Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “I think,” said the builder, “you ought to go and rethink...” He waved his hand to indicate her entire body, her entire being.

  Nerys backed away, her emotional state ping-ponging between anger and utter mortification.

  “And for your information,” said the builder as she left, “I’m only interested in women who’ve got a bit of self-respect.”

  Nerys all but ran out, across the landing and into Ben’s flat. She slammed the door behind her and put her back against it.

  “Is that you, Ben?” called Clovenhoof.

  Nerys shook her head, to herself not him, and walked silently into the kitchen.

  “Is it time for Mr Dewsbury’s bath?” said Clovenhoof and then looked up.

  “Oh,” he said. “Er. Mr Dewsbury is my pet name for my penis.”

  Nerys realised she was breathing hard. The sound was loud in her ears.

  “Do I wear too much make up?”

  “I don’t know. Blenda seemed to think so.”

  “She did?” she breathed.

  “Tarty. That was the word she used. Slatternly too.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I like it,” he said casually. “I think it complements your...” – he waved his hand vaguely towards her – “tits?”

  Nerys gasped.

  “Do you think I have no self-respect?”

  “Absolutely. That’s what I like about you.”

  “I see.”

  “Is that the kind of answer you were looking for?” asked Clovenhoof.

  She had nothing she could say.

  “Good,” said Clovenhoof, pleased to have been of help and returned to his forms as she stormed out.

  Ben came in with a large cardboard box stacked high with small packages in his hands. He had a frown on his face.

  “Problem at the wholesalers?” said Clovenhoof.

  “No. I was on the landing and thought I could hear crying.”

  Clovenhoof listened out and heard nothing.

  “Sounded like Nerys,” said Ben.

  “She was fine earlier,” said Clovenhoof. “She took some of the self-evaluation questionnaires my therapist gave me. Do you think having a therapist makes me seem mysterious and interesting?”

  “No, it makes you seem mad.”

  “You too, huh? Shall we crack on with the body disposal then?”

  Ben nodded with grim reluctance.

  With the door firmly locked (the security chain was still broken) they dragged the bin-bag-wrapped Mr Dewsbury into the bathroom and with a bit of tearing and yanking, managed to roll the corpse into the bath tub, leaving the gore-slimed bags in their hands.

  “This is gross,” said Ben.

  “All part of the cleansing process, dear boy.”

  Mr Dewsbury was laid on his front, his head tilted backwards against the incline at the back of the bath.

  “He looks uncomfortable,” said Ben.

  “Wherever this man is, he’s not here now,” said Clovenhoof.

  While Ben went to dispose of the bin bags, Clovenhoof fetched the packets of hair relaxer. He ripped the top off the first and sprinkled the white powder over Mr Dewsbury’s back. It fizzed on contact with liquid-sodden clothes.

  “Nice,” he smiled and set to with the other packets.

  “There’ll be bones left once the flesh is gone,” said Ben.

  “All sorted.”

  “How.”

  “I phoned our friend, Pitspawn, and asked him if he’d be interested in a replica human skeleton for his Satanic attic.”

  “But this is real.”

  “You have model paints don’t you?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “I bet you can make a real bones look like fake ones.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “I have faith in you, Ben. Now hand us that next packet.”

  Denise flicked through Clovenhoof’s filled out forms. He found himself clutching his knees and hoping for approval.

  “Question: If you were an animal, what animal would you be?” she read. “Answer: A goat – I’m already half goat and quite like it.”

  Clovenhoof smiled.

  “It’s great. I can read a newspaper and then eat it.”

  She read on.

  “Question: Name a time when you were completely happy. Answer: 1493.” She looked up at him. “1493?”

  “Spanish Inquisition,” said Clovenhoof. “Hilarious.”

  “Right,” said Denise and smiled for three seconds but Clovenhoof could hear the weariness in her voice.

  “Are you judging me?” he said.

  “Who are you?” she replied.

  “I’m Satan.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m older than time itself.”

  “If you’re Satan, why are you in Sutton Coldfield?”

  “I was evicted.”

  “Evicted?”

  “I was made redundant.”

  Satan had beamed at the Performance Management Review panel. He’d agreed to have a performance review on himself, but he was pretty sure it would just be a formality.

  Saint Peter sat in the centre. His assistant, Herbert fawned over him, arranging papers and topping up his water if he took a single sip. Michael, Azazel and Mulciber also sat on the panel. Satan couldn’t seem to catch anyone’s eye.

  He shrugged. No worries.

  “I’m quite looking forward to this,” he said to them. “It gives me such a buzz to talk about the improvements that we’ve made.”

  The panel was silent, and still nobody met his eye. Peter cleared his throat.

  “We’ll be going through the objectives that are in the document. Everyone should have a copy.”

  Satan grinned at the papers before him. It would be another testament to the glorious triumphs that he’d overseen. He didn’t need to read it to know that he’d over-achieved in every respect.

  “There are comments against the individual objectives,” said Michael, “but we have found, overall, that the targets have not been met.”

  The smile dropped from Satan’s face like a stone. He opened the document on the desk in front of him and scanned the words.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Well if you’ll read-”

  “Things are so much better now! How can you say that I haven’t achieved my objectives? The place is transformed.”

