by Heide Goody
“Friendly Christian folk here,” said Joan, walking through.
“Just want to piggyback off your holy Wi-Fi,” added Rutspud.
Around the corner, towards the rear of the church, Joan found a red-faced little vicar, red-faced because he was hauling on the long rope that ran up the spire. Initially thinking that he was ringing the church bells, Joan realised her mistake. The rope was indeed connected to a bell high above but by a sturdily fixed pulley system. The vicar followed her gaze up.
“It’s a tragedy really, isn’t it?” he said.
“What is?”
He jerked his head upwards, keeping both hands firmly on the rope.
“Got to make financial cuts somewhere. And we’ll get six grand for this one at least.”
Rutspud was wandering up the aisle towards the altar, waving his sin-detecting Geiger counter around as though casually searching for a nuclear bomb.
“Do you need a hand with that?” said Joan, offering to take the rope.
“I couldn’t impose,” said the vicar.
“I’m stronger than I look,” said Joan.
“I’m sure you are. I’ve been terribly let down by Rick the builder but it’s national throw-a-sicky day and the buyer’s truck is coming tomorrow. So, I’ve got to get it down. I don’t know how the truck’s going to fit down the lane but that’s their problem. As long as they don’t knock any more masonry off the side of the building like that lorry did last year. I’ve put up signs, you know.”
Joan took the strain on the pulley rope. “What’s a sicky?”
“A day off from work,” said the vicar. “Phone in. Pretend to be ill.”
“When you’re not?” said Joan.
“Quite.”
“And that’s an annual event, is it?”
“I think it’s moved to a monthly event,” said the vicar. “The argument is that your work is obliged to cover you for a number of sick days a year so you might as well take them as holiday.”
“But that’s lying.”
“Haven’t you heard? Absolution is only a click away. I think some of the vergers and ministers of other local churches have taken a similar attitude.”
Joan thought of all the closed churches they had passed. Was it coincidental?
Joan and the vicar worked on the rope hand over hand, bringing the giant brass slowly down. Shifting several hundred pounds of church bell was not easy.
“It’s a crying shame,” said the vicar. “This used to be a wealthy parish. This church was the owner and landlord of much the land hereabouts but much of that has been taken by the Ferret estate. Now times are hard and takings are down. The bells are near useless now anyway, since the volunteer bell-ringers all had to be let go.”
“Let go?”
“They were using the bell-tower for… unseemly behaviour,” said the vicar, going a little redder than before. “The chief bell-ringer tried to argue that flagellation was a historical Christian tradition and the ropes were already up there…”
“But how are you going to call the faithful to worship without bells or bell-ringers?” said Joan.
“Ah,” said the vicar, with a grin. “I should show you. Take the strain.”
Joan did and the vicar tied off the rope with a braking mechanism.
“If you’re interested of course. Here’s you and your…” He looked at the demon Rutspud. “friend? – come into the sanctuary of our humble church and here’s me pressganging you into labour and wittering on about bells and our new all-electric system.”
“I find it fascinating, father.”
He smiled nervously. “It’s not father. We’re not part of the papist crowd here. Although, nothing against them,” he added quickly. “Sterling chaps. I’m in the same yoga class as Father Paul from St Nicholas’s. Justin.”
It took Joan a moment to realise that Justin was his name and that Father Paul didn’t work at a place called ‘St Nicholas is just in’, by which time the vicar was gesturing her to come and look at a cabinet near the base of the tower.
“State of the art electronic chime-management system,” said the vicar, flinging the cabinet open. “We’ve got five resonating panels up in the belfry. A normal person would call them speakers but that’s what they’re called.”
He flicked a switch and a computer screen awoke.
“All controlled from here,” said the vicar. “Totally programmable.”
Joan watched as the vicar tapped at the touch screen and then she realised what she was looking at.
“Rutspud,” she called.
“Pardon?” said the vicar.
“My friend,” said Joan. “It’s a traditional, um, Saracen surname. Rutspud!”
