Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  The angels stayed exactly where they were. In fact, Clovenhoof thought that some nearer the ground were slowly distancing themselves from him.

  “Good.”

  He looked back at Nerys, Evelyn, Molly and Joan.

  “Come on, girls.”

  He led the way, dragging Michael facedown with him and leaving a fine trail of blood and teeth in his wake. They passed beneath the angels, through a tall archway and into a grand high-vaulted corridor with double doors at its end.

  “It’s like that bit in Wizard of Oz,” said Molly as they walked.

  “Where they go to see the wizard in the Emerald City,” agreed Nerys.

  “Yeah,” said Evelyn, “but if this wizard turns out to be a man behind a curtain, I’m going to be seriously put out.”

  “Joan can be the tin man,” said Molly.

  “I have no idea what you’re on about,” said Joan.

  “Jeremy can be the cowardly lion,” said Nerys.

  “Cowardly?” said Molly.

  “Well, he’s hairy enough.”

  “The brainless scarecrow,” said Evelyn, pointing at the limp form of Michael.

  “Good call.”

  “That just leaves Dorothy,” said Molly.

  “Well, I’m the youngest,” said Nerys.

  “I played Dorothy in a school play,” argued Evelyn.

  “What about me?” said Molly.

  “You can be my Aunty Em,” said Nerys.

  “Excuse me!” said Molly, pretending to be offended.

  Clovenhoof stopped at the double doors and turned.

  “Ladies,” he said sternly. “We are about to go through those doors and step into the presence of the Almighty Himself. Your mortal eyes are about to look upon His heavenly Throne, the most spectacular and transforming sight in all creation.” He eyed each of them in turn. “I somehow think it inappropriate for you to spend these last few moments arguing over which of you is most like Judy Garland!”

  “Sorry, Jeremy,” said Nerys.

  “Sorry,” said Molly.

  “Point taken,” said Evelyn contritely.

  “Right,” said Jeremy, placing his hands on the doors. “Now. Behold!”

  He gave a push and flung the great doors wide open.

  The room beyond was an enormous white cube of a hall. At the far end, on top of a dais with more than a hundred steps, was a stone seat with a back as high and as intricately carved as any church spire. And sat on the Throne was... no one.

  “Oh shit,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Wow!” said Nerys in dutiful appreciation. “And, um, where is God?”

  “This is wrong,” said Clovenhoof and ran forward, still dragging Michael along with him. He abandoned the battered archangel at the bottom of the steps and scrambled up as fast as he could.

  “Is everything all right?” Nerys shouted after him.

  “Very very wrong,” Clovenhoof muttered to himself as he climbed.

  At the top there was someone waiting for him, leaning against the arm of the Throne.

  “Weren’t expecting this, were you?” said St Peter.

  For some reason, the divine apostle’s robes were ripped along the hem and there were what appeared to be bloody teeth marks in his lower leg.

  “What have you done?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Not me,” said Peter. “It’s what He’s done.”

  Clovenhoof stared at him blankly.

  “God has gone,” said Peter. “He is no longer here.”

  “But... but why?”

  Peter shrugged.

  “You want me to second-guess the motives of the ineffable Lord? What can I say? He moves in mysterious ways and He moved out something like three hundred years ago.”

  Clovenhoof stepped back, stunned.

  “So, who’s been running Heaven in all that time?”

  Peter tapped his own chest modestly.

  “Who do you think?”

  “I thought Michael...” He gestured down the steps to where the archangel was slowly picking himself up off the floor. The four women stood beside him, gazing upward at the Throne.

  “Michael?” Peter scoffed. “He’s a complete doofus. Are you familiar with Dante’s Paradiso?”

  “Italian poetry?” sneered Clovenhoof. “Can’t get enough of it.”

  “Dante Alighieri compared Heaven to a rose, with the faithful dead as the petals and the angels as bees, buzzing back and forth, labouring out of love for Him. Poetic twaddle but he was right about one thing. They are like bees and, with no queen bee in the hive, they are nothing but powerful morons. They are very good at following orders even when they don’t realise that’s what they’re doing.”

