by Heide Goody
“So, you’re off to Africa?” he said.
“It’s not that much money. I’ve got to be a bit more creative.”
“Well, I’m an exotic animal. I could sell you some of my DNA,” said Clovenhoof, and waggled his glass at Lennox for a refill.
Ed laughed and pulled a folded sheet from his pocket.
“It’s a very specific shopping list and you’re not on it.”
“The cheek,” grinned Clovenhoof.
“Anyway,” said Ed, “how are you and Gorky getting on?”
“Like a house on fire,” said Clovenhoof. “He’s at home, looking after Beelzebelle right now. At least, I assume he is.”
Ed pulled a screen device from his canvas shoulder bag and switched it on.
“Yup,” he said. “He’s at your place, although I can’t guarantee he’s actually doing any childcare. I made no promises about his abilities as a babysitter.”
“What’s this thing?” said Clovenhoof.
Ed tilted the screen for him to see. Clovenhoof could see dots on a local map, lines trailing out behind them like snail slime.
“GPS tracker,” said Ed. “Did you not notice the collar around his neck?”
The collar was quite unobtrusive, and consisted of a fat bead on a plastic collar which sat beneath Gorky’s neck fur.
“I thought it was a fashion thing,” said Clovenhoof.
“They’re quite similar to the ones naturalists use to track animal populations. I actually got mine off a website for parents who want to track their children. I’ve just got into the habit of putting them on my more expensive and important animals. And girlfriends.”
“Girlfriends?” said Clovenhoof, impressed.
“Charm bracelet. Necklace. Sewn into the lining of her purse.”
He was dimly aware that putting tracking devices on loved ones, particularly without them noticing, was the kind of thing that Nerys would call “balls out creepy”, a fact which made Clovenhoof all the more impressed.
“It has saved my skin on more than one occasion,” said Ed.
“Didn’t work that time your girlfriend caught you and Nerys re-enacting the face-hugger scene from Alien.”
“I can’t keep my eye on two things at once.”
“Multi-tasking is hard,” Clovenhoof agreed.
“Anyway, you just log onto track-my-child.com and it can show you everywhere your kid or monkey or girlfriend has been. If you make your profile public, other people can see too.”
Multi-tasking was indeed not Clovenhoof’s greatest strength. Most days, even single-tasking was too much effort. However, two distinct and separate ideas – mind-blowingly stunning ideas – had formed in his mind.
“Would you lend me that thing?” he said to Ed.
“The tracker? You can just log onto the website with your phone.”
Clovenhoof put his phone on the bar with a heavy thunk.
“Okay, maybe not that phone,” said Ed. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, but this is an expensive bit of kit.”
“But maybe I could help you out in return.”
“Help how?”
Clovenhoof unfolded Ed’s piece of paper and looked at the list of animal names.
“Serval, bat-eared fox, bushbaby, oryx, spotted-necked otter,” he read without recognising a single one. “I can get these for you,” he lied.
“You can? How?”
“Contacts,” said Jeremy, tapping his nose.
Ed looked at him shrewdly.
“I heard there was a guy with connections at Dudley Zoo.”
“I couldn’t possibly say,” said Clovenhoof with an air of mystery. “Obviously, these things don’t come cheap.”
Ed thrust the GPS tracker device into Clovenhoof’s hands.
“Get the samples and then we’ll discuss a price.”
It took Ben and Nerys and a broom to chase the monkey out of Nerys’s flat. They stood on the top floor landing, uncertain where it had gone, but happy that it was out of the flat. Nerys protectively held Twinkle under her arm.
“Did I tell you that I saw a monkey in the park?” said Nerys.
“In the park?” said Ben.
“With Jeremy. At least I think it was a monkey. There was a baby too.”
“A monkey baby?”
“A baby baby. It all happened so quickly.”
They looked up down and around for the capuchin.
“You know,” said Ben, “there’s this documented psychological effect where people who are constantly subjected to traumatic events – war, natural disaster, Jeremy Clovenhoof – eventually stop registering them. The brain has a sort of limited capacity for awful shit.”
Nerys nodded reflectively, stroking Twinkle all the while.
