by Heide Goody
“That’s hardly going to work when you stood there taking photos and sharing them on social media,” said Ben.
“Yeah! Let’s see how many likes and retweets I’ve got,” said Clovenhoof, pulling his phone out. “Nerys is always a hit.”
“Wait, have you put stuff on there about me too?” asked Ben.
“For some reason, the internet’s less keen on you. Semi-clad women do a lot better. Oh, and cats. I’ve sent a lot of your stuffed animals to @craptaxidermy.”
Ben’s face suggested that an angry retort was on the way, but it was drowned out by the sound of the door bouncing open on its hinges and Nerys bellowing at Clovenhoof.
“You pair of shits! I know you’re both capable of doing selfish ridiculous things – Lord knows that’s why I find myself sleeping in a coffin and eating pot noodles for every meal – but at least we’ve always stuck together. Looked out for each other.”
“Nerys, that’s not true,” said Ben, bristling with self-righteousness. “If you’re looking out for a friend, you don’t leave hairs on their soap.”
“What?”
“Hairs. On their soap.”
“What are you blathering about, you cretin? I’m talking about personal betrayal.”
“Betrayal can occur on a number of levels. And, frankly, it’s bad enough that we have to use the autopsy tables for showers, but my soap definitely had hairs on it, and I’m certain that they were yours, Nerys.”
“You knob! Are you comparing that to digging a bear pit and leaving me in it? Seriously?”
“Yes! Yes, I am!” shouted Ben. “You both mock me for my habits, but I’ve always had my own set of standards, and now fate has dictated that I must live in close proximity with you. Well, I don’t mind that. I’m very happy to share all I have with you, but you must act with some decency. It’s like you’re trying to make me angry when you wash the cups.”
“You can’t make someone angry by washing cups,” said Clovenhoof.
“You both just swill them, and that’s just not acceptable,” said Ben.
“What’s swilling?” asked Clovenhoof.
“It’s when you just run something under the tap without actually washing it,” said Ben, with visible distaste.
“Surely running something under the tap is washing it?” said Clovenhoof, puzzled.
Nerys rolled her eyes as if she knew what was coming.
“No!” squealed Ben. “No, it’s not. You don’t remove grease or kill germs that way. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Filthy habit? Using tap water?” said Clovenhoof. “Interesting. So, how bad would it be to use the water out of the loo, if you couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to the tap? You know, hypothetically?”
Nerys and Ben locked gazes with each other, and then they both looked at Clovenhoof. They each grabbed the closest thing to hand. In Nerys’s case, it was a Prosecco bottle that she’d been passed by the SCUM ladies and, in Ben’s case, it was a marble cherub from the selection of funereal statuary.
Both approached Clovenhoof with murderous intent, when there was a voice on the stairs.
“Hello? Is someone up there?”
“It’s Mr Buford,” said Clovenhoof. “This could be interesting. You two aren’t supposed to be here.”
“I thought he never came up here,” whispered Nerys, alarmed.
“We could be arrested for trespassing,” whispered Ben in reply.
“Get in your coffins,” said Clovenhoof.
“From lap dancer to corpse. This day just gets better and better,” said Nerys.
“Pull the lids over. I’ll see what I can do,” said Clovenhoof.
Nerys and Ben both reacted quickly, getting into their beds and gently lowering the lids into place.
The door opened, and Gordon Buford entered the room. The funeral director was a rotund fellow, with a cheery outlook on life and a taste in suits which aided the general impression that this was a man who had stepped straight out of polite 1950’s British society. It was an impression that seemed to serve him well.
“Jeremy, I am surprised to see you here.”
“People often say that to me.”
“But what on earth are you doing?” he asked. “It’s your day off.”
“Oh, I’m a ‘work the job’ not ‘work the hours’ kind of man.”
“We’ve had a call saying that there’s some sort of fracas going on in here.”
Clovenhoof nodded, and reached for the closest thing to hand.
