by Heide Goody
Table of Contents
Beelzebelle
Chapter 1 – In which Clovenhoof gets a baby and Nerys doesn’t get a free holiday
Chapter 2 – In which Clovenhoof gets a monkey, pimps his pram, and Twinkle feels a little flat
Chapter 3 – In which Twinkle gets stuffed, Michael gets a new church, and Clovenhoof goes off-road
Chapter 4 – In which social services intervene, Nerys finds little solace in religion, and alcohol proves to be the answer to everything
Chapter 5 – In which Clovenhoof goes blind and goes babysitting, and Nerys bares all
Chapter 6 – In which Clovenhoof has monkey problems, Nerys breaks in, and Michael tries to earn some brownie points
Chapter 7 – In which Clovenhoof and Ben spend a night with furry friends, and Nerys spends a night with an old man
Chapter 8 – In which Nerys searches for a job, Ben searches for a beast, and everyone has to learn to live together
Chapter 9 – In which beasts and beastly plans are uncovered
Chapter 10 – In which Clovenhoof has his day in court, and things get rather heated
Chapter 11 – In which beasts come home to roost, Clovenhoof goes underground, and it all goes a bit Scooby Doo
Chapter 12 – In which protests are made, Nerys gets a lot off her chest, and the alarm is sounded
Chapter 13 – In which the flood arrives
About the authors
Acknowledgements
Beelzebelle
Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Pigeon Park Press
‘Beelzebelle’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2016
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9933655-0-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9933655-1-5
Cover artwork and design copyright © Mike Watts 2016
(www.bigbeano.co.uk)
Published by Pigeon Park Press
www.pigeonparkpress.com
[email protected]
No babies were harmed in the writing of this book.
Or monkeys.
Or dogs.
The door opened.
“Jeremy. I thought we said six o’clock,” said Sandra.
“Running a little late. That’s all,” said Jeremy Clovenhoof.
“You could have phoned,” she said.
Clovenhoof held up a Mars Bar.
“It seems to be out of charge.”
“Well, you’re here,” she said testily, “and I am incredibly late. Good news is Jack-Jack is already in bed and fast asleep. Help yourself to anything you like in the house. I’ll be back by eight, nine at the latest.”
Sandra squeezed past him.
“Call me if there’s any problem!”
Clovenhoof waved her off. He actually waved at a hedge, but didn’t know because he was blind and had been blind all day long.
“Right, Gorky,” he said, feeling his way into the house. “You heard the lady. We can help ourselves to anything in the house. Loose change, jewellery, portable valuables. Let’s get to it.”
Clovenhoof’s capuchin monkey helper squeaked and set to work.
After much in the way of stumbling, tripping, and a painful encounter between a dining table and groin, Clovenhoof discovered this family household had nothing worth stealing.
Gorky screeched imploringly. Clovenhoof knew what he wanted.
“No, he’s asleep,” said Clovenhoof. “It would be nice, I know, but if having a child of my own has taught me anything, it would be that, well, if it taught me anything, it would be that the faces babies pull while pooping are just hilarious. But if it’s taught me two things, the other would be that if a baby’s asleep, you let it sleep.”
Gorky humphed in his squeaky capuchin way.
“Cheer up, chimp,” said Clovenhoof. “If we don’t cock this up tonight, we’ll get invited back another time. Play the long game.”
Gorky muttered to himself.
“Well, life is tough. And short. And it’s always unfair. Now, go and get me something to eat and drink.”
Gorky hopped off.
Barely minutes later, Clovenhoof sniffed.
“Is something burning?” he called.
Gorky squawked from the kitchen.
“Are you sure?”
Gorky bustled through the doorway and placed a tray on Clovenhoof’s lap.
“What’s this?” said Clovenhoof.
Gorky guided his hands to a spoon and a hot bowl.
“But everything’s okay in the kitchen?” said Clovenhoof. “Because I thought I could smell something.”
Gorky lacked the vocal control to tut but gave Clovenhoof a simian equivalent.
