Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin' Page 7

  “That’s the point, monghead,” said PJ, pressing on into the damp gloom. “It’s forbidden.”

  “The Haunted Dungeon of Forbidden Horrors,” said Spartacus. “Okay, first scene. Brother Thunderpants – that’s you, Jefri – decides to see what’s behind the forbidden door.”

  “What forbidden door?” said Jefri.

  “That one,” said Spartacus.

  It was the only whole and complete door they had come across in the corridor. It was like a little church door, only a little church door that hadn’t been cleaned in, like, a million years. Its surface glistened wetly, as though it were sweating.

  “And … action!”

  Spartacus and PJ stood behind the camera with Thor, sniggering as Jefri stepped forward, raising his feet high to avoid tripping over his habit.

  “It’s really wet down here,” he said.

  “That’s part of the forbidden horror,” said Spartacus, and PJ made ghostly wailing sounds.

  Jefri reached for the door handle.

  “There’s water coming out from under the door.”

  “That’s ectoplasm,” said Spartacus.

  “What’s that?” said Thor.

  “Ghost puke. Go on, Jefri.”

  Jefri turned the handle and pulled. The door shifted half an inch. The trickle of water under the door was now a constant flow.

  Jefri frowned and managed to say, “Er,” before the door was thrust open from the inside and there was no more time for words.

  Later, Bastian would not have been able to say if he was first alerted by the sound of screams or the sound of several thousand gallons of glutinous mud and rainwater emptying at once into the unrefurbished cellars. In truth, he was already out into the corridor and running before he consciously understood what was happening.

  He collided with Stephen coming out of the library and, together, they ran down the slope to where it appeared that a sea of oxtail soup had decided to make an entrance. In the vile mire, more than a dozen figures bobbed and span. Coated inside a layer of sludge, it was hard to make out who or what the figures were, but Bastian grabbed the nearest screaming face and hauled its owner up the corridor to dryer ground.

  Stephen had plunged in after the others and was already waist deep in the muck. He had a young man in his arms who seemed more intent on holding his camcorder aloft, out of the slime, than his head.

  “Got it,” the little boy panted once he was above the surface.

  Bastian made to run back in a second time. He was overtaken by a grey-haired blur with a helmet on his head and a length of climbing rope around his waist. Brother Manfred, whose abseiling clobber clearly doubled as potholing rescue gear, dived in head first and vanished from sight but for his rope disappearing length by length into the muck.

  “How many more are there?” Stephen demanded of the podgy camera-boy.

  “F-four of us,” the little boy coughed.

  Four? thought Bastian, back in the soup. But there are dozens of them…

  Bastian grabbed the nearest. The figure rolled over. Its empty eyesockets stared back at it him. The skull’s death’s head grin seemed to enjoy the look of shock on Bastian’s face.

  Bastian made a gargling sound of fright and stared at the bobbling corpses in the water. Dozens of them.

  Later, when reflecting on those moments, Bastian realised that his first thought, once his mind had returned to sanity, was of the financial impact of the school trip being gate-crashed by a party of stiffs. Part of him would feel a deep-rooted shame at this. A more deep-rooted part of him was secretly proud of his pragmatism and foresight.

  “Pull!” cried a voice from the dark.

  The rope stiffened. Up the corridor, Brothers Huey and Bernard, aided by the burliest of Carol Well-Dunn’s helpers, were hauling on Brother Manfred’s line. Slipping and sliding in the gloop, Bastian got to a position where he and Stephen could also help. Tug by tug, they drew Manfred in until the Abominable Mud Man that was their prior stood before them, a tiny habit-wearing boy in each arm.

  The two boys were grinning from ear to ear.

  Within the hour, the four boys and the three muddy monks were washed, dried and sitting in fresh habits in the visitors’ centre with Carol Well-Dunn. Manfred had brothers Huey and Bernard take the rest of the school party to the church to do brass rubbings and be treated to one of Brother Clements lengthy, although surprisingly engaging, talks about the figures represented in the stained-glass windows.