“Yes, I wanted to come here when it was quiet to investigate the rodent problem,” he said, holding up the taxidermy specimen.
“What sort of rodent problem?” asked Mr Buford. “That looks, for all the world, like a ferret.”
“Yes, Sutton has an increasing ferret problem. Wild ones, gathering in quiet places like this. I was right, see?” said Clovenhoof.
“Why’s it wearing a leather skirt?” asked Mr Buford.
“It’s a humane trap I designed,” said Clovenhoof.
“It’s not that humane. It looks dead.”
“Seems this one had a heart condition,” said Clovenhoof. “The main thing is that I’ve saved Buford’s from a serious ferret infestation. You can be sure that everything’s under control.”
Gordon Buford narrowed his eyes. He was a man to whom negative emotions did not come easy, so even his most suspicious gaze looked more like short-sightedness.
“I’m really not sure what’s going on here.”
“Are any of us?”
“So I shall be getting back to my family barbecue now.”
“You do that.”
Mr Buford paused on his way to the door and regarded the stone cherub and the empty bottle of sparkling wine leant against it.
“Do not disappoint me, Jeremy,” he said, and left.
Footsteps receded down the stairs and, shortly afterwards, there was the faint sound of a car starting and moving off. Clovenhoof looked around, savouring the peaceful atmosphere.
“Can we come out now?” whispered Ben.
“What’s happening?” whispered Nerys.
Clovenhoof shushed them.
This was surely the quietest the room had been since they’d moved in. An hour or two more of this would be a wonderful idea. He could do with some quality Lambrini time. He quickly fetched a screwdriver and fastened the tops onto the coffins.
“It’s all right,” he said to them both. “I’m just having a drink on you.”
Chapter 9 – In which beasts and beastly plans are uncovered
Nerys pulled up outside sixteen Station Road.
Two weeks into her new job, Nerys had come to a number of conclusions regarding the world of estate agents.
One conclusion was that working for an estate agent was not dissimilar to working for an employment agency. Both were about selling a product to a market: selling houses to homebuyers had replaced selling jobseekers to local employers. In both industries, the products were unique and came onto the market at irregular times. In both industries, the product frequently needed tidying up or renovating to make them remotely sellable and, sometimes, the product had to be heavily discounted if there was to be any hope of a sale. However, property sales had the distinct advantage that there was no fear of the product punching the buyer in the face and telling the buyer to shove the job where the sun doesn’t shine.
Nerys climbed out of her car, and turned up her collar against the light rain.
A further conclusion she had come to was that there were a number of uncontrollable factors that made selling houses all the more difficult. One of these was the weather. A spot of sunshine made even the dingiest prefab in the arse-end of nowhere look inviting but, if grey skies rolled in, a house had better be fucking charming or there was no hope.
Another uncontrollable factor was the Beast of Boldmere. It had a name now. The few pictures that had appeared in the Sutton Coldfield Observer were blurry shapes at best, and the witness sightings were wildly contradic
tory, but once the damned thing had a name, it had gripped the imagination of the local populace and had impacted on house prices.
However, Nerys was working on a counterattack. She checked the papers in her work satchel and went up to the door.
As she did, she felt a thrill in her heart and a spring in her step. Yes, another conclusion she had come to was that she loved this job. She had often wondered what went on inside other people’s homes, what weird little quirks, foibles, and decorating disasters could be found behind the front doors of England. Some might have said she was a people person and showed an interest in others. Others might have said that Nerys Thomas was just a nosy bitch.
The Sutton Coldfield Union of Mums gathered in the churchyard of St Michael’s. They clustered close to the church wall to stay out of the approaching rain. As placards wavered in the breeze, Sandra addressed the women.
“I am so glad to see everyone who came to the protest picnic here again. And some new faces too.”
She strode up and down the line, her skirts flapping.
“We took to the park to speak out against the sexism and discrimination breastfeeding mothers face. And what good did it do? Who noticed? No one. How many column inches did we get? None. What changed? Nothing,” she declared loudly.
