by Heide Goody
“Even better. It’s like he’s the criminal on parole and you’re his probation officer.”
“I was… demoted, Nerys. It’s not my responsibility anymore.”
“But you’ve had training. You’ve got the knowledge, the insight, the cojones.”
“Actually, this particular archangel is still getting used to having cojones,” said Michael. “Swapping my angelic powers for a wrinkly sack of tender things was hardly a step up.”
“But can’t we report him?” said Nerys.
“To who?”
Nerys gestured upwards.
“You know, God.”
“Sure,” said Michael. “Of course you can do that.”
“How?”
Michael gave her a withering look and silently put his hands together as though for prayer.
“Oh,” said Nerys and then, “I just don’t know why he has to live here, with us.”
“I am frankly surprised to hear you talk like that. He is your friend.”
Nerys’s face twitched irritably.
“I have an appalling taste in friends.”
“And lovers,” said Michael.
“Hey!”
“I was just agreeing with your assessment of your emotional and social intelligence. Point is, though, he is your friend. That he’s even managed to make any friends is above and beyond any expectations I ever had.”
“So?”
“So,” said Michael, “he’s happy. And he’s going to be as happy here as he would be anywhere else.”
Nerys made a doubtful noise.
“What?” said Michael.
Nerys stopped at the T-junction with Chester Road and twisted in her seat to look at Michael.
“I think you’re projecting.”
“I’m doing what now?” said Michael.
Nerys smiled at him. She, like Michael, had a range of smiles. Several of hers were devious and capricious things.
“You are happy,” she said. “And you now want to pretend that everyone else is happy. You and your tiny gymnast boyfriend are all cosy in your little pink paradise and you want to ignore the troubles in the wider world.”
“That is not fair, Nerys Thomas,” said the archangel grumpily. “One, I am not ignoring the troubles of the wider world. I help out at the St Michael’s mobile soup kitchen on alternate Tuesdays and act as bouncer for the monthly senior citizen whist drives. Two, he is not tiny. He’s perfectly proportioned and, heightwise, falls well within a standard deviation on a bell curve. And three, I don’t know if you’re being homophobic or not, but our little paradise is not pink.”
“Okay, touchy. Jeez.”
Nerys set off again.
“The lounge is a charming shade of watermelon,” said Michael quietly. “But it’s not pink.”
The woman from Sutton Coldfield Union of Mums was, ultimately, very helpful. She listened to Clovenhoof’s queries and then, in no uncertain terms, told him where to go: the supermarket. Clovenhoof went there, baby in pram (getting down the stairs was much quicker and more fun than going up; both he and Beelzebelle could agree on that) and returned within the hour with several bulging carrier bags. The pram might have been a cumbersome contraption, but its capacity for carrying goods in its various nets, pockets, and folds was amazing. Clovenhoof thought it might be worth taking to the pub some nights, in case he needed someone to wheel him and a goodnight takeaway home.
Clovenhoof mixed up a couple of bottles of formula milk, one for the baby and one for himself, fitted the rubber teats into the screw lids (not until after he had pinged one behind the fridge during his learning curve) and then plonked himself and Beelzebelle on the sofa. He put the bottle in her grasping hands, but held it up for her when he saw that it was perhaps too heavy for her to manage.
He clinked bottles with her.
“When in Rome,” he said, and took a deep suck.
He pursed his lips and contemplated the bottle.
“It tastes like…” He paused to think. “If cornflour was a drink. It’s like rice pudding but, you know, without the rice, or the sugar or cream. Or any flavour at all.” He looked at Beelzebelle. “It’s like bottled boredom. You really go for this stuff?”
Beelzebelle munched gummily on the teat, losing a good proportion of it down her chin, but Clovenhoof knew happiness when he saw it.
“You know what would liven this up,” he said, leapt up and was back again in moments with a pair of glass bottles. “Lambrini or vodka? Lambrini? Good choice.”
They sat side by side in quiet companionship for a while, each enjoying their bottle. Clovenhoof was impressed how the Lambrini had caused the baby milk to curdle and form huge sloppy clumps in the bottle. It was like a lava lamp and a drink at the same time! Groovy!
