Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin' Read online

  “I believe Brother Sebastian suggested a poker night,” said Brother Henry.

  “I think letting Brother Sebastian organise a poker night would be the thin end of the wedge. Within the year, he’ll have turned the monastery into a casino.”

  Stephen would have laughed, but he suspected Manfred was absolutely right.

  “I was thinking perhaps group meditation,” said Manfred. “Or some trust exercises.”

  “Why don’t we simply have a good old pray together?” said Brother Clement, his beads clicking meaningfully. “We are monks after all.”

  Manfred sighed.

  “I suppose. Father Abbot, do you have an opinion on this?” Manfred coughed loudly. “Father.”

  On the laptop screen, Father Eustace had an exploratory finger shoved firmly up his nose.

  “We can see you, you know, father,” said Manfred.

  Father Eustace looked directly into camera and did a little facial shrug with his eyebrows.

  “I don’t think picking your nose is part of the ascetic hermitic tradition,” said Brother Gillespie, giving his own dewy conk a thorough wiping.

  “I’m sure Simeon Stylites’s forefinger never invaded his nasal cavity,” said Brother Clement.

  “Thirty seven years without picking your nose?” said Stephen. “That’s impressive.”

  “Filthy habit,” yawned Brother Henry.

  “At least he has one.” Brother Clement glared pointedly at Brother Henry.

  “Oh, a pun,” said Brother Henry dryly. “For your information, I do own a habit. It’s just that I’m equally comfortable in my dressing-gown. Habits. Dressing-gowns. They’re essentially the same item.”

  “They are not,” said Brother Clement, his clacking beads rising in tempo.

  “As the weather improves,” said Manfred, “we will be getting more visitors to the island. It would be nice if our personal appearance demonstrated a level of pride in St Cadfan’s. The refurbishments to the building look amazing and so should we. I see the library is really coming together, Brother Trevor.”

  “Stephen,” said Stephen. “I am very pleased with it. We have some wonderful books on display. Some very rare volumes and, actually, some I’ve never even heard of. I’m currently reading through the rather interesting Librum Magnum Daemonum.”

  Brother Gillespie coughed suddenly. Brother Gillespie coughed a lot, generally, but Stephen felt this was a different sort of cough, although he couldn’t be sure why.

  “Anyway,” he continued slowly, “the whole area looks fantastic. The visitor centre is very impressive. We have artefacts on display and Brother Sebastian has installed computers and some big screens with links to the website so that physical visitors as well as internet browsers can see images from all the monastery’s webcams.”

  “Not all of them, surely,” said Brother Clement.

  Stephen thought on it.

  “The gardens, the cloisters, the church … I think so.”

  “But not all of them?” said Brother Clement, pointing at the laptop screen on which a cross-eyed Father Eustace stared at something shapeless and moist on the tip of his finger.

  “Oh,” said Stephen.

  “So can you smash bricks with your head?” asked the girl with the improbable name of Pixie Kaur.

  “No.” Bastian peered back down the island’s one hill to check that everyone was still with them. A wending dragon of luminous green tabards stretched out behind him.

  “Can you chop bits of wood with your hand?” continued Pixie. “You know, like, Hi-ya!”

  “I’ve seen them do that,” said Pixie’s blonde friend, Araminta.

  “I think you’re confusing us with a different kind of monk, perhaps. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for birds?”

  Pixie held up one of the little camcorders that the teacher had distributed amongst the group. She panned it round for less than a second. “Nope. No birds.”

  “Keep looking,” said Bastian.

  Carol came scuttling up past the file of students to Bastian.

  “Everything all right, Brother Sebastian?”

  “Bastian, please. Yes. Well, I am a mite concerned about the weather.”

  The symphony of rain had continued unabashed all morning and, although they had yet to be subjected to a bombastic and torrential finale, the elements were subjecting them to a largo movement, slow perhaps but persistent, inescapable and soddening.

  “Perhaps we need to make our way down for now,” said Bastian.

