Clovenhoof 03 Godsquad

by Heide Goody

  “It's unusual for her to wake up so early,” she said as her husband pulled into the parking bay nearest the park entrance. Adelaide got out, went round to the boot, pulled the cover off the carrier and opened the door.

  “Oh!”

  Adelaide was knocked backwards by the enormous grey creature that erupted from the cage. It stood for a moment by the low wall of the park, sniffing the air.

  “Big doggy!” shouted little Anna.

  In a sense, Anna was right, thought Adelaide. That monster was just like a doggy, in the same way that a T-Rex was just like a chicken.

  “It's a wolf!” gasped Adelaide. “Anna, back into the car!”

  Anna scrambled back to her seat and peered over the parcel shelf as her father pulled her mother to her feet. The wolf walked back towards the car and Adelaide screamed but stood her ground, putting herself between the wolf and the inside of the car.

  “Back, monster! Back!”

  Adelaide’s hand closed on the first thing that was available and she brought Milou's stainless steel dog bowl down sharply onto the wolf's head.

  The wolf barely seemed to register the blow, but was drawn to the bag that she had dislodged from the boot. It was a sealed pack of beef tripe dog treats. The wolf delicately picked it up and presented it to Adelaide with a pitiful whine.

  She took it from his mouth, fingers shaking and opened the packet. She tipped the contents out and the wolf caught them neatly. The hairy brute backed off, and Adelaide heard another, much smaller whine from inside the carrier.

  “Shush Milou. Stay quiet and he might go away,” hissed Adelaide. “I can get you some more snacks later.”

  She peered down at Milou and was astonished to see that the tiny dog had her eyes turned wistfully towards the wolf and appeared to be whining to see him go. The wolf had decided which direction he wanted. He loped back to the main road, sniffed the air again and began to run north, gathering pace as he disappeared from view around the bend.

  The chimes of the clock indicated that another hour had passed when there was a change in the tone of the engine noise. Joan got to her feet.

  “I think we're stopping.”

  They waited for a few long moments as the movement slowed and then stopped. The rumble of the engine was shut off abruptly.

  “Quickly, we must go before anyone finds us.”

  They opened the back door and Joan leapt out. From the front of the vehicle came two voices, chatting amiably. On either side of the road they were on were unbroken rows of tall stone buildings, more like the Celestial City than anything Joan recalled from her mortal life.

  Francis scrambled down beside her but Chris was still in the lorry.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “I just want to fetch some things that might come in handy,” he called.

  “Don’t touch the slinky!”

  “Don’t be a flaming worry-wart. It’s clearly a dud,” called Christopher.

  “Hurry!” she hissed and drew her sword, hoping she wouldn't need to use it. But it was too late, the chatting men had reached the back of the lorry.

  “Distraction time.” Joan nudged Francis in the ribs.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh look! A dancing monk!” yelled Joan at the top of her voice.

  “Where?” Francis swivelled his head.

  “Dance, you idiot,” hissed Joan and booted him into the centre of the road.

  “See him leap in the air!”

  Francis stumbled and then awkwardly but gamely leapt up and came down on his tippy-toes.

  His capering was more like an outbreak of St Vitus’ dance but it worked. The two men stared at him. Joan couldn't understand how they had failed to notice Christopher, who climbed down from the lorry, almost stepping on their toes, but they were transfixed with the spectacle of Francis twirling uncomfortably.

  Christopher jogged down the pavement to join Joan.

  “Come on,” Joan whispered loudly. “You nearly got us caught!”

  Francis ran to catch up with them once they were clear of the lorry and together they walked briskly down a street of low brick buildings. Joan inspected the buildings’ construction. She bashed a wall with her sword hilt to see how solid it was.

  “Incredible. People must be so happy to have buildings this sturdy.”

  “I reckon it'd be nigh on impossible to burn a village when the houses are made like this,” said Christopher.