“I think I saw a monkey and a baby in the park.”
“It does sound like the kind of thing Jeremy would be involved in.”
“He’s a madman,” said Nerys. She looked at her stuffed dog. “Some people are just crazy, aren’t they, Twinkle?” she said in a squeaky baby voice and pinched Twinkle’s nose affectionately. “Yes, they are, aren’t they?”
Michael sat in St Michael’s church and prayed.
Michael sometimes wondered why he continued to pray. As an archangel, he was an extension of the will of the Almighty. Even if The Guy Upstairs knew everything imaginable and directed everything, he knew and directed his angelic host that bit more. On top of that, was praying in a church that bore his name the equivalent of praying to himself?
Whatever, Michael prayed. He prayed because he loved the Almighty with all his heart. He prayed because he hoped that the Almighty would listen and, perhaps one day, answer him. Most importantly, though, he prayed because praying was what good people did, and Michael was certain that he was ‘good people’.
It was, however, difficult to pray with the sound of Netty Fairfax grinding away on the stone floor, moaning and gasping with every thrust.
Michael attempted to put the sound out of his mind, and tried to recall where he was up to. He had been thanking the Lord for the gifts of love and of honest work, mentally phrasing it so that he clearly wasn’t just bragging to the Lord about his boyfriend and his job. He resettled his thoughts and opened his mind to the Almighty. Ah, yes, Dear Lord…
“Oh, Netty, that is lovely,” said Reverend Zack.
“It’s all in the elbows,” said Netty, breathlessly.
Michael tutted loudly and opened his eyes. Spiritual communion with the Divine was clearly going to be impossible today.
“I’m sorry,” said Zack. “We weren’t disturbing you, were we?”
Michael looked at the Reverend Zack Purdey, an individual who, whilst occupying the body of a youngish church rector, had the earnest and prosaic manner of a middle-aged chartered accountant. He looked like he should have had a moustache and pipe, despite having never owned either.
“You’re not disturbing me,” lied Michael. He could be a particularly bad liar when he chose.
“I just had to admire Mrs Fairfax’s efforts,” said Zack.
Netty knelt on the flagstones, soapy to the elbows. A stiff-bristled brush was in her hand, and the sin of pride was all over her face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the floor so clean,” said Zack.
“Just doing my bit, rev,” said Netty.
“I think you’ve done a wonderful job. She’s an absolute angel, isn’t she, Michael?”
Michael blinked.
“I’m sorry.”
“Netty. Her work. Absolute angel.”
“I don’t think angels would be seen scrubbing floors on their hands and knees, Reverend.”
“It’s just a turn of phrase,” said Netty.
“But an inaccurate one,” Michael informed her. “It wouldn’t be right to associate the angelic host with something as… as... earthy as this.”
“I understand the point you make,” said Zack diplomatically.
“You believe in angels then?” said Netty.
“What? Yes,” said Mi
chael. “Of course, I do.”
“My mam believed in ghosts.”
“Well, that’s not exactly the same…”
“She said there was a little Victorian girl called Esme who lived up our chimney and that’s why she wouldn’t put the fire on, even in winter.”
“Angels are an integral part of the faith.”
“I think she was just tight-fisted and didn’t want to pay for gas.”
“I think there’s room for a range of beliefs on the matter,” said Zack.
“No, there’s not,” said Michael. “Angels are mentioned several times, and quite clearly, in the Bible.”
“But the word ‘angel’ does not necessarily come with all the wings and halo baggage. It just means ‘messenger’. It can even refer to the message itself.”
Michael stood up and gestured wildly at the huge tapestry at the back of the church, the one of the Archangel Michael – him! – defeating the Great Dragon, Satan.
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in a church dedicated to an angel! One of the chief angels! Look at him. Michael. Of course I – he – is real. Who else threw down Lucifer?”
“Isn’t it all just a metaphor for good’s struggle with, but ultimate victory over, evil?”
“No, it’s not,” said Michael crossly.
“It’s like a lot of the Bible, isn’t it?” said Netty.
“What?”
“Thingy. Allegory. It’s not really true.”