  Meanwhile, the four boys had been given hot chocolate to help with the supposed shock, although the four of them seemed to be buzzing with excitement rather than cowering in terror. Two of them were playing on one of the computers, the ordeal seemingly forgotten.

  Maybe the short attention spans of modern youth had their advantages, thought Bastian.

  He drew Carol aside.

  “I hope you understand …” he said.

  “In all honesty, Brother Sebastian …” said Carol at the same time.

  “… this is bad press for us …”

  “… people have lost their jobs over less …”

  “… and I’m not advocating lying …”

  “… I’m just being practical …”

  “I won’t tell anyone, if you won’t,” they both said simultaneously.

  They stared at one another for a long second and then smiled.

  “So glad we are in accord,” said Bastian.

  “Me too,” she said. “Now, I would like to talk to Brother Manfred a little further about the ‘creative’ representations in this delightful mural.”

  “Of course,” said Manfred, who was still combing his drying curls. “For you, anything.”

  Bastian joined Stephen, who was perched on the edge of the computer desks and liberally feeding the boys some of the jelly babies that Owen the boatman had brought over that morning.

  “The boys seem very happy right now,” said Stephen.

  “And are we okay?” Bastian asked.

  Stephen nodded.

  “As team-building exercises go, that was one of the best. Although I dread to think what I swallowed while I was in there.”

  “I think we’re both going to need some medical advice.”

  “Are we going to have to call the police too?”

  Bastian had no idea.

  “There’s a whole heap of questions to be answered here. An old room stuffed full of … well, you know. How long have they been down there? Impossible to say.”

  “I found a severed hand once,” said Spartacus Wilson, looking up with a hot chocolate moustache on his top lip.

  “Pardon?” said Stephen.

  “A hand. It was in the flowerbeds in the park.”

  “Really?” said Bastian. “And what happened?”

  “We had a great time together but, in the end, it ran away.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was really cut up about it and mum said I should have therapy, but her boyfriend said he wasn’t going to pay for it.”

  Bastian looked at the boy.

  “I have no idea how to respond to that,” he admitted. “Still, all’s well that ends well. We just need to keep mum about this whole business, generally carry out some damage limitation and we can continue as normal.”

  “Done,” said Thor. “Uploaded.”

  Stephen looked at the boy’s computer screen.

  “Oh.”

  “What?” said Bastian.

  “You’d best take a look at this.”

  There was much to like about Belphegor’s creativity hub. The pus-filled beanbags were really comfy, the lava plunge pools even more so. The ambient sounds of low-level torment provided the ideal background for personal thought and reflection. But, in Rutspud’s opinion, the absolute revelation was this nebulous thing called ‘internet’. It was a human construction, although directly accessible from Hell, and seemed to present an almost infinite array of text, image and sound. The internet might have been a human invention, but the tablet
he viewed it on was one of Hell’s own designs, as was the Windows Vista operating system and the Internet Explorer by which the internet was made visible.

  Rutspud was a quick learner and, after very little instruction from one of the damned (who was to be locked in purgatory until he had read the entire internet), he was ‘surfing’ the ‘web’.

  Much of the internet seemed to be filled with cats (which Rutspud found terrifying) and naked people (which Rutspud found dull), but there was much to be enjoyed. Online shopping looked inviting, although neither Amazon nor IKEA seemed to deliver to Hell. Online casinos looked more interesting, except the websites required something called a credit card number which Rutspud did not possess. Video sharing websites were perhaps less engaging but, requiring neither an address nor financial details, were at least something Rutspud could make full use of.

  Pop videos of semi-clad women were uninteresting. Videos of people getting smacked in the face in slow motion were hilarious. Videos of cats failing to jump over things and hurting themselves were creepy, but morally satisfying. Fun though it all was, Rutspud could feel Hell’s non-time whizzing by, with himself no closer to coming up with ideas to impress Belphegor.

