Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “Why would you do that?”

  Clovenhoof shrugged.

  “Dunno. You’re my friend, I guess.”

  Ben gave him a long appraising look.

  “You’re not the devil. You do know that.”

  Clovenhoof opened his mouth to answer but there was a sharp rap at the door. Clovenhoof and Ben looked at each other.

  Clovenhoof nodded at the trunk. Ben swung the lid up and over to close it. The lid came down on Mr Dewsbury’s wrist, neatly severing his hand, which dropped onto the carpet. Clovenhoof picked it up, spun round on the spot, opened the bread bin and stuffed the hand inside.

  Ben grabbed one of the cans of air freshener he’d been using and began to spray the room.

  The knock at the door came again, louder and more insistent.

  “Hang on!” called Ben.

  “There in a minute!” cried Clovenhoof, adding, “We’re not wearing women’s clothing!”

  Ben pushed the trunk against the wall and threw the aerosol in the bin.

  Clovenhoof wiped the liquid remains of Mr Dewsbury on his Hawaiian shirt and went to open the door.

  Blenda stood there, a business card in her hand.

  “I don’t care if you are wearing women’s – My God! What’s that stench?”

  Clovenhoof jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “Ben’s got a dicky tummy.”

  Ben, in the kitchen, pointed to his stomach and pulled a sad face. The sad face didn’t require much effort.

  Clovenhoof pointed to his brown-smeared shirt.

  “And he’s backed up the toilet. I’ve had to get” – he made complicated hand gestures – “physical. You know?”

  Blenda grimaced and stepped back.

  “I just came by to give you this.” She handed him the card, making sure their fingers didn’t touch. “Denise is a person-centred therapist. Your first appointment is on Friday.”

  “Actually,” said Clovenhoof smugly, “I’ve already sought my own professional help.”

  “What from Shelly Greenaway and her tarot cards?”

  “Mistress Verthandi, you mean. Hang on, how did you know?”

  “Shelly Greenaway, a woman without a proper skincare routine.”

  “I thought you’d say that.”

  “A woman so lacking in common sense that she waited until her ex battered seven bells out of her and blinded her in one eye before deciding he might not be her ideal man.”

  “I thought she was very helpful.”

  Blenda flicked the card in Clovenhoof’s hand.

  “Get proper help. Friday. If I hear you haven’t made your appointment, I’m calling the authorities.”

  “Authorities?” warbled Ben from the kitchen.

  Blenda gave Clovenhoof a firm poke in the chest to make her point and then regarded the smear on her fingertip. She shuddered and went downstairs.

  Clovenhoof closed the door and turned to Ben.

  “She’s going to call the authorities,” said Ben.

  “Don’t worry,” said Clovenhoof, wandering over to the window, card in hand. “It’ll be fine.”

  He looked down at the street to see Blenda climbing into the passenger seat of a car. He couldn’t make out anything of the driver apart from his unfortunate haircut.

  Denise, the person-centred therapist, had offices above a bridal wear shop on College Road.

  “Must be handy,” said Clovenhoof.

  “How so?” asked Denise brightly.

  “They send them off to get married. You counsel them through the divorce.”

  Denise smiled and held it for three seconds, then made a little noise of interest and sat back in her chair.

  “I thought I’d get a couch to lie on,” said Clovenhoof, patting the arms of his chunky armchair.

  “And I’d have glasses and a beard and ask about your relationship with your mother?”

  “Something like that.”

  “There won’t be any Freudian analysis here, Jeremy. We’re here just to talk. Any answers are going to come from you, not me.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m here to listen, to show a genuine interest in your thoughts and feelings.”

  “So you’re going to do nothing?”

  “I hope to create an unthreatening environment in which you can express yourself and come to grips with the issues that you are facing.”

  “What’s with the severed head then?”

  He pointed at the stone carving on the window sill.

  “The Buddha was a great spiritual thinker,” said Denise. “He uncovered important truths through mere thought and meditation.”

  “Before or after they chopped off his head?”

  “He was a man of peace. It’s a reminder that this is a safe place where you can say anything without fear of judgement.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows.

  “So, if I were to say to you that I am Satan, the devil himself...?”

  Denise smiled for three seconds again. She seemed to do that every time she looked like she wanted to say something.

  “I would ask you to continue, perhaps ask you to explain why you think that or feel the need to tell me about it.”

  “And you’d believe me?”

  “I don’t have to believe you to value your opinion. If you make such an assertion and you’re being earnest and honest with me, then I’m not going to condemn you for it.”

  “Fascinating,” said Clovenhoof, convinced that the woman was bonkers.

  “So, tell me a little about yourself, Jeremy.”

  Clovenhoof blew out his cheeks.

  “What do you want to know? I’m Jeremy. Satan if you will. Two arms, two legs, two horns. What else is there?”

  “What about your personality, your goals, your aspirations?”

  He reached for something witty to say but found nothing. He shrugged.

  “You must have interests,” said Denise. “What did you do last night, for example?”

  “Ah, well...” said Clovenhoof.