  “There are so many of them,” said Francis, looking up and down the road at the neat terraces. The late afternoon sun slanted across the buildings. Rows and rows of them, disappearing into the distance. “So vewwy similar. Good gwief!”

  “What?” said Joan.

  “There's an astonishing tweasure twove in there!”

  The monk was staring through a ground level window. Rows of sparkling glass figurines lined up on the window sill.

  “Look, look! A tiny wolf.”

  “Woo hoo,” said Christopher flatly.

  “Oh I do miss him.”

  “I think that treasure like this is probably more commonplace in the modern world,” said Joan. “Let’s not get distracted from what we need to do. Let’s ask.”

  Joan stepped in front of a car coming along the road and waved.

  “Ho, stranger!” she called.

  The car slowed down, but the man behind the wheel made an unusual yet quite graphic hand gesture that even the Maid of Orleans could translate. The car emitted a loud honking noise that made all three saints jump. Joan stepped quickly out of the way. The car whizzed past and she looked after it in surprise.

  “Well, that wasn't very friendly,” she said.

  Francis rapped on the window with the glass animals.

  “Let us seek advice from the wesidents,” he said. “At least they can’t wun us over.”

  A face appeared at the window. The woman’s brow wrinkled briefly with confusion but then she smiled and pushed up the sash.

  “You’re from out of town,” she gestured at their clothes.

  “Yes, we are,” said Joan, surprised. “Er, which town, exactly?”

  The woman laughed.

  “Hey, you’re not that lost. You’re still in Amsterdam.”

  Joan could not help but smile. Through no plan or design, they had appeared in the very city they were trying to reach. Luck or providence, it was good news.

  “Here for the Pride?”

  “Um, no. We’re looking for Bastenakenstraat. Do you know where that might be?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “I think I’ve got one of those maps they hand out…” She disappeared briefly and then reappeared with a colourful pamphlet in her hand. “There you are.”

  “Thank you,” said Joan.

  “Off you go the pair of you and have fun! And be sure to get a spot early for tomorrow’s parade. It gets busy.”

  She winked and closed the window.

  “Pawade?” said Francis.

  Joan opened up the pamphlet and looked at the city map at its centre, a web of whites and yellows intercut with blue lines.

  “What are all these fancy rainbow symbols?” said Christopher.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Joan. “Look. Here. We haven't got too far to go. Come on.”

  Joan knocked on the door. The houses on Bastenakenstraat had a squat, modern appearance, but Francis decided that they looked rather comfortable. He peered into windows to see what other treasures might be displayed.

  Joan knocked on the door again.

  “It's possible that the Blessed Mother is out,” ventured Francis.

  “The other houses have lit their candles now it's starting to get dark,” said Francis.

  “They have electric candles now,” Joan peered at the upper storey.

  “Candles are candles,” said Francis. “All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.”

  “We're not in Heaven now Francis,” said Joan. “So I can cheerfully smack anyo
ne who quotes their own work. You're right though, it looks as though nobody's here.”

  “We need to know where she's gone.”

  “Assuming she didn’t leave months ago,” said Christopher.

  “Or Heaven has got its facts wrong. I might be able to help.”

  Francis hitched up his habit and knelt down by the wall.

  He crouched forward and made a high-pitched squeaking noise.

  “He's lost it,” muttered Christopher.

  “Shush!” said Francis and continued to squeak.

  A movement caught his eye and he smiled as a small brown rat emerged from a nearby alley.

  “You see! Local knowledge, that's what we need!”

  Francis sat cross-legged on the pavement and addressed the rat.

  “Evening, bwother wat. I wonder if you could help us. We're looking for the lady who lives here.”

  He tilted his head to listen.

  “Hmmm, well, I can assure you that she is a lady. In fact, she is a most wevered figure.”

  “The rat saw her?” said Joan.

  Christopher cast his eyes to the sky.

  “We’re paying attention to the rat now? Really? Heaven help us.”