  “It is certainly getting a bit boggy underfoot,” agreed Carol. “I did wonder about the state of the paths.”

  “Oh, they are well-worn but perfectly safe.”

  “Because if a child were to slip down the hill and tumble into the sea …”

  “Oh no, Ms Well-Dunn.”

  “… I could point out certain ideal candidates. You know, give them a nudge while I’m not looking. Then again, my name’s on the trip paperwork, so best not. I think prison and losing my pension would be too high a price for bumping off Spartacus Wilson and company.”

  “My feet are wet and I’m cold,” said the blonde girl.

  Carol smiled at her.

  “Araminta Dowling, is it my fault that you chose to come on this trip in leggings and strappy sandals?”

  “Yes?”

  “No. So, Brother Sebastian, lunch at the monastery then?” said Carol brightly. “I’ll get this train turned around.” And she marched back down the hill, shouting orders at her little charges.

  On the way down to St Cadfan’s, Pixie kept up her stream of questions, which at least partially distracted Bastian from the disappointment that the first organised school visit to St Cadfan’s was not going as well as he imagined. On reflection, his rosy dreams of pleasant kiddy-winks, skipping straight out of the pages of Enid Blyton books, armed with rolls of banknotes to spend in the monastery gift shop, were probably unrealistic. Nonetheless, he had expected it to be better than this …

  “So, can you do that mind control thing?” asked Pixie.

  “Sorry?” said Bastian.

  “You know, ‘these aren’t the droids you’re looking for’.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

  “And, like, do you have a light saber?”

  “A what? I’m sorry. We are a community of monks, men who have chosen to live together in the service of God.”

  The walls to the monastery gardens were less than a minute distant now but, for Bastian, they were too far away.

  “Don’t you like women?” asked Araminta.

  “Of course we do,” said Bastian.

  “Have you got a wife?”

  “No.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “No. We don’t have wives or girlfriends.”

  “Are you, like, gay?” asked Pixie.

  “No, I am not gay.”

  “Cos there’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

  “I know that, Pixie,” he said with forced calm. “I’m not gay.”

  “Ah,” said Araminta suddenly. “You’re one of them ‘he-she’s.”

  “A what?”

  “A trannie,” said Pixie. “Is that why you wear those dresses?”

  “This is a habit,” said Bastian, stooping slightly to pass through the archway in the garden wall. “It’s a symbol of our role.”

  “Cos it looks like a dress.”

  “Or a big nightie,” said Araminta. “Or a dressing-gown.”

  “It’s not a dress or any kind of sleeping attire,” said Bastian.

  “That monk there’s wearing slippers,” said Pixie. “Are you lying to us?”

  Bastian looked at the figure scurrying into the cloisters and contorted his weary face into something resembling a smile.

  “No, girls. That’s Brother Henry, and he is wearing a dressing-gown.”

  “Can he smash bricks with his head?”

  “I don’t know. Go ask him.”

  Technically speakin
g, Rutspud was not alive, not in any biological sense. And, in that respect, he had never lived or possessed such a thing as a life. But, in the absence of alternative vocabulary, Rutspud reckoned he had been ‘alive’ for something like ten thousand earth years, give or take a millennium. In that considerable time, he had seen much of Hell.

  He had visited Hell’s capital, Pandemonium, on a number of occasions, and stood in awe of its soaring towers, its unholy angles, and the delicious cosmic horror of a city constructed by mad architects with unhealthy imaginations. However, he had never previously stepped inside the Fortress of Nameless Dread, once the palace of Satan himself and, now, the heart of the new administration.

  Rutspud, Scabass and Lord Peter’s secretary rode up in the elevator together. It was fast and silent but for a faint metallic slicing sound, as though the lift itself were a giant guillotine blade, falling forever. The elevator bonged sourly as they reached their destination.

  “Floor six-six-six,” said Nero.

  “Cute,” said Rutspud.

  “Shut your mouth,” whispered Scabass. “Not a word from you.”

