by Heide Goody
“My world-conquering ambitions,” said Clovenhoof.
“You?” said Ben, amused. “Conquer the world?”
“I invaded Spain last year,” Clovenhoof retorted.
“You went on holiday,” said Michael.
“My cover story. Covert warfare. That’s just my style.”
“I don’t recall you declaring war on Spain while we were there,” said Nerys.
“Although, what he did to the hotel plumbing could seriously be described as an act of terrorism,” said Ben.
“Yeah,” said Clovenhoof, nodding. “Paella bomb. Seriously dirty warfare. Anyway, I might yet conquer the world with my business empire.”
“Dodgy pet cremations!” snorted Nerys. “Just another joke.”
“Only ever inspired by you,” said Clovenhoof. “I see you in your swish office, making deals, making money.”
“Having to kowtow to sodding Tina ever since she was made office manager, you mean! You know nothing about business, Jeremy. Pet cremations, indeed!” Nerys shook her head bitterly and, in doing so, caught sight of someone across the bar. “Ah, speaking of animals that deserve to be burned…”
Nerys stood, grabbed her wine and downed it in a single motion, and stalked over to the bar.
“Ed! Ed! I want a word with you!”
The miserable looking man at the bar looked up from his smartphone and swore.
“Not now, Nerys,” he pleaded.
“Not now, when…” Nerys looked at her watch. “When we should be waiting to board our plane for – and I quote – the holiday of my dreams?”
“Shush. She’s picking up.”
Ed thrust the phone to his ear.
“Toyah! The taxi hasn’t arrived yet, but I can still collect my ticket at the gate if …” He kicked his stool back onto the floor as he stood bolt upright. “You cancelled it? That’s… that’s… well, two can play at that game, Toyah. I bought those tickets, I can cancel them. I’ll call the …” The words choked in his throat. He stared wide-eyed. Nerys attempted to insert herself in his field of vision, increasingly unhappy at being ignored. “Listen, Toyah, this holiday was just meant to be a holiday. Yes, I was planning to meet Mr Kimkemboi but any trade we make would be totally above board … Toyah. Toyah! Do not go through that gate! You can’t. What about your kids? Who’s looking after them?”
Ben, who, along with much of the pub, had watched the man’s telephonic meltdown, nodded.
“Children. As far as ambitions and legacies go,” said Ben, “children are all most of us desire.”
“Really?” said Clovenhoof, slurping his drink. “But when I came into your shop with a bargain offer…”
“I don’t want children now,” said Ben, “and I certainly don’t want your stolen baby clobber but, one day, the chance to pass my wisdom, my very self onto …”
Michael put his hand on Ben’s.
“You’re not suggesting Jeremy has children?” he said, alarmed.
“God, no!” said Ben, almost gagging. “Lord in Heaven, no! I wasn’t suggesting that at all. I was just talking generally. Jeremy have children!” He grinned in disbelief. “Can you imagine the evil and twisted little psychos he would raise? Little Baby Clovenhoofs? Ugh! The horror!”
“Well, I’m glad we’re of an accord in that matter,” said Michael, failing to spot the fresh glimmer in Clovenhoof’s eyes. “I think you’ve already done enough to shock and upset me today, Ben.”
“Oh, you’ve reminded me,” said Ben, opening the carrier bag beside him. “I wanted to make it up to you for this afternoon’s ‘accident’. I saw you’d got a bit of, er, cosmetic damage around your ears, and I managed to salvage some bits of the rabbit skin and I thought to myself, well… I’ve made these.”
He produced his creation from the carrier. Ben had taken the very front portions of the dead rabbit and the hind legs and tail and artfully attached them to an alice band.
“What is it?” said Michael, taking them reluctantly.
“Earmuffs,” said Ben. “Try them on.”
“Put ’em on,” said Clovenhoof. “Don’t be ungrateful.”
Michael slipped them over his head and carefully adjusted them.
“They are very fluffy,” he admitted. “Although, I do wonder if I look a bit of a …”
“Cock!” shouted Nerys, flinging the Animal Ed’s drink into his face, their conversation clearly having ended poorly.