  “Not for sevewal days?” said Francis to the rat. “Oh dear — what?”

  Christopher muttered to himself.

  “No,” said Francis earnestly. “Of course he didn't say 'filthy cweature', he regards you vewy highly and is gwateful for your help. I think he might have said it's vewy nice to meet you. Do you know where she went? Yes, the lady who lived here? There might be some biscuit cwumbs in it for you.”

  The rat considered this and twitched its nose.

  “You see!” said Francis, jumping up. “If people are kind to animals they can be so vewy useful... oh, where's Joan?”

  “She went to ask an actual human,” said Christopher. “Maybe she thinks your furry friend would tell you any old guff for a bit of cheese.”

  Joan approached a car parked across the street and tapped the window.

  “Hello.”

  The man inside gripped his Volkskrant newspaper even more tightly. He hadn’t seemed to notice her. Joan knocked harder and raised her voice.

  “Hello!”

  The young man reluctantly looked up from his paper and wound down the window. She indicated the house where Christopher and Francis seemed to be exchanging heated words. She'd need to sort them out in a minute.

  “I see that you're watching the house over there.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I'm just reading this newspaper.”

  “I saw you looking over.”

  “The sight of a Franciscan monk and a woman in full plate kind of draws the eye.”

  “Oh, right. Do you often read your newspaper here?”

  “That would be strange and suspicious behaviour, wouldn’t it?”

  He grinned and it was a nice smile. The man radiated an air of self-assurance, a kind of easy and charming Ferris Bueller-style confidence.

  “We’re just really really keen to find the woman who lives there,” she said.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Sort of. She’s the mother of our… our boss.”

  “Boss?”

  “You know, the man upstairs.”

  The man folded his newspaper and straightened his crumpled tie.

  “Look, I'm really not watching the house,” he said, “but I do look up from time to time, and from what I've noticed, the lady hasn't been back for several days.”

  Christopher and Francis walked over to the car.

  “She hasn't been here for sevewal days,” said Francis.

  “Well, so his new little buddy says,” mocked Christopher.

  “She's gone to the city centre,” said Francis. “We should go there now.”

  “Let's see how far that is.” Joan unfolded the map onto the bonnet of the man’s car. The three saints huddled round as Joan stabbed a finger on their current location and traced a route towards the centre.

  “Sorry. What are you doing?” the man asked, stepping out of his car.

  “We're looking for our friend. She's moved on to the city centre, so we're going there now.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “Someone told us.” Joan was suddenly very conscious that it would be a bad idea to mention that a rat was the source of the information.

  “I was watching the whole time and you haven't spoken to anyone except me.”

  “I thought you weren't watching,” said Joan, eyebrows raised.

  The young man sighed heavily.

  “Look,” he said. “Why don't I give you a lift there? I was heading that way anyway.”

  “You’ve finished reading your newspaper now?”

  “Yes, I have. Where do you need to go, Miss….?”

  “I’m Joan. This is Francis and Christopher.”

  The man frowned at Francis, seemingly confused.

  “Well, I’m Matt.”

  Matt, thought Joan. Like Matthew Broderick. Although there was little physical similarity. This Matt was taller, his hairstyle less fluffy than the eighties movie star.

  “I just need to text my mother and then we can skedaddle,” said Matt.

  Joan did not understand what Matt had just said but, after stabbing at a little handheld device for a few seconds he seemed satisfied.

  “Thank you,” she said, as Matt opened the door for her. “This will speed things up, even though it's not a Ferrari.”

  She paused and peered down at the badge on the front.

  “It's not a Ferrari, is it?” she asked.

  “No, it's a Fiat 500,” said Matt.

  “I like Ferraris.”

  “Well, you can pretend it’s a Ferrari if it makes you happy.”

  Joan indicated that Francis and Christopher should get into the back of the car. She got into the passenger seat and wrestled with the seatbelt until Matt suggested that she might want to unbuckle her scabbard. Joan placed it into the footwell with a small scowl. It left her feeling quite exposed.