  They had paused for breath in the dark alleyway that ran behind the house, the body wrapped in several bin bags. It had sagged in unpleasant ways that made Ben feel queasy. It had been especially distressing when they’d had to unwrap it to add the hand from the bread bin, which they’d nearly forgotten.

  “Ready?” said Clovenhoof.

  Ben hoisted his end of the plastic-wrapped bundle. He couldn’t remember if he had the head or feet. He didn’t want to remember.

  “What’s the hammer for?” he asked.

  “To smash his teeth in before we bury him,” said Clovenhoof. “We don’t want the feds to be able to recognise him from his dental records.”

  “You can do that bit,” said Ben.

  “Ah, cheers, mate. Let’s go.”

  They walked up the unpaved path between two houses to the main street.

  Ben was frightened to step into the orange streetlight, to make himself visible to the world but Clovenhoof pulled him on.

  “You shouldn’t be wearing those Bermuda shorts,” said Ben.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re very... distinctive. Couldn’t you have dressed a little darker?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “What happens if we’re stopped by the police?”

  “We tell them it’s a carpet.”

  “Why would we be carrying a carpet around at midnight?”

  Clovenhoof was silent as he led them briskly up the road.

  “Well, why?” said Ben.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Oh, God,” whispered Ben.

  “Come on it’s not far to the park.”

  “It’s too far.”

  Ben let himself be tugged along, floating in some horrible, sick nightmare world. If the police saw them he knew he would drop dead from the shock.

  There was a tiny, scraping footstep behind him and he looked back.


  “Twinkle.”

  The Yorkshire terrier was trotting up behind him.

  “Go home,” hissed Ben.

  The tiny dog ducked through Ben’s legs, gave a jump and sank his tiny jaws into the underside of their grisly package.

  “For Pete’s sake,” said Ben. “Get off.”

  “Attracted by the smell,” said Clovenhoof. “Hey, we could bury this runty mutt at the same time.”

  “What has Twinkle ever done to you?”

  “It’s not so much what he’s done,” said Clovenhoof philosophically. “It’s more that he’s an offence against Mother Nature.”

  They carried on, with the tenacious terrier dangling by his teeth from the sagging body and growling excitedly all the while.

  They turned into Beech Road. A ten-minute walk to Short Heath Park, Ben told himself.

  “There’s another,” said Clovenhoof, nodding across the road to where a shaggy-haired mongrel stood, watching them.

  As if in response to the acknowledgement, the dog scampered across the road and sniffed at the body.

  “Now, if we had a pack of ravenous dogs...” said Clovenhoof thoughtfully. “Chomp, chomp. This could be gone in seconds.”

  Twinkle growled louder at the newcomer whilst retaining his dangling death-hold on the corpse.

  “If we bury this thing in the park,” said Ben, “the local dogs are going to dig it up in seconds. Hang on...”

  He looked forward to Clovenhoof.

  “Where’s the spade, Jeremy?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “But you had it before.”

  “I told you to pick up the tools.”

  “I’ve got the hammer!”

  “But what about the spade?”

  “It must be back in the alley.”

  “Oh, look, a third.”

  A grizzle-chopped dog had joined Twinkle and the other dog, and a whine indicated another close behind.

  “This isn’t working,” said Ben. “About turn. Now.”

  They hefted the load onto their other shoulders so that they could switch direction. As they did so, something fell from the wrapping onto the pavement. There was much growling and scuffling over this morsel, until one of the dogs broke free and raced away with the prize.

  “What was that?” Ben said.

  “No idea,” said Clovenhoof. “Let’s get back.”

  They began walking back. The two dogs underneath the corpse circled one another, sniffing and whining and ducking in and out of Ben’s legs. At the corner of Beech Road, he tripped against one of them and stumbled. Twinkle growled. Ben, not able to see what was going on, heard a bark, the snap of teeth and a shrill yelp. After that it only got louder.

  “On second thoughts, run,” said Ben.

  Ben all but slammed the trunk lid shut on Mr Dewsbury and stormed into the kitchen to wash his hands.

  “I can’t believe we weren’t arrested,” he muttered bitterly.

  “I think it was a creditable first attempt,” said Clovenhoof, pouring himself a glass of Lambrini.

  “First attempt?” Ben squeaked. “How many times are we going to do this?”

  “If at first you don’t succeed...”

  “Give up.”

  “Normally I’d agree with you, Ben, but we just have to learn our lesson and move on. Next time, we’ll remember the shovel.”

  “I am not doing that again!”

  “Okay. Then we think of something different. If we can’t dispose of him all at once...”

  “If I hear the word ‘hacksaw’ then I’m just going to turn myself in.”

  “No, I’m thinking of something a bit more refined. An acid bath.”

  “An acid bath!”

  Ben wheeled on Clovenhoof to see that his eyes were closed, contemplating.

  “Some chemical,” said Clovenhoof. “Something to strip flesh from bones.”

  Ben looked at his hands, remembering the drain cleaner that had burned his hands four months before.

  “Bleach?” said Ben.

  “Not caustic enough.” Clovenhoof opened his eyes and smiled. “Hair relaxer.”

