what about the last one,' he said, 'It seems to be going south. Where to, I wonder.' The letters swam expectantly. 'What about Bristol?'
No sooner was the word out of his mouth than it was up on the sign: 'BRISTOL 1½m'.
'Great! All done. It wasn't that hard, was it?'
But even as he spoke, the maggot of doubt began to gnaw. If he was two and a half miles from Manchester, could Bristol really be just a mile and half away? The signpost stood in the sunshine as proud as a peacock, displaying its three directions to all the world. He almost didn't say anything, it looked so happy.
'Do you really mean Bristol?' he asked, gently, 'You don't mean Birmingham, do you?'
'BIRMINGHAM 3½m': it had changed before his mouth was closed.
Oh dear.
'Or Glasgow?'
'GLASGOW 4m'.
'Look, I don't want to be rude,' he said, losing heart, 'but I think you've missed the point here.'
'TAUNTON 2m', followed quickly by 'NEWCASTLE-UNDER-LYME ½m'.
'No, no, no. You're just guessing now.'
'KENILWORTH 5m'. 'STOCKBRIDGE 6½m'. 'WHITELEAF 11m'.
'It doesn't matter. Let's forget it shall we? I'm sorry to have bothered you.' The sign quivered anxiously, flicking up names like a deranged railway departures board.
'PARIS 3m'. 'LAGOS 5½m'. 'NEW DELHI 3m'.
'Don't get upset. It's all OK. I'm just going over here, that's all.'
The words became a blur, changing too fast to read, and the poor thing began to tremble with grief.
Sitting down on the grass verge about ten yards away from the miserable sign, he carefully avoided eye contact with it. He heard what could have been a suppressed sob – and winced.
But why should he feel guilty? The sign couldn't do its job and that was that. He wasn't responsible for the professional failings of the public infrastructure. Didn't the Council have training programmes for this sort of thing? He kicked at the roadside gravel and pulled crossly at the scrubby grass beside him. He only wanted to know where the roads went to and surely that wasn't too much to ask. Otherwise how was he supposed to know how to get to where he was going?
The tumble of thoughts ceased abruptly and then a question mark popped up in his head: where exactly was he going? This was not followed by an immediate answer.
Releasing the unjustly punished grass, he peered into the slithering pool of his brain where a hundred thoughts and memories wriggled around like eels, always just sliding out of his grip and disappearing into the turbid water. He caught one: a woman in a tweed suit with an unhealthy interest in fungi. The memory oozed a cold, clinging slime – but it did answer his question: 'ask at the village'.
But before he could put the memory back into the water, another blob of the slime splattered against the inside of his skull: 'I've already told you'. Her words were as clear as when she had first said them and he shivered quickly as a strange chill crawled over his skin. Why had she said that? She had only seen him once, so how could she have told him already? She must be mistaking him for someone else.
Something slipped into his mind, a creeping dangerous thing, unwelcome as a pernicious disease: a man walking beside a woman in a red dress. The image was crystal clear – and in glorious technicolour. Hardly daring to do so, he looked down to his chest. Then he knew where he had seen these colours – lime green and fluorescent orange – before the dogs' blazers.
There was a faint rumbling at the edge of his mind. With fumbling fingers, he pulled up the jacket zip to hide the loathsome tee-shirt. The roar of a jungle animal, far away but getting nearer. Strange implications began to coalesce, too foul to even contemplate. The noise was louder, the creature was closing fast. In a hurricane of sudden panic he leapt to his feet, covering his ears to block out his thoughts. The enraged beast roared through his brain, it was nearly on him. In a whirl of bat-face images, he ran into the road, crushed by the escalating roar.
Suddenly it was there, hurtling towards him: a shining red monster with silver teeth and flashing eyes, devouring the tarmac and bellowing its fury through his jellied mind. It screamed as he staggered out of its path, and then tore past, disappearing up the road.
For some moments he stood on the verge, panting hard, his brain pumping with liquid fear. He didn't like this loathsome place, he didn't like it at all. He ran back to the road junction – which way, which bloody way? He looked up at the signpost – and saw a swimming blur.
'The village! Which way is the village?'
The flustered letters spun even faster. Crawli
ng with frustration, he pointed to one of the roads.
'Is it this one?' he shouted, 'Is this the way to the village?'
And there it was: 'THE VILLAGE 6½m'.
'Thank you, thank you so much,' he said with relief, and was away.
The One Who Is Two (Book 1 of White Rabbit) Page 18