She stormed over to the table, but the fury on her face melted instantly when she saw Michael.
“I have been drinking,” she conceded, “but surely I’m not the only one who can see that a rabbit has crawled into Michael’s ear and got stuck halfway.”
Clovenhoof checked in on the baby when he got home. She lay in his bed, quite awake, one arm wrapped possessively around the stuffed pine marten Clovenhoof had acquired for her.
“Any calls while I was out?” said Clovenhoof.
Beelzebelle kicked her legs excitedly.
“A funny thing happened this evening,” said Clovenhoof, “Ben kind of suggested I should have kids. I mean, those weren’t his exact words, admittedly, but that was the meaning I took away from it.” He looked at little Beelzebelle. “I was going to sell you but, well, I don’t want to seem too forward, but maybe we could try out this whole father-daughter thing. I am an excellent role model. You couldn’t ask for a better parent. I’d impart all my worldly knowledge to you, mould you into a perfect mini-me, and you’d get to inherit Hell from me when I die. It’s a pretty sweet deal.”
Beelzebelle made a noise which Clovenhoof couldn’t say was either agreement or disagreement.
“And I’ve made you some cool dentures to try out tomorrow,” he said, holding out the sets of teeth he had fashioned from blu tack and the smashed remains of the jawbones he’d stolen from Ben.
“Let’s have one last bedtime story, and we’ll make a start on it properly in the morning,” said Clovenhoof.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the card picture books he’d picked up from the supermarket. He flicked through it and tutted.
“I’ll do my own variation, I think.” He opened the book so Beelzebelle could see the pages. “Right. This one’s called Goldilocks Goes Burgling And Gets Herself A Nice Bearskin Rug. Ready? Once upon a time…”
Chapter 2 – In which Clovenhoof gets a monkey, pimps his pram, and Twinkle feels a little flat
Clovenhoof and Beelzebelle were out walking. More accurately, Beelzebelle lay asleep in her buggy, and Clovenhoof rode proudly on the Segway that he had attached to its handlebar. In principle, they were out for a walk. They had covered quite a distance already, and Clovenhoof was ready for a little light refreshment. He bent down to the straw to take in a decent slurp of Lambrini, but there was an empty, gurgling sound from the cup in the drink-holder.
“Quick pitstop, Beelzebelle. We’ll be on our way in a moment.”
He hopped off the Segway and rummaged in the basket below the pram for a fresh bottle. He popped it into the makeshift holder, a flower pot that he’d duct-taped onto the Segway’s main post. He inserted the straw, humming a selection of Beelzebelle’s favourite songs. She liked it when he did the hits of Abba in the style of a Satanic chant. He was just getting to a good bit when a car horn sounded loudly.
Clovenhoof looked up from the task in hand to see a most unusual vehicle. He’d seen stretch limousines before, even stretch Humvees. This, however, was a white stretch transit van, the tradesman’s workhorse of choice, modified and lengthened limo-style. It was unnecessary, showy, and vulgar – things that Clovenhoof approved of very much. He also approved of the angry-looking man who was leaning out of the window and shaking his fist. His day was becoming more interesting.
“What do you think you’re doing?” shouted the man.
“Just a little maintenance,” said Clovenhoof.
“Get a move on!”
“This is a pedestrian crossing you know.”
“Yeah,
but it’s a not a pedestrian stop-and-have-a-picnic. I’ve got an important meeting to get to, mate. Gonna need you to get out of the way.”
“What’s in the back of the van?” asked Clovenhoof, in no particular hurry.
“What?”
“What have you got in there? Loads of space in the back of there, what do you use it for?”
“You’d better concentrate on what you’re doing with that bottle before …” The man bit down on a swear word. “Before you drop it.”
“It’s fine, I’d finished that one,” said Clovenhoof.
“What? You got broken glass all over the road!” The man opened the van door a crack to get out and then restrained himself. “Glass and tyres don’t mix, pal.”
