by Heide Goody
"What do you think?"
Michael looked up. It was the large man in the bad jumper.
"Sorry?" said Michael.
"When you pray," said the man. "I was watching you and you had this look of concentration on your face. I just wondered…"
"You were watching me pray?" said Michael.
"I find it hard to concentrate some times. I’m Darren."
Michael passed him a cup of tea.
"I think of Heaven," he said.
"What?" said Darren.
"When I pray. I think of Heaven and how much I wish to be there, with God."
Darren nodded.
"It’s beautiful, isn’t it?"
"How would you know?"
"I’ve seen it."
"In a painting?"
The man shook his head.
"I was shown a vision. I know it exists."
Michael decided that the man was touched by madness.
"Humans are not granted proof of the afterlife," he said. "Or else what need is there for faith?"
The man was about to object but Reverend Zack appeared with a smile on his face and a kind hand on Darren’s arm. Reverend Zack was probably quite young but seemed to be trying to reach middle age as quickly as possible. He had a predilection for sensible tank tops and a stolidly earnest manner.
"Now, Darren," he said, "we’re not making a nuisance of ourselves, are we?"
"No, Rev," said Darren, "I was just talking to…"
"Michael," said Michael.
"We don’t want to scare him away, do we?" said Reverend Zack. "Why don’t you help Angela go set up?"
Darren reluctantly shuffled off. Reverend Zack smiled brightly at Michael.
"Darren Pottersmore’s a character," he said. "A fervent believer but, well, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it?"
"Does it?"
Reverend Zack nodded.
"Did you enjoy the service?"
Michael took longer than necessary to pour the next cup.
"Honestly?" he said.
"Honesty. Always the best policy."
"Yes," said Michael and proceeded to recount the failings, small and large, he had noted that morning, from the dusty pews to the overabundance of malted milks in the biscuit selection.
"I see," said Reverend Zack afterwards. "Refreshing comments, Michael. Thank you."
"You’re welcome."
Reverend Zack grimaced.
"I assume you would like to help us address some of our shortcomings."
"Absolutely," said Michael.
"Mmmm. I think I might have a role for you next Sunday."
"Yes?"
"Angela’s off on holiday this week. Perhaps a man of your learning could fill in for her next Sunday with the primary age Sunday School."
"Delighted to," said Michael graciously.
Reverend Zack gave him a final smile of a different sort and moved off to circulate amongst his flock.
"You’re wrong," said the old woman to Michael’s left.
"Wrong how?"
"There is proof of the afterlife."
"I don’t think so."
The woman rummaged in her purse and produced a mobile phone.
"I got a call from my friend, Molly, last night."
"Yes?"
"Well, she’s been dead seven weeks now. Listen."
She thumbed the answer phone button and pressed the phone to Michael’s ear. Michael recognised the recorded voice instantly.
"It’s me. Just thought I’d give you a bell, let you know that I'm having a smashing time, up here all by myself. Life’s a party and you’re invited."
Michael took his head away from the outheld phone.
"And, tell me, did your friend, Molly, sound like a drunk and gravel-voiced man when she was alive?"
"No," she admitted, "but everything’s different in the hereafter, isn’t it?"
"Not that different," said Michael.
~ooOOOoo~
Ben, reading Model Militaria Monthly at the counter, looked up when the door to Books ‘n’ Bobs chimed. It was Mr Michaels, the new tenant from flat 1a.
"Morning," he said.
"For six days, work is to be done," said Michael sternly, "but the seventh day shall be your holy day, a day of Sabbath rest to the Lord. Whoever does any work on it is to be put to death."
"Yeah? Well, my bank balance and Sunday trading laws say otherwise. Been and got your weekly dose of God, huh?"
"I wish," said Michael, downcast.
"What?"
"Nothing." Michael walked through the shop, running his finger along the spines of the hardbacks. "Do you have any books about health?"
"What kind of books? Fitness books?"
Michael had a troubled look on his face.