“Kinda busy here, Joan!” replied the demon. “Struggling to locate a decent hotspot.”
“You need to see this,” she said.
“But –”
“You really need to see this.”
Clovenhoof and Narinda followed Nerys and Okra through the crowd on the terrace. Okra towered above Nerys but continued to silently exist in her slipstream. Whenever he looked in danger of drifting away or offering any personal opinion, she brought him into line with a brazen bit of crotch massage. It was an admirable piece of Nerys’s tactics. Whatever old adages might erroneously state, the quickest way to a man’s heart was through his flies.
“You’re buzzing,” Narinda said to Clovenhoof.
“I’ve barely had two drinks,” he argued.
“Your phone.”
Clovenhoof reached into his pocket, didn’t recognise the number but answered anyway.
“Go for the Hoof,” he said.
“Mr Clovenhoof? Hi, it’s Damo from Eddy-Cab. I’ve got a transporter with six Eddy-Cabs on it for you.”
“Have you?” said Clovenhoof and then remembered. The people Ben asked him to shout at earlier. “Oh, right. Transporter?”
“That’s right, sir. And Glen in the office said it was very important that we deliver them directly to you. Cash in hand?”
“That’s what I said. Well, where are they, huh?”
“That’s why I’m phoning, sir. I’m just coming up to the M42 turning and I was wondering where you’d like them delivered.”
“To me, of course.”
“And you are…?”
Clovenhoof looked around, at the long lawns, the wooded landscape and tried to remember.
“The Ferret estate. Um, Floxton House.”
“Floxton House. Got it. Just putting it in the old sat–”
Clovenhoof killed the call.
Nerys led them down a torch-lined colonnade to a courtyard in the depths of the gardens, where a small number of guests had gathered on a patio framed with arches.
“I’m back boys. Did you miss me?” said Nerys.
Clovenhoof nearly laughed. Not only had she already bagged herself an upper-class drip, she had a few others simmering in case this one went off the boil.
“You were telling us about a novel you are working on…” said a short man with a tiny beard.
“Maybe a novel, maybe a screenplay,” said Nerys airily. “It’s about a sexy devil who comes up from Hell to have his wicked way with anyone and everyone.” She glanced over and saw Clovenhoof looking at her. “Of course, it’s not based on anyone real,” she said loudly.
Clovenhoof winked at her.
“That’s Maldon there,” Narinda whispered.
A man turned from his circle of friends and looked at Clovenhoof. He was of middle years, with an athlete’s body that was slowly but certainly turning to fat and a film star’s good looks that were slowly but certainly letting him down under a receding hairline. He gave Clovenhoof a gleeful look.
“Jezza? Jerry Jerry Jezza!” He grabbed Clovenhoof’s hand and pumped it. “Maldon Ferret. Been waiting for you all evening! Everyone! This here is Jezza Clovenhoof, new best friend of mine, shooting star in the financial world.”
There were drunken cheers, raised glasses and a few laughs as well.
Maldon looked past Clovenhoof to Narinda.
“And you’ve brought a filly with you. Fine filly.”
“I’m not a filly, Lord Ferret,” said Narinda coldly. “I’m Jeremy’s… financial adviser for the evening.”
“A filly who can count!” said Maldon merrily. “Hear that, Paisley? Well, if you’re this young buck’s financial advisor, I guess you’d best take a look at the numbers.”
He clicked his fingers and a piece of paper was immediately placed in his hands. He passed it to Clovenhoof and Narinda deftly took it.
“A lot of zeroes there,” said Maldon. “That’s why money makes the ladies go ‘ooooo’.”
He cackled at his own joke.
“Is it a lot?” said Clovenhoof.
Narinda took a moment to find her voice. “Yes. I can safely say it is a lot. Certainly, enough to settle your tax issues.”
“What?” said Maldon. “Did I hear someone say, ‘tax’?”
There were loud boos and laughs all round.
“Naughty filly, bad filly,” said Maldon. “We don’t approve of tax round here, do we, boys?”
