Clovenhoof 02 Pigeonwings

by Heide Goody

  "Okay!" said Sebastian, hands raised in defeat. "Idea three."

  He brought onto the table an item wrapped in a velvet cloth. Barry leant in close and swivelled an eyeball toward it.

  "We have few abundant resources on the island," he said. "We need to make use of what we have."

  Sebastian unwrapped the velvet cloth to reveal a cracked, weathered and mostly toothless human jawbone. Novice Stephen put a hand to his mouth and drew his chair back a distance from the table.

  "Is it real?" he asked.

  "Dug it up yesterday," nodded Sebastian.

  Brother Manfred frowned.

  "Please forgive me when you prove me wrong, but is there a large demand for bits of skeletons?"

  Sebastian gave him a superior look.

  "There is an enormous demand for the skeletal remains of saints. The informal trade of relics is worth several million pounds worldwide."

  The abbot made a contemplative noise and leaned forward, using Barry as an elbow rest. The peacock chirped unhappily but did not resist.

  "Two questions, brother," he said with beatific calmness. "First, how do we know that is the jaw of saint?"

  "This is the island of twenty thousand saints, Father Abbot. The odds of it being one of the twenty thousand are good. We can put that in the small print."

  "Ah," nodded the abbot, "and, secondly, by ‘informal trade’ you mean.,,?"

  "The black market?" suggested Stephen.

  "The protocols for the sale of such items are vague," said Sebastian.

  "Oh?" said the abbot in mock surprise. "Not clearly outlined by the papacy then?"

  "There might be certain documents –"

  "Which you need to read carefully before you draw the wrong kind of attention to our small community."

  "It seems such a shame," said Sebastian, rewrapping and removing the jawbone before flopping dejectedly into his seat. "We have few natural resources of value on the island that we can turn a profit from."

  "What about the fruit?" said Novice Stephen.

  "What about it?" said Sebastian.

  "The Bardsey apple tree is unique. So said that Royal Horticultural fellow –"

  "Who I did not invite to inspect it," said the abbot gruffly.

  "But if it’s unique... Rarity has its own value. Think of Beluga caviar."

  "Matsutake mushrooms," said Manfred.

  "White truffles," said Sebastian, a smile returning to his face.

  "No," said the abbot, a warning note in his voice. "I don’t think our apple pies are going to make the same kind of money."

  "I don’t know," said Sebastian. "Think how much Prince Charles charges for his duchy biscuits."

  "It’s not just apple pies," said Stephen. "We could make sauces, jams, dried fruit mix."

  "I don’t think so," said the abbot.

  "Or drink," suggested Sebastian. "How about Bardsey cider? Now that has a nice ring to it."

  "We shouldn’t sell the fruit," said the abbot.

  "Or schnapps!" exclaimed Manfred with a sudden delight. "My grandfather showed me how to build a still."

  "I said, no!" shouted the abbot, rising to his feet and spilling Barry to the floor in an undignified mass of iridescent feathers. "I forbid it!"

  Three pairs of eyes stared silently and fearfully at the furious abbot. The prior’s eyes seemed to be focussed on a patch of unremarkable brickwork and his emotional state was unreadable.

  Abbot Ambrose looked at each of the younger monks in turn, his chest heaving with anger.

  "I forbid it," he said in a quieter, shaking voice. "Vengeance seven times over for anyone who defies me on this matter. The apples are for private consumption by the brothers only."

  Novice Stephen couldn’t actually recall the last time that their home-grown apples had featured in the refectory menu but said nothing.

  "We apologise," said Brother Manfred, bowing his head. "We did not mean to offend or upset you."

  "Of course, you didn’t," said the abbot with a wave of his hand as he sat down. "My passions got the better of me. Continue."

  "I have no more moneymaking ideas," said Sebastian.

  "I have one more," said Stephen.

  The abbot’s stony expression spoke volumes. It quite clearly said, "I’m listening, Novice Stephen, but if this is a stupid or infuriating idea it will be your bones that are sold on the black market." The expression was so clearly readable that it had punctuation and everything.