  And then, after watching the amusing if bizarre Midget Monks v The Pit of Mud Zombies (posted by ThorLexiH), Rutspud clicked on an accompanying link.

  “Bingo!” he declared.

  He dragged his feet out of the volcanic foot spa, squirmed out of his cosy pus-bag and scampered back through to the chaotic workshop of Particulars.

  “I’ve got it, sir,” he said.

  Belphegor raised his hairy eyebrows in query. The steam-powered commode puttered to itself.

  “Got what, Rutspud?”

  “I was watching this weird webcam of a man stuck in a wardrobe and it occurred to me… On Earth, they have these things called furniture shops.”

  “Yes?”

  “Some of them are gargantuan, sir, selling aisle after aisle after aisle of flat pack beds and cabinets and wardrobes – yes, wardrobes – all with silly made up names like Bilköi and Rǿnti. And, and these are scary places to a lot of men – I think it’s men. The ones with the hairy faces.”

  “Men,” agreed Belphegor, “well, mostly.”

  “They’re terrifying places. So large and yet so, so boring. And you can never find the exit. Let’s do that.”

  “Open a boring furniture shop?”

  “Not just that, sir,” grinned Rutspud, his expressive eyes wide with excitement. “We take some of Lewis’ wardrobes, open them up and, using Escher’s mad geometry, make them like doorways into, I don’t know, alternative worlds but – and here’s the best part, sir – every world the damned go to will be another furniture shop.”

  “An inescapable and infinite maze of inescapable and infinite furniture shops,” mused Belphegor, nodding. “That could work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So, when can you start, lad?”

  Rutspud’s eyes widened even further. He had big eyes and the capacity for some real bug-eyed widening.

  “Seriously, sir? Thank you, sir. I can start whenever you like.”

  “Very well. Take some time to tie up your affairs in the sixth circle. We’ll see you again when you’re ready to start. Oh, and a couple of the boys came up with a fix for your personal problem.”

  “Really? Excellent.”

  Bosch passed Rutspud a cardboard box. Rutspud peeked at the contents.

  “Oh.”

  It was a fair trek back to his cave of tortures in the sixth circle, and Rutspud had time aplenty to reflect on the great opportunity that had just been laid before him. Sure, he thought as he weaved his way through the narrow passages leading to his cavern, he wouldn’t be in the beautiful sixth circle anymore, but the opportunity to be creative, useful and at least some distance from the ridiculous targets and measures he currently laboured under would be very welcome.

  There was no sound from the scream-organ as he entered. Inside, everything was exactly as he left it. Wilde was still impaled on his spear. Potter and Bernhardt were still stretched out on the rack. Cartland was still having her nails ripped out on the vice.

  Rutspud frowned.

  “What are you all doing? The inspection’s over.”

  “And break!” said Bernhardt loudly and with more than a smidgeon of anger.

  Boudicca and Mama-Na climbed out of the Jacuzzi. Tesla stepped out of his Faraday cage of sparking electricity. Whitehouse peeled the fake sores from her face. Cartland unwound the vice and began collecting her false nails from the bench.

  “I mean, this is excellent commitment guys,” said Rutspud, “but, seriously, how long –”

  “You just left!” said Bernhardt hotly. “We didn’t know who was coming back or when. We were too scared to stop.”

  “But … but …”

  Shipton unclipped the harness that connected her to the chains.

  “Thou art a forgetful dæmon and a poor master t’t’ people in thy care.”

  “But didn’t Lickspear sort things out once I was gone?”

  “No,” said Cartland. “That sodding moron –”

  “Swear box,” said Whitehouse.

  “That sodding, badly-stitched moron lost one of his kidneys and went off to look for it.”

  “Found it, pops!” said Lickspear, entering the cave.

  “No, Lickspear,” said Rutspud. “That’s a spider.”

  “Alas, surely not?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “You’ve never let us down like this before,” said Bernhardt.

  “Nnr anng!” said Mama-Na

  “Swear box!” said Whitehouse.

