by Heide Goody
“I don’t mind that sort of imposition,” said Clovenhoof.
“Silence! I, for one, am sick of these parenting Nazis telling us decent folk how we should raise our children. I come from a whole generation raised on formula milk, the three ‘R’s, firm discipline, and a sound respect for good and honest British values. Keep your New Age philosophies to yourself and, most importantly, keep your body covered!” Mrs Bloom took a moment to compose herself. “Miss Wilson, you will be fined two hundred pounds and will serve forty hours of community payback.”
“Unfair!” yelled Sandra.
“Security, take that woman down,” said Mrs Bloom.
As the court security officers pulled Sandra from her seat, there were boos and jeers from the public. Clovenhoof joined in with some armpit farts for no good reason. Toyah gave Sandra a small smile of thanks and solidarity as the SCUM leader was taken away.
“There will be silence in the court!” shouted Mrs Bloom.
The court subsided quickly, less out of fear and respect and more because they’d had their bit of fun and it was over.
“It is clear,” said Mrs Bloom, “that there is alarming anti-social behaviour throughout the borough, and we need some speedy action to deal with it. I will be making a recommendation to the borough council for a new byelaw forbidding all upper body nudity in public spaces and within businesses open to the public. Today it was a builder falling from his scaffolding. Who knows? Tomorrow, a waiter with a hot bowl of soup, or a bus driver carrying dozens of passengers? This menace must be stopped.”
Toyah was taken down and the court was cleared. As they filed out, Nerys paused beside Chip Malarkey.
“Stop this now,” she said.
“Stop what, Miss Thomas?” he said innocently.
“You’ve got your hand in this, and I’ve got a dossier on your dodgy dealings this thick. Sort this travesty out or God help you …”
He smiled. “God help me indeed.”
Reverend Zack Purdey, priest of St Michael’s Church, was moderately surprised to see a large shadow creeping across the churchyard at dusk. As a spiritual man, working in a historical building surrounded by a graveyard, he had seen more than his fair share of ghostly apparitions. Most had turned out to be cats, windblown bags, wandering drunks, or, on one memorable night, Mr Jeremy Clovenhoof leading the St Michael’s cub scouts on an impromptu zombie walk. Armed with his faith, Zack generally took these incidents in his stride, but recent rumours of a wild beast gave him cause for trepidation now.
However, when the shadow tripped and gave a hushed cry of “Oh, bother”, Zack relaxed.
“Is that you, Michael?” he called.
The shadow dropped into a ninja crouch and then immediately decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
“Hi, Reverend.”
“Thought it was you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He took in Michael’s combat overalls cum gimp suit. “Planning on some undercover worship?”
“No, Reverend.”
“Because you don’t have to sneak back into this church. The door’s always open.”
“Thank you.”
“We’ve missed you.”
“That’s nice.”
“I could give you a quote about a lost sheep and a shepherd willing to sacrifice all else to rescue that one wandering soul but I imagine you’d know it better than me.”
“I imagine I would.”
Michael was momentarily taken aback by the realisation that his current church demanded he fight tooth and nail to stay at its heart, and yet here was his old church telling him, even when he had abandoned it, that it would always hold him dear.
“So, why are you here, exactly, Michael?”
Michael grinned sheepishly. “I was going to ask permission. Well, I wasn’t, but I hoped you wouldn’t mind. I had planned to climb up the spire and sit on the roof.”
Zack pulled a thoughtful face. “Would never have guessed that. Can I ask why?”
“Because of the unparalleled view it offers of the surrounding area.”
“Right. So, no suicidal thoughts or anything?”
“Goodness me, no,” said Michael. “I’m generally against that kind of thing and, in my case, it probably wouldn’t work.”
“Wouldn’t work?”
“I hoped that I might better see the Beast of Boldmere from up there.”
“You believe it’s real?”
“I know it is. I’ve seen it. Stared into its demonic eyes.”
“You’re speaking figuratively, of course,” said Zack uneasily.
