Clovenhoof Page 6
“Negative feedback?”
“Complaints,” Peter explained.
Satan rolled his eyes.
“So God has responsibility for all of this. I suppose there’s something in that. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“He won’t be going out of his way to see you now, will he? I think it might be an idea if I send someone round to see you. Just a little chat, see if we can work something out.”
“That’s very decent of you,” said Satan.
Peter smiled.
Clovenhoof realised he was staring with fury at the tapestry of Michael.
He looked at Evelyn.
“Can you exorcise me or not?” he said. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only answer for me.”
“You are? Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“I’m being forced to live amongst cushions and kittens.”
“Right.”
“I met a bloke who claims to worship me.”
“That’s nice.”
“But he didn’t even recognise who I was.”
“So this a relationship issue?”
“The police arrested me twice.”
“Oh.”
“But your mate off the tapestry got me out.”
“Er.”
Evelyn’s brow creased with confusion.
“I can’t say that I understand your troubles – not all of them - but you’re obviously feeling them very deeply.”
“Is that a yes to the exorcism?”
“Perhaps you would like to talk to me some more about these problems.”
“So it’s a no.”
“Jeremy. I’m here to listen, if you would like that.”
Clovenhoof shook his head and walked out of the church.
He stopped outside the door to flick a bogey at the stone Michael and headed for home.
The fox had been dead for some time. It lay matted and muddy in the gutter of the Chester Road. Clovenhoof stopped to look at it and sniffed the pungent smell of decay. He lifted the corpse and turned it over in his hands. The crumpled bloody mess on its underside indicated that it had been hit by a car. The eyes were collapsed and he wondered how long it would be before the fox’s head became a skull. He thought back to the décor in Pitspawn’s attic room and decided that he would take Michael’s advice and give his flat some homely touches. Skulls would be cool. The smell itself was so interesting that it reminded him of the old place. He inhaled deeply and carried the carcase back to the flat.
He spent the rest of the day looking for other skulls. He’d walked the streets and found a roadkill cat, but the mother lode was among the scrubby area by the garages behind the house. Three rats, bloated with poison had expired near to some fragrant sacks of rubbish. Clovenhoof thought the whole scene had a certain poetry to it, and it almost felt wrong to remove the rats from the tableau.
He arrived back at the flat with his collection and found a small basket outside.
He read the card:
To our new neighbour,
Do pop up and say hello when you’re settled.
Love Nerys.
X
He uncovered the basket and tried one of the mince pies. The pastry was dry and the mincemeat content was like squashed bugs sprinkled with sugar.
They weren’t crispy pancakes, but that couldn’t be helped.
He set to work taking the skulls from the bodies. It was harder than he’s imagined. He went into the kitchen to find something to help him. A corkscrew shaped like a fish was handy for reaming out the eye sockets, while a large pair of scissors was handy for de-skinning and trimming off the bits he didn’t want. Try as he might though, he couldn’t get the skulls to look properly shiny and skull-like. They had bits of icky gore stuck all over them.
He held them over the gas flames that had been burning since he moved in, and although it made a strong and not unpleasant odour, the bits remained firmly attached to the bone. He picked at them with a fingernail, but that was quite hard work. It did taste better than mince pies though, he reflected as he sucked his finger. The thought of Nerys and her peculiar pies made him sit up straight. She had a machine in her kitchen for cleaning things. He’d seen it before. Surely, that would work on these skulls.
He went upstairs, cradling his flesh-encrusted skulls and knocked on the door.
There was no reply. He gave the door a hefty kick to see if it might just pop open. He had to kick it a few more times quite hard before the frame splintered and the door did indeed pop open.
In the kitchen, he opened the dishwasher and lodged his skulls in between the plates and cups that were already in there. Nerys’s little rat-dog creature, Twinkle, had yapped at him ever since he had entered the flat and seemed intent on hauling Clovenhoof’s prize goodies from the dishwasher. Irritated, Clovenhoof scooped up the long-haired beasty and put it in the fridge where its barks were muffled to bearable levels.
Clovenhoof closed the dishwasher door and pressed buttons until something happened. The sound of water filling the machine satisfied him that it was doing its work. He decided to explore the flat while he waited for the skull cleansing to be complete.
He went into one of the bedrooms and decided that this probably belonged to Nerys’s elderly aunt. There were ornaments and pictures galore. He groaned at the hideousness of the soppy decor.
“Does my work never end?” he said and hurled a china shepherdess at a picture of round-faced children smiling out from underneath an umbrella and felt better.
There was nothing else in there to see, so he went into Nerys’s bedroom. The bed was the focus of the room, piled high with silk and satin cushions in shades of deep red and purple. If people bled soft furnishings then this would be a bloodbath. He poked one and wondered if it was stuffed with real feathers. He ripped it apart without too much trouble.