  "The monastery, Father Abbot," said Stephen.

  "What about it?"

  "It’s a beautiful old building. People love beautiful old buildings."

  "We already have daytrippers visit us," said Sebastian.

  "But what if they stayed over?"

  "You mean turn St Cadfan’s into a guesthouse?"

  Stephen twirled his pen.

  "I was thinking a bit more upmarket. We could host functions, conferences, weddings even."

  "Weddings," said Manfred. "I like weddings."

  "We’d be doing the Lord’s work," agreed Sebastian.

  "And people would come here to get married?" said the abbot doubtfully. "We’re a bit remote, aren’t we?"

  "Not remote," said Sebastian shrewdly. "Exclusive."

  The abbot nodded slowly.

  "It’s not a terrible idea, Novice Trevor."

  "Thank you, Father Abbot," said Stephen and didn’t bother to correct him.

  Chapter 4 – In which Michael's world gets complicated

  Michael added Can cats cure cancer? to the pile of books that provided him with no helpful data and wandered into the kitchen.

  "Little G, what's the progress of the tests you're running against the re-modelled algorithm?" he called as he rummaged through the fridge for a snack.

  "Testing is complete, Michael," the computer replied, its red light swaying from side to side as it spoke. "Results indicate that the changes result in improved accuracy."

  "What's the estimated accuracy now?" Michael asked, taking a fig and nibbling at it thoughtfully.

  "Accuracy of predictions is now estimated at ninety eight point seven percent," said Little G. "Michael, you will need more figs in the next two days, would you like me to order some more?"

  "Yes please. Now, what is the progress on uploading of the source material?"

  "All identified source texts are catalogued. Input from trending topics on social media is scheduled to update twice a day, and all known prediction methodologies are analysed and programmed."

  Michael checked off a selection on his fingers.

  "You've catalogued key messages from the Bible, the Qur'an, the Torah, the I-Ching, Dear Deirdre and Lolcats?"

  "Yes Michael. The application is now ready for compilation. Would you like to make it available for sharing?"

  "I think that would be the Christian thing to do, yes."

  "What name and icon you would like for your application?"

  "Oh," said Michael, thinking for a moment. "I suppose it does need a name. Call it 'G-sez', Little G. The icon should be a small grey teddy bear, of course. Capture this image from the webcam and show it to me as a vector image."

  The phone rang and Michael answered it on hands-free.

  "Mr Michaels? It's Superuser Appliances here."

  "Hello, Superuser Appliances," said Michael.

  "I'm afraid there's been a problem with your fridge."

  Michael, bear in hand, peered at the fridge through the open kitchen door.

  "No problem," he said. "It’s been a delight. It knew I was running out of figs."

  "A problem with the payment," said Superuser Appliances.

  "Oh," said Michael. "I authorised the debit instruction from my bank over a week ago, it should have gone through by now."

  Superuser Appliances made a reproachful noise.

  "It seems there were insufficient funds to complete the transaction."

  "Oh, dear."

  "You will need to make the payment to us in the next seven d
ays or we'll have to take the fridge back."

  Michael felt a sudden and surprising constriction in his chest. The intelligent fridge was the crowning touch to his flat. He had spent all of last night asking it questions about its contents hoping to catch it out. It even knew when his cheese was out of date.

  "I understand," he said, sadly, and ended the call.

  "You do have insufficient funds in your bank account, Michael," offered Little G.

  "And no more money until next month?"

  "I could trace the source of your monthly payments, Michael."

  "No," said the archangel. "No, let me sort this out myself."

  There was a text message on his phone. It was from Darren.

  Cub trip to Birmingham Museum tomorrow. Can I drive?

  Michael groaned at the prospect of taking the cubs into the wider world. He had his perfect oasis of automated control and calm purity in his flat. The rest of the world was so messy and brutal.

  "Little G, I need some guidance for the coming week. Can you please issue me with a G-sez message?"