  Peter took off his glasses. Herbert immediately picked them up, polished the lenses and put them carefully into the case.

  “We’ve seen improvements, certainly,” said Peter, “but not on the scale that’s needed, and we are of the belief that you were not instrumental in putting them into place.”

  “Not instrumental!” Satan spluttered, “Hello! I’m in charge! How did that stuff happen if I didn’t say so?”

  “We have a consistent, documented pattern,” said Saint Peter, “of best efforts being implemented by your direct reports. I cannot fault the way that they have responded to immediate problems. What is lacking, in my opinion, is the leadership and vision from yourself, vision to have looked further ahead and addressed the bigger picture.”

  “That is the craziest thing I ever heard,” said Satan. “I’ve got a master inventor, and a huge innovation programme. The flow of clients through the system is better than it’s been for years.”

  “The flow is adequate, for the moment, but what if there’s a major war or a pandemic? You can’t cater for the peaks that are needed. And we acknowledge your innovation programme, but it hasn’t really delivered any tangible benefits yet, just lots of theories and papers.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid we are serious,” said Michael.

  Clovenhoof blinked at Denise.

  “It’s all that bastard Michael’s fault,” he said and then something clicked. “The knight of swords. The warrior.”

  “Sorry?”

 
“Something my tarot reader told me.”

  Denise leaned over the side of her chair and picked up a fat file secured with an elastic band.

  “Mr Michaels was good enough to drop off your case notes.”

  “Mr Michaels.”

  “I know you stopped working with him a few weeks ago. There’s nothing wrong with that. There can’t be a therapist-client relationship unless there’s mutual trust and respect.”

  “He’s not my therapist.”

  “He’s not the Archangel Michael either.”

  Clovenhoof raised his fist to shake it at the heavens and then stopped.

  “Case notes?”

  Denise nodded.

  “Going back seven, eight years. Mr Michaels was convinced that you were not mentally ill.”

  “I’m not!”

  “I agree. There is a clear boundary between psychiatric delusions of grandeur and the kind of psychological self-delusion you enter into. This dissociative pseudomania.”

  “I can’t believe this. He’s stitched me up.”

  Denise patted the file.

  “Over the course of years, you’ve chosen to adopt certain personas. Jim Morrison, Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Barbara Cartland –“

  “She was a keen glider pilot, you know.”

  “Were you? I mean, was she?”

  “I’m not Barbara Cartland.”

  “I know you’re not. You’re Satan, apparently. What next? God?”

  “Let me see those notes.”

  Denise slipped the elastic band from the file.

  “Your lies – they are lies, Jeremy – are simply a coping mechanism.”

  “Coping with what?”

  He reached forward and pulled at the papers in the file. Sheets of scribbled notes, documents, bills and photos spilled out.

  “You’re avoiding the past, Jeremy.”

  “But I am Satan!” he exclaimed, feeling the whine creep into his voice. “Look at the hooves and the horns.”

  Denise picked up a photograph from the floor and showed it to him.

  It was a Polaroid snap and clearly of him. But he was standing on a beach. He had never even seen the sea, let alone stood on a beach. And he was wearing clothes he had never seen before and there, sinking slightly into the sand, were his bare feet, his pink, fleshy feet.

  “This is a fake,” he whispered.

  “It might be a good idea if you spent a few days on the psychiatric ward of Good Hope Hospital for a full evaluation, in a safe environment.”

  “But he did this.”

  “There’s lots of evidence in here that Mr Michaels has been working hard to help you come to terms with this, I can assure you.”

  “Where is he? Get him here now,” said Clovenhoof loudly. “I want to speak to Michael.”

  “He’s left the area. He’s moved away.”

  Clovenhoof stood up and shouted at the sky beyond the ceiling of the room.

  “Michael! Get your conniving well-groomed arse down here right now!”

  There was only silence.

  “Michael!” he bellowed.

  “Mr Clovenhoof, please,” said Denise reasonably.

  He looked down at her. She smiled, a reassuring smile. She held it for three seconds.

  “I think this session is over,” he said, grabbed up an armful of papers, stuffed them back in the file and ran from the room.

  Down on the street, he looked up at the darkening sky.

  “Michael!” he screamed once more and scanned the heavens for a response.

  When there was none, he sighed heavily and, with an earnest mutter of “Tits!”, ran off down the road.

  With a bang and a clatter, Clovenhoof spilled through the doors of the Lichfield Road police station and up to counter.

  “All right there, sir,” said the woman police officer behind the counter.

  “I need to report a missing angel,” Clovenhoof wheezed breathlessly. It had been a long run from Denise’s office and his physique wasn’t built for speed.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  A moustachioed officer passing through reception clocked Clovenhoof.

  “It’s Mr... Clovenhoof, isn’t it?”

  Clovenhoof gripped the man’s wiry arms.

  “Constable Pearson!” he declared. “Just the man!”

  “Really?” said PC Pearson, gently disentangling himself. “You’ve not been assaulting Christmas trees again? Or aiding and abetting armed robbers?”

  “No, but I am looking for Michael. Or maybe it’s Mr Michaels.”

