Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Lord Peter readily. “They should all be punished. If they hadn’t tried to flee from Hell, none of this would have happened.”

  “Ah,” said the archangel.

  “But they wouldn’t have been able to escape if not for the staircase linking Hell and Earth,” said St Thomas Aquinas.

  “Good point,” said the Archangel Gabriel. “Who made the staircase and placed it there?”

  “Escher,” said Belphegor. “Transferred from Heaven on a secondment. He’s been kept down here for losing the staircase in the first place.”

  “Lost it?” said Thomas Aquinas. “Where is this Escher?”

  “Not here,” said Belphegor, “and not seen since the flood.”

  “Most unfortunate,” said Lord Peter.

  “We can arrange to summon him, if we so wish,” said Gabriel, but turned at the sound of a brief yip.

  “Jessie!” said Manfred, smiling at the collie, as she entered, shepherding a rather surprised man into the middle of the room. “That dog really is a marvel.”

  “Escher?” said Gabriel, with a smile. “Good. Now, about the staircase you built …”

  “What staircase? Oh, that staircase?” said Escher.

  “We’re curious how it came to be lost,” said Thomas Aquinas.

  “I was so embarrassed,” said Escher. “Lord Treyvaw had originally commissioned it, but then, shortly after completion, it vanished from the workshop and –”

  “Treyvaw?” said Joan of Arc. “This Treyvaw?”

  “That is interesting,” said St Paul.

  “A staircase that conveniently leads to Earth,” said Thomas, “an escape route for any demon who chooses to take it. And a demon whose job it is to track down those who might do just that.”

  “I think that’s called entrapment,” said Rutspud.

  “So, in fact,” said the Archangel Gabriel, pointing a finger at the suddenly nervous Treyvaw, “it would appear that this demon is the architect of all your woes.”

  “Ye—ees, I suppose so,” said Lord Peter slowly, clearly trying, and failing, to find a counterargument.

  The Archangel Gabriel nodded in satisfaction.

  “Then, there we have it,” he said. “These damned shall go back to their pits, these demons shall be allowed to return – unmolested, I tell you – to their places of work, and these three men will be sent back to their earthly abode.”

  “And this Treyvaw character?” said Joan of Arc.

  “Oh, yes, what about him?” said Rutspud, now cheered up immeasurably.

  The archangel let his hand drop significantly to the table top beside the despairatron.

  “Lord Peter, did you not earmark this contraption as punishment for the guilty?”

  “I did.”

  “No!” yelled Treyvaw, and would have fallen back, but Gabriel had hold of him and, although the demon-hunting demon towered over the angel, Treyvaw did not stand a chance against him.

  “Lords! No! This is not justice!” screamed Treyvaw. “Anything but this!”

  Smoothly and inexorably, Treyvaw was hauled forward. But then, there came a shout from an unexpected quarter.

  “Stop!”

  All eyes turned to Stephen, human, demonic, and angelic.

  “What are you doing?” said Rutspud.

  “Just stop,” he said. “Stop it now.”

  The Archangel Gabriel frowned.

  “You have an objection, human?”

  “I do,” said Stephen. “This is not … this is not how it should end.”

  “You would tell me what is right?”

  “Um. Yeah.” Stephen cleared his throat. “Seems to me, if we’re looking for who is ultimately responsible, then it’s really you, isn’t it?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, more precisely … Him.”

  Stephen jiggled an index finger upwards towards the metaphysical Heavens.

  “Pssst,” whispered Rutspud. “Don’t go angering the angel. We’ve won, okay?”

  “You should be careful what you say, monk, and who you say it to,” said Gabriel, a threatening rumble in his voice. “Know your place and accept Heaven’s judgement.”

  “I think, Brother Stephen,” said Joan of Arc, “that you should tread carefully.”

  “Point is,” said Stephen, “this situation is a mess. He” – and he pointed at Lord Peter – “wanted to inflict all the pain of Hell on my friend here. And you just want to do it to someone else. Why?”