  "Yes Michael. The frequency of your regular updates is currently set to daily, but you can make an ad-hoc request at any time. The text will be sent to your phone for later reference." Little G adopted a more formal and patrician tone. "G-sez: When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways."

  Michael pondered the quotation for a moment. It seemed unhelpful, as the cubs clearly were children, and would remain so for the duration of the museum visit. Perhaps there was a more abstract meaning that eluded him for the moment. He decided to go and make sure that Ben and Clovenhoof would be on hand to assist with the cubs.

  "Assume power-saving mode, Little G. I need to go out."

  ~ooOOOoo~

  Jayne entered Books n Bobs and gave Ben a small wave. She saw him redden as he looked up.

  Ben made a strangled noise that might have been "Hello."

  "Hi," she said.

  "Haven't seen you since - er, a couple of days," he stammered. Ben had been standing behind the counter when she entered. Strange how it seemed as though he was even more behind the counter now, as a barrier between them.

  "I'm meeting Nerys at the solicitors at half past. We want to see if they can make head or tail of this will of Molly's."

  "Ah," he said. "Time for a cup of tea?"

  She nodded gratefully and Ben all but fled into the back room.

  "Actually, I came to apologise," she called out to him.

  "Yes?" came the reply.

  "I was very drunk."

  There was no reply.

  Jayne tried not to let the silence weigh down on her. She busied herself reshuffling some hardback travel books on a shelf, bringing a luscious photographic guide to Cambodia to the front. Ben reappeared with two mugs.

  "A beautiful country," said Jayne, indicating the guide book.

  "You’ve been."

  "Not yet." Jayne approached the counter. "Look, I was very badly behaved the other night."

  Ben gave her an unconvincing look of confusion.

  "Really? I don’t remember…"

  "The, um, kiss. Well, snog."

  Ben waved an overly dismissive hand.

  "Oh, that? Don’t worry about it. I mean, it wasn't horrible or anything."

  "No?"

  Ben clearly didn’t realise he was going to be asked for a follow up comment.

  "It was sort of nice," he said.

  "Sort of nice?" Jayne asked, head on one side.

  Ben mouthed wordlessly, and looked down at his tea.

  "Very nice," he mumbled, almost to himself. He coughed and Jayne thought he gathered himself a little. "Of course it was inappropriate and unexpected, but I do feel that I should tell you that it was most enjoyable. Or would have been, if the circumstances were different, I mean."

  "Yes," said Jayne. "I know exactly what you mean. If the circumstances were different I might find you…" Jayne’s mind went into freefall. She had plunged into a sentence and couldn’t see any way out of it. "Find you quite attractive and snog you when I was sober."

  They both stared into their cups of tea for a few minutes, concentrating hard on blowing them cool. Jayne shifted in her seat, keen to dispel the fog of unintended intimacy that had descended. Ben was such a sweet man, in a rumpled, un-ironed sort of way.

  "So, by way of an apology, I wanted to do something."

  "Yes?"

  "A drink or a meal or something," she said. "Is that too much like a date?"

  "Is it?"

  "I don't want to make things any more awkward, or end up accidentally snogging you again."

  "No, God. Definitely no more accidental snogging. Any snogging should be… deliberate and purposeful?"

  Ben’s phone beeped and he turned away to look at it, evidently relieved to be excused from the conversation for a moment.

  Indeed, the conversation wasn’t exactly going how Jayne had envisaged. She had pictured a swift apology, an invitation out to dinner, the resumption of a possible friendship. But, here, she seemed to have upset and disturbed Ben more thoroughly than ever before. However, he had said the snog was ‘very nice’ and a little Jayne deep down inside her was doing a celebration dance.

  How about the museum?" said Ben.

  "Museum?"

  "And art gallery in the city centre," Ben said. "Tomorrow. I'm going there anyway, apparently."

  "Oh," she said and then thought on it. "Yes, that’d be lovely. I'd really like to see the city centre. The more cultured and less alcoholic part anyway."

  "Excellent. Then it’s a date."

  "A date?"

  "On the calendar."

  "Absolutely."