“Well, I can smell soup now. I meant something else.”
There came the piercing high-pitched whistle of a smoke detector upstairs.
“Like that!” snapped Clovenhoof.
He stood up quickly, the tray nonetheless held carefully in his hands.
“You left the cooker on!”
Gorky screeched angrily at him.
“If a monkey is clever enough to cook soup, he can remember to turn the bloody gas off!”
From the baby monitor came the murmurs and sniffs of a baby tossing unhappily in its sleep. Clovenhoof turned to the door.
“You find the smoke detector and take the batteries out, Gorky. I will deal with the kitchen.”
Clovenhoof took one step and kicked something hard, round and plastic. It flew through the air, bounced off the wall, and then landed, playing a tinny nursery rhyme at high volume.
“Bloody toys!” snapped Clovenhoof, stepped forward, trod on the same object again, and slipped over onto his back. The soup hit him a moment later, but it seemed a very long moment, probably because he knew it was coming.
Steaming tomato soup splashed across his chest, its gooey heat seeping through his shirt almost instantly. Clovenhoof had endured and enjoyed the fires of Hell, but it was the surprise of the bubbling broth that made him leap up, screaming, and, in an instant, rip his scalding shirt from his torso.
The first hints of a cry warbled from the baby monitor.
“Gorky! Smoke alarm!” Clovenhoof yelled.
He hurried to the kitchen.
“Cooker,” he said and felt his way along the surface.
By luck more than skill, his hands found the hob controls and managed to turn the gas off.
The smoke detector was still going.
“Damn it, Gorky,” he said and turned.
At that point, his midriff nudged something metal and pokey. Before he had time to register it, Clovenhoof had tipped the pan of burning soup off the hob and over his crotch. Clovenhoof screamed again. Louder, naturally.
“Hot cock!” he yelled and, pained, stripped off his trousers and boxers to cool his tender parts. “You’ve melted my manhood, you maniac!” he cried. “Did no one ever tell you to always keep the pan handles turned in? You’re a health and safety nightmare!”
The alarm still persisted. Clovenhoof could hear Jack-Jack crying.
Naked and lightly coated with slowly cooling soup, Clovenhoof scrambled blindly for the stairs. At the top, he could hear the alarm almost directly above him. He reached up, found the fast plastic disk of the alarm and ripped it from the wall. It continued to whistle in his hand, so he pounded it against the wall until it shut up.
He threw the defeated alarm down.
“Gorky!”
Clovenhoof heard a gurgle an
d laugh from along the landing. Coughing on the plaster dust, Clovenhoof entered the room. He could see nothing, of course, but he could hear Jack-Jack in his cot. He could, he was certain, also hear the sound of a disobedient capuchin playing peek-a-boo with the little boo.
“I told you to sort out the alarm,” said Clovenhoof.
Gorky made a dismissive noise and then gave a curious grunt.
Clovenhoof gestured at his own naked, sticky body.
“This is your fault,” he said. “All of this. And look what you did to my knob! I’m sure even you can see it’s red-raw.” He thought about that. “Redder than usual. I’m going to be dipping it in ice-cream for a week just to soothe my pain.”
The thought of basting his genitals with ice-cream distracted Clovenhoof and his anger for a moment.
“Well, you’re looking after young Giblet now. You keep him occupied while I find some fresh clothes.”
He turned from the room and worked his way along the landing to another room. The plush carpet underfoot suggested a bedroom.
“Bathrobe,” he said to himself, feeling around. “Trousers. Anything.”
He found the door handles of a fitted wardrobe and opened it. He ran his grubby hands along the hanging clothes.
“Too frilly. Too thick. Corduroy? In the twenty-first century? Jesus! Ooh.”
Clovenhoof pulled out something light and silky. It could have been a kimono or a dressing gown; he couldn’t tell. He struggled with the fastenings, spun in circles while he struggled into it and then, huffing, pulled it down.
