by Heide Goody
“He’s not here,” he said instead.
“Is he not?” The policeman grimaced genially. “I went to his flat but I see the decorators are in. And I wondered...”
“No,” said Ben firmly.
“He came to see me at the station and-”
“Why?”
“Oh, something was playing on his mind. I did a little digging this afternoon and, well, I thought I’d pop round to speak to him.”
“He’s not here.”
“You said, sir.” The policeman gave Ben a look. “Shame. But how have you been?”
Ben swallowed hard.
“Me?”
“Since that nasty business with the bank robber back in March. I remember your face.”
“Oh,” said Ben, filled with the horrible feeling that they were on the verge of a full-blown conversation when all he wanted was the man to go away and leave him. Could the copper hear the hissing fizz of Mr Dewsbury being consumed in the bath tub. Why did he leave the door open? Stupid idea.
“I’m fine,” he managed to say.
“That’s good to know,” said the policeman. “Well...”
He rolled lazily on his heel to turn away.
“If you see him...”
“I’ll tell him,” said Ben.
“Good.”
The policeman sniffed deeply, his moustache twitching.
“Got problems with the drains, sir?”
Eight white wines and eight Lambrinis had not managed to elucidate who either Clovenhoof or Nerys were, their deep and true identities that had seemed only accessible through vast quantities of alcohol, but by the time they stumbled out of the Boldmere Oak, arm in arm, who they were no longer seemed to matter quite so much.
“We can be whoever we want to be,” said Nerys drunkenly as they walked up Chester Road.
“Yes, we can,” agreed Clovenhoof. “I can be Barbara Cartland if I want to be.”
Nerys poked him in the chest.
“You’d make a lovely Barbara Cartland.”
“T’riffic glider pilot.”
“Is she?”
Clovenhoof pressed his lips together, possibly to hold the contents of his stomach down.
“No. Dead now.”
“Oh,” said Nerys, then, “Don’t be her. Don’t be dead.”
“No.” Clovenhoof peered ahead. “S’lot of cars outside our house.”
In fact, they were three police cars and one ambulance.
“Aunt Molly!” blurted Nerys.
“I don’t think so,” said Clovenhoof, putting a restraining hand on her arm.
Without the aid of any diabolical powers, all the alcohol drained from his system.
“It’s Ben,” he said.
And there he was, stepping out of the house, a police officer either side of him. Ben raised his head and looked in their direction, although he possibly couldn’t see that it was them on that dark street, and then one of the police officers opened a car door for him and he was gone from sight.
Chapter 10 – in which Clovenhoof tries to find his feet, duffs up an old lady and practises the dark arts
Jeremy Clovenhoof woke slowly. Morning sunlight streamed through the net curtains over the window. The fresh paintwork on his bedroom walls gave the room a bright and clean air. The linen on his brand new bed was a beautiful light cream. All so clean and pleasant and yet...
He couldn’t shake the feeling from his dream that the brightness of this world had once seemed so wrong and unfamiliar. He pulled back the duvet and stared hard at his feet. Were they two fleshy pink human feet or were they hooves? He flexed and twisted his legs to view them from other angles. He closed his eyes and opened them again. He turned his head away and squinted sideways, closing first one eye and then the other. He tried flexing his toes.
He couldn’t tell. He could not be sure exactly what was at the end of his legs. He sighed and settled back onto the pillow. Had his mind really constructed such detailed recollections to support his delusions? Was it all just dreams and make-believe?
He just wasn’t sure any more.
But he could wait.
He stared sullenly down the bed at his feet.
If he had to sit and stare all day, he’d work it out.
Nerys woke from a troubled sleep. Molly’s cough had woken her numerous times in the night. Twinkle was scratching the door, wanting his breakfast.
“All right, I’m coming.”
She sat on the side of the bed feeling wretched. If only Molly would shake off the cough or have the decency to just die and give her some peace. At least the smell from downstairs had nearly faded away. She fed Twinkle then got Molly out of bed and settled her in front of the television.
She went back to her room to get dressed. She pulled garments out of the wardrobe one at a time, and discarded each of them, wincing at what they said about her. Did she own anything that wasn’t slashed or slit to show inappropriate amounts of flesh?
“You’re a slut, Nerys,” she whispered to the mirror.
She eventually settled on a spangled, low-cut top and trousers, but fetched one of Molly’s cardigans to cover up a bit. She stared at her more dowdy reflection in the mirror. Was this better, or did she just look like her normal slutty self wearing a cardigan in August?
She kept it on and went out. She hurried past Ben’s flat, still criss-crossed with police tape, and down to the ground floor. Mrs Astrakhan came out as she heard her on the stairs.
“I don’t know, Nerys, I just don’t know,” said the old woman.
“No, I’m not sure I do either,” said Nerys truthfully.
“Murders and bodies, police and goings-on at all hours. I’m really not sure my nerves can take much more. Goodness knows how poor Molly’s managing. What does she make of all this?”
Nerys thought for a moment. She hadn’t actually told Molly about the body in the chest and Ben’s arrest. She didn’t have the energy for repeating and explaining all of the details to a half-deaf old lady who would doubtless mix it all up with some Peter Sellers film from years ago.