  “What?”

  “The stuff hairdressers use to straighten afro hair.”

  “We’re going to perm him to death?”

  “I was looking at a bottle the other day at Blenda’s. Sodium hydroxide. Caustic soda. It burns organic material. Eats it.”

  “And then what do we do with the bones?”

  “I’ve got an idea about that too.”

  Clovenhoof sipped his Lambrini. Ben wasn’t sure he liked the look on his face.

  “That’s it,” declared Nerys, standing up.

  It was the third time she had declared that that was it in as many days but, although she had meant it the first and second times, she meant it most sincerely this time. That was definitely unequivocally undeniably it.

  She could tolerate the odd smell. She lived with a dog and an elderly woman with an irritating cough and a taste for gassy food. Such things were to be expected. But the stink that was emanating from Ben’s flat had a vibrant and vile life of its own. It had invaded her home, inhabited her clothes and hair and made her skin crawl.

  She took her indignation down to 2b and thumped on the door. It swung open.

  “Come in,” called Clovenhoof.

  She pressed a scented tissue to her nose and ventured inside. Clovenhoof was at the kitchen table, a wad of printed sheets spread out in front of him.

  “Where’s Ben?” she said.

  “Out. Shopping errand. Got a cold?”

  She held her nose all the tighter.

  “How can you stand it?”

  “Stand what?”

  “The smell.”

  “What smell?”

  She glared at him.

  “You know,” said Clovenhoof, tapping a pen against his teeth, “olfactory hallucinations are one of the first signs of schizophrenia. I read that.”

  “I thought Ben was going to get this sorted.”

  “He is. That’s what the shopping errand’s for.”

  “What? More air fresheners? You need to get the plumbers in.”

  Clovenhoof shrugged and returned his attention to the sheets in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” asked Nerys, irritated that her righteous anger wasn’t getting any results.

  “Something my therapist gave me to do. They’re like questions about your personality. Sort of fun. Do you want some? I have spares. It could help you discover who you really are.”

  “I know who I am,” she snapped. “I’m the woman who’s living above a flat that stinks worse than a Parisian sewer.”

  Clovenhoof gave the matter some thought.

  “Do you think having a therapist makes me seem more mysterious and interesting?” he asked. “Am I an enigma to you?”

  “No. You’re a mad idiot, Jeremy.”

  “An enigmatic mad idiot?”

  She gave a whole-body shudder of annoyance.

  “If you clowns aren’t going to sort this smell out then I am.”

  “Okay,” he said happily and, when it was apparent that this was as much as she was going to get from him, she turned on her heel, marched out of 2b and across to the open door of 2a.

  Following the fire, the renovators had removed and disposed of all the living room furniture, ripped up the carpets and repaired the walls. It looked clean and bright and, beneath the all-encompassing pong, carried a scent of fresh paint and promises. It was better than Clovenhoof deserved.

  “Helloo,” called Nerys softly, stepping inside.

  There was the quiet whisper of a radio from the kitchen. She went through to find two strapping builders in paint-spattered gear tiling behind the sink and fixing doors on the cupboard units.

  “Hi, there,” she said.

  The one at the sink turned round and gave her a cheery smile.

  “Didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “You all right?”

  “I wondered if
you’d be able to help me,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “You must have noticed that smell coming from 2b.”

  “Haven’t we just?” said the builder and his mate, with his head and shoulders inside a cupboard, grunted in agreement.

  “I wondered if you’d be able to come and have a look at it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Have a look. Poke around.”

  “You need a plumber,” he said.

  “That’s what I told them,” she said.

  “And you were right.”

  He picked up a cloth and wiped tiling grout from his hands.

  He might have been thinning on top and he might have been unshaven but his stubble gave him a rugged air and even his nascent baldness had a certain devil-may-care aspect to it. And he wore a belt to keep his trousers up. Such an uncommon quality in tradesmen.

  “But if you could come and have a look...” Nerys suggested.

  He grimaced politely.

  “We’ve got a job to finish here.”

  “I understand,” she said, “but I would be very grateful if you could have a peek, or even a poke.”

  “We’re on contract,” he said. “We can’t do cash in hand.”

  In an action she had practised in front of a mirror, she bowed her head slightly, tilted it to the side and looked up at him demurely.

  “I would be very grateful.”

  The builder frowned.

  “Pardon?”

  She leant her body against the doorframe, raising a leg to caress the doorjamb.

  “Are you sure,” she said archly, “I can’t tempt you to a quick poke?”

  The bloke in the cupboard abruptly developed an uncontrollable cough.

  The builder’s expression squirmed from confusion to embarrassment to something that looked like pity and eventually settled on something stony-faced and unfriendly.

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know who you are but you’re bang out of order.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got a deadline and I don’t appreciate being propositioned by strange women who dress ten years too young and wear too much lippy.”

  “Who said I was proposi-”

  “You’ve made a fool of yourself and embarrassed my mate.” The coughing accelerated into a higher gear and Nerys realised it wasn’t actually coughing. The builder kicked his mate to silence him.

  Nerys felt a hot flush of shame.

  “I think-”