by Heide Goody
“Cool.”
In no time at all, nodding to the sound of Ben’s hard rock, Clovenhoof had uploaded fifteen rare books and watched the first bids appear.
“Free money,” said Clovenhoof.
“You’ve got to have something to sell,” said Ben.
“Right. Well, that’s done. I need a pee.”
Ben jerked a pink thumb over his shoulder.
“Toilet’s in back.”
“No need,” said Clovenhoof and closed his eyes. “You forget I have moved beyond the realm of mere toilets.”
Ben moved away hurriedly.
Clovenhoof opened his eyes.
“See?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re jealous.” He stopped, stood up and shook his leg. “Oops, a bit of a leak.”
“Oh, God.”
Clovenhoof looked at Ben reproachfully.
“It’s a prototype, Kitchen. Don’t shoot down my dreams so quickly.”
“This is not a dream, Jeremy.”
Clovenhoof eBayed half his possessions that night. He created an account on his computer, took snaps with a digital camera he had bought but never previously used and wrote florid and tantalising descriptions of each item.
He even put Herbert the Mould on but with a thousand pound reserve price.
Later on, as he ran out of things to sell, he got creative. He thought about auctioning off his internal organs but couldn’t work out how to take photographs without causing lasting damage. The last item he put on the site before he retired to his bed (which was already going for an exciting four pounds nineteen) was entitled Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap and which he described with the words:
Want to give someone a piano-wire necktie? Need someone put in concrete shoes? Got an unsightly corpse under your patio? Whatever it is, I will do it. One job to you, the highest bidder.
He was particularly pleased with that one and slept with a smile on his face.
The next day, Clovenhoof checked on his items and was pleased to see that some, such as his curtains and heavy metal bondage gear were being hotly competed for, although others, such as the toilet brush and a second prototype man-nappy remained curiously untouched. All the auctions still had some time to go and he felt the itch to sell more. Also, unless Herbert went for the hoped-for thousand pounds, he was unlikely to make enough to pay off the demonic bank woman.
And so, logic dictated, he would have to sell some things that weren’t his. Armed with his digital camera and his credit card (now transformed from money-maker to lock-opener) he explored the other flats while their occupants were out. He took nothing but photographs, reasoning that he didn’t need to steal the items unless they went for a decent price and then, if an unlikely pang of conscience gripped him, he could leave part of the proceeds as payment.
In flat 1a, he took snaps of vases, paintings and the fox stole in Mrs Astrakhan’s wardrobe. In 1b, he found an alarming collection of china cats, a digital radio and a bread-maker. In flat 3, he found Aunt Molly fast asleep in front of a blaring daytime chat show so had to work quietly around her, taking pictures of shoes, a library’s worth of self-improvement books and an assortment of battery-operated toys he found in a bedside drawer. Finally in 2b, a flat he had more familiarity with, he set to work with a frenzied zeal, photographing every dusty vinyl record, every tiny legion of ancient soldiers and every piece of computer hardware. He tried to force the padlock from the blue and brass trunk in the hall area but it was stronger than him so he photographed the trunk instead with the intention of selling it along with its unseen contents.
As he finished up there was a knocking sound from outside. He went to the door. Across the way, outside his own flat were two shaven-headed men, one tall and one fat – well, one taller and one fatter.
“Who are you?” said Clovenhoof.
They turned to look at him. They didn’t move quickly.
“Is he in?” said the taller one, his voice like a sack of potatoes rolling down stairs.
“Who?”
“Clovenhoof.”
“No,” said Clovenhoof honestly. “Who are you?”
The fatter one held out a clipboard, attached to which was a crumpled sheet of yellow triplicate paper.
“Debt collection service,” said the taller one.
“Oh, bailiffs,” said Clovenhoof, pleased to see what they looked like although a little disappointed that they looked nothing like pirates.
The fatter one posted something through Clovenhoof’s letterbox.
“Just tell him we came,” said the taller one. “And we’ll be back.”
Clovenhoof waved to them as they thumped down the stairs.
A close call, thought Clovenhoof. He didn’t want anyone stealing – legally stealing - his personal possessions before he had a chance to make a little money from them. They’d be back and banging on his door again. Unless...
The flat numbers on the doors were printed on silver plastic squares with self-adhesive backs. It was only a moment’s work to prize the ‘a’ off his own door and swap it with the ‘b’ on Ben’s door. The squares didn’t stick very well once moved but a bit of spit and pressure made them stay.
“Genius,” said Clovenhoof.
Nerys came up the stairs to find Clovenhoof polishing the door number to his flat with his thumb tip.
“I just met two very unpleasant men downstairs as I was coming in,” she said.
“Big blokes? No hair?”
“One of them was so fat he looked like Buddha’s evil twin. The other one was more your classic knuckle-dragger. Both had the same poor grasp of clothes sizes. Why do men think wearing tight trousers and letting their bellies sag over the top is at all attractive?”
“I don’t think it’s a deliberate look.”
“They were looking for you.”
“They found me.”
“Actually, I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m a popular guy.”