“A little snug in the chest, but not bad,” he said. “Right, Gorky. I’m coming to take over.”
He became disorientated in his manoeuvring and edged towards the nearest wall. His fingers found a door handle.
He opened it, slipped through, and, almost instantly, walked into something.
“What?”
Realisation dawned quickly. The iron railings to the front and side of him. The cool air wafting around his exposed legs. The bedroom had a balcony, one of those pathetically small British balconies that was barely deep enough for one person to stand on. It was ostentatious, and Clovenhoof was jealous. To be able to step out of one’s bedroom and greet the morning, to feel the breeze rise up your skirts and soothe one’s scalded nether regions…
The door behind Clovenhoof clicked shut. Clovenhoof could tell from the chunky nature of the sound that this was the click of something locking firmly into place, of a door rendering itself unopenable. Clovenhoof found and waggled the door handle. He was correct. The door was locked.
“Hmmm,” he mused out loud. “Locked out on an upstairs balcony, covered in soup, and wearing nothing but what I now suspect is a woman’s dress.” He patted his pockets. “With no phone to call for help.”
He felt beyond the edges of the balcony and found nothing to grasp onto, no neighbouring balcony to leap to, no drainpipe to shin down. He shrugged.
“I’ve been in worse situations,” he said. “Probably. Gorky!”
The monkey screeched from the bathroom window. Something hard and plastic smacked Clovenhoof in the face. It was one of the household phones.
Clovenhoof felt for the buttons and attempted to dial Ben Kitchen’s number. On the seventh attempt, Ben said, “Hello.”
“Good. It’s you,” exclaimed Clovenhoof.
“Who else would it be?” said Ben.
“Well, so far it’s been three angry old women, a tyre fitter, a pizza delivery place, and a man called Roy.”
There was a pause.
“By any chance,” said Ben slowly, “have your attempts at blind babysitting gone horribly wrong?”
Clovenhoof made a noise of disgust.
“Some people have no faith. You want me to fail in life, don’t you? Just because a friend phones you up when they’re locked out on a balcony in ladies clothes, doesn’t mean things have gone ‘horribly wrong’.”
“What’s happened?” said Ben wearily.
“Well…” said Clovenhoof.
Some weeks earlier…
Chapter 1 – In which Clovenhoof gets a baby and Nerys doesn’t get a free holiday
Jeremy Clovenhoof regarded the cat on the counter. Its eyes were half-open and seemed to gaze through him.
“Don’t give me that look,” said Clovenhoof. “I bet your life didn’t pan out the way you planned either. What? You think you’re some sort of mighty jungle predator? I know you. You’ve spent your whole life lounging about in Mrs Tompkins’ house. Rubbing yourself against her like some shameless hussy for turkey titbits, chasing shadows, doing recreational catnip from time to time. Hunting?” Clovenhoof spat and stamped his hooves. “Wander into the kitchen. Look for the pink food bowl. Dinner is served. Whoop-de-do.” Clovenhoof gave the animal a bitter stare. “You can’t judge me, pussy!”
The cat said nothing. It was a cat.
“Me?” said Clovenhoof. “I’m Satan, Lucifer, Angel of the Bottomless Pit. I’ve still got the moves. The horns, the hooves. The looks of a rock god. Maybe a rock god who’s partied a little too hard, but a rock god nonetheless. Okay, I work in the back room of an undertaker’s, grappling daily with coffin dodgers who failed the acid test. Yes. Yes, I know that The Royal Borough of Sutton Coldfield isn’t exactly the kind of place people think of when they talk about the devil walking the earth but, I’ve got to tell you, you go down to the Boldmere Oak on Grab-a-Granny night and you’d be surprised …”
The outer door chimed. Clovenhoof immediately swept the dead cat off the counter and out of sight, and began to whistle a nonchalant little tune that sounded anything other than innocent.