Clovenhoof couldn’t help but think that she had the appearance of a latter day Wat Tyler, addressing the pitchfork-wielding members of his Peasants’ Revolt. Clovenhoof had attended the Great Rising of 1381, mostly to point and laugh (the hunting and decapitation of Tyler was entertaining stuff, given that no reality television existed in those days). He had to admit that Wat Tyler had never worn a corduroy jacket, or carried a bemused baby in a papoose, but there was definitely something of the rebellious Kentish man about this woman.
“The media is not interested in polite people picnicking in the park, no matter how noble their cause. If we want people to sit up and pay attention, we have to go out and grab that attention.”
“Yeah!” said Clovenhoof, trying to inject some peasanty spirit into proceedings.
“Our mission is increasingly vital. I’ve heard on the grapevine that the body fascists and chauvinists of this town want to oppress mothers further. A certain church, which banned breastfeeding mothers, has made a deal with a major formula milk manufacturer to distribute free formula to local residents. This isn’t charity! This isn’t kindness! This is covert oppression of a mother’s right to feed her child how she chooses! And it will not stand!”
“Yeah!” yelled Clovenhoof, and was pleased to note that a certain Spartacus Wilson (who had come with his mum and sister) had joined in.
“We’re going to march up the Boldmere High Street on to Sutton town centre and make sure that everyone – everyone! – hears our concerns.”
A very middle class but nonetheless enthusiastic cheer went up from the SCUM.
“Onward!” said Sandra and waved the crowd toward the street.
Yep, very much like Wat Tyler. Clovenhoof wondered if this day, too, would end in a swordfight and a head on a stick. That would certainly grab headlines. He might suggest it to Sandra later.
Toyah and Spartacus fell into step beside Clovenhoof. Toyah pushed Beelzebelle in a pram. Spartacus looked up at Clovenhoof’s placard.
“Get your tits out?”
Toyah gave him a clip round the ear.
“But you’re always telling me to read more,” he said.
“It did say more,” said Clovenhoof of his placard, “but the bottom got chopped off by a madwoman with a spade.”
He looked at Spartacus’s placard.
“I heart boobs,” said Clovenhoof looking at the stylised pictograms.
“He’s very supportive of his old mum,” smiled Toyah.
Clovenhoof frowned.
“But you don’t breastfeed Beelzebelle anyway,” he said. “I gave her formula when she was with me and you must have stopped – what do they call it? – spurting since then.”
“Lactating.”
“Really? Not spurting? Let’s compromise and call it oozing.”
“It’s called lactating and she’s called Beatrice.”
“Potato, potahto.”
“And it’s not just about my rights to breastfeed. It’s about my rights to do what I bloody well please with my body. I say, ‘no one is the boss of me and no one is going to tell me where I can or can’t show my naked flesh’.”
Clovenhoof was tempted to agree and point out that he had heard a drunken Toyah exclaim those very words in the car park of the Boldmere Oak, when caught with a bloke in the bushes, but instead said, “Spartacus, I have to commend you on your boobs. Very lifelike.”
“He spent all evening on the internet looking up pictures to copy them from,” said Toyah proudly.
Clovenhoof passed Spartacus the plastic vuvuzela he had brought with him.
“What’s this for?” said Spartacus suspiciously.
“Any decent protest calls for a vuvuzela,” said Clovenhoof, “and the boy who drew those badonkadonks should be the one to blow it.”
Clovenhoof took his phone out to take a picture of Belle.
“Come on, boy. Blow your horn. Tell the world the Nork Army are coming!”
The occupants of sixteen Station Road were Rory and Sarah Lilley. Rory worked in IT. Sarah worked in retail. Rory had an appalling taste in clothing. Sarah had an appalling taste in men. Both had an appalling taste in soft furnishings. Nerys commented on none of this when she went through the evaluation process.