"I’m worried there’s something… wrong."
"Wrong?" said Ben. Ben straightened up, his hands quivering slightly. If this was a prelude to a heart-to-heart about cancer or some other life-threatening illness then Ben, kind as he would want to be, didn’t feel his constitution was up to it.
"I mean," said Michael, "there’s the stomach complaint I’m having but that’s not what’s really bothering me. It’s…" He floundered. "Human bodies are funny old things, aren’t they?"
"I suppose so," said Ben. "I can make my ears wiggle. Look."
"Mmmm. Do you ever stop to think you might be physically… abnormal?"
Ben eyed him suspiciously.
"Have you been speaking to my mom?"
"Ben, I have a problem. I think. Downstairs."
Ben frowned. Michael gestured in the vague direction of his own crotch.
"Oh," said Ben, thinking that a heart-to-heart about cancer would be preferable to this. "You have a pain?"
"No."
"An itch? A rash?"
"No."
The words ‘oozing’ and ‘weeping’ sprang to Ben’s mind but he was not going to go there. If he did, ‘pustules’ and ‘sores’ wouldn’t be far behind.
"I mean does it all work properly?" he asked. "You know, you can write your name in the snow, like?"
"Is that what it’s for?"
"I mean, can you urinate?"
"Oh, yes," said Michael. "I wish I could stop."
"Bladder problems, I see."
"No," said Michael. "I just wonder if my thing is normal."
Ben quailed.
"I could show it to you," said Michael.
"No!" shouted Ben, hands outstretched. "Please don’t."
Michael looked disappointed, even mildly offended.
"It’s not really my area of expertise," said Ben.
"I just thought, you being a man…"
"Well, I’ve seen mine, of course, but I don’t tend to look at other men’s."
"And you’ve never sought comment on yours?"
"No," said Ben, his mind flashing back to a mentally scarring game of Doctors and Nurses with Emma Kendall when they were six years old and to an even more brutally scarring date with a college girl twelve years later which ended with the girl pointing and laughing hysterically at exactly the wrong moment.
"Look," said Ben. "I’m not a man of the world. My experiences are limited. My… mine is pretty much used for only one thing. More’s the pity. Guess I haven’t met the right woman yet."
"Oh, I see. So you would show it to your girlfriend?"
"Yes. Not on the first date, though. That’s more Jeremy’s style," he said and then the answer struck him. "You need to talk to Jeremy Clovenhoof. He’d definitely take a look and offer an opinion."
"I see," said Michael.
"Actually, we’re going to the pub tonight. You could join us. Talk man to man there."
"Perhaps."
"You do owe me a pint after all."
Michael took a book from the biographies shelf: Bill Gates: King of Geeks.
"How much for this?" he asked.
~ooOOOoo~
Clovenhoof rapped sharply on the door to flat 1a and did a little hoofy tap dance
while he waited.
Michael opened the door. Clovenhoof looked him up and down.
"You’re wearing that to the pub?" he said.
"It’s Desmond Merrion. Savile Row's finest."
"We’re going out to quaff booze and talk bollocks. You’re dressed like you’re appearing in court."
"Frankly," the archangel said, "there’s no appropriate dress code for supping with the devil. And what exactly are you wearing?"
"Bermuda shorts, velvet smoking jacket and silk cravat, Mickey-boy."
"Why?"
"Because it’s cool, sophisticated and I’m as suave as buggery."
Michael peered along the hall.
"I thought Ben and Nerys were joining us."
"They’re already down the road a way. I said we’d catch them up at the pub. Ben told me you had a problem you needed to discuss with me."
"Yes," said Michael, closing his flat door and locking up. "I suppose I do."
Summer was slipping into autumn and, though there was still a red dusky glow in the southern sky, the air was cool. Michael strode sedately and Clovenhoof trotted beside him.
"I remember when I first arrived everything was a bloody mystery to me," said Clovenhoof in his most avuncular manner. "Not even a year ago but it seems like a lifetime away. It’s no surprise you’re having trouble settling in."