Michael said nothing.
Zack looked up at the spire. “I doubt we’re insured for this kind of thing.”
“Any damages would be paid for.”
“And if you slipped …”
“I shall not slip,” said Michael. “And if I did, it would be my own misadventure.”
Zack struggled to find further argument.
“Mi casa, su casa,” he said with a shrug.
There was an angrily passionate buzz in the Boldmere Oak that night. The women (and man) of SCUM had gatecrashed the weekly pub quiz and, between rounds, cursed the legal travesty they had witnessed that day and toasted the brave spirits of those who had fought the law and lost. Following Sandra’s arrest, Clovenhoof had run up a dozen or so T-shirts emblazoned with ‘Free The Boldmere One’ and was more than put out when Sandra turned up, having been released on bail, pending a future court appearance.
As drinks were pressed in Toyah’s and Sandra’s hands, and women drank as only young mothers with a night of freedom can do, Nerys drew Clovenhoof into a corner.
“What were you playing at, Jeremy?” she asked.
“Silly buggers?” he suggested, not having a clue what she was on about.
“Your idiotic turn in court. Did you honestly think you could win?”
Clovenhoof gave her the most amazed of stares.
“Win?” he grinned. “Winning wasn’t really the point. I didn’t plan to win. You know who I am. I did it for the same reason I do everything.”
She frowned.
“Because I thought it would be fun,” he said, and laughed. “Win? Wow, you are funny.”
The pub PA system popped as Lennox turned on the microphone.
“Speaking of fun …” said Clovenhoof.
“Right,” said Lennox. “We have a special bonus round in tonight’s quiz, in honour of the women of SCUM.”
The Union of Mums cheered loudly.
“The questions and the special ‘booby’ prize have been provided by Jeremy Clovenhoof. Any issues, take them up with him. I’m just reading the questions. Question one, what is the name of the largest city in Brittany’s Finistere departement in Northern France?”
“Clever,” said Ben, pressing a fresh glass of Lambrini into Clovenhoof’s hand. “I see what you’ve done there.”
“What?” said Nerys.
“It’s Brest.”
“Question two. The shape of champagne glasses is said to be modelled on which Frenchwoman’s breasts?”
“Ten questions on the theme of tits?” said Nerys.
“It would have been twenty if Lennox had let me do a picture round.”
Sandra appeared out of nowhere and wrapped an arm around Clovenhoof’s shoulder. It was evident that this particular heroine of the hour had gone from nought to plastered in less than fifteen minutes.
“Soooo, Mr Defence Lawyer, what’s our next step?”
“Vodka jelly shots,” he said.
“I meant after that.”
“Curry!”
“No, no,” slurred Sandra. “What should our next move be on these horrible totali-ti-ti-tarian small town despots?”
“I wouldn’t be asking Jeremy for that kind of advice,” said Ben hurriedly, narrowly beating Nerys to it.
“Well,” said Clovenhoof, ignoring them, “after the jelly shots and the curry, I would see if they try to implement their stupid cover-me-tits law and then … and then we should all brea
k it.”
“An act of mass disobedience?” said Sandra.
“What?” said Toyah. “Everyone stripping off?”
Clovenhoof nodded, sincerely and drunkenly.
“A big massive Boob Out.”
“Making a bold statement regarding our hu…” Sandra hesitated, looking like she was about to throw up but then reining it in. “… human rights?”
“If you like. I’m just saying we should hit them with both barrels, so to speak. A sea of nipples as far as the eye can see.”
Clovenhoof’s eyes glazed over as he was lost to his drunken vision.
“Question three,” said Lennox, “Cameron van der Burgh holds the Olympic record in which discipline?”
“Breaststroke,” said Nerys, “and DON’T even think about it, Jeremy.”
Clovenhoof was frozen with his hand and his eyebrows raised in the manner of someone who had been cruelly prevented from demonstrating a hilarious visual pun.