“Is it, like, a crack den in there, or a low-key brothel?” asked Clovenhoof.
“What?”
Clovenhoof waggled a finger at the elongated van as he straightened his straw and – finally! – took a long satisfying drink of Lambrini.
“That’s a filthy slur! I’m an important businessman. Fingers in lots of pies.”
“No, I think mobile brothels are the thing of the future,” Clovenhoof reassured him.
“Say sorry right now!” spluttered the man, literally frothing at the mouth, his bushy eyebrows descending in fury.
Clovenhoof walked on his way, worried that the man’s shouting might upset Beelzebelle. He heard some more impassioned bellowing about broken glass, but he knew that the Segway’s top speed would soon outpace any but the most athletic pursuers.
Nerys drifted along as Twinkle scampered at the end of the lead, sniffing out the intriguing, multi-layered doggy secrets of Boldmere.
It’s going to be one of those days, Twinkle, she thought.
Tina, the branch manager of the Helping Hand Job Agency, had arranged a coaching session. Ever since she went on that management course, Tina had been dead keen on coaching. As far as Nerys could tell, coaching meant kicking your arse while pretending it’s for your own good. Nerys gritted her teeth at the prospect. And Jeremy, never the quietest of neighbours, was getting noisier and noisier of late.
“Did you hear that wailing from his place today, Twinkle?” she said. “I blame Ben for getting him that Aztec death whistle for Christmas.”
Twinkle yipped and tried to chase a fragrant chip paper into the gutter. Nerys didn’t have the heart to pull him away.
“At least one of us needs to follow our dreams, Twinkle,” she said, “and it’s probably best all round if I don’t act out those fantasies with Tina and the steam roller – oh!”
A huge elongated van hurtled round the bend, wheels riding up momentarily over the kerb. Nerys leapt back and wondered what kind of inadequacies a vehicle like that might be trying to address. The van braked sharply just beside her. A man leaned out of the driver’s window, looked at Nerys and then, critically, at his tyres.
“Sent the tracking right out too, I bet!” he grumbled.
He had a face that was darkened with stubble and a pudgy, dangerous look about him. Not ideal man material.
The man revved his engine. It was only at that moment Nerys realised that the lead in her hand was dragging limp and empty. She looked down. The tyres span in the loose grit and disgorged the lifeless form of Twinkle, flinging him like a dirty rag at her feet.
Nerys screamed, a primal and terrible thing. Part of her brain told her that there were rational and useful things that she ought to do, like get a look at the registration number, but the primal and terrible part was in charge. She wanted to hurt the man who had done this. At the very least, she needed to throw something. As usual, there were no half housebricks or anvils around when needed. She took the only thing to hand and hefted it into the air with all of her might as she let out another blood-curdling scream. The recently filled bag of dog mess sailed through the air with uncanny accuracy and in through the open window of the departing van.
Clovenhoof was unable to get the combined bulk of the Segway and the buggy over the threshold of the Boldmere Oak, so he parted their duct tape coupling and dragged them in separately.
“Lennox, pop a Lambrini onto my tab, would you?” he called out as he approached the bar.
“You can’t have a tab. I’m going to need payment in cash,” said Lennox the barman pleasantly.
“Not you as well! You know I’ve been blacklisted by the payday loan companies too.”
“They’ve got your picture up behind the counter in Lend-U-Like and a sign saying ‘Do not give money to this man’.”
“Have they never heard of rewarding loyalty? Even loan sharks won’t come near me.”
“You shot the last two loan sharks who came to your flat,” Lennox pointed out.
“The police shot the Coddington brothers,” Clovenhoof corrected him. “It wasn’t my fault the police thought that we were all bank robbers.”
“You’re the very devil himself,” said Lennox, “Everything’s your fault.”
“Hmph, I’ve had a lot of expenses lately. The baby bouncer was a costly item. There was the cost of buying it, and then there was the cost of rebuilding the doorway after I personally stress tested it.”
“You got in it?”