"I think I’ve settled in remarkably well."
"I didn’t even know what money was," he chuckled.
"I know what money is," said Michael.
"Even the paper ones?"
"Even the paper ones."
Clovenhoof was mildly put out, hoping to be able to teach him the difference between blue beer vouchers, brown curry vouchers and purple lap dance vouchers.
"Yeah, but then there’s the other stuff. Like transport, yeah? You do know that you can tell a taxi driver to take you anywhere you want but not bus drivers?"
"I do."
"With buses if you want to go somewhere in particular, the trick is to be really, really threatening."
"I’m not sure that’s the case, Jeremy."
"Trust an old hand, Michael. And TV."
"What about it?"
"You do know that it’s not real?"
"I do."
"Because technology can be confusing."
"Frankly," said Michael looking up at the darkening sky, "it’s one of the few things round here that makes sense."
"Really, cos I bet you haven’t got one of these."
Clovenhoof whipped out his new mobile phone.
"Look at this bad boy, huh?" He waggled it boastfully in front of Michael’s face. "I can use it to talk to people even if they’re miles away. And I don’t mean by shouting either, no."
Michael frowned at it.
"Did that happen to belong to Nerys’s Aunt Molly by any chance?" he asked.
"It did," Clovenhoof admitted. "But it’s not second hand, no. It’s pre-loved."
"Uh-huh. And have you been phoning the contacts in the address book and leaving messages?"
"Just spreading myself about. Social maven, me. Centre of the bloody universe."
"Of course," said Michael tiredly.
"I can see you’re jealous," said Clovenhoof. "You want a phone like this, don’t you?"
"If I wanted a weapon with which to stun burglars, perhaps," said Michael. "I’ve actually got this."
From his jacket pocket, he slipped a flat, wide device which lit up at his touch. The whole thing was a screen.
"That’s a tiny TV," said Clovenhoof.
"Smartphone," said Michael. "4G, sixteen megapixel camera, GPS, Wireless and Bluetooth."
Clovenhoof stared at the shiny wonder.
Yes," he managed to say eventually. "I mean that’s all right, for doing phone things like calling people and sending telegrams but there’s better. There are these things called computers. Now, they may appear to be witchcraft but actually –"
"I have one, Jeremy."
"Really?" said Clovenhoof, beginning to find the whole conversation intensely annoying. "But I bet you don’t know how to use one. People talk about them being intelligent but you know you can’t get them to do anything just by shouting at them."
"Mine uses voice recognition but, no, I don’t have to shout."
"For fuck’s sake," Clovenhoof muttered. "Isn’t there anything you don’t know?"
Michael took a deep breath.
"I tell you what I don’t understand."
"Yes?" said Clovenhoof eagerly.
"I googled myself today."
"We’ve all done it."
"Searching for the Archangel Michael brought up three point seven million search results."
"Impressive."
"Satan, on the other hand, ninety-four million results."
"In your face, pigeon-wings," Clovenhoof cackled.
"Why would the human race devote more study, more content, more comment to you over me?"
"Cool, sophisticated and suave as buggery," said Clovenhoof. "Humans love me. Have you heard of Heavy Metal music?"
"I believe you subjected me to some at one point."
"I’m a god to those people. Oh, here we are."
The Boldmere Oak stood on the corner between Boldmere Road and Sheffield Road, its square, brick bulk looming over the junction.
"Home from home," said Clovenhoof.
"It’s a pub. I’m not sure if I do pubs," said Michael.
"Think of it as an inn," suggested Clovenhoof. "I can recall someone dear to both our hearts who was born in an inn."
"Our Lord was born in the stable."
"Fair enough," shrugged Clovenhoof. "And if there’s a Second Coming, he’ll be born in a beer garden, somewhere between the parasols and the empty beer kegs."
He steered Michael through the door and to the bar. Clovenhoof threw a lazy salute to Lennox, the barman.