He swung it and watched the feathers drift lazily around the room. This was better! He ripped a couple more cushions, making a snowstorm and scanned the rest of the room. He found a lingerie drawer, and held up lacy garments, trying to work out how they would fit onto a body. Some of them defied study. He stretched a pair of tiny panties off his thumb and pinged them across the room and then spent several minutes using her remaining panties to try to hit the framed picture of David Suchet. He improved his aim as he worked his way through the drawer.
There were lots of books on shelves, but he was drawn to the one that was open on the bedside table. It contained many handwritten entries. He looked at the front, which was lettered with something that might have been red nail varnish, saying, “The Hunt for Mr Right, Volume 3”.
Clovenhoof opened the book and found a catalogue of men, some identified by single names others by full name and even titles, each assessed according to a variety of unclear criteria. He found an entry for Ben Kitchen. It seemed that Ben scored well for attentiveness but badly on personal appearance. There was a column entitled “Skills between the sheets” but Ben had “not applicable” under that one. Under the mysterious heading of “Poirot Scale”, he once again scored badly.
Clovenhoof flicked through page after page, fascinated by the range of the research. The dates stretched back over the last five years and there were well over a hundred entries. Towards the end, he saw his own name. He was appalled to discover that he scored badly on almost everything; there was actually a “hahaha” under the “Poirot Scale” column. However, he did notice that there was a scribbled note saying “indefinable something” just underneath his name.
He slammed the book shut and stood up as he heard an irritating yipping bark.
He walked into the kitchen to find Twinkle had escaped from the fridge. The fact that Nerys was stood there beside the open fridge door might have had something to do with it. Nerys’s mouth hung open as she gazed round in horror, the mistletoe that she was carrying hanging limply by her side.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she squeaked.
“Your note said to pop up.”
Clovenhoof said, waving the piece of paper.
“And you found it like this?”
“Er, yes,” he said.
Nerys twirled around in anger.
“Just look at the state of the place! Burglars. I can’t believe it! Aunt Molly’s going to need fetching from the hairdresser’s within the hour and there’s so much to do. I need a locksmith, and a cleaning service, and I need to call the police and get a crime number, and – why’s the dishwasher on?”
She pulled open the door of the dishwasher and saw the skulls. She screamed and staggered backwards.
“Oh my God! I’ve heard about this kind of thing. I’m going to have to throw away all of the toothbrushes.”
“Toothbrushes?”
“Apparently they break in and... defile your things.”
“Do they?” said Clovenhoof with interest.
“I bet it’s all over YouTube by now.”
“You’re right, it’s a disgrace,” he agreed, not having a clue what a YouTube was. “How about I take those out of your way?” Clovenhoof suggested, scooping up the gleaming skulls with a smile.
“Are you sure?” she said. “I do appreciate it.”
Clovenhoof disappeared as quickly as he could, and placed the pristine skulls in pride of place on the shelves in his front room. He was particularly pleased with the fox skull, with its wide eye sockets and prominent canine teeth. As he stepped back from admiring it, crunching over the glass and porcelain remains of unworthy ornaments, he glanced from the window and saw a police car pull up.
He thought he recognised the policeman who stepped out.
Opting for discretion, he waited until he heard Nerys take them up the stairs to her flat, then slipped quietly out of the front door.
He found a supermarket not far from the spot where he had been unceremoniously dumped on this plane three days earlier.
He wandered in and took one of the wheeled food chariots that they thoughtfully provided. He ran down the centre aisle and launched himself on top of the trolley. His high-speed freewheeling was curtailed by a large security guard who brought him to a halt by grabbing the handle.
“How old are you, mate?” said the security guard.
“As old as creation,” said Clovenhoof. “And how old are you...” - he peered at the man’s name badge - “Doog? Dowg?”
The security guard rolled his eyes.
“Doug,” said the guard. “And too old for this. Just push the trolley, mate. No monkey business.”
Clovenhoof walked the aisles, marvelling at the array of goods. He came to the Lambrini and found that there were numerous flavours. He stopped a woman who seemed dressed to match the shop’s decor so was probably in thrall to the shop’s masters.
“Can I just put these in my trolley and take as many as I want?” he asked.
She laughed.
“As long as you’ve got the money to pay, duck, no-one’s going to stop you.”
“Really? How much money would I have to pay to make them stop playing that song about wishing it could be Christmas every day?”
She smiled at him in a way that made him think he wasn’t the first person today to ask her that question.
He filled the trolley, stripping the shelves bare of Lambrini.
A thought crossed his mind.
What was that magical food Pitspawn had offered him.
“Do you have crispy pancakes?” he asked the shop-slave.
“Frozen food aisle,” she said and pointed him in the right direction.
Four aisles over, he peered into the cabinets and saw them laid out. Row upon row of them. Findus Crispy Pancakes.
“And I have found you,” he said and let out a whoop.
He went to fetch a second trolley, but on his return he saw that Pitspawn’s mother was there, and that she had a trolley piled high with the precious delicacies.
