Hooflandia (Clovenhoof Book 7)

by Heide Goody

  He scrambled round and jogged down the length of the statue into the church. Ten seconds later there was click at the door and Joan was able to go in.

  She looked at the mess and destruction that had remained untouched since they were last here.

  “I would have thought some of the faithful would have returned, began the cleaning up process.”

  Rutspud had his phone out and was looking at it with concern. “This place has been abandoned.”

  “I can see that,” said Joan.

  “No, I mean it has been abandoned.” He tapped his phone. “No signal. No spiritual desire lines.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  He put the phone down. “I mean I cannot contact Hell from here. If Belphegor is going to take us back to the afterlife, we will need to find a place of worship where there is still faith.”

  “And most other places could be like this?” said Joan.

  He nodded grimly. “There is of course one place that we know will be heaving with the faithful.”

  “The devil’s own church,” she said. “I had hoped to avoid that.”

  “Really?” said Rutspud. “I quite fancied having a shufti.”

  Clovenhoof walked out onto the stage of his new church and made sure he turned slowly so that the crowd and the cameras could feast their eyes upon the gold, longer length smoking jacket that he wore for his first official ceremony. Winnebago Kisskiss had promised to whip up something that combined the smoking jacket aesthetic with a startling new approach, and just a nod to church-like statesmanship. The gold jacket featured contrasting shoulder pads made from flattened-out bicycle tyres, which would be really handy if Clovenhoof wanted to train a pet eagle to land on his shoulder. As soon as the idea had occurred to him he’d asked Nerys to source an eagle trainer with a pair of birds available (on the basis that he had two shoulders).

  The bicycle tyre motif was repeated on the elbows of the jacket, which Clovenhoof wasn’t at all sure about, but Winnebago had assured him that ‘geography teacher cool’ was a hot new trend.

  The stage was raised high above the electro-massage chairs, bean bags and sofas where the congregation sat. Clovenhoof had given the architects strict instructions that the feel of the place should be ten percent church, twenty percent theatre and seventy percent tripped out Woodstock-style rock festival. He had even suggested that free hallucinogenic drugs should be distributed to the punters, but suspected that Nerys had vetoed that.

  The audience in the church was a mixed bag. There were family and friends of today’s celebrants and a significant number of press photographers up in the galleries but there were also the hundreds of locals, hardcore Jesus freaks, general gawpers and happy-clappy hand wavers which filled the building to the extent that there was standing room only at the back and even some who had to stand outside and watch proceedings on the big screens, watching camera feeds that were also being live-streamed to other venues around the country.

  Clovenhoof tapped his radio mic and gave the audience his best grin. Hell, he loved an audience.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried. “Boys and girls! Brothers, sisters and Hoofanistas!” He paused for dramatic effect. “Welcome to my new church!”

  The crowd roared and clapped and cheered.

  “We got the best Wi-Fi in town! We got the best coffee in town! Sit down, take a load off, and kick back! Because this is your new church too!”

  The cheered again. There were even a few ‘Amen’s. Clovenhoof waved his hands to quieten them down.

  “It seems appropriate for our first ceremony to be a christening, so today we have not one, not two but three tiny tots who will be taking a dip for your entertainment!” There was a brief ripple of nervous laughter. “Let’s introduce the stars of our show. First up we have Olivia Mole.”

  A woman stepped forward with a baby in her arms. The crowd clapped loudly and Olivia responded by wrinkling up her face and bawling.

  “Smile for the camera,” said Clovenhoof, pointing out the nearest lens. “Next up we have little Charlie Smith.”

  Another woman presented Charlie to the crowd.

  “And last, but by no means least, please welcome Noah Bottom.”

  Noah’s mother held him high above her head, and the crowd responded with louder applause. Clovenhoof was impressed to see that competitive parenting could start before the age of one.

  “Now let’s move on. We’ve optimised the ceremony, and I think you’ll like what we’ve done. First, a brief blessing on each of these infants.”