“You owe me a favour.”
“Do I?”
“You injured my assistant.”
“I did what?”
“Dipped his hands in acid or something.”
“Drain cleaner.”
She beckoned with a hooked finger.
“Come with me, Jeremy.”
Nerys led him up to flat 3 where Aunt Molly slept in front of the television. Nerys took a folder from her work bag and opened it out on the table. She opened up the colour-coded map, extended the fold-outs of her targeting strategy and income projections and then simply stood there to let the majesty of her plan settle on Clovenhoof.
“You need some pins and flags,” said Clovenhoof.
“They fall out when I pack it away.”
“And some little tank divisions and bomber squadrons and one of those paddles to push it across the table.”
“It’s not an invasion plan,” she said curtly, although she was quietly pleased by the comparison. “It’s my charity collection project.”
“You’re buying spades for Africans.”
“And I need your help to collect the envelopes.”
Clovenhoof inspected the map. His finger traced along the red lines of the high-income streets she had identified.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but since when did you care about thirsty Africans?”
“I have a caring nature,” she said.
“A caring nature means putting fifty pee in a collection tin. This...”
“I have a very caring nature.”
“Nerys...”
She flinched under the look he gave her.
“Okay,” she admitted. “There’s a charity gala ball next month and the top ten fundraisers in each region get a free ticket.”
“You’re doing this for a party ticket?”
“Not just a party. A party attended by wealthy philanthropists. Wealthy, potentially single philanthropists.”
“Ah, you want access to the hunting grounds.”
“Exac
tly,” she smiled. “And Tina in the office says she’s already on target to raise four thousand pounds. That’s the competition. I don’t want to merely beat her. I want to drive her into the ground, crush her smug little face under my foot.”
“I can see your caring nature shining through, Nerys.”
She ignored the comment.
“We have six days left.”
“We? Oh, you’re taking me to this party?”
“We means me. You’re just my friendly neighbourly helper.”
“Why me?”
“Because I have a full-time job and an elderly relative who requires round the clock care.”
Clovenhoof looked at Aunt Molly, snoozing silently in her chair.
“Whereas,” said Nerys, “you’re an unemployed layabout with time on your hands.”
“So you’re going to pay me to help you?”
“Jeremy!” She was taken aback. “You would have me take money from the world’s poorest to line your pockets?”
“Yes?” he suggested.
She ignored the comment and kitted him out with everything he needed: the smaller map of the local area with the streets he should visit, a laminated postcard with his charity collector’s script on it, a canvas satchel to put his collections in and a black flip over notepad.
“What’s this for?”
“To jot down the names and addresses of any potential gentleman friends.”
“I don’t want a gentleman friend.”
She glared at him and gave him the tick list of desirable qualities in a man.
“Socks?” said Clovenhoof, reading the first item on the list.
Nerys nodded earnestly.
“Any man who is going around barefoot at this time of day is either a sponger or a hippy.”
She looked down at Clovenhoof’s feet and found herself mysteriously unable to tell if he was wearing anything on his feet or not. She rubbed her eyes, blinked and then gave up.
Charity collecting turned out to be even less fun that Clovenhoof had expected and he had expected it to be no fun at all.
He wrestled with a tiny garden gate with a difficult latch and a loud squeak. This street had them at every single house. He could easily have jumped over it but Nerys had included a section in his instructions about ‘decorum’.
He went up the path and rang the bell. It was answered by an old lady.
“I’ve come to collect the charity envelope,” said Clovenhoof.
“Betty!” the woman called over her shoulder. “Come here and see the charity man.”
Another old lady appeared, eyes wide.
“Ooh Doris, well I never!” she exclaimed.
They stood and grinned at him side by side for a few seconds.
“So, have you got the envelope?” he asked.
“Come in and sit down for a minute while we find it,” said Betty. “Maybe you’d like a nice cup of tea? We’re gasping for one, aren’t we Doris?”
“Gasping,” Doris agreed.
They led him in and sat him down. Betty rummaged in a large handbag, but instead of pulling out the collection envelope, she produced a notebook and pen.
Doris disappeared into the kitchen.
“So, you’re collecting for a charity?” Betty asked.
“Yes,” Clovenhoof replied.
“How do we know he’s not going to keep the money for himself?” Doris called from the kitchen, accompanied by the banging of cupboard doors.
“I’ve got a card, from the charity,” said Clovenhoof, showing his ID to Betty.
“Well, this looks authentic,” said Betty, jotting something on her notepad. “How much have you collected so far?”
“It’s all in envelopes, I can’t tell.”
Betty nodded and made another note.
“Has everyone given you money, so far?”
“Why are you so interested in this?”
“Doris and I are always interested in other people, aren’t we Doris?”
“More like a morbid fascination if you ask me,” called Doris.
Clovenhoof decided that they were both just nosey. This would be a week’s worth of chatter for them.