  “There must be judgement,” said the Archangel Gabriel.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” spluttered the angel. “To distinguish good from bad. To reward one and punish the other.”

  “No,” said Stephen. “It should never be like that. If we have any love in us at all …”

  He stepped forward and placed his hand over the despairatron.

  “I would rather put my own hand on this thing than let you inflict it on anyone else.”

  Demons in the gallery leaned forward eagerly.

  “That is the ultimate torture you’re playing with there, little man,” said Belphegor. “More pain than you can imagine.”

  “I know,” said Stephen.

  Lord Peter scoffed.

  “You would regret your foolish decision the moment you touched the button. You would rather Rutspud suffer it for a century than you spend another second in contact with it.”

  “Exactly!” said Stephen, taking his hand away. “I would. I would do that. I’d change my mind, out of fear, because I’m only human. And that is precisely why torture in general, and Hell in particular, are stupid.”

  “Are you calling us stupid now?”

  Stephen nodded.

  “You. Me. All of us here. We’re stupid. We’re ignorant and foolish and frequently do the wrong things. And we do bad stuff because, in our ignorant and foolish way, we do short-sighted and selfish things. Do you think anyone can ever deserve endless punishment for being stupid?”

  “This is a far more theologically complex issue than you realise,” said Thomas Aquinas.

  Manfred stepped forward.

  “I am sure,” he said, “that St Thomas Aquinas here – big fan of yours too, by the way – would point out that a transgression against the infinite majesty of God can only be met with a punishment of equally infinite magnitude.”

  St Thomas Aquinas’s lips flapped wordlessly in the exact manner of a person who has had the very words stolen out of his mouth.

  “But,” said Manfred, “God is infinite love and forgiveness. Everyone can and will find their way to Him in the end.”

  There was a strange smile on Joan of Arc’s face.

  “Surely, Peter here, too, hopes that one day he might – just might – be allowed back in the Celestial City.”

  “But there must be punishment,” said Lord Peter.

  “God, yes,” squeaked Scabass from his corner of continuing torture.

  “There must be a Hell,” agreed the Archangel Gabriel.

  “Hell? Yes,” said Manfred. “But does there have to be anyone in it?”

  Chapter 12 – The day of the funeral

  Bastian sat in the locutory of St Cadfan’s, his unfocused gaze on one of the computer screens in the monastery’s business hub. There was silence on the phone line and he abruptly realised that Carol Well-Dunn had asked him a question.

  “What have I been up to?” he said, blinking hard. “Gosh, a bit of this and that. Wandering here and there.”

  “You’re an enigmatic man, Bastian. What mysteries do you hide beneath that habit?” There was the indescribable audible equivalent of a blush of embarrassment. “That came out wrong. I mean, er, I mean, I didn’t mean … I was just saying.”

  “That’s all right,” said Bastian bluffly. “So, we’re seeing you and your party on the fifteenth of next month.”

  “I imagine the yellow-crested Merlin stilts will be fully fledged by then. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “We’re looking f
orward to seeing you too,” said Bastian and, realised with some clarity, that it wasn’t just her money he was looking forward to seeing.

  “So, is there far to wander on Bardsey Island?” said Carol.

  “Sorry?”

  “You said you’ve been wandering here and there.”

  “Further than you’d think,” he said.

  In a place that was not Hell but, if it had an address, would certainly have the same postcode as Hell, there was a valley. The valley was not Limbo, but it was certainly a place of waiting. The valley was not Purgatory either; Purgatory did not bear a shocking resemblance to Near Sawrey in the English Lake District and did not have a substantial farm cottage on its slopes.