  “Michael Michaels?” The constable’s face was blank for second and then he smiled. “Your legal eagle with friends in high places?”

  “You have no idea. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Right. We are the police, Mr Clovenhoof. We solve crime. We don’t keep tabs on where your friends are. We leave stuff like that to MI5 and Google.”

  “But he’s gone, proper gone. And I think he might be someone other than he says he is.”

  PC Pearson nodded and put a comforting hand on Clovenhoof’s shoulder.

  “What I think you need, Mr Clovenhoof, is a nice sit down.”

  “I can’t sit down. Can’t you see? I’m being framed or set up or something.”

  “Framed for what?”

  Clovenhoof produced a wiggly dance to explicate his inexplicable situation.

  “Feet,” he said eventually. “They’re trying to make out I have feet.”

  PC Pearson seemed to understand.

  “A nice cup of tea, perhaps?” he suggested. “Or a pint?”

  “Pint!” squeaked Clovenhoof. “Of course.”

  “Not that beer is the answer to your problems, now.”

  “Lennox!” Clovenhoof exclaimed. “He knows who I am.”

  “That’s nice,” said PC Pearson but Clovenhoof was already barging his way out of the door and heading towards the street.

  It was a quiet night at the Boldmere Oak, a few of the old boys at the bar, folks sat in ones and twos at the tables.

  Clovenhoof ran up to the bar.

  “Hello, dear,” said the barmaid. “What can I get you?”

  “Where’s Lennox?” he panted.

  “He’s had to go back to Trinidad. His grandma’s poorly.”

  Clovenhoof looked at his watch.

  “Will he be back soon?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how poorly his grandma is I should think.”

  Clovenhoof gritted his teeth and groaned.

  “But he’s the only one who can see my horns.”

  “Not sure I want to know,” said the barmaid with a mild air of disgust. “Now, can I get you anything or not?”

  Clovenhoof started to give her a dismissive wave and then changed his mind.

  “A Lambrini,” he said. “Make it two.”

  As the barmaid poured and he looked round for a free table, Clovenhoof saw a solitary figure at a window table gazing blankly into her empty wine glass.

  “And a large Chardonnay,” said Clovenhoof, paid and carried the three drinks over.

  Nerys was wearing jeans and a shapeless roll-neck sweater. It was not her usual attire. And there was something odd about her face, something apart from the fact that she looked like she had been crying for hours, a paleness of her cheeks, her lips and eyes.

  “Aren’t you wearing any make-up?” said Clovenhoof, putting a drink down in front of her.

  She looked up at him.

  “Who am I?” she said.

  “Bloody hell, not you too.”

  Her lips trembled and she burst into fresh tears.

  Clovenhoof downed one of his Lambrinis and then sat down opposite her with the other.

  Nerys wiped her eyes with a tissue and to a gulp of her fresh glass of wine. She put her hand on the questionnaire sheets on the table. He recognised them as the ones Denise had given him.

  “What kind of animal am I, Jeremy?” she said. “Am I a cow?
Am I a stupid and ugly cow, swinging my udders for all to see? Am I? Am I one of those bonobo monkeys, frantically throwing myself at everyone and anyone in some desperate attempt to fit in?”

  “Actually,” Clovenhoof interjected, “I think they’re apes, not monkeys.”

  “Is that what I do?” she said, ignoring him. “Wave my big swollen red arse at any passing male?”

  “Do you really have a swollen red...? No, of course you don’t.”

  Nerys drained her glass.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  Clovenhoof opened his mouth to answer – it was quite an easy question and one he was happy to answer – but, for once, recognised that this might be one of those hard to spot rhetorical questions.

  “Is it because I have a narcissistic personality?” she sobbed. “Is it because my parents divorced? Am I repressed lesbian? A lapsed Catholic?”

  “You’re not a Catholic,” said Clovenhoof.

  “How do I know?” Nerys wailed.

  “Hmmm,” said Clovenhoof.

  He looked at his second drink and then downed it, just so he could go to the bar and get another.

  Mr Dewsbury was fizzing violently to himself in the bath. Two dozen packets of caustic hair relaxer was working its way through his rotten fleshy layers with surprising speed, generated a soft but persistent sound like the murmurings of a distant crowd.

  Ben looked in on him every few minutes and, as night fell, was unsure whether it was better to leave the bathroom light on or off. A weird subconscious part of him was worried Mr Dewsbury might not like being left alone in the dark.

  He compromised and turned the light off but left the door open a crack so a little light fell in on him.

  When the knock at the door came, Ben assumed it was Clovenhoof. It was late and he was overdue. Why he didn’t let himself in with his own keys didn’t occur to Ben.

  “Is that you, Jeremy?” he called cautiously as he approached the door.

  “Yes?” came the reply.

  Ben unlocked the door.

  “You’re not Jeremy,” said Ben hollowly.

  The tall, lean copper on the landing gave a little apologetic hum and tucked his hat under his arm.

  “No, I’m looking for Mr Clovenhoof.”

  A tiny terrified part of his brain wanted him to yell out, “You can’t come in here without a search warrant!” but Ben clamped down on it.