Michael regarded himself as a being of considerable talents, and he climbed the spire with ease. He tucked himself into a crevice between two carvings (one a much eroded and sad-looking representation of himself) and looked down upon the surrounding urban landscape. Birmingham, despite its grim industrial history, was an exceptionally green city, and it was only the very tallest trees that impeded Michael’s view of the local streets. He scoured the streets with his binoculars until the last of the daylight was entirely gone, and then slipped on his night-vision goggles.
Michael was a shameless technophile and had insisted that he buy himself the very best in surveillance gear. This particular pair of goggles had cost the price of a small car and were equipped with lenses for detecting ultraviolet light, infrared and – he shuddered with delight – thermal imaging. He switched to infrared, scanned the Chester Road, and tapped his ear-piece.
“Little A.”
“Yes, Michael,” said the computer.
“Continue to scan police radio frequencies.”
“Scanning for keywords ‘beast’, ‘creature’, and ‘animal’.”
“Nothing yet?”
“Nothing, Michael.”
“Very well.”
Michael zoomed in on three figures emerging from the Karma Lounge Restaurant on the Boldmere High Street. Even at a quarter of a mile and in infrared, the hoofed feet were unmistakeable.
“A late night curry for the devil and his apprentices,” noted Michael, and smiled.
He realised how much he enjoyed being on this lofty perch. Be it physically, morally, intellectually, or spiritually, he did just love looking down on people. And, thinking that, he had one of those rare and deep moments in which he missed his angelic wings.
“Little A,” he said.
“Yes, Michael.”
“Have the prices of jet-packs come down at all since we last looked?”
“No, Michael.”
“Shame,” he said.
He switched to thermal imaging for a clearer view of Clovenhoof, Ben, and Nerys. There seemed to be a miasma of warmth around Clovenhoof’s trousers and, as Michael watched, a fresh cloud of hot air tooted from his rear end. The thermal image of Nerys – hot-headed, Michael noted wryly – put a hand to her nose and shoved Clovenhoof in the shoulder.
“Yes, I’m much happier up here,” said Michael.
A moving heat source on a nearby roof caught Michael’s eye. Closer inspection revealed it to be a domestic cat. When he refocused on the high street, the three people had gone, behind a transit van and into their temporary home.
As Ben shut the door to their coffin-filled bedsit behind him, Nerys gagged with horror.
“Jeremy! Please stop!”
Jeremy went to their mini-fridge and rooted around in the vain hope that there might be a previously forgotten bottle of Lambrini in there.
“What? It’s a perfectly natural bodily function.”
“Fine, but you’ve just spent the last ten minutes fogging up the high street with your toxic curry guffs. There’s no bloody need to do it indoors too!”
“What can I say? I’m a man with a lot to give.”
“Oh, quit it, the pair of you,” said Ben. “I’m going to have a cuppa and get down to some taxidermy.”
Nerys looked at the clock she’d propped up between the arms of a memorial cherub. “Are you sure? Isn’t it late, and aren’t you a little drunk to be playing around with needles and hot glue?”
“The alcohol steadies my hand,” said Ben. “I do my best work drunk.”
“I tried to tell Gordon Buford that,” said Clovenhoof, “but apparently it’s ‘grossly inappropriate’ to be drunk in a funeral directors.”
Ben put the kettle on, changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown, sat down at his work bench, and inspected his latest project. For the past few weeks, after things had gone a bit quiet on the beast-hunting front, he had returned to the idea of combining his interests of taxidermy, ancient history, and wargaming and was currently building a recreation of the ancient battle of Ipsus. Antigonus’s soldiers were represented by a band of grey squirrels, and the Seleucid forces by a small posse of red squirrels. Ben was very pleased with his Seleucid Argyrisapdes, which he had armed with spears formed from old tent pegs and silver shields made from the tin foil bases of mince pies. He had also bought the remains of a ninety-year-old leopard tortoise from a zoo in Wales that he hoped could be used as a Seleucid war elephant.