“She’s keeping a stiff upper lip, you know, she’s made of stern stuff,” Nerys said.
Mrs Astrakhan put a hand to her breast and blinked in admiration at Molly’s resilience.
“Wonderful woman. You’re so lucky to have such a role model.”
“Yes, I’m truly blessed,” muttered Nerys, made her escape and hurried off to work.
Jason was smoking his first fag of the day.
Ben had found that sharing a cell with a remand prisoner at Winson Green Prison was a lot like student accommodation. There was a single chipped table with a chair and a bunk each. Jason chose most of their television viewing and Ben got to use the table whenever he wanted to. While Jason smoked, Ben lay back down on his bottom bunk and read. When he had finished his cigarette, Jason wordlessly passed the filter tip to Ben.
“Cheers,” said Ben, and leaned over to add it to a small collection on the corner of the table.
Nerys made coffee in the back room and stared through the door at her colleagues in the front office. She’d come in that morning and greeted them as she walked through. They had responded with automatic ‘Good morning’s without raising their eyes, without truly acknowledging her. Even Dave.
Not one had noticed or commented on the change in her appearance. She hadn’t wanted to be noticed but she had expected it.
Most of them had never been particularly friendly to her but would it kill them to pass the time of day with her? Is this what it had always been like? How many times had she walked into a room when they were all sharing a story and it would stop dead, and there’d be a stony silence as she took her seat. Sure, there were the numerous occasions that she’d rolled her eyes and told them she wasn’t interested in their gossip or their family news but that didn’t mean she didn’t care.
A lot of people put up with all of that rubbish just to be nice to each other, too polite to be honest. But maybe that was what mad
e them friends.
Nerys wondered if there was anyone she could really count as a friend. She’d always had best friends at school. A series of complicated affiliations that could change with a swift and crushing blow if one of them wore the wrong outfit or liked the wrong music. A couple of those friendships had lasted into her teens and she cursed herself for messing things up by sleeping with Claire’s boyfriend. And Catherine’s dad. She might have got away with it if they weren’t both at the same time.
She’s messed things up in the past. But, she reasoned, this current mess wasn’t totally irretrievable.
“Dave!” she hissed round the corner.
“Yeah?” he said, not looking round.
“I’m making coffee.”
“Uh huh,” he grunted, typing at his workstation.
She coughed. “I’m making coffee.” God! Did she have to spell everything out?
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Come here and talk to me!” she hissed.
“I can’t, I’m busy,” said Dave.
Nerys was outraged. He couldn’t possibly be so absorbed by legitimate work. She carried her coffee back in.
“No, you’re not. You’re just browsing the internet.”
It was a website for a country hotel. Dave clicked ‘Book Now.’
“Busy,” he said.
Clovenhoof made his way down the Chester Road trying to keep the shoes on his feet. Stupid, stupid things. They seemed to be too large. They slipped off continually, not matter how tightly he tied the laces. He grunted with frustration as he stopped again to put them back on. He really needed to get used to wearing them if he was going to get better.
It took him twice as long as usual to get to Books ‘n’ Bobs but he unlocked and put up the Open sign. He checked the shop’s email to see whether any books had been sold and needed to be sent out. By half nine, satisfied that he was on top of the business while Ben was indisposed, he made a call to Gordon Buford, funeral director.
“We haven’t seen you for a few days, Jeremy,” said Gordon.
“No. I won’t be able to come into work for a while A few family problems. I need to look after my cousin’s shop.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes,” said Clovenhoof. “My cousin, Ben.”
“Well, you’ll find me as understanding of family emergencies as the next boss, Jeremy, but my patience is not limitless. Do I make myself clear?”
“Patience not limitless,” nodded Clovenhoof.
“We’re going to need you back at work soon.”
“Yes, Gordon. Got to go. I’ve got a customer.”
Clovenhoof hung up and tried his ‘friendly shopkeeper’ smile on the customer. Ben could do the smile, but it was a tricky thing. You had to look helpful and interested without looking like a serial killer. Clovenhoof had practised in the toilet mirror when he first opened the shop. This customer was a man who looked too old to have pimples, but someone had forgotten to tell his face.
“Have you got Wyrd Sisters?” asked the man.
Clovenhoof frowned at the question.
“No, I don’t have any family.” He fixed the man with a look. “You do know that this is a bookshop, don’t you?”
The man wandered off, to browse the shelves, a confused expression on his pimples. Clovenhoof went back to the task of replying to emails. Ben got mail from people who would write and ask if he would take an offer of fifty pence on a book that was offered on the website for ninety-nine pence. Clovenhoof’s first inclination was to write back and tell them that he’d sell them half of the book for that much, but he checked Ben’s email history and copied a more moderate response to use instead.
“How about Making Money?” The pimpled one was back at the counter.
“Search me,” Clovenhoof said. “I can only assume that the rent is very low on this place.”
The man looked as though he was about to say something else, but then thought better of it.
Two more people came in and browsed, Clovenhoof was hoping for an all time high of five customers in the shop at the same time, but he already knew he was delusional.