Gradually, a rich aroma reached Clovenhoof’s nose. It had a gusty farmyard quality, meaty and mysterious, with some little sweet and acrid notes in the mix.
“Is someone cooking dinner?” he said and then looked at Beelzebelle.
She looked extraordinarily pleased with herself.
“Oh,” said Clovenhoof. “Someone is ‘cooking dinner’.”
He poked at her midriff and felt the squishiness of a nappy beneath her pink baby-gro.
“I invented a man-nappy once,” said Clovenhoof. “It was brilliant. But it didn’t go down well. Apparently, if a baby craps itself in public it’s fine, but if a grown man does it…” He rolled his eyes. “That kind of poo-prejudice. It’s racist. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Victory!”
Clovenhoof stepped back and admired his handiwork.
The nappy battle had not been an easy one. Velcro, poo, and baby lotion were not a natural mix. Baby poop and baby lotion had blended to a fascinating consistency, like fresh bird droppings. The resultant substance had spread itself around the bed, Clovenhoof’s face, Clovenhoof’s eye and, because he had a pragmatic and unfussy approach to cleaning, the curtains. Baby lotion had also rendered the velcro useless, so Clovenhoof had to resort to other methods to fasten the nappy.
Thus it was that Beelzebelle now lay on Clovenhoof’s bed, in a nappy held on with duct tape, the whole thing secured further with a knotted towel, and all held in place with a carrier bag in which Clovenhoof had cut two leg holes. It was a Marks and Spencer carrier bag because Clovenhoof demanded nothing but the best for his little house guest.
“Now it is sleepy-time,” he said, not sure if he was talking about the baby or himself.
He arranged his grey and slightly crusty duvet around Beelzebelle so she couldn’t roll off the bed.
“Right, some bedtime music.” He turned on the stereo. “What do you fancy? Some Judas Priest? Megadeth? Slayer? Ah, no. You’ll like this.” He popped a cassette tape in. “Bootleg recording from the days when I had my own Heavy Metal band. That’s right, my own band, Devil Preacher. Uncle Clovenhoof is one cool mofo.”
As the caustic baseline of Swallow My Fruit, Bitch filled the room, Beelzebelle jerked her legs excitedly.
“I know, kickin’,” grinned Clovenhoof. “Right. That website said you babies would be entertained by a mobile, so I picked this up.” He put the phone he had bought in Beelzebelle’s hand, and she immediately stuck it in her mouth and munched the corner. “It’s only pay as you go, but I downloaded Candy Crush and Angry Birds, so that should be fun. And the website said you should have a cuddly toy. Toy…”
Clovenhoof looked around the bedroom but there were no cuddly toys. He had some specialist ‘toys’ hidden away at the top of his wardrobe, but he suspected they weren’t quite cuddly.
He clicked his fingers.
“Ben has a whole bunch of furry things in his flat. You wait there. I’ll get you something.” He paused in the doorway. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
It was a hop, skip, and a trot across the mouldy landing to Ben’s flat. He did a rat-a-tat-tat on the door and scuffed it violently with his hoof for good measure. The high-pitched industrial whine within the flat stopped and, moments later, B
en had the door open. He was wearing a linen apron and goggles.
“Doing experimental cooking again?” said Clovenhoof.
Ben held up a length of metal tubing.
“Just forming the framework for Alexander the Bunny,” said Ben. “Come in.”
Ben, despite theoretically having a wife somewhere, lived the life of an unfussy, unfashionable, and unambitious bachelor. He had temporarily converted his front room into a taxidermist’s workshop. The tabletop wargaming miniatures, the painting table, and the boxes of terrain building materials had all been put aside to make room for a skinning station, tubs of preservative chemicals, racks of blades and a lovely little jar full of glass eyes of all shapes and sizes. By the open window, a workbench was set up. Wire frames sat beside the partially stuffed rabbit skin and, at the end, a mounted rotary grinder spun. From mantelpiece, shelf, and window sill, Ben’s creations stared at Clovenhoof. Here were arranged the mammals, reptiles, and birds that had not been considered good enough to go in Ben’s shop window or to be given as ‘gifts’ to others. Surrounded on all sides, Clovenhoof felt like he had stumbled into a group session of Ugly Animals Anonymous, or a build-a-bear store from some weird parallel universe.
