Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad Read online

  “Looks more like a weally ugly wabbit to me.”

  Brandy had picked up the heavy ornament and now she grunted with the effort as she sliced it through the air towards Joan's head. Joan raised her sword and met it in mid air. The shattered remains dropped harmlessly to either side. Joan slammed her fist into Brandy’s face. The woman fell and joined the clutter of villains on the floor of the room.

  “Yeah, that showed them!” Christopher jigged with excitement.

  Joan sheathed her sword. “Some friend Brandy turned out to be.”

  “We'd better leave,” said Francis.

  “Yes, I don't want to be here when they wake up.”

  “There may be a solution to our cuwwency pwoblem,” said Francis, stooping down to Wolfie's side. “We could take some of these.”

  He held up a wallet that was stuffed with banknotes.

  “Hm, I'm not sure it's ethical,” said Joan. “But we can leave some of our gold in exchange. How much is fair, I wonder?”

  “I say we leave them a couple of coins,” said Christopher. “They did attack us.”

  “There's a gweat many of these notes, perhaps we should leave a little more. Do you think a gold florin for each of these five euro things?”

  “Let's just leave them one of the bags,” said Joan. “I'm a bit fed up with carrying it anyway. The notes will be lighter. Hopefully they won't mind.”

  “Wake up, Miriam,” said Agnes and jabbed her elbow in her companion’s ribs.

  Miriam, who in Agnes’ opinion might have been an actual farmer’s wife but really let the side down by actually looking like one, snorted and sat up, the imprint of velour on her face from where she’d been slumped on the coach seat.

  “Are we there?” she said.

  “No, you daft mare,” said Agnes. “We only left The Hague two hours ago.”

  Miriam peered out of the window.

  “There’s water everywhere.”

  “It’s called the North Sea. I don’t know why the Dutch had to build a road over it instead of around but there you go.”

  Miriam nodded and then looked at Agnes.

  “Why did you wake me up?”

  “I wanted to point out the wolf to you.”

  “What wolf?”

  “The one that just ran by in the opposite direction.”

  Miriam looked back and forth along the dual carriageway and the sea that bordered it on both sides.

  “Where is it then?”

  “It’s gone now,” scowled Agnes. “Honestly, with reactions like that I’m not surprised you’ve written off so many tractors.”

  Miriam shrugged and went back to sleep.

  Francis had a surreptitious rummage through another drift of litter. In the nighttime hours they'd spent wandering the streets, all three of them had expressed surprise at the amount of waste there was in the centre of Amsterdam. As dawn broke, teams of men wearing fluorescent jackets emerged to sweep up and throw bags of rubbish into the back of a lorry, but they hadn't yet started to make much of a dent in it.

  They spent some time puzzling over Christopher's invisibility. Joan declared that it wasn't really helpful to have someone who was entirely unable to interact with the population of earth.

  “Interact? You mean talking to them, don't you?” said Christopher. “Talking's all very well, but I can wallop someone on the nose and they'll stay walloped, so don't go telling me I can't interact.”

  “Whoa, steady,” she replied, knowing that a sleepless night added a crabby note to her voice. “It wasn't a personal criticism, just another thing we need to deal with. I mean, just look at us. We've got no idea where to look for Mary, Christopher can't be seen by anyone but us, and our outfits clearly don't fit in. We've no way of fixing the Christopher thing, but Francis and I do need to find some clothes that blend in.”

  Francis bridled at this.

  “My outfit is as good in the modern world as it's always been. A Franciscan monk pwides himself on the timeless design of his habit,” he said. “Well he would do if pwide were allowed, of course.”

  “What is this Gay Pride thing everyone keeps talking about?” said Christopher.

  Joan sighed.

  “I’ve no idea. I’m sorry, Francis. I guess there just aren't too many Franciscan monks in the busy capitals of modern-day Europe.”