  “I can’t believe this has happened.”

  “Believe it,” said Peter, standing upright and pacing around the Throne. “We’ve struggled on for three hundred years, keeping His absence a secret to avoid panic. The dead keep coming and Heaven stays the same. I recognised the population problem decades before Joan of Arc publicly raised it. Joan wasn’t in full possession of the facts. Without Him, without a divine contradiction of divine scripture, Heaven cannot expand. We needed a solution and now we’re putting it into place.”

  “Randomly casting out Heaven’s residents into Limbo?”

  “Wrong,” said Peter, mildly annoyed. “Wrong on two counts. Firstly, our Keep Heaven Holy programme is not random. It targets those who fail to demonstrate the moral rectitude that Heaven demands. This Celestial City will be the abode of the best, the most righteous, the most morally upstanding.”

  “As decided by you?”

  “As dictated by scripture, Lucifer. You’re also wrong about sending them out into Limbo. Those camps of asylum seekers outside our gates will not be tolerated for long. Those people will be relocated soon enough.”

  “To Hell,” Clovenhoof nodded. “Pack ‘em in, stack ‘em high.”

  “Hell is more... amorphous than Heaven,” Peter agreed. “Its dimensions are more malleable. We’ll make room.”

  “You’ll damn millions, billions even, just to get a bit more breathing space, a little more lebensraum.”

  “Lucifer, please. Don’t cheapen this conversation with tacky metaphor. Hell does not have to be a terrible place. We can provide the displaced with a tolerable, almost pleasant existence. It will require significant reorganisation but it can be done.”

  “And that’s why you wanted me out of the way,” said Clovenhoof.

  Peter made a seesaw motion with his hand.

  “Oh, partly. The main reason – and it is unfortunate that it’s come to pass – is that I wanted to avoid this exact situation.”

  Clovenhoof gave him a puzzled look. Peter sighed.

  “An empty Throne. And you.”

  “Oh, I see. You think I might try to take it for myself. As job moves go, it’s a natural progression.”

  Clovenhoof took a step towards the throne. Peter moved sideways to stand in the way.

  “I had hoped that being on Earth you would be out of the way, eternally oblivious to the situation,” said Peter, tutting at himself.

  “Yeah, that’s not really worked out for you, has it?”

  “It just means I have to put other plans into motion a little sooner than expected.” With that, Peter sat down on the Throne.

  Clovenhoof did a double take.

  “What are you doing?”

  Peter ran his hands along the arms of the Throne, trying it on for size.

  “I had planned to steer the committee toward appointing me to this position but, since you’ve forced my hand...”

  “You’re taking over the Throne?” said Clovenhoof, astounded.

  “I’ve had centuries of experience standing in for Him.”

  “So, you are promoting yourself to – what? – God?”

  Peter smiled.

  “Blessed am I, Simon son of Jonah. I am Peter, the rock on which the church is built and the powers of Hell will not prevail against me. To me is given the keys
to the kingdom of Heaven and whatever I bind in Heaven shall be bound on Earth and whatever I loose in Heaven shall be loosed on Earth.”

  Clovenhoof recognised the mangled quotation.

  “You think that just because you were pope, that makes you the ideal candidate for the job?”

  “It is a matter of dogma that anything a pope says ex cathedra, from the Throne, is true.”

  “I don’t think it meant this Throne.”

  “It does now,” said Peter and a crackle of light ran along the throne where he touched it and a distant boom echoed around the high ceiling. Peter giggled and stared at his hands, the power they now contained. He caught Clovenhoof’s eye.

  “Sorry,” he said and coughed. “Should be a bit more solemn. Dignified.”

  “Regal,” said Clovenhoof derisively.

  “Indeed.” Peter placed his arms firmly back on the Throne. “And now, Lucifer, you will bow before me.”

  “I will not,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Bow before me,” Peter commanded and, as the light fizzed through the stone and the room echoed to deep rumblings, Clovenhoof found his knees and waist bending of their own accord.