“No!” yelled several voices.
“Taxation is taking away from the earners and giving to the lazy, right? What was it Darwin said, eh? Survival of the fittest? And he was one of our finest science minds, wasn’t he?” He shook his head at Narinda. “Are you trying to break the laws of science, little lady?”
Narinda kept her cool. “Jeremy has some outstanding debts to Her Majesty’s Rev –”
“I’ve got friends who can sort that out for him,” said Maldon. “Don’t worry your pretty head. Money isn’t for paying tax and bills and boring stuff. Money is for having fun!”
Clovenhoof, who had been watching the ping-pong between the two of them with barely any comprehension, latched onto the one thing he understood.
“Fun?”
“Absolutement, my handsome fellow! My father – God rest his beautiful soul – was a big fan of fun. In fact, it was in this space that he invented his favourite game. Want to play?”
“I like games,” Clovenhoof agreed.
“Oh, shit,” muttered Nerys in the corner.
“It’s simple, really,” said Maldon. “We sit in these chairs here and watch the skies. Night falls and the birds – the feathered kind – are coming in to roost. And we bet on which arch out of these four we see the next bird fly through. This seat, yes. Gufty Bernard’s been sat in yours, warmed it up no doubt. You’re a disgusting man, Gufty, and if you weren’t nephew to the hottest milf in England, I’d have you beaten and thrown to the dogs.”
Clovenhoof sat. Maldon clicked for drinks.
“A whisky sour for me. Jezza, name your tipple du soir.”
“I don’t think your bar does Lambrini,” Clovenhoof said.
Maldon gave him a surprisingly passionate look. “My bar will get you what you want, sirrah! A Lambrini for the man!” As the waiter silently vanished, Maldon gestured at the courtyard arches before them. “Choose your weapon.”
Clovenhoof hesitated but a moment. “That one.”
“Then I will take that one,” said Maldon. “Shall we say ten thou?”
“Jeremy!” hissed Narinda, coming in close behind him. “I strongly suggest –”
“Oh!” said Maldon loudly. “I see the filly is actually here to hold your purse strings. Or is it your ball sack?”
Narinda didn’t allow the laughter to cow her. “Do not do this,” she whispered to him. “You could lose your money before you’ve even got it.”
Clovenhoof waved her away. “Ten K is a drop in the bucket. And, besides, I practically invented gambling. I can’t lose.”
“The certainty of a born winner!” said Maldon. “Game on! The chips are down. We’re locked in. Watch for the birdie everyone.”
A few minutes later, as the waiter presented Maldon with his whisky sour and Clovenhoof with a chilled glass of the finest Lambrini, a guest gave a cry.
“There! There!”
Maldon leaned and squinted at the two flapping silhouettes.
“Ten thou to you. You are a born winner, Jerry!” he declared. “Nigel? You keep score.”
“As will I,” said Narinda.
“Pick your arch, Jezza. Let me know when ten grand becomes passé.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Rutspud feigned interest as the vicar talked them through the workings of the wonderful electronic chime-management system.
“And I can use this app to programme the bells,” he said. “Mostly I keep it set to the hourly chimes. Only allowed to use them four times a day due to noise pollution regulations but I do think it’s nice to hear them. But I can programme it with any tune. I cheekily created a file to play Bat out of Hell but I’ve not had the courage to run it.”
“Oh, you should,” suggested Rutspud.
Joan tapped him.
“Sorry, reflex action,” said the demon.
Joan put her mouth to Rutspud’s cavernous ear. “You see it?”
He nodded. He’d spotted the winky cat icon the moment he looked at the screen. WinkyCat Studios. The computer programmer.
“Tell me, Justin, who put this system in for you? It’s some seriously hi-tech affair.”
“Oh, some local lad.”
“A computer programmer?”
“Yes. Felix.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where we could find him?”
The vicar gave them a pained look. “Afraid not. Met the lad one day in a chip shop. He did the job for me at practically cost. He gave me his e-mail address on a bit of paper but I’ve lost that. Put it on the cabinet one day and then…” He shrugged. “I’d blame the cleaners, but they’ve been throwing sickies so often that I don’t think I’ve seen them in a month.”