  Francis went back to kicking through the piles of litter with a scowl. He sifted through the rainbow-coloured flyers and spotted some more half-eaten food. It was similar to others that he'd found. There was a thin layer of something that he'd assumed was packaging, but the rat had told him was bread. It was unlike any bread that Francis had ever known in his lifetime, but the rat had been happy to eat it. Apparently these discarded burgers were considered a delicacy by modern city rats. Francis was pleased that the residents took such care of the rodent population. He extracted the meat and added it to the small stash that he was accumulating as a treat for the wolf. The wolf would not turn his nose up at the strange orange deposits on top, although Francis suspected it was candle wax. He refused to entertain the thought that he wouldn't see the wolf again, so he wanted to be prepared with some delicious tidbits. The rat sat on his palm and nibbled the bread delicately. Christopher and Joan had grudgingly agreed that the rat was a worthy travelling companion.

  “That rat’s making me really hungry,” said Christopher. “Tell me if you spot any more of those burgers, I might try one.”

  There was a squeak, and the rat raised its head, whiskers quivering. He leapt from Francis's hand and scampered to the door of a nearby eatery. He turned and looked at them expectantly.

  Francis and Christopher approached the Teefkoningin Cafe.

  “Are those pancakes? They smell so good,” said Christopher.

  “No, it's coffee, I can smell coffee,” said Francis.

  Joan shook her head.

  “Have you two just been manipulated by an opportunistic, greedy rodent?”

  “I’m thirsty,” said Francis.

  “And hungry,” said Christopher.

  “Fine. Why don't you go and have something to eat. I'm going to see if I can find some clothes, so I'll come and meet you back here. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

  Christopher scoffed.

  “What trouble can we get into in a restaurant?”

  The Wolf of Gubbio circled the interior of the empty truck, sniffing at the dusty floor. He had the scent of his master in his nostrils.

  “Oi! Get out of there!”

  The wolf looked up at the man on the road and bared its teeth.

  “Jesus,” the man said to his mate, backing off. “Mad, dancing priests. The customer claiming we’ve been messing with their stuff. And now this.”

  The wolf sniffed at a long, loose spring on the floor. Yes, his master’s scent was strong. He was close.

  The wolf turned and leapt over the removal men’s heads and onward towards his goal.

  Joan crossed the canal, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun as the city became more active.

  She stopped for a moment to look at the buses that had started to appear on the larger roads. No not buses, trains. They looked like the pictures of buses but ran on rails with a power source from above. Her brow wrinkled. She could consult her tablet about this curious hybrid, but she was mindful of the limited battery life that was available on earth, so she decided she'd ask Christopher about it later.

  She walked along the river bank and then turned into a smaller street which was crowded with shops. She examined the windows as she walked and dismissed most of them, as they were concerned with bicycles, colourful rugs and a strange pointed leaf that seemed to feature widely. She came at last to a clothes shop in a narrow street. It was called Smart Fetish en Fantasy. Joan had a vague idea that a fetish was something to do with idolatry, but it was clear that, in this age, the names of things and their actual meaning and function rarely coincided.

  The assistant behind the counter was drinking coffee and reading
a magazine as she entered. His head was shaven, putting Joan in mind of a monk, but the rest of his appearance was most curious. There were so many rips and tears in the trousers and top that he wore that Joan nearly turned and left. If you sold clothes, why would you continue to wear damaged ones like that?

  “Morning,” he said. “Love the hair. And the outfit. Very Joan of Arc.”

  “Oh,” said Joan, momentarily startled.

  “Hope you’re not going on a boat in that,” he smiled. “Straight to the bottom. Glug. Glug. Here for the Gay Pride?”

  “I haven't been feeling too gay at all,” said Joan. “I need some new clothes to help with that.”

  “Something to wear for today’s festivities? You've come to just the right place, sweetie.”

  “Have I? Oh, good.”

  “We have one of the biggest stocks of leather and fetish gear in the city.”

  “I'm very fond of leather,” said Joan. “It’s very practical.”