Ben waggled his tubing.
“I think a solid frame is key,” he said, in the manner of one who was growing desperate in his attempts to improve on past failures. “I’m getting some custom polyurethane foam for the stuffing too.”
“Tapioca not quite working out for you?” said Clovenhoof, prodding the nose of a rabid-looking chinchilla.
“Have you come to mock?” said Ben.
“Not at all, my geeky friend. In fact, I would like one of your… your… creations for my flat.”
“Oh?”
“Something really furry and cuddly.”
“These aren’t toys, Jeremy.”
Clovenhoof eyed a plastic tray containing a trio of jawbones. Lots of nice square teeth. “Of course not,” he said. “What about that one?” And he swiped the bones and stuffed them in his jacket pocket while Ben was diverted.
“The pine marten?” said Ben.
“Yes, he’s a spritely fellow. Would look great in my living room.”
Ben gave him a sceptical look.
“You’ve done nothing but laugh at my efforts until now. Why the change of heart?”
“Oh, many reasons,” said Clovenhoof.
“Such as?”
“The realisation, good buddy, that taxidermy is a means by which we can get to see nature, understand nature, close up. People see it as morbid, but actually it’s the preservation of life, a celebration of the natural world.”
“You just read that from that copy of Taxidermy Today,” said Ben.
“No, I didn’t,” said Clovenhoof, sweeping the evidence off the table.
Ben shook his head.
“Listen, Jeremy, I …” Ben stopped and then tilted his head. “Wait. Listen.”
“You said.”
“No,” he scowled and raised a finger pointedly. “Listen. Is that… is that the sound of crying?”
The man was right. Beelzebelle was indeed crying.
“That’s impossible,” said Ben. “None of us have babies. There’s no one living on the ground floor at the moment. Maybe it’s an abandoned baby. We’d better call the police…”
Clovenhoof didn’t particularly approve of the police. Actually, that wasn’t true. He loved the tit-shaped helmets, the pepper spray, the tasers, and the riot shields. He just didn’t particularly appreciate having them applied to him. The police, in his experience, were the ultimate party poopers.
“I can’t hear any crying,” he said loudly.
“Of course you can,” said Ben. “It’s getting louder.”
“It’s the belt on your sander thingy,” said Clovenhoof.
“Grinder,” said Ben. “And no, it isn’t.”
“Sure it is,” said Clovenhoof, stepped over to the workbench, and turned up the speed on the machine. “Oh, yes. Listen. Wah-a-wah-a-wah. Definitely the grinder.”
Nerys locked her car.
“Just come inside and speak to him,” she said.
“It won’t do any good,” said Michael, but she heard the resignation in his voice.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said.
She looked up at the subdivided house. A window was open on the first floor and the sound of machinery and raised voices appeared to be coming from within.
“I do fear Jeremy is a bad influence on Ben.”
“You are a bad influence on Ben,” said the archangel. “You’re all bad influences on each other.”
“Yes, but he’s the only one who doesn’t know he’s got the devil for a next-door neighbour. Come on. Afterwards I will buy you a thank you tipple in the Boldmere Oak.”
“Turn that off!” said Ben. “I told you I heard crying.”
“It’s probably just Nerys’s TV,” shouted Clovenhoof.
Ben made for the door.
“Yes, well let’s go find out.”
“Why bother?” said Clovenhoof.
“Are you hiding something, Jeremy?”
“Of course not.”
Ben sighed and went to the door.
Panicked, Clovenhoof grabbed the partially stuffed white rabbit and threw it onto the grinder wheel.
“Oh, goodness,” he declared. “How did that happen?”
“No!” shouted Ben.