  “You lot are forgetting your place,” said Rutspud darkly, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn’t really all that high. “If it wasn’t for me, you would spend your time in torment.”

  “You think we enjoyed this?” said Potter.

  Rutspud could see the pale tracks of dried tears on Potter’s face.

  “Don’t test me,” he said, although his heart wasn’t in it. “You are the MEAT in my TEAM and that’s all you are.”

  “We understand,” said Tesla emptily. “I suppose we have some tidying up to do. Come on.”

  “Wait,” said Rutspud. “Wait, please. I didn’t want it to be like this. I’ve come with good news.”

  “This is Hell, there’s never any good news,” said Boudicca.

  “I’ve got a promotion!”

  Rutspud waited for the smiles and the cheers and the confetti, but there were none.

  “What do you mean?” said Bernhardt.

  “I’ve been asked to work for Belphegor.”

  “You’re leaving us!” said Cartland. “And who will care for us? Who will take over here?”

  “Oh, it’s all about you, isn’t it?” Rutspud sneered. “Lickspear can take over.”

  “Saints preserve us,” said Wilde.

  “I’ll find some extra brains for him or something. It will be fine.”

  “This my kidney?” asked Lickspear.

  “No, that’s a spider. The same spider.”

  Cartland stepped forward.

  “You are our lord, our … owner. We are utterly in your power. But I think I speak for everyone when I say that is not good news. Not for us.”

  “Okay, okay. Tough crowd. Fine. Extra bit of good news. Belphegor gave me a solution to my gender-blindness problem. No more getting it wrong.”

  “Is that so?”

  Rutspud grinned and opened the cardboard box.

  “Now, Cartland. Man or woman?”

  “Woman,” she said, gesturing to her curves and her pink rags.

  Rutspud slapped a sticker on her breast. It read, “Hi, I’m a woman.”

  “Done,” said Rutspud. “Right. Who’s next?”

  Chapter 3 – The day Rutspud found the stairs

  Stephen found Huey mopping up muddy footprints in the visitors’ centre.

  “Sleepwalking ag
ain,” said Huey, with a curmudgeonly grunt. “I think you cover more ground at night than you do during the day. Then again –” He stretched and waggled his toes, sending a waft of foetid leather stink Stephen’s way. “– if I wasn’t cursed with every foot ailment under the sun, maybe my feet would take me off on some night-time perambulations.”

  Stephen looked down at the twelve polythene wrapped corpses laid out on the floor. The visitors’ centre was currently in use as a makeshift morgue for the twelve bodies that had emerged during the school visit, although it might have been more accurate to describe the fleshless things as skeletons rather than bodies.

  It troubled Stephen to see that he'd been walking amongst them. Why had his sleeping mind brought him here? He hoped that Brother Huey would hurry up with the mop before Manfred saw the mud. There had been some strong words used by the coroner's office about Manfred's devotion to cleanliness after he'd mentioned that he'd run the bones through the dishwasher to remove the worst of the mud.

  The forensic osteoarchaeologist had determined that the skeletons were centuries old, while Bastian was still attempting to write her title onto a name badge for the visit. She had stood up from her examination and told the monks that they were free to deal with the remains in the way that they felt most appropriate.

  “It's unlikely that they pose any risk to you, although it's difficult to be certain without being able to examine whatever soft tissue may have been present,” she'd said, with a sideways glance at Manfred. “If I were you, I'd get them reburied as soon as it's practical and convenient. I've got some colleagues from Bangor University who'd be interested to come and take a look in the meantime, and more than one particularly enthusiastic amateur who called our office. You're not obliged to entertain any of them, of course, but the PhD students do like access to any new specimens.”

  The monks had welcomed the various visitors who had examined, measured and photographed the bones over the past few days. Among the visitors was local Arthurian nut, Ewan Thomas, who took all and any evidence to conclude that these were the bones of King Arthur’s knights, even citing the cleanliness of the bones as a symbol of their virtuous nature. But, eventually, the visitors left and all was quiet.