As he wondered when the mail order tortoise corpse might arrive, and daydreamed of how magnificent it would look in this powerful diorama, he worked on the Antigonid sandals he was currently sewing.
“Can I smell burning?” said Clovenhoof.
“I can’t smell anything,” said Nerys, slouched on some drapes that served as a beanbag. “You’ve totally destroyed my sense of smell.”
Ben sniffed. There was a faint scent of wood smoke. He looked at the kettle, their small gas heater, and his soldering iron. Nothing was amiss.
“Maybe it’s just dust.”
Nerys rolled tiredly to her feet, sniffed the air, and then went to the door and looked downstairs.
“We’re on fire,” she said simply.
Ben leapt to his feet.
“What?”
Nerys pointed to the open door and the wisps of smoke that were now coming through. “We’re on fire!”
Clovenhoof’s phone began to ring.
“Michael. Hello,” he said. “How’s things?”
“Jesus!” snapped Nerys. “We’re on fire!”
Ben was at the door beside her. Smoke filled the staircase, and down below there was nothing but an orange-yellow glow.
“Oh, Hell!”
“That’s right,” said Clovenhoof blithely on the phone. “We’re still staying above Buford’s. Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s what we thought. Thanks for letting me know.”
He hung up.
“What are we going to do?” said Ben.
“That was Michael,” said Clovenhoof. “He says we’re on fire. The ground floor is a furnace and the first floor is burning nicely too.”
“How the Hell does he bloody know?” said Nerys. “Has he called the fire brigade?”
“Didn’t ask,” said Clovenhoof, busying on his phone. “I can tweet them though.”
“Just call them!” said Ben.
Nerys slammed the door shut. “Right, we hole up in here and wait for the firemen to rescue us.”
“This second floor room with no windows?” said Ben, and coughed meaningfully. “And not much air?”
“Then we run downstairs and out,” said Clovenhoof.
“We’d be burned to a crisp,” said Ben.
“Stupid flammable humans,” said Clovenhoof.
A smoke haze was starting to drift up through the floorboards. Ben padded in his socked feet. The floor was getting warmer. Much warmer.
Nerys considered the old brick walls.
“Maybe we can break through. Create a hole for some air.”
She went to the s
helves of stacked coffins. Underneath the bottom one was a folding, wheeled gurney for pushing them around.
“A battering ram?” she suggested.
“There’s a window immediately in front of the stairs on the floor below,” said Clovenhoof.
“So?”
“And a long sloping roof just outside that window.”
“So?”
“If we could get downstairs and through that window, we could climb onto the roof and get away into the rear yard.”
“And again,” said Ben, “we’d be burned to a crisp.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Clovenhoof.
“What?”
“Now, we see your true colours,” said Nerys, eyes narrowed. “Leave us to die, eh?”
Clovenhoof lifted up the gurney and shook it to unfold it. He then dragged a richly varnished hardwood casket off a shelf and onto the gurney.
“The crematorium ovens have to reach three hundred degrees to burn through one of these bad boys,” he said.
“What?” said Nerys, but Ben was several pages ahead of her and could see where this idea was going.
“We’d suffocate,” he said.
“Nah,” said Clovenhoof. “A single person can last for up to sixteen hours in one of these.”
“How could you possibly know that?” said Nerys.
“I’ve spent considerable time with some of the deeply disappointed individuals who’ve experienced it. Obviously, that disappointment was within the context of then meeting me.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” said Ben, “but it’s a mad idea anyway. Ouch!”
The floor had transcended warm and was now hot.
“What idea?” said Nerys, coughing at the smoke.
Ben looked at Clovenhoof. “All of us in one coffin?”
“Just the two of you.”
“You’ll die.”
“Care to bet?”
“Someone tell me what the bloody idea is!” growled Nerys.
Ben clambered onto the gurney and knelt in the coffin. He held out a hand to Nerys. “All aboard.”
Michael listened as Little A relayed information to him, and then he called Clovenhoof.
“Wassup?” said Clovenhoof.
“The fire brigade is six minutes away.”