  He fought it and, with a monumental effort, was able to hold it in check.

  “You rebelled aeons ago for refusing to bow down to man, His greatest creation.”

  “He was making a mistake,” spat Clovenhoof through clenched teeth as he battled against the forces bearing down on him. “You’re just proving me fucking right.”

  “He should have forced you to comply. Now, bow!”

  It was as though a great weight had slammed down on him. Clovenhoof dropped to his hands and knees, coughing.

  “He wanted me to rebel,” gasped Clovenhoof.

  “Really?”

  “No. He wanted me to have the freedom to rebel. He wanted to see what I would do. He wanted to see the choices I would make.”

  He coughed again and, as a thought struck him, the cough became a laugh.

  “Damn it. The fool.”

  “Who?” said Peter. “Me?”

  “You. Me. Him. A tarot card.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “The fool with the sun at his back and the rose in his hand. The rose of Heaven.”

  “You really aren’t making sense.”

  “You told me God had gone and I almost believed you.”

  “Oh, but He has.”

  “Why?” Clovenhoof looked up. “Because you can’t see Him?” He found himself to be grinning. “I think He would have liked your Keep Heaven Holy idea. What was it? To ensure Heaven is only for those who demonstrate moral rectitude? And how would God test that if He’s looking over your shoulder all the time? He had to give you the freedom to do wrong, to see if you are truly worthy of Heaven. That’s what He’s been doing for the last three hundred years!”

  “But he’s not here!” insisted Peter.

  “Do you think He would let Heaven slip from His hand for a single moment? Do you think He ever left?”

  “You lie, Lucifer!”

  “Maybe. But I tell you what, you were right to fear this situation. The Throne. And me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because even if he had gone away there would be one thing that would bring him racing back, one thing he would not be willing to tolerate.”

  Clovenhoof leant forward and placed a hand on the Throne.

  “He wouldn’t like that at all,” said Clovenhoof.

  Light exploded from behind the Throne, a supernova that blasted the walls and ceiling and came rebounding back in amplified glory. A long way off, Clovenhoof could hear Nerys swearing.

  The light of Heavenly wonder washed over the Throne and cascaded down the stairs. The Throne itself began to glow.

  “Clue’s in the name,” said Clovenhoof, finding he was able to get to his feet once more. “Bringer of light, that’s me.”

  The Throne had turned a radiant, retina-burning white. Peter, transfixed, seemingly unable to lift his arms or body, stared in horror at the seat he had taken and wailed. Screaming, burning, he sank into the enveloping light. Clovenhoof backed to the edge of the dais, forced to turn his head away.

  Down below him, Michael attempted to hide his eyes from the glare.

  Above Peter’s screams and the roar of God’s splendour, Clovenhoof just managed to hear Michael plead.

  “Lord, I was only doing what I thought was right.”

  “Doofus,” grinned Clovenhoof and gave the pitiful archangel the finger.

  On the blazing Throne, Peter’s cry reached a crescendo in both pitch and volume and was then abruptly halted by an all-engulfing thunderclap, an explosion that pitched Clovenhoof off the dais completely and sent him rolling down the steps, bouncing and cursing all the way.

  He landed heavily on his side and stumbled to his feet, cradling a bashed elbow.

  Michael had vanished. So had Nerys, Molly, Evelyn and Joan. Atop the dais, the Throne was buried at the heart of a light greater than that of the sun.

  “Good to see you again,” Clovenhoof called out, shielding his eyes with his hand. “You’re looking well. You’ve lost weight?”

  The light shimmered and span. Ineffable truths swam in its depths.

  “Humans, eh?” said Clovenhoof. “I told you there’d be trouble. Look what it’s led to.”

  He tried to discern answers in the blinding radiance.

  “So, this is the bit where you put everything right,” he went on. “Deus Ex Machina. Clue’s in the name and all that.”

  He waited for a response.

  “Do I have to click my heels together three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home’?” he suggested.

  Something boiled and flared, a new brightness: a question.