Spartacus Wilson, the ten-year-old bane of St Michael’s Primary School, and the reason why the entirety of the 6th Boldmere Cubs were kicked out of the scouting movement and had to form their own unaffiliated breakaway group, backed into reception. Behind him a hulking contrivance of black shininess, pink folded material, and an almost infinite number of buttons, clips and levers came to a halt.
“What the Hell’s that?” said Clovenhoof.
Spartacus looked at him like he was mentally deficient, but then he looked at most people that way. Having said that, Clovenhoof was surprised he didn’t get stranger looks from people. He was, after all, a red devil with goat’s legs and horns, and hardly anyone seemed to notice. Or maybe it was as Michael said: the British were just too polite to mention it.
“It’s a pram,” said Spartacus.
“For a baby?” He looked at the monstrosity. “One baby? I’ve seen emperors with less showy carriages.”
“You chat a load of eggy guff,” said Spartacus.
“And you’re late,” Clovenhoof replied. He slapped a wad of home-printed leaflets on the counter. “These aren’t going to post themselves. There’s a quid in it when you’re done.”
“I don’t get out of bed for less than ten pounds,” said Spartacus.
“Yeah, but you’re already up. A hundred leaflets and there’ll be two shiny pound coins for you.”
“Eight quid and I don’t care if it’s covered in dog doo.”
“A fiver,” said Clovenhoof, exasperated.
“A fiver and you let me look at a dead body like you said you would.”
“I’m not allowed,” said the Angel of the Bottomless Pit. “I could get into trouble.”
“And you’re not going to be in trouble for advertising an illegal pet cremation service?”
“It’s not illegal. It’s just deeply unprofessional and very wrong.”
“Particularly since you don’t even bother cremating them. Just give them a pile of ashes in a tin trophy from Tony’s Sports Emporium.”
“I’ve had no complaints,” said Clovenhoof. “And then I get to sell the furry stiffs to my mate next door, Ben, and he uses them for taxidermy.”
Clovenhoof saw the question in Spartacus’s eyes.
“He stuffs animals.”
The look in the boy’s eyes no longer contained a question.
“I mean he mounts them,” scowled Clovenhoof.
“Whatever,” said Spartacus. “Anyway, I’ve got to take Bea round to my gran’s.” Spartacus pointed at the pram. “Beatrice. My sister. Mum and her boyfriend, Animal Ed, had this bust up cos he was snogging a tart in the Boldmere Oak, so she’s taking the tickets and his cash and going on holiday cos she’s got post-traumatic thingy. I’m taking Bea to my gran’s and I get to stay over at Herbie Gates’ house for a few weeks while she’s gone.”
“Animal Ed? The guy with the exotic pet shop on Bush Road?”
“Yeah, loves animals. Mum reckons he was all over that woman because she was wearing a leopard-print dress.”
“Nerys,” said Clovenhoof, recognising the dress sense and modus operandi of his upstairs neighbour.
“Ed let me hold a tarantula once. Actually, Ed was probably one of the least crappy boyfriends my mum’s had.”
“And she’s certainly had a lot.”
Colour flared in the boy’s cheeks.
“I’m just saying she’s had a lot of men,” said Clovenhoof. “Popular woman.”
The thing in the pram made a burbling sound, and Spartacus automatically jiggled the pram by the handle until the noise subsided.
“You’re a cock, Mr Clovenhoof.”
Clovenhoof was happy to agree with that.
“Tell you what. Leave the baby here, tell your grandmother she can pick it up later, and you can do my leaflets in the meantime.”
“You? Look after Bea? Have you ever looked after a baby before?”
“Sure. Feed them. Walk them. Throw a stick in the park. Child’s play.” Clovenhoof thrust a crumpled five pound note at the boy with one hand and his mobile phone with the other.
Spartacus snatched up the money but stared blankly at the chunky brick of a mobile phone.
“Seriously? I’m not touching your clockwork knob-phone.” He pulled out a slim rectangle with a protective rubber cover featuring a T-Rex. “You should give that back to Queen Victoria before she notices it’s missing.”