“No,” he snorted. “Some people are do-gooders. Smiley with it as well. But more often than not, people will pretend they’re not in, even though I can see them, twitching their curtains. Some of them will say they’ve lost their envelopes,” he raised an eyebrow, “and I do have spares if you’re interested. Anyway, the worst of all are those that tell me that it’s morally wrong to give to charity.”
“Why are they the worst?”
“Because they can’t be ars- I mean bothered to even come up with a half-convincing reason. It’s like ‘I’m lying, you know I’m lying, I know you know I’m lying and I don’t care.’”
Betty made another note.
“Fascinating. So what made you decide to help out?”
“For a friend. I decided that in the long run it would be less painful to do this than to put up with the moaning I’d get if I didn’t. I am beginning to wonder though.”
“Well, that’s lovely! You’re doing it for a friend!”
“So anyway,” Clovenhoof asked, losing patience, “did you find the envelope or do you need another?”
“Yes it’s right here,” said Betty.
She picked it off a nest of tables to her side, and dived back into her bag to find some money. Clovenhoof couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though she put a thick wad of twenty pound notes inside.
Doris came through from the kitchen.
“Betty, I think we’re out of tea,” she said.
“How about a sherry?” asked Betty. “I was about to have a small one myself.”
“No, I’d better be off,” said Clovenhoof, standing up and taking the envelope. “I’ve got lots more excuses to listen to before I go home.”
The rest of the road provided very slim pickings, and Clovenhoof came to the conclusion that the annoying squeaky gates were actually an early-warning system that alerted householders to visitors so that they could check them out and ignore them more easily.
The man who simply told him to piss off came as a refreshing change and made Clovenhoof curious.
“Can I ask why you want me to piss off?” asked Clovenhoof.
The man stroked his stubble-covered chin wearily.
“Because I want you to piss off,” said the man.
“Yeah, but is it because you don’t like giving to charity or is it something about me you don’t like?”
“Look, mate, I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
He raised his right hand in which he held a bottle of imported lager and, tucked between his fingers, a slim wad of banknotes bound together with a paper band. Money. Refined tastes. Clovenhoof checked out the man’s feet. Socks and shoes. This could be one for Nerys’s little black book.
“So,” persisted Clovenhoof, “if you weren’t in the middle of something, would you be giving to charity or would you still tell me to piss off?”
The man gave a raspy bark of laughter.
“You cheeky bastard,” he smiled. “Tell you what, I’ll toss you for it.”
He pulled out a fifty-pence piece from his pocket.
“You win, I’ll give you a nice crisp twenty. If I win, I’ll have one off you from your collection bag.”
“Deal.”
“You call,” said the man.
Clovenhoof called. They both looked at the coin on the porch carpet. The man peeled a note from his fingers and passed it to him.
“Happy now?”
“Very,” said Clovenhoof. “Double or quits?”
The man looked at the sheath of banknotes in his hand for a long time.
“Why don’t you come in?” he said.
Nerys had only shared one folder of her fundraising project with Clovenhoof. The second folder was devoted to her plan of action at the charity gala ball, once she secured a place. She had done some research on the guest list, including
possible targets and possible competition. The gossip pages were essential in finding out which of the celebrities and high-flyers had wives or girlfriends. Having partners didn’t necessarily remove a man from her list. She was certainly no home-wrecker, but if a marriage was on the point of breaking up, it wouldn’t be wrong to step into the rift.
A large part of Nerys’s plan involved her wardrobe. Clothes were the silent communicator. A properly chosen outfit could say anything you wanted it to say. A perfect outfit could lie better than the most gifted conman. And shoes... shoes were the most gifted liars of all.
Nerys looked back with warm disdain at her younger self, strutting around nightclubs in her ‘fuck me’ shoes. She had moved on so much since then. Now, her best shoes were ‘wine me, dine me and, if you’re a very good boy, I will fuck you ragged’ shoes.
With Molly only vaguely stirring from her nap, Nerys sat down with her laptop and browsed the internet. Ten minutes later, she found something interesting. Five seconds after that she was swearing bloody vengeance in her head. A minute after that she was hammering on Ben’s front door. Twelve minutes after that she stormed into Ben’s bookshop and slammed the door behind her.
“Whoa,” said Ben. “Hinges and glass cost money, Nerys.”
“Are you SuttonSeller666?” Nerys demanded.
“Am I what?”
“On eBay. I know you sell lots of stuff on the web.”
“Oh, right. No. I’m BensBooksnBobs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I’ll show you. Log on to eBay.”
Ben held up his hands. They were slathered in cream and covered with clear plastic gloves.
“Rather not.”
Nerys grumbled, came round the counter and took control of the computer.
“Look,” she said.
Ben looked.
“Nice shoes.”
“They’re my shoes.”
“Oh, you’re selling them.”
“No,” she said loudly, “but someone is!”
“Why are you letting someone sell your things?”
“Shut up. Look. They also listed my books, my toaster, Molly’s Toby jugs – actually, I ought to sell those – and-”
“They’ve listed your Aunt Molly as an item,” said Ben. He pointed at the image of the dozing woman. “She’s listed as an ‘antique conversation piece’ and – hey!”