  Rutspud mimed zipping his mouth shut and immediately regretted it. It could, far too easily, be taken as a suggestion.

  “If this thing goes badly for me,” said Scabass, “I’m dragging you down with me.”

  Nero led them down a corridor of misaligned arches, the walls painted the reds and greys of an ulcerated intestine.

  “This is the throne room of his former Satanic Majesty.” Nero gestured casually to a pair of spiked double doors and a briefly glimpsed cathedral of fire beyond. “And this,” he said, passing by the throne room to a frosted glass doorway further down the corridor, “is the Infernal Administrative Centre.”

  The glass doors slid open silently as they approached, and Nero ushered them into a space that was clean, too bright for Rutspud’s liking and filled with the low-level hubbub of thousands of individuals doing their jobs and doing them well.

  They walked through a vast conical chamber filled with desks topped with glowing screens at which damned souls sat with strange plastic earmuffs strapped to their heads.

  “What is this place?” asked Scabass.

  “Hell’s call centre,” said Nero. “Any invocations to Satan, demons or the powers of Hell come through here. Staffed entirely and perpetually by these damned individuals.”

  “What was their crime in life?” asked Scabass.

  “They worked in call centres,” shrugged Nero. “Through here.”

  A short way down a side corridor, Nero gestured at a row of plastic chairs.

  “Wait here. You will be called for.” Nero disappeared through a door.

  With a lack of anything better to do, Rutspud and Scabass sat. The seats were too small for the ogreish Scabass, and his ferrous buttocks scraped the seat as he tried to get comfortable.

  “For one of the damned, that Nero’s an uppity creature.”

  “Are you going to put him in his place, sir?” said Rutspud.

  “I think being Lord Peter’s personal slave is punishment enough. Our lord is a cruel master. You see that?”

  Scabass nodded towards a door beneath a sign that read, “Relaxation Centre.”

  “What is it?” said Rutspud.

  “If Lord Peter hears of any demon who is struggling with his role, who finds his workload too tiresome and stressful to bear, they are made to spend time in there.”

  “This is Hell. How bad could it be?”

  “Kittens. Lots of little fluffy kittens.”

  Rutspud shuddered.

  “Have you ever seen a kitten?” said Scabass.

  Rutspud nodded.

  “Slugwrench and I found one once on the Plains of Leng. Horrible, horrible thing.”

  “It gets worse. You have to sit and stroke them until you are ‘better’.”

  “The utter, utter bastard.”

  “And even worse still,” said Scabass, “they make you listen to this thing called Enya.”

  “What is Enya?”

  “Hope you never find out,” said Scabass. “Our lord is a tyrant, such as Hell deserves, but his methods are sometimes beyond the pale. Listen.”

  “What?”

  Scabass pinned Rutspud’s lips together with his iron fingertips. Rutspud listened.

  Through the wall behind them, he could just about hear Lord Peter and some demon in conversation.

  “… went into that inspection utterly unprepared, Pumphog. I wanted detail in that overview.”

  “You told me you wanted me to make it concise,” said the demon.

  “That’s right. Detail.”

  “Did you mean you wanted the document to be precise?”

  “Precise. Concise. I needed details, Pumphog. I was made to look a fool.”

  “I’m sorry, lord.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Pumphog.

  “And what do we do when we’re sorry, Pumphog?” asked Lord Peter.

  Rutspud strained his ears in the silence that followed.

  “We seek forgiveness, don’t we?” said Lord Peter.

  “Please, lord,” squeaked Pumphog.

  “I think just one should do it, shouldn’t it? Here.”

  As the demon began to next speak, Rutspud felt a sudden pressure in his ears, as though he had been plunged into unfathomable depths.

  “Hail … Mary, … full … of … gra-!”

  The was an explosive sound, simultaneously huge and silent, as though a ten megaton soap bubble had burst. It was like the smacking of God’s lips. The painful pressure in Rutspud’s ears vanished.

  A door opened.

  “Lord Peter will see you now,” said Nero.

  “Your mouth shut,” said Scabass as they followed the secretary in. “Not a word.”