  “That's exactly right! Wipes clean in a jiffy. So, what's your style? Are we talking playful, slutty, dominant? I’m sure you’ve got a lovely petite figure under there, that kind of demure thing going on, but that armour says butch no-nonsense.”

  “I want to be dominant,” said Joan. “Definitely.”

  “Ooh, I bet you’ve broken a few hearts. A couple of spines too, eh?”

  “I just need people to take me seriously.”

  “Totally understand. We have outfits here that will shut them right up. Pop into that cubicle there and take your things off.”

  “Disrobe? In here?”

  “I’m harmless, sweetie. Listen, I'll bring you something in studded leather to start off with. How would that be?”

  “That sounds great.”

  Joan went inside the curtained-off area and removed her plate armour with a series of loud clanking sounds. Once out of her chainmail hauberk she was left in only her cotton chemise.

  “Here, try this.”

  A hanger came through the curtain, displaying a tunic that was made entirely of leather. The upper and lower halves were connected with a series of elasticated strips. Joan stepped into the garment and fastened up the elaborate buckles at the side. It was light and flexible but had the comforting feel and security of armour.

  “How's the fit?” came the man's voice

  “Good, I think,” said Joan.

  “I'm never wrong on size, I've got the eye! Come on out, let's take a look.”

  Joan stepped through the curtain and the man waved her over to a full-length mirror. She eyed herself critically.

  “It's beautifully crafted,” she said, checking out the quality of the stitching and the rivets.

  “Hand made in Spain, and you won't find that design anywhere else in town. Looks fabulous on, I must say.”

  “Really?”

  “You were born to wear this, sweetie. I'd take off the cotton shirt though, to show it at its best.”

  “Oh? I don't know about this big gap round the middle,” she said. “It's a bit immodest, isn't it?”

  “Immodest? Not a word we hear often in this place.”

  “And I think the skirt's too short as well. Too much of me is, well, on show.”

  “Well, I see you as a long boot kinda girl. Am I right? Let’s layer it up without going to complete gimp, shall we? And you know what, I have a special something that I know you're going to love!”

  He dived into a stock cupboard and came out with a huge, studded belt.

  “Look at this. It comes with a scabbard, completely functional. You'll need somewhere to put your sword, yes?”

  Joan put it over the dress, and slipped on the thigh-length boots that he handed to her.

  She looked again in the mirror and smiled broadly.

  “I had no idea I could fit in here so easily,” she said happily. “Can I try those please?”

  She pointed to a pair of studded wrist straps.

  “I'll throw those in,” said the assistant, totting up the bill. “And a whip as well — you can't possibly leave without one of those.”

  Joan grinned and admired herself in the mirror once more.

  “And you think men will take me seriously in this?”

  “Sweetie, I’m as queer as they come and even I want to throw myself at your feet. You’ll have them falling over themselves to do your wicked bidding.”

  Christopher started on his third plateful of tiny pancakes, while Francis looked on in disapproval.

  “These are great! Here, watch this!” He tossed one into the air and caught it in his mouth.

  “Weally, Christopher! You’re an embawwassment.”

  “Well, nobody can see me,” said Christopher. “I can do what I flaming well want and, besides, I’m right famished.”

  “I can see you,” said Francis, “and wemember I’ve had to order that stuff. The waitwess thinks I’m an absolute glutton.”

  But Christopher wasn’t listening and had already put six of the pancakes into his mouth at once and was waggling his hamster cheeks in Francis's face.

  “She probably thinks I have tapeworms,” said Francis. “I had a tapeworm once.”

  “I know a cure for tapeworms.”

  “Cure?” said Francis. “I tell you, I cwied when little Walter died.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  Christopher finished the pancakes, swilled them down with coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  Francis picked up a crumb from the plate and moved his hand to his pocket.

  “Oh.”

  “What?”

  “My little fwiend has gone,” he said.

  “I assume that’s not a euphemism.”

  “The rat, Chwistopher.”