“Better safe than sorry. Beelzebelle will thank me one day. You can see why I need a drink, can’t you? I’m run off my feet. I had no idea it was so much work to look after a baby.”
Lennox continued to wipe down the bar, smiling at Clovenhoof.
“Well, luckily, I came prepared for this eventuality. Ben’s penny jar it is then,” sighed Clovenhoof, upending a huge pile of coppers onto the bar. “I read once that your average penny is contaminated with traces of urine and faeces from dozens of people.”
“You can’t believe everything you read.”
“I wasn’t sure if it was a general statement or a legal requirement, so I pissed in the jar before I came here.”
Lennox paused only momentarily in sorting through the coins. The barman of the Boldmere Oak had a sanguine and easy-going manner, a valuable quality in a publican, particularly one who had Satan as a regular.
“While you’re counting it out,” said Clovenhoof, “get one for this poor chap too.”
Animal Ed Lawrence, staring forlornly into his pint just along the bar, looked up.
“Oh, cheers. Wait,” he said, as he recognised Clovenhoof. “Did Nerys send you to break my arms or something?”
“Nerys hasn’t sent me, just extending my generosity – well, Ben Kitchen’s generosity – to my fellow man.”
“Need all the help I can get right now, and that’s the truth. Up the creek without a paddle, as they say.”
Clovenhoof nodded in understanding.
“To be honest, I’ve never let that bother me. If God had meant us to wipe our arses, he should have given us non-stick butt cheeks.”
“No, that’s not what the phrase means…”
“Having said that, I’ve now been lured in by the hedonistic pleasures of the baby wipe warmer. You tried them?” he asked. “I’ve got one in every room now, so I don’t get caught short.”
Animal Ed’s confused gaze flicked between Beelzebelle’s buggy and Clovenhoof’s dreamy expression, but the question never quite made it out of his mouth.
“Er, no. I’ve managed to get myself into a difficult position.”
“Ah, working your way through the Kama Sutra, eh?”
“No. I’m supposed to get a load of exotic animal samples for a research lab, and, as you know, my trip to Kenya’s fallen through. I’m in trouble. Debt trouble and unfulfilled order trouble.”
“There must be something you can do,” said Clovenhoof.
“Nothing.”
“There’s always something. I find running away from problems often works.”
“I can’t leave all my animals. I’ve got responsibilities.”
“Or pretending that all my problems have run away. That also works, and it’s better because you don’t actually have to go anywhere.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” said Clovenhoof, glancing around, “although Lennox might prefer it if you found somewhere a bit more private.”
Ed stared at Clovenhoof.
“It isn’t a euphemism,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter what size it is.”
“No. It’s a real monkey.”
“Right,” said Clovenhoof with a leer. “And I bet it needs spanking sometimes as well?”
“It would be cruel to spank it. I really do have a monkey. A capuchin.”
“That’s a coffee, not a monkey. I’m not stupid.”
“He’s highly trained,” said Ed.
Clovenhoof leaned forward in interest. “Trained? Like Olympic level poop-flinging accuracy?”
“No, trained to help people. They can take the lids off jars and switch on lights, things like that. They train them up in the US to help disabled people.”
“So why have you got this one? You’ve got full use of all your bits and pieces, according to Nerys,” said Clovenhoof with a salacious wink.
Ed gave him a sideways look.
“Gorky was placed with a wheelchair user obsessed with Feng Shui and smoking excessive amounts of cannabis. It didn’t end well. The programme had to let him go, he can’t be returned to the wild, so I’ve had him as an attraction in the shop for a few months now. He’s worth a couple of hundred as a pet, if I can find a buyer.”
“I’ll give you fifty, if he really can open bottles and do, you know, useful things.”
“You want my monkey?”
“This parenting lark is hard work. I could do with an extra pair of hands.”
Ed looked hard at Clovenhoof.
“I can’t go lower than eighty.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Clovenhoof, reaching into the basket of the buggy, “let’s see what’s in Ben’s fifty pence jar. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
Nerys walked hurriedly down the path leading to St Michael’s church, her phone to her ear.