  It was a short drive into the city centre. Joan decided that motorised transport was far less scary if one had an actual seat and a window. Despite the car’s monstrous speed, the journey was more comfortable than any cart ride she had taken in life. Evening was descending upon the city; lights glittered all around them.

  They pulled up at a junction, allowing a small group of Roman gladiators to cross the road. Joan had met some gladiators in Heaven, and had never noticed that a bare behind was part of the uniform.

  “So you're here for the Pride then.” Matt changed down the gears almost gracefully.

  “The woman mentioned a ‘pride’ earlier,” said Christopher.

  “Pride?” asked Joan. “What is that?”

  “You know, the Gay Pride weekend.”

  Joan understood each of the individual words Matt said but together they were meaningless.

  “Gay Pride weekend?”

  Matt waved vaguely at Joan's armour.

  “Surely, that's why you're dressed up. I mean, it looks nice — really suits you — but it's a strange outfit otherwise. No? Not into Gay Pride?”

  Joan thought on it deeply.

  “I don't think I could take part in something as sinful as that,” she said.

  “Sinful?” said Matt. “Wow. That's a bit harsh.”

  “I’m all for being gay. I think I’m not gay enough, most of the time.”

  “Right?”

  “But pride is one of the seven deadly sins and must be avoided by all right-minded people. No, gay modesty. That’s me.”

  “I see,” said Matt, clearly nonplussed.

  “And are you here for the ‘pwide’?” asked Francis from the back seat.

  “It’s a lot of fun. Is it Francis or Christopher?”

  “I’m Fwancis. He’s Chwistopher.”

  “Who is?” said Matt.

  “Ignore him,” said Christopher to Francis.

  “No, the
Gay Pride is a lot of fun. Really good atmosphere,” said Matt. “But, sadly, I’m working.”

  “Reading the newspaper's not work,” said Joan.

  “Well, not usually. I’m over here doing some liaison work. Normally I'm based in the UK.”

  “UK?”

  “Britain. England.”

  “Oh, you’re British,” said Joan, suddenly re-evaluating the entire conversation.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve picked up a Dutch accent in less than a month,” Matt joked.

  “Speaking of accents, you’re obviously French.”

  “You recognised my accent.”

  “That and the way that you go ‘pff’ to punctuate your sentences. I’m right aren’t I?”

  Joan considered his answer in light of Evelyn's warning about British sarcasm. Everything they said was opposite to its true meaning. If a British person said that they were British, did it mean that they really weren't? She knew that she was French, so that part wasn’t sarcasm. She found that the whole concept made her head hurt. She was saddened by the realisation that Matt's previous comments about her outfit looking nice were not to be believed. In fact, he must surely think that she didn't look nice. She sighed with exasperation.

  “They’ve closed the roads ahead in preparation for tomorrow’s parade,” said Matt. “Where exactly am I dropping you off?”

  “Here is fine,” said Francis.

  “Really?” said Joan.

  “I'll need to find somewhere to park the car,” said Matt. “Maybe I'll come and find you later.”

  “That would be nice,” said Joan honestly and suddenly worried whether, to sarcastic British ears, that comment had been an insult.

  She got out, clanking, and struggling once more with her sword.

  “Where will you be?” asked Matt leaning across to look at her. “Exactly.”

  Joan looked to Francis. Francis shrugged.

  “Not sure,” she said.

  “I’ll give you a call then,” said Matt. “What’s your number?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Joan nodded grimly.

  “It’s been nineteen for a long, long time.”

  Wim looked up from his chair and gazed across the water. The views of the Westerschelde estuary were one of the most admirable features of this rather bland apartment. He'd moved here from his beloved smallholding at the insistence of his surviving daughter, Clara, after Laila’s disappearance the year before. That was all very well and kept the remains of the grieving family together in one place, but being twelve floors above the land only added to his depression.