"A glass of your best Lambrini for me and…?"
He turned to Michael.
"Oh, just a mineral water for me," said the archangel.
Clovenhoof gagged.
"Belay that order, Lennox. Michael, you cannot come in here and ask for water. That’s like going into a restaurant and asking for a bowl of cornflakes. You insult the fine institution of the public house with such profanity. You should apologise to Lennox."
Clovenhoof looked to the barman but Lennox was busy pouring Clovenhoof a wine glass of fizzy perry and apparently not listening.
"I’m not drinking alcohol," said Michael. "‘Drinking too much makes you loud and foolish.’ Proverbs."
"But who’s to say what is too much? ‘Do not drink only water, but take a little wine for your stomach’s sake.’ So sayeth St Paul."
"My stomach is not good I agree but ‘wine and gambling are abominations devised by Satan.’"
"Thank you," said Clovenhoof with a modest bow. "But doesn’t the Qur’an also say, ’from the fruits of the palm-date and grapes you will get wholesome drink and food’?"
"Does it?" said Michael, frowning. "I admit translation between Arabic and English and the tongues of Heaven are little murky…"
"Exactly," said Clovenhoof, slapping him on the back. "And look here!"
He tapped a condensation-smeared pump for Foster’s lager.
"Yes?" said Michael.
"’The Amber Nectar,’" read Clovenhoof. "Can’t get more heavenly than nectar. Lennox, a pint of lager piss for my friend."
Lennox poured and placed their drinks on the bar.
"Five forty," he said.
"Pay the man," Clovenhoof told Michael.
"You haven’t got any money on you?" said Michael.
"Didn’t say that," said Clovenhoof and sipped his Lambrini.
Michael took out a calfskin wallet and paid up.
"Cheers, mate," said Lennox. "Liking the halo."
Michael stared.
"He can see my halo?" he said in a horrified whisper.
"And my horns," said Clovenhoof. "Drink up."
"But how? Humans aren’t supposed to be able to recognise us."
"It’s a long story."
"Yes?" said Michael.
"Well, basically, Lennox can see us for what we are and… well, that’s it."
"But why? How?"
Clovenhoof shrugged.
"What’s life without a little mystery? Come on."
Even though there was no music playing, Clovenhoof sashayed and boogied his way across the bar to the table where Nerys and Ben were already halfway through their first drinks, a glass of Chardonnay and a pint of cider and black respectively.
Ben gave a little cheer.
"Flatmates, ho!" he declared.
"Come sit down," Nerys said to Michael, patting the seat next to her. "Let’s toast your induction into a very special group."
"Special group?" said Michael, sliding in beside her.
"A tiny collective of sad and lonely sods who frequent this dive. Cheers."
"Cheers, I think," said Michael and took a first sip of his drink. Clovenhoof watched him closely.
"Is it nice?" he asked.
Michael peered into the depths of his drink and sipped thoughtfully again.
"What is this drink made from?"
"Hops," said Ben.
"Chemicals," said Nerys.
"Dead kittens," suggested Clovenhoof.
"It’s…" Michael reached for a word. "Robust."
"Anyway," said Nerys, "I was just telling Ben I’ve had the strangest phone call from my sister, Jayne."
"Is that the one who shags sportsmen for a living?"
"No, that’s Catherine. She’s a WAG."
"A wag?" asked Michael.
"I have three sisters," said Nerys. "Jayne still lives at home. She called me to say she’s had a text message from Aunt Molly."
"The dead one?" said Ben.
Nerys gave him a steely look.
"Yes. The dead one. Apparently the text said ‘come up and see me sometime.’"
"How could something like that happen?" said Clovenhoof.
"Indeed," said Michael, fixing Clovenhoof with a meaningful look that he chose to ignore.
"Anyway, she’s taken it as a sign," said Nerys.
"Of what?" said Ben.
"Of the need to visit. She’s going to come up and stay for a while. So you boys need to be on your very best behaviour."