  The cottage had ten human inhabitants. In the upstairs study, a woman looked over the graphs and charts for their upcoming Infernal case reviews. She tutted every so often, as the electric lights flickered, but she did not begrudge the man in the basement his esoteric and frankly dangerous experiments. In the library, a playwright and an actress sat reading much loved plays from all recorded history and occasionally attempted to good-naturedly point out how each was a superior aesthete to the other. In the cosy pink drawing room, three older women sat. Two of them wound yarn together, one proclaiming terrible events yet to come and the other telling her that everything would be fine if only people could be nice to each other. The third woman sat at an Olivetti typewriter and daydreamed. The remaining three inhabitants were out of the cottage. Two of them, wrapped in furs and carrying their weapons of choice, were out on the hills, pursuing rumours that there were other valleys and other people who had been given a reprieve from Hell – temporary or otherwise. One of them also hoped to spot a mammoth.

  The final inhabitant sat on the back step of the cottage. She was stitching buttons onto the tiny waistcoat in her hands. It was fiddly work and distracted her from the dance routine she was also currently choreographing.

  “No,” said Potter. “Stop there.”

  The rats stumbled in their tracks.

  “Lickspear,” she said, “tell them it’s step-step-turn and then jazz hands.”

  “T’ain’t easy,” said the patchwork demon. “These rats hail from the Pit of Carnivorous Rodents. They lack classic training, Miss Potter.”

  “Of course,” she said kindly, “but they’ve got you to coach them, haven’t they?”

  Lickspear swelled with pride.

  “Okay, boys. Dig what I’m puttin’ down. Let us begin with the rudiments!”

  “How do I look?” said Rutspud, stepping out into the yard.

  Potter appraised him carefully.

  “Well, you’ve got two arms again, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’ll do then,” he said.

  “You off somewhere nice?”

  “A funeral.”

  “Hope it goes well.”

  “Well, the dead man’s going to read his own eulogy, so that should be a lot of fun.”

  Potter moved over to sit at the wooden bureau after Rutspud’s departure, and worked on her sketches for the rats’ outfits. She felt a wet nose against her knee.

  “Hello, Jessie,” she said, ruffling the dog’s ears. The dog-sized flap swung shut as Jessie emerged fully from the cupboard at her feet, trailing a faint waft of brimstone and Welsh sea air.

  In Hell proper, Lord Peter and Nero stood in what was currently designated as the Temporary Portakabin of Nameless Dread and looked over the plans.

  “No, you see, I don’t think I want to go down this route,” said Lord Peter.

  “No, lord?”

  Peter regarded the drawings, the soaring spire of spike-covered stone, the skulls and the gargoyles.

  “I inherited the previous fortress from the Fallen One himself, but it’s really not my style.”

  “I see, lord. But this is classic Hell. It speaks of the darkness and the terror and the whole …” – lacking the words, Nero pulled a scary face and growled.

  “I understand, but I’d rather have an HQ that speaks of efficiency and order and the execution of watertight policies and procedures.”

  “Ah,” said Nero. “Perhaps I should get in the NASA space toilet designers.”

  “That would be marvellous,” said Lord Peter, clapping the former Roman emperor on the back.

  Nero rolled up the plans.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” said Lord Peter.

  “Did I ever say sorry for having you put to death? You know, on the cross.”

  “Several times,” said Lord Peter. “Loudly and with tears in your eyes and everything.”

  “I meant, have I ever said it apart from during excruciating torture?”

  Lord Peter thought on the question.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh,” said Nero. “Um, I am sorry. Just saying. Coffee, sir?”

  “I’ll get them,” said Lord Peter. “You’ve got enough to do.”

  “Beard. Big beardy beard,” said Father Eustace, placing his hand on the coffin that contained the remains of the original Eustace Pike.

  In the monastery chapel, the assembled monks of St Cadfan’s reflected solemnly on this wisdom. Brothers Bernard, Huey and Lionel sat in the front pews, looking no worse than usual for having spent considerable time in a state of disincorporation.

  “We are monks,” said Father Eustace. “And we are good monks. But are we men?”