Nerys put down the insipid cup of tea and took out her camera.
“I’m going to take photographs of all the rooms.”
“We tidied up especially,” said Rory, apparently impressed with himself.
“And your house looks lovely,” she agreed. “I’d just like to move a couple of things first.”
“Move?” said Sarah.
“To create a better sense of space,” smiled Nerys. “Could we perhaps take a couple of those cushions off the sofa?”
“Cushions?”
“Just to create a better sense of space. Less clutter.”
Rory did as instructed.
“Maybe a few more,” said Nerys.
“Okay.”
“And … maybe a few more.” Nerys nodded. “That’s lovely. Well, that last cushion just looks lonely. Maybe we should …”
“Put some back?” said Sarah.
“No,” said Nerys. “Remove. That’s it. Just stuff them all down the back. Good. Now, the curtains …”
“Do you like them?”
“They are unique, aren’t they? The woman with her face printed into the pattern …”
“My mum,” said Sarah.
“Wow,” said Nerys. “I didn’t know you could get that done.”
“We had to search high and low to find a company that could do it for us.”
“Really?” said Nerys. “I am surprised. Rory, could you draw them right back? Let’s have some light in here. Yes, is there any way in which we can tie your mother-in-law back? We’re selling the house after all, not your relatives.” She forced a laugh.
“My dad’s staying,” said Sarah.
“Pardon?”
Sarah pointed at the wallpaper and Nerys realised that that diamond spot pattern on the wall wasn’t composed of diamonds at all, but the infinitely repeated face of a quizzical bald man.
Nerys was wondering if there was a setting on the camera that would blur out the disconcerting crowd of baldies, when her thoughts were interrupted by a strident horn blart from outside.
“What was that?” she said. “Does the fox hunt come through here?”
“What fox hunt?” said Rory.
Sarah clung to her husband.
“You don’t think it’s the beast, do you?”
“I don’t think the beast has a horn, Sarah,” he said.
“Maybe they’re hunting it,” she said.
“There is no beast,” lied Nerys.
The husband and
wife exchanged a glance.
“Nerys, I think we have to be honest with you.”
“Honesty is always the best policy,” lied Nerys again, who had little time for honesty.
“The reason we want to move is because Mrs Benjamin at number twenty-two saw the beast in her garden.”
“Really?”
“We’ve already put down a deposit on one of the houses in the new Rainbow housing development. There have been no sightings over there.”
“True,” said Nerys, lying for a third time in the full knowledge that the new Rainbow estate was a stone’s throw from the ARC lab where the creature was born. “But I can assure you that every one of the so-called sightings has been debunked as either a hoax or mistaken identity. It’s just public hysteria, like the Loch Ness Monster or the Biting Man of Sparkhill.”
“But Mrs Benjamin saw it tip over her bins. She said it was like an enormous cat creature.”
“Did she now?”
Nerys removed a sheaf of large photographic prints from her satchel. They were black and white. For some reason, even in this digital age, black and white added an air of authenticity and authority to images.
“Perhaps she saw this,” said Nerys, and presented them with a picture of a horribly misshapen moggy lurking by a drainpipe.
“That’s one ugly cat,” said Rory. “What’s wrong with it?”
Nerys shrugged.
“It’s a large ginger tom, one apparently unhappy with the hand life has dealt it. People have made phone calls to the RSPCA about it.”
“No,” said Sarah. “Mrs Benjamin said it had a snout and a long muscular body.”
“Like this?” suggested Nerys and showed them a picture of a contorted otter, skulking in grass.
“An otter?” said Rory.
“Spotted by the storm drain outlets,” said Nerys.
“And is that a … a little spear it’s carrying in its hand?”
“Noted tool users, otters,” said Nerys.
“But what about the other sightings? The bones buried in Sutton Park?”
“Dogs,” said Nerys.
“The claw marks on the rooftops?”
“I think I have a picture of a rogue owl in here somewhere.”