His mind raced as he peered into the empty cabinet. He could not be robbed of his prize now that he’d found something worthwhile to eat.
She hadn’t seen him, so he crept up behind her as she reached for the last few packets from the very bottom.
He bent down, grabbed her ankles and hoisted her quickly up and over the edge of the freezer. She screamed loudly as she landed upside down. Clovenhoof took her trolley and wheeled it briskly away. Doug, the security guard ran towards him.
“I think there’s a lady having some trouble over there,” Clovenhoof mentioned helpfully, in case Doug hadn’t noticed her legs waggling in the air above the frozen food cabinet.
Clovenhoof managed to get his two trolleys through the checkout before anyone came looking for him, and he even remembered to give them money as well.
As a final flourish to demonstrate how familiar he’d become with the ritual of shopping he slapped his buttocks and winked to the woman on Customer Service as he passed her on the way out.
Two old ladies were next in line at the checkout.
“He seemed cheerful, Doris. Maybe we should get what he’s having?” said the first, unloading her basket.
“I don’t think so. I’m quite happy with my Edam, thank you Betty,” said the other primly, patting the enormous cheese in her basket.
“Is that all you’re getting? Look, I’ve bought lots.”
“Yes,” said Doris, “but four bottles of sherry won’t last you long. What’s that other stuff you have there, tofu? Never heard of it.”
“It’s easy on my dentures. I read it in a magazine.”
Doris pursed her lips.
“What have I told you about those magazines, Betty? That pesto’s never coming out of that carpet.”
Matters Arising
The Shaker Enclave
Seraphim Rota
Earthly visitations
The Throne
Clovenhoof
AOB
The Archangel Gabriel tidied his papers noisily.
“I don’t see how it is appropriate.”
Pope Pius XII leant across the table.
“I am merely sharing what the modern faithful are expecting.”
“Because their heads are full of Hollywood movies and Saturday morning cartoons?”
The Archangel Michael, chairing, tried to intervene.
“Heaven is a place of music.”
“But a harp for every angel?” said Gabriel. “Dry ice in the streets?”
Pius adjusted his glasses.
“Clouds and harps. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Maybe we can intwoduce them to one quarter of the Celestial City,” suggested St Francis of Assisi. “For a twial pewiod.”
“And create further balkanisation?” said Michael. “We have enough trouble getting the different denominations to mingle. I’m not going to carve up the City like a theme park with Ye Olde Harps and Clouds Heaven tucked away in one corner.”
“In my Father’s house there are many mansions,” pronounced St Paul from the end of the table.
“Well, quite,” said Michael. He could feel the Blessed Mother Teresa’s gaze boring into him as she struggled, quill in hand, over the spelling of ‘balkanisation’ for the meeting’s minutes.
St Peter tapped his heavy keys on the table, quietly but insistently.
“There are also certain logistical issues with the idea that I’m not going to bother explaining in this arena.”
“Of course,” said Michael. “I’m sorry, Pius. I’m going to put that one on the back-burner, maybe discuss it again at the next meeting. We were talking about the seraphim’s rota for singing of eternal praises.”
“Well, I don’t see why that needs changing,” said Gabriel.
“It’s been fine for the last two thousand years,” said St Peter.
“Longer,” said Gabriel.
“But,” said Michael, “the question raised by one of the faithful is whether we need over ten million seraphim whose sole role is the singing of eternal praises to the Throne.”
“Speaking of the Thwone...” began St Francis.
“But why are we even having this debate?” said Michael. “Have the seraphim been complaining about their duties?”
“No. The member of the faithful in question has asked if some of them could be diverted to other activities such as the beleaguered and understaffed Guardian Angel programme.”
“Ridiculous,” said Gabriel.
“Logistical issues,” said St Peter for good measure.
“Who is this member of the faithful?” asked Pius. “Let him come before us to make his case.”
“That’s exactly what she wants to do.”
St Paul coughed in surprise.
“If there is anything women desire to know let them ask their husbands at home,” he growled.
Michael tried not to roll his eyes as he did every time Paul quoted his own epistles.
“Who is it?” asked Pius.
“Joan of Arc,” said Michael.
St Peter tutted.
“We let her sit in on the Hell Project. Now this? Does she have political ambitions?”
“This committee always welcomes fresh perspectives,” said Michael smoothly.
“Yes, it would be good to have a woman about the place,” said Gabriel.
Michael looked down at Mother Teresa to see if she reacted but she was too busy over the spelling of ‘perspectives’.
“I shall invite her to the next meeting then,” said Michael, making a personal note. “Now, onto the subject of earthly visitations. This is definitely an area in which we do need a rota.”
“Is there a pwoblem?” asked St Francis.
“I’ve had complaints about a certain donkey manifesting itself to the faithful on earth.”
All eyes turned to St Francis.
“There are many donkeys in heaven,” he said indignantly.