He looked down at his shoes to see how they were staying on. One was facing backwards which didn’t look right at all. He bent down to sort them out and when he came back up there was another customer standing there, holding a paperback.
“What do you reckon to Being Human?” asked the man.
Clovenhoof shook his head
“I wish I knew. To be honest if you’d asked me that question a week ago, I’d have laughed and said that it was for losers, but I’m beginning to realise that being human mostly means being confused. And nobody’s more confused than I am right now. I can get my head round the practical stuff. Well some of it, anyway, but I have these dreams. They’re so vivid. It’s like, which is the dream, and which is reality, you know?”
The man was backing away. Clovenhoof remembered the smile and restored it to his face.
“And what do you think about being human?” he asked.
“Well I was hoping to buy it and read it for myself,” said the customer, “but if it’s a bad time, I can leave it for now.”
Clovenhoof looked at the paperback title and moved to the till, smile still fixed firmly in place.
Nerys waited until Dave went into the kitchen to wash his mug at the end of the day. Everyone else had gone and the night was drawing in. Nerys followed him in and stood in the doorway to make sure that he couldn’t slip out easily.
“Dave.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell me honestly. Do you like me?”
He looked up.
“Like you, Nerys? Of course I do.”
Nerys moved closer, trying to catch his eye as he scrubbed his mug.
“You said I was aggressive and vindictive once before.”
“Did I?”
“I know you like my arse or whatever.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“But am I a nice person?”
Dave gave a brittle laugh and worked up an excessive lather with his attentive scrubbing. She could almost hear him choosing his words with care.
“You’re a nice person who sometimes does aggressive and vindictive things, let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What?”
“I need to understand.”
Dave turned around with his clean mug and realised that Nerys had him trapped.
“Nerys. Really. I’ve got to go.”
She made no move.
“Can I get past?” he asked. “Or do I have to bodily lift you out of the way?”
“Tell me first. Tell me what sort of a person I really am,” she said.
Dave took hold of her upper arms and gently steered her away from the door.
“I don’t have the time.”
“Be quick,” she suggested.
“Nerys, please. I’m going now.”
“No!” She clutched his arm as he tried to walk away. A little voice in her head was saying, ‘Wearing your aunt’s cardigan, grabbing hold of men, making a scene. All part of the slow slide into madness,’ but she ignored it.
“Please!” she said. “I’m not a monster, am I? I mean I know I have my faults, but you like me, don’t you? Maybe you even love me? I always thought-”
“Nerys, for God’s sake!” he said angrily, shaking off her hand. “How can you not know what you’re like? You make outrageous, bigoted judgements about everyone, but you really can’t see your own flaws?”
She had never heard him raise his voice like that before. He was so forceful, so... manly.
“Well let’s start with this,” he said. “You have zero patience. You can’t even wait and ask a question like this at the right time. You’re completely intolerant of other people, and you’re downright rude to them if they don’t interest you. The way that you chase men is so calculating it makes me queasy and you never dress appropriately.” He waved his
hands at her, up and down. “You always look as though you’re off to pull a man at a nightclub. Or worse.”
Nerys pulled Molly’s cardigan around her more tightly but Dave, on a roll, hadn’t finished.
“You know what I think?” he said. “You act like a spoilt kid. Maybe daddy didn’t buy you a pony or whatever, but at your age you should get over it and grow up.”
Dave pushed past her and Nerys made no move to stop Dave as he strode forward through the office. He turned at the door.
“I’m going away for the weekend,” he said, the anger waning. “See you Monday.”
She moved forward and watched in silence as Dave climbed into the car waiting outside. Blenda was at the wheel. There were exchanged words. Blenda turned to look at Nerys with something like pity in her eyes and then put the car into gear and drove away.
Clovenhoof stood at the counter in the bookshop and flicked through the file that he’d taken from Denise. There were more photographs, showing him as a young man, and even as a child. He stared closely at the image of a skinny boy blowing out candles on a cake. A woman with backcombed hair and a batwing sweater stood to the side, clapping. This was his mother, apparently. He couldn’t summon up even the slightest glimmer of recognition. His parents’ whereabouts was not clear from the file. It indicated that as a young man, Jeremy had behaved so badly, during one of his episodes that they had moved away.
There was a paternal aunt living in Streetly. She lived alone, and took the Irish form of the family name, Clabhanhaugh, because she preferred it. Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows at the hint of a more distant lineage. How could the name Clovenhoof really be anything other than a reference to his hooves? It certainly didn’t sound Irish. He checked again and saw a pair of skewed shoes below his trouser hems. Feet or hooves? Feet or hooves? He gave a deep sigh.
As he raised his eyes, he noticed a pair of Ben’s miniature soldiers on a shelf below the counter. He put them both in front of him and pushed them together, hunkering down so that they were at eye level.
“Hello,” he said, in a strangled falsetto. “My name is Jeremy Clovenhoof, and I am terribly normal. I have shoes and cushions and house insurance. Can I please come into your nice shop and buy some kitchen accessories with pictures of cockerels on them?”