“I could have a little look round for it,” suggested Rutspud.
“Really? Why?” said the confused vicar.
“While I help you bring that bell down,” said Joan.
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“Just being good Christians,” said Joan.
“That’s right,” muttered Rutspud. “we’ll sing a few kumbayas while we do it.”
The vicar looked deeply grateful. It was funny, thought Rutspud, that in a crapbucket world, you only had to offer a glimmer of niceness to make the terminally good smile.
“And if you hang around until the top of the hour,” said the vicar, “you’ll hear the final chimes of the day. Just the chimes, no Bat out of Hell. The bells might be gone but the resonating panels are mighty powerful. Sends the local birds into a right flap.”
Maldon casually looked at his watch.
“Well, you’ve got me backed into a corner here, Jezza. Like office totty in the stationery cupboard with one of the board. Let’s say a hundred and sixty thousand on the next one. Give me a chance of winning some back?”
“Sounds more than fair,” said Clovenhoof. He downed his second Lambrini and waved the empty at the waiter. “I wouldn’t want to rob our host of everything.”
Maldon laughed.
There were manly, encouraging pats on Clovenhoof’s shoulders from the other guests but he could see something different in the eyes of those gathered round. There was coldness, a condescension, like punters round a bear-baiting pit. Clovenhoof wasn’t surprised. He was a winner and, despite what anyone else might say, no one loved a winner. That’s why he got his face on all those Heavy Metal album covers and the Other Guy didn’t get to appear on a single one.
Narinda had to force herself between two men to get close to Clovenhoof.
“You need to stop. He’s playing ‘double or quits’, increasing the bet every time. He only needs to win once and you’re sunk.”
“I am aware,” said Clovenhoof.
He had placed the inventor of the martingale ‘double or quits’ system in the Pit of Bad Mathematicians over two hundred years ago and offered the idiot a chance to win his way out on a coin toss – double o
r nothing. The last time he’d checked, the man owed Hell two trillion eternities of torture. And still he kept playing, the silly tosser.
“Nerys says it’s a sting,” Narinda whispered.
“What does she know?”
“Because they were talking about fleecing some nouveau riche oik before you got here. A trick. Something to do with the local church.”
“Coincidence,” he scoffed, as his phone vibrated in his pocket. “This is a simple game between new friends and I’m the king of gamblers. Now back off.” He answered the phone. “Yes?”
“Mr Clovenhoof, sir. It’s Damo from Eddy-Cab.”
“Who?”
“With the cars, sir. Just wanted to check that it’s okay to bring the transporter down through Floxton Magor. Some of these lanes are –”
“Dammit, man!” he yelled. “Bring them to the home of my good friend Lord Maldon Ferret now or there will be consequences on a Biblical scale!” He killed the call with a vicious finger jab that nearly cracked the screen.
“Everything okay, Jezster?” said Maldon.
“Peachy, Maldo,” he replied. “A hundred and sixty thousand, you say? We could just call it a cool million.”
Maldon’s surprise lasted only a heartbeat before his face cracked into a wide and avaricious smile.
“Now, you’re talking! Let’s get a round of shotskies in, up the ante and, if we’re in the mood, try and get one up Gufty’s aunty later too. Pick an arch, Jezza.”
No sooner had they settled down with drinks to watch than one of Maldon’s cronies pointed through Clovenhoof’s selected arch.
“There!”
Clovenhoof looked, but he’d had more than a few drinks and his eyes failed to catch sight of a bird. “You sure?”
“Definitely,” said Maldon with a sad shake of his head. “Two million on the next one?”
“Make it three,” said Clovenhoof breezily and then merely smiled smugly when someone shouted that he’d won again.
Two drinks and several bets later, Maldon gave a cry of anguish as the latest bird failed to favour his archway.
“Damn it all to hell! How much have I lost to this god among men?”