  “He's a rat,” said Christopher. “He's probably found the midden.”

  “No, he's a fwiendly and sociable cweature. We have to look for him.”

  Francis dropped to the floor and began scurrying around, making friendly squeaking sounds.

  “And you think I’m an embarrassment?” said Christopher.

  Joan walked back to the cafe, savouring the rich smell and soft creak of the new leather. A posse of pink cowboys in leather chaps whistled and waved at her. She waved back to them. The bare-bummed gladiators were out in force and the streets were beginning to throng with all manner of painted dolls, bare-chested angels and close knots of grinning, partying men. Things were certainly starting to look pretty gay.

  “Hello, little pig,” came that unmistakeable and deep voice from behind her.

  “Wolfie,” she said, and started to turn to face him, a hand on her sword hilt.

  “No. Face that way. I have a gun,” he said.

  Evelyn had been clear on the subject of guns. Guns and badges. Joan complied. Wolfie drew her into the doorway of a closed business.

  “Where’s Brandy?” she asked.

  “You embarrassed us, little pig. That was Brandy’s fault. I’m not particularly pleased with her. Bonio, get the sword.”

  Meaty hands reached to Joan’s waist and wrestled with the scabbard.

  Joan grunted as he failed to loosen it.

  “There’s a little buckle,” she said.

  “Shut up,” said Bonio.

  “Look. Here. Yep. Through the little hole.”

  Bonio huffed as he finally pulled her blade away.

  “Now, we talk,” said Wolfie.

  “About what?” said Joan. “Why can't you leave us alone? We left you some of our gold.”

  “Ah, so there is some more? Good.”

  He kicked at the plastic bag in Joan’s hand. It clanked.

  “Give it to me.”

  “That’s not it. That’s my armour.”

  “Metal armour, this dominatrix shit... You’re some kind of kinky bitch.”

  “This outfit is meant to make men obey me. Throw themselves at my feet, the shopkeeper said. I think I might ask for my money back. I mean, your money…”

  “Where is the gold?” Wolfie gr
owled.

  “My friends have it.”

  “No problem,” said Wolfie. “Let's go see them. Lead the way.”

  Christopher and Francis scanned the floor of the cafe for the rat. They were the only customers, so they soon checked every corner of the room. There was an arched doorway that led into another area. It was sectioned off with a beaded curtain, no barrier at all to a curious rat or his worried owner.

  Christopher followed Francis into a large room with bright white walls. It was a display space, a gallery of sorts. But all thoughts of rats went from their heads when they saw the exhibits, which were all huge, improbable, and indefinably rude.

  The one that faced the door was ostensibly a car, but it was a heavily stylised car that leaned back on its back wheels and pointed at the ceiling as though climbing a steep, invisible hill. Huge, bulbous wheel arches at the back, and a bonnet that extended upwards put Christopher in mind of something but he couldn't place it.

  He read the placard to the side. It was called 'Road Rage'.

  “Francis, what do you make of —”

  “Urgh, it's a penis!” squeaked Francis.

  “Oh, aye — that's what it looks like!” said Christopher, but then as he turned, he saw that Francis actually meant another exhibit. This one looked like a leather bag filled with marbles, but the card declared that the bag was made from an elephant's penis. It was entitled 'Boys and their Toys'.

  “Elephant’s penis,” said Christopher. “That’s…”

  “Tewwible. The poor thing. Wandering awound without his member.”

  “Hang on, is this stuff meant to be art?”

  “Is it?”

  “Whatever happened to the kind of art where painters made pictures of things? I don’t hold with this modern faffing about,” said Christopher, as he recoiled from something that looked like a chair with penis shapes sprouting from every surface.

  “Just the sort of comment I've come to expect,” came a gravelly voice.

  Christopher and Francis swivelled their heads to see that one of the exhibits was not fixed in place, but was wedged halfway through a door, while a woman with her back to them was trying to push it through.

  “Care to give me a hand?” she asked, turning to look at them.