  The only three monks in the whole chapel who could truly be considered men in a deeply spiritual and biological sense sat at the back with Rutspud and considered this question.

  “This was a man,” said Father Eustace and thumped the coffin lid, nearly shaking it off the trestles. “But will you be a man like him? Hmmm?” He swung a finger out to take in the assembled monks.

  The demon monks, who only wore the bodies of men for convenience’s sake, nodded in agreement. Jessie the border collie, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, remained impassive.

  “One day,” sniffed Brother Gillespie (formerly the demon Spoongut).

  “Aye,” said Brother Henry (formerly the demon Pencrust).

  “So,” said Rutspud, leaning in to speak into Stephen’s ear, “you’re okay with most of your monastic order being demons?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’ll take getting used to,” said Bastian. “But yes.”

  “And you’re actually going to keep him as your abbot?” said Rutspud.

  Stephen shrugged. “He’s not a practical leader of men but, as a figurehead, he’ll do.”

  “Certainly no worse than our last abbot,” said Manfred.

  “Really?” said Rutspud. “Blimey.”

  “And this new abbot plays a mean banjo,” added Bastian. “Any community needs music.”

  “That’s not what you said about my bongos,” said Manfred.

  “Bongos are an offence to the ears and you know it,” said Bastian.

  “Banjo!” shouted Father Eustace from the front of the chapel.

  “Damn it, he heard you,” hissed Manfred.

  “Banjo! And beer!”

  Father Eustace leapt into the nave and ran to the door. Several monks were already on their feet.

  “And, apparently, the wake begins now,” said Bastian.

  “But I haven’t laid out the sandwiches yet,” said Manfred and hurried out.

  Stephen and Rutspud ambled across the cloisters together. It was a clear day and Rutspud did his best to avoid looking at the horrible open skies.

  “I’m not going to come in and join you,” he said to Stephen. “I think you guys need time to get to know each other once more. You know, a bit of monk-on-monk bonding.”

  “No, that’s fine,” said Stephen and then, “You’ve never thought of joining us? Putting on the habit? It’s a fine life.”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ve got work to do downstairs. And, besides, Hell has better Wi-Fi.”

  Stephen laughed. From the refectory came the sounds of a banjo striking up a merry jig.


  “Listen,” said Rutspud, “I have to tell you something. I’ve spiked the beer again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lethe water again. A lot.”

  Stephen frowned.

  “I’m not sure your two friends are fit to cope with the knowledge that their brothers are not of this Earth.”

  “Really? I think Manfred and Bastian have taken it rather well.”

  “Okay, well maybe I’ve been instructed to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Stephen, understanding. “And are, uh, we one of those loose ends?”

  Rutspud pulled a sad face. He had very expressive eyes and he did it well.

  “I have my orders,” he said.

  “I see.”

  Rutspud’s ear twitched. Apparently some bongos had joined in with the banjo – well, not so much joined in as set up in competition.

  “Of course,” he said to Stephen, “you don’t have to drink the beer.”

  “I must admit I don’t think I’m all that thirsty tonight,” the monk replied.

  Rutspud grinned.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  He gave Stephen a farewell wink and set out through the garden gate toward the far side of the island and a dank cave which led, against all probability, to the inside of a wardrobe in Hell. Rutspud strode like a man with a song in his heart. It was a silly little song with rude hand gestures and an excessive amount of bongo-playing, but it was a song nonetheless.

  The End

  About the authors

  Heide and Iain are married, but not to each other.

  Heide lives in North Warwickshire with her husband and children.

  Iain lives in south Birmingham with his wife and two daughters.

  Heide Goody and Iain Grant are co-authors of Clovenhoof, the original novel about Satan’s adventures in suburban England and the sequels Pigeonwings and Godsquad. They have each published solo works (available from Amazon) but seem to spend much of their time these days at festivals and workshops, explaining how two people can write a novel together and how much fun it really is.