The rabbit, snagged on the disc, was a white blur, a candy-floss whirl of fluffiness.
“What did you do?” yelled Ben. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
Something – a paw, an ear – caught against the edge of the wheel, and the pelt jammed against the spinning mechanism. At once there was smoke and the smell of burning fur.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” said Michael.
“Fine,” she said. “Well, I have sorrows to drown and I need someone to hold my hair while I throw up, but if you’re not willing to console a friend in a time of crisis…”
“Alcohol is no consoler. And what sorrows?”
“Oh, some jerk of a man who I think isn’t taking me on holiday anymore, even though I…” She paused and looked at the expression on Michael’s face. “Yeah. One problem at a time, eh?”
“Quite,” said Michael. “In fact, these ‘Clovenhoof’ concerns. You’re perhaps projecting issues in your own life onto an external figure.”
“Can it, Freud. I’m not projecting anything.”
“Really? Because I think Jeremy has calmed down a lot in recent months.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a flaming rabbit skin plopped down on his face and wrapped its fiery limbs around his head. Michael screamed. Nerys screamed. Twinkle barked and ran in little circles. Michael clawed the thing off but the flames had spread to the flammable product in his hair. Nerys stamped on the burning animal. Twinkle growled at it and snapped ferociously.
Michael wrenched his shirt over his head and smothered the flames with it, just as Ben came staggering out the front door.
“What the fucking Hell is going on?!” shouted Nerys.
Ben scooped up the smouldering remains of the once beautiful rabbit skin.
“Oh, no.”
“Did you do this?” winced Michael.
Ben looked up.
“Jeremy, he…”
“I bloody knew it!” said Nerys. “That man…”
Clovenhoof leaned out the upstairs window.
“Are my ears burning?” he asked, grinning.
“Your ears?” hissed Michael. “You set my head on fire!”
Ben was moaning softly to himself, inspecting the ruined pelt.
“It’s useless now. The hair’s all burned.”
“I thought it was a rabbit,” said Clovenhoof.
“That’s not funny,” yelled Ben.
“Jeremy’s calmed down, has he?” said Nerys to Michael. “Come on, let’s go inspect the damage.”
They took a booth in the cor
ner of the Boldmere Oak and, while Ben got the drinks from the bar, Nerys and Michael read Clovenhoof the riot act.
“Someone could have been seriously hurt,” said Nerys.
“Someone was,” said Michael. Smears of lotion glistened on the edges of his bright pink ears.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Clovenhoof.
“You never bloody do,” said Nerys, and then added, “Except when you do do it on purpose. But it’s always you. You’re a sodding menace.”
“I may not be officially assigned to monitor your behaviour anymore,” said Michael, “but you need to just …” He made a lowering motion with his hands. “… bring it down a notch or two.”
“And what if I don’t?” said Clovenhoof.
“I’ll rip your balls off,” said Nerys.
“You’re not the boss of me,” sniffed Clovenhoof.
She gave him a grim stare.
“I am now.”
“Now?”
“Since I discovered you’re the damned devil.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t make you Jesus.”
“Get thee behind me, Satan.”
“I don’t know what you expect of me. You want me to just sit in my little flat, live a quiet little life until the Guy Upstairs grants me a quiet little death?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Nerys.
“Find some purpose in life,” said Michael. “Something that isn’t going to get you into trouble or get people killed. You’ve got a job. Take pride in that. Add a little to your local community. Participate. But, yes, quietly.”
“I don’t do quiet,” said Clovenhoof.
“We know,” said Nerys.
“I do grand and bold. I attempted to overthrow the Almighty, for Hell’s sake. If I’m going to do something with this puny mortal life I’ve been given, then it’s something that must say ‘Here was a man of vision! Here was a man of epic ambition! Here was the most bold, heroic, and downright manliest man you ever did see!’”
“Lambrini for you,” said Ben, putting the glass in front of Clovenhoof.
“Thank you.”
“Chardonnay for Nerys, G and T for Michael, and that leaves a cider and black for me. What are we talking about?” he asked, sitting down next to Clovenhoof.