  Lord Peter’s office was a large airy cube of a room. Behind Peter’s desk, the entire wall was glass, with a balcony and the grand vista of Pandemonium beyond. A life-sized inverted crucifix hung on one wall. Next to the crucifix was a framed poster of a kitten dangling from a branch and the words, ‘Hang in there’. The carpet beneath Rutspud’s feet was made of some soft, shaggy fibre; totally nauseating to the touch.

  Lord Peter glanced at some papers and brushed what appeared to be crumbs from its surface.

  “Scabass. Rutspud,” he said.

  “Lord.” The demons bowed deeply.

  “I’ll be brief and blunt,” said Lord Peter. “The sixth circle is good and I do mean ‘good’. There is room for development, but there is much to be praised.”

  “Thank you, lord,” said Scabass, with obvious relief.

  “And Rutspud’s cave was the best of the best.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” said Scabass.

  “I was surprised by what I saw. I was expecting to see something bold and brash and new but, no, what I saw was the creative application of existing techniques.”

  “Thank you, Lord.”

  “Scabass, you are aware that, due to the, erm, departure of Lugtrout, a position of prominence has arisen in Infernal Innovation Programme.”

  “I am, my lord.”

  “I want some of the sixth circle’s common sense applied to their crazy inventions.”

  “Of course, Lord,” said Scabass, with a warmth and joy that Rutspud had never heard before.

  “Very well. I am sure you will be able to find someone to take over Rutspud’s duties.”

  Scabass’s uncharacteristic warmth guttered and vanished.

  “What?”

  “Nero will take him there right now. Show his face around the place and such. But he can start as soon as is practicable.”

  Scabass glared down at Rutspud, a hundred questions and the pinpoints of fiery hatred in his eyes. Rutspud obediently remained silent. He did his best to look apologetic, although feared more than a little smugness might have crept into his very expressive eyes.

  “Nero, Rutspud.”

  Lord Peter gestured to the door. Ruts
pud followed Lord Peter’s secretary out into the corridor, himself followed by Scabass’s throaty growl of fury.

  “You seem tense, Scabass,” he heard Lord Peter say.

  “Lord?” said Scabass.

  “Might I suggest that you’re in need of some relaxation?”

  Rutspud was sure he heard his now former boss say something about ‘kittens’ and then the door shut behind them.

  Bastian did his best to supervise the young students in the monastery visitor centre, although he might as well have tried to supervise the rain or the sea. In a confined space, the children had become a single, uncontrollable entity. Ostensibly given the task of using their camcorders to document the interior of the monastery, 4W seemed to have fallen to the ageless childhood activities of running, shouting and going about the earnest business of annoying each other and everyone around them.

  Still, Bastian reflected, at least they were in out of the rain, which had now descended upon the monastery in force. St Cadfan’s was a rather porous monastery and, unfortunately, the waters would by now be pooling on the floor of the almonry and other less secure parts of the monastery complex. The visitors’ centre, being a more recent addition to the cellar rooms, was an unknown quantity and, although Bastian was ninety-nine percent – well, maybe eighty-percent – confident that the refurbished portions were watertight, he did worry that the as-yet untreated spaces further down the sloping corridor were quite possibly ankle-deep. Still, the children had been firmly instructed to stay away, and Bastian hoped that Carol Well-Dunn’s stern voice and threats would hold the more curious in check.

  While Bastian demonstrated the monastery’s impressive website and on-line shop to a number of students, he could hear Carol and Manfred talking in the corridor. No doubt, Manfred was finding Carol’s insights into the ornithological mural in the visitor centre refreshing, although after her twelfth detailed criticism of the paintings of the island’s birds, Manfred had probably been ‘refreshed’ enough.

  “I mean, it’s lovely,” she was saying, “but the kittiwake would never nest in such an exposed area. The wind would destroy the nest and the clutch of eggs.”

  “I see,” said Manfred politely.

  “Not that the kittiwake lays that many eggs at once.”