  Clovenhoof turned to the row of babies and murmured the words to ‘Baby Love’ under his breath as he played a brief game of peekaboo with one hand over his face, while the other hand moved in a series of imperious gestures.

  “Now, the formal bit. Archbishop Nerys!”

  Nerys stood on a dancers podium and raised her diamante-encrusted shepherd’s crook.

  “Parents! Godparents!” she boomed. “Reject Satan! Protect the child! Raise it right with God’s help! God’s help may go down as well as up. Terms and conditions apply!”

  “Now they must each be dipped in the font,” said Clovenhoof. He nodded to Olivia’s mother, who slipped off the tot’s elaborate, frilly robe and handed her to Clovenhoof. Olivia started to wail loudly. “Don’t worry, munchkin,” said Clovenhoof. “This next bit’s fun. Bring on the waterslide!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Hooflandia was only a short walk away and yet, to Rutspud’s eyes, it was truly like another country now. The fact that it had been erected in suburban England perhaps added to its abrupt foreignness. One moment, one was walking down an unremarkable high street of charity shops, curry houses and pawnbrokers and the next there was a high fence, a concrete barrier that still couldn’t decide if it was a wall or a moat and the watchtowers and fortifications of the Hooflandian army. And beyond that, at its heart and now towering over President Clovenhoof’s formal residence was the Hooflandian church, the seat of power of Archbishop Nerys.

  Billboard-sized screens, visible even from the road, displayed images from the service currently taking place within although it took Rutspud a while to realise he was looking at a church service and not an advert for a water park.

  “Do churches normally have flume slides in them?” asked Joan.

  “Not the ones I’ve been in,” he replied.

  A constant stream of worshippers poured in and out of the entrance gates of Hooflandia and up to the military checkpoint further in. Rutspud and Joan slipped in among the faithful and made their way forward. As they approached the metal detectors and guards at the checkpoint, Rutspud found himself becoming increasingly nervous.

  “They won’t let us,” he said.

  “Course they will,” said Joan.

  He looked at the soldiers. They’d clearly taken some assertiveness training since the happy-go-lucky fighting on Clovenhoof’s family fun day. They had also, Rutspud noted keenly, been given access to weapons. One was carrying a policeman’s night stick. Another had a bandolier of throwing stars. A third carried a bulky paintball gun.

  As he watched, one of the soldiers drew a visitor aside and started aggressively searching through his bags.

  “They’ll make you take off all your armour before you go through the metal detectors,” he said.

  “They won’t.”

  “They will. They will stop us, search us and kick us out.”

  “They’ve never done that to us before.”

  “Well, I think Hooflandia has started to take itself a bit more seriously since then.”

  “We’ve got nothing to hide,” said Joan.

  “What? Apart from the oodles of Hell tech, the fragmentation grenades and the invisibility cloak.”

  An idea struck him and it appeared the same idea had struck Joan too.

  “Grenades!” he said.

  “Invisibility cloak!” she said at the same time.

  He growled at her.

  “Fine!” he snapped, b
itterly.

  They stepped out of line, put the bags on the ground and Rutspud searched through for the bags. He couldn’t see the invisibility cloak (it was invisible) but he could feel the edge of it with his fingertips. However, the bag was so densely packed that he couldn’t pull it out.

  “It’s all caught up with the grenades,” he muttered. “I think we were perhaps over-equipped for this mission.”

  “I’ve just remembered,” said Joan, “I didn’t pack everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The money printing machine! I had to put it in a chest of drawers at the mission because it wouldn’t stop. It’s still there!”

  “Well, that’s just peachy!” said Rutspud. “Going to be a nice surprise for whoever opens that drawer! Grrrr!”

  In frustration, he picked up the bag, upended it and shook out its contents onto the ground.

  “To hell with it all!”

  Joan quickly crouched to gather the scattered items. “Getting angry won’t solve anything, Rutspud. Violence is rarely the answer.”

  Joan stacked the electronic items and the little odds and ends they had accumulated in their stay.

  “Is the cloak still in the bag?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “The cloak. Is it still in the bag? It’s not here.”