  PC Matthew Pearson put the polystyrene cup of vending machine coffee down on the table in front of Mr Dewsbury and sat down opposite him.

  “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that there won’t be any charges brought against you, sir?”

  “Against me?”

  “Perverting the course of justice. But, no, no charges.”

  The one-handed man stared at him in desperation.

  “But what about my flat? What about my hand?”

  PC Pearson tried a sympathetic smile.

  “You have been out of the country for nearly two years.” He looked at the documents that the passport service had faxed through to him. “And, obviously, what happened in France is a little outside our jurisdiction.”

  “But, I... I...”

  Tears welled in the man’s eyes.

  “Now, do you have somewhere to stay?” asked PC Pearson. “I know the number of a nice B and B.” He dipped his hand into an inside pocket and produced a business card. “And may I suggest giving this woman, Denise, a call. She’s a therapist.”

  “A therapist?”

  “Helped me a lot after the divorce. You know, if you feel you need someone to talk to.”

  Herbert numbly accepted the card and stared at it and wept.

  Evelyn found herself walking through the gardens of the Celestial City’s sanctuary for blessed animals, Molly to one side of her, Joan of Arc to the other. Up ahead, St Francis of Assisi harangued a band of angels as they attempted to herd the large African mammals back into their enclosure.

  St Francis spotted the women and strode over, the Wolf of Gubbio constantly straining at his leash. The wolf had a tuft of white fur between his teeth.

  “Such weckless wegard for animal life!” squealed the indignant saint.

  “Sorry, Frank,” said Joan, holding up her hands in apology. “We were sort of in a hurry.”

  “The wabbits are absolutely besides themselves.”

  Evelyn could hear a rumbling sound. It was just on the cusp of audibility, not because it was quiet but because the sound was so deep.

  “Can anyone else hear that?”

  “And poor Woberta. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again.”

  The
Wolf of Gubbio whimpered.

  “You should be sowwy, Bwother Wolf,” said Francis. “When Woberta finally emerges from your fundament you will apologise.”

  The rumbling was growing and Evelyn could now feel it reverberating through her legs. She looked up to see if there was a monorail passing overhead but she already knew there wasn’t.

  “What is that?” said Molly.

  The ground shook. The Wolf of Gubbio hid its head between its paws.

  And then something happened that made Evelyn’s brain throb. She could only comprehend it in terms of that cinematic trick where the camera panned in and zoomed out at the same time so that everything stayed exactly where it was and simultaneously moved away from everything else. The distant spires of the city, the tower blocks and temples, without moving, sped away from one another, creating huge open spaces between them that (and this was the bit Evelyn struggled with) had always been there.

  “Problem solved,” said Molly.

  There followed another sound, smaller and more distant but clear nonetheless. The sound of twelve sets of pearly gates slamming open.

  Joan grinned with child-like joy, reminding Evelyn just how young the Frenchwoman was.

  “I seem to recall,” she said, her eyes alight, “that we have a festival to organise.”

  Spartacus Wilson slept uneasily beneath a thin quilt.

  The only light in the room came from luminous stars, moons and spaceships stuck to his bedroom ceiling. A copy of Commando comic lay open on his bed where he had dropped it. From downstairs came the sounds of a reality television programme and the raised voices of his mum and her boyfriend. The voices filtered into his sleeping mind and his nightmares, in which Mrs Sokolowski was preparing to eat him for her breaktime snack.

  Spartacus moaned.

  Herbert Dewsbury’s hand crawled from beneath the bed and scampered up to the boy’s pillow. It tucked a strand of hair behind the boy’s ear and gently stroked his forehead until the boy quietened and settled into happier dreams. The hand snuggled into the hollow of Spartacus’s neck and, as much as a hand could, it too slept.

  Ben stepped into the Boldmere Oak. It felt odd to be back on the streets again, back in public. At his core, he had the unshakeable feeling that this was somehow wrong, some sort of mistake, that he was walking through a dream or that the police would swoop down on him at any moment to correct their mistake and whisk him off to prison once more.