  ~ooOOOoo~

  Michael walked down to Buford’s Funeral Directors and found Clovenhoof sitting on a low wall enjoying a huge sauce-spattered burger.

  "Glad I’ve caught you at lunch," Michael said. "There’s a cubs trip tomorrow to the museum and art gallery."

  "I’ll be ready for them this time."

  "Oh, yes?"

  "Bought myself a stab vest and a can of pepper spray on-line."

  "Good. Well, you’ll need to make sure you’re up early without a hangover."

  "Oh, I never get a hangover," said Clovenhoof. "I just like to lie in bed watching porn at the weekend, like anyone else."

  He took a bite from his burger and chomped noisily on it.

  "What is that thing?" Michael asked, wrinkling his nose. "It smells horrible."

  "It’s a multi-burger."

  "Which is?"

  "My own invention," said Clovenhoof proudly. "If you ask for it, you can have one of everything on the menu in a single burger."

  "Disgusting."

  Clovenhoof shrugged.

  "Handy for when you can’t remember what’s lunch and what’s part of a client. Down the hatch!"

  Michael recoiled, to Clovenhoof’s obvious delight.

  "How can you treat your body that way?" he asked.

  Clovenhoof made a show of pulling out one of the more questionable pieces of meat and holding it up to the light to examine it with a puzzled look on his face. He shrugged and popped it into his mouth.

  "What way?" he said. "The thing is with this body, it just keeps on going. I threw myself off a building once and that couldn’t hurt it."

  "I remember."

  "I’ve been in a house fire."

  "Two."

  "Two. I’ve been run over by a lorry, put fireworks down my pants and been beaten savagely with a zimmer frame."

  "That was a busy day."

  "So I reckon burgers don’t stand much of a chance."

  He smacked his lips with pleasure. Then he eyed Michael critically and leaned over to poke his stomach with a finger covered in grease.

  "Whereas you, Michael, are getting a pot belly," he said.

  "What?" said Michael looking down at the ugly smear on his shirt.

&nb
sp; "Too much angel cake, my feathered friend," Clovenhoof stood up. "Right back to work. Oh, and I’m driving the minibus on Saturday, right?"

  "No, I’ve promised Darren he can do it."

  "What?"

  "He does at least know how to drive."

  "Hang on, you’ve seen me on Grand Theft Auto. I’m a driving genius."

  Michael shook his head.

  "We’re taking the cubs to the museum, Jeremy. If I ever need anyone to cruise round, picking up prostitutes and getting into car chases with the police, I’ll ask you."

  "I will hold you to that," Clovenhoof pouted and dragged himself back into the funeral parlour, grumbling as he went.

  Michael rolled his eyes. He turned and made his way back up the high street, pulling in his stomach as he walked. Much as he wanted to ignore Clovenhoof’s taunts, he suspected that there might be a grain of truth in what he said. If his body was a temple and God’s spirit dwelled in him, was he failing to honour and maintain it as he should? Or was he becoming like St Michael’s church, a sagging, flabby biscuit-filled temple that the Almighty would be ashamed to call home?

  He stopped outside the health and fitness centre on the high street.

  "I’m here to help you reach your goals, whatever they are," said the speech bubble above the smiling, athletic man on the poster in the window.

  "Really?" said Michael, as much to himself and the Almighty as to the toothsome athlete.

  An hour later, he was signed up for a free trial in the gym. Getting into his shorts and vest in the changing rooms also gave Michael an opportunity to do a bit of covert genitalia comparison with the other men in there. He was sure Clovenhoof would have decried such behaviour as perverse but Michael felt that a spot of surreptitious cock-watching only furthered his understanding of his own body.

  In the gym, he was given a beginners plan for the exercise apparatus. The cycling machines were a dream, sleek works of grey and steel with more displays and computer processing power than the flight deck of a jumbo jet.

  "The technology is truly amazing," said Michael to the cyclist next to him.

  The fresh-face young man with close cropped hair leaned over.

  "You’re not using all of the features," he said, pointing at some buttons in front of Michael. "You can use these function buttons to simulate different gradients."