  “It’s clearly on the ground somewhere,” said Rutspud. “It’s invisible, isn’t it?”

  “And the grenades?”

  He dropped to the ground and helped her feel around for the cloak. “They’re probably just wrapped up in the cloak.”

  He only started to panic when he had checked and re-checked the immediate area. They patted the ground and swiped at the dirt and swung their arms about to try to brush up against it.

  “Excuse me, madam, sir,” said a Hooflandian soldier in blue and gold, now standing over them. “Can I ask what you are doing?”

  “Nothing,” said Joan. “We’re just…”

  “Visitors are requested that any charismatic acts, speaking in tongues and general freaking out be carried out only in the cathedral itself.”

  “We’re looking for an invisible cloak,” said Rutspud.

  “If sir could keep all metaphors and godly outbursts to himself until he is actually in the church, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  Rutspud was now moving in a wide circle, methodically searching the area but was now convinced he must have moved beyond any place the cloak and grenades might have reasonably fallen.

  “Sir! Madam! I must insist!” said the soldier and put a hand on Joan’s shoulder. It was possibly an unwise move.

  Joan stood and threw back her elbow at the same time, catching the soldier under the chin and knocking him out cold.

  “Enough of this!” she said, drawing her sword. “To the church, Rutspud!”

  He scooped up what he could of the items on the ground and scurried after her. At the checkpoint, she bopped one soldier on the head with the hilt of her weapon, swung the sword warningly at another and sprinted through the metal detector. As alarms sounded and shouts went up and Joan took more than a couple of paintballs in the back, Rutspud dove and wove and tried to keep up.

  “What was that about violence not being the answer?” he panted.

  “Rarely,” snarled Joan. “I said rarely.”

  They ran through the piazza before the church where the faithful milled, prayed, wept and took selfies. There were the shouts of soldiers some distance behind them but Rutspud could see that the guards on the great steps of the cathedral were becoming aware of the commotion brewing before them.

  “Tell me you have a signal!” Joan shouted back at him.

  Rutspud juggled tablet, absolution detector and phone and tried to read his screen.

  “Yes!” he shouted. “Strong. And stronger inside.”

  “Good!”

  Joan bounded up the steps, barging through the thickening crowd. She met a soldier with his truncheon already swinging for her. Rutspud thumbed for Belphegor’s contact details.

  Joan ducked a clumsy swing, sliced the end off the soldier’s truncheon and booted him down the steps. Rutspud’s phone chirruped as they ran on.

  “Rutspud?” said Belphegor’s crackling voice. “We thought you’d forgotten us and gone native.”

  “Not a chance, boss,” said Rutspud. “We need a pick up.”

  “Is the mission done?”

  A soldier slammed into Joan as they ran up the bustling nave. They tumbled over the coin-operated vibro-massage pews and Joan came up victorious.

  “Mission is done to a crisp, boss,” said Rutspud. “But we’re kind of in a hurry to get out of here, so…”

  There were the sounds of clicks and whirrs.

  “Well, if the two of you could stand still for a second,” said Belphegor.

  “Not going to happen, sir.”

  “I’ve never transported two moving targets into one shunter before.”

  “To the altar!” Rutspud yelled to Joan.

  The white marble altar was on top of a raised platform on stage. On that stage, previously smiling but presently confused couples were standing next to Jeremy Clovenhoof who, for reasons Rutspud had neither the time nor the inclination to fathom, was dandling an infant over a frothing water slide.

  People were standing throughout the cathedral, straining to see. Paintball pellets clattered against Joan’s armour. One clipped the tip of Rutspud’s ear. That was going to sting later. He nearly tripped but caught up with the sprinting saint. The stage altar was mere yards ahead. Joan reached down and grabbed Rutspud’s hand and dragged him with her as she vaulted onto the stage.

  Belphegor’s voice whistled on Rutspud’s phone. “Please keep your arms and legs inside…”

  Lights span across Rutspud’s vision. If he had been human, he would have thought he was having a heart attack.

  Clovenhoof threw Rutspud a lazy salute of farewell.

  Together, Joan and Rutspud leapt for the altar.

  There was a flash and an implosive inrush of anti-noise, almost the precise opposite of a bang and the saint and the demon vanished.

  There were gasps and cries and various competing declarations that this was either a miracle or a sign of the devil.

  “All part of the magic of entertainment,” Clovenhoof assured them. “Now, it’s Charlie’s turn.”

  Clovenhoof plonked baby Charlie onto the chute where he slid promptly into the font pool below the stage to be caught by his father and wrapped in a towel. Charlie chortled loudly. The congregation ‘aww’ed and all notions of mystically vanishing visitors from the afterlife were conveniently forgotten.

  Baby Noah followed down the chute and by the time he was plucked out and held aloft, the crowd was on its feet, stamping and cheering.

  “Thank you everybody,” said Clovenhoof. He pointed to the large screens. “You can see that our specially placed cameras have captured this magical moment for the parents.”

  The pictures of the babies entering the water of the font appeared, side by side and the crowd reacted with a mixture of laughter and cooing at the adorable expressions of shock and glee.

  The screen switched to a live Twitter feed and showed that #Hooflandia and #Christening were trending. Clovenhoof smiled, knowing he’d created a hit.

  “And now we sing the hymn God Gave Rock and Roll To You. Archbishop Nerys!”

  The opening notes of the Kiss hit pumped out of the massive speakers throughout the church. Atop her podium, Nerys wielded her bishop’s crook like the coolest air guitar in history and led the congregation in a communal rock-out.

  Clovenhoof displayed a few of his best dance moves, twerked at the freshly baptised tots and then moonwalked off stage. Vice Lord Baronet Ben Kitchen passed him a towel to mop his sweaty brow and Prime Minister Lennox cracked open a refreshing bottle of Lambrini.

  “That seemed to go well,” he said.

  Clovenhoof nodded. “Apart from that weirdness halfway through. Flash, b
ang. I think I ad-libbed it well enough.”

  General Florence ran up.

  “Sir,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve had a security incident.”

  “Too right we did,” said Clovenhoof.

  Florence pulled an uncomfortable expression.

  “Another security incident. We apprehended a man acting very suspiciously round the back of the church.”

  “Are our toilets that hard to find?”

  “We believe he was trying to undermine the church.”

  Clovenhoof paused mid-swig. “How?”

  Florence held up a mud-flecked trowel. “With this, sir.”

  Clovenhoof sighed. “Oh, Festering Ken. What are we to do with you?”

  A hiss and slobber and the metal door to the shunting chamber swung open. Joan’s ears popped at a sudden change in pressure and she stretched her jaw to try to alleviate the sensation.

  Belphegor wheeled backwards to give them room to exit. Joan had to cling to the door frame for support and she stepped out into the Infernal Innovations laboratory.

  “All limbs intact?” said Belphegor.

  “Yes,” said Rutspud, earnestly checking himself over. “And attached to the right bodies, which is something of a surprise.”

  The reinforced tank on the other side of the room rumbled.

  “I believed it would work even if you didn’t, Boris,” said Belphegor.

  Joan swung her pack onto an empty workbench (making sure it was clear of homicidal technology first). Rutspud dumped his gear next to it. Belphegor eagerly pored over it.

  “Successful field tests?” said the plump inventor demon.

  “Everything worked exactly as advertised,” said Rutspud tactfully.

  Belphegor rummaged through.

  “The invisibility cloak? The grenades?”

  “Lost on the field of combat,” said Joan.

  “Ah. And the currency printer?”

  “Destroyed,” said Rutspud quickly and gave Joan a look.

  “Earth is such a violent place?” said Belphegor.

  Joan gave that some thought. “Action-packed, certainly.”

  “We had a car chase with robot cars,” said Rutspud. “Joan was nearly crushed by a church bell. I had to dress as a school boy. Joan started a war with some nuns. Oh, and there was a musical number involving Bluetooth butt plugs! Action-packed doesn’t even begin to describe it!”