“I will admit,” said Michael, slowly, cautiously, and prepared to backtrack at any moment, “that there are a couple of historical facts – number of people who died in certain battles, the order of succession of certain kings – that need to be carefully evaluated and put into a, er, broader contextual truth but, no, Mrs Fairfax, it’s all true.”
“Adam and Eve in the garden?”
“It’s true. It happened.”
“Noah and the flood?”
“True.”
“The virgin birth?”
“Without a doubt!”
Netty gave him a look of pity.
“You’re what they call a little naïve. Some things are just too unbelievable.”
“They are not!” said Michael in a loud and forceful voice that was not shouting, but only just. “It’s called faith, Mrs Fairfax! Faith!”
In his rage, Michael fumbled the picking up of his coat, tripped over his own feet, and nearly slipped in the soap suds on the floor as he did his best to storm out dramatically.
Clovenhoof plonked Gorky in the pram beside Beelzebelle, and positioned the tracker screen next to them both. Beelzebelle giggled and stuck a sticky hand on the monkey’s belly fur. Gorky made a throaty noise of enquiry at Clovenhoof.
Clovenhoof did a couple of practice lunges and grunted in his manliest manner.
“No Segway today, my friends. Never mind that I wrecked it pancaking onto Mr Chip Malarkey’s stretch transit, today’s baby-walking goes off-piste.”
He tapped Gorky on the nose.
“You, my monkey pioneer, are going to record our journey. Sit proud and point the way.”
As Gorky sat upright and peered like a sea captain on the prow of his ship, Clovenhoof pushed the pram down the Chester Road. Within seconds, he felt a child-like thrill of glee at seeing their progress mapped on the device screen. It was like having an etch-a-sketch as big as the world.
“There are no limits but our imagination,” he declared theatrically, and broke into a jog.
Beelzebelle clapped as she was jiggled along.
Clovenhoof was not necessarily one for excessive exercise (from the flat to the bookies and then to the pub was a veritable marathon in his eyes), but he was one for the grand gesture and, in this instance, the grand gesture required some exertion.
Down the Chester Rd he went, to Green Lane and then left towards Sutton Coldfield town centre. Onto the Birmingham Road and past the Horse and Jockey pub, Clovenhoof began a long sweeping loop around the shopping centre. Clovenhoof had a very specific route in mind. Sadly, the town planners of Sutton Coldfield had not taken that into account, and Clovenhoof had to stray from the pavement on more than one occasion. With a careful eye on his GPS tracker, Clovenhoof swung round the Gracechuch shopping centre, cut through Halfords car park and then, eschewing the wheelchair access ramp for the more direct stairs, in through the front door of Friday’s New York Grill and Burger Bar.
“Can I help you?” said a server in a stripy hat and a vest covered in tin badges.
“You can clear those tables out of the way,” said Clovenhoof, and pressed on immediately.
“Tuck in, tubby!” he yelled at a diner. “Move it, grandma!”
The staff gave chase once he was past the bar and exiting through the kitchen.
A cook tried to block their way, arms waving, but Clovenhoof warded her off with a snatched ladle. They barrelled through the fire exit, tumbled down the concrete steps and through beeping traffic onto Lower Queen Street.
Beelzebelle squealed with delight. Gorky passed her a buttery corn on the cob he had liberated in the diner. Beelzebelle gummed it happily.
Clovenhoof rolled his eyes.
“Gonna have pebble-dashed nappies tonight, then,” he said. “Now, here’s where it gets interesting.”
The course he had plotted along Sutton’s streets involved going from Holland Road to Elms Road. Unfortunately, Holland Road was a cul-de-sac, and a row of gardens stood between him and Elms Road. Internet maps had only provided the sketchiest of details, but Clovenhoof had selected what looked to be the weakest point.
“Buckle up, Beelzebelle.”
Gorky checked the baby’s straps and resumed his position on top of the pram. Clovenhoof lowered his horns and accelerated. The driveway of number fourteen was clear, and the garden gate was a thin thing of creosoted panels.
With only a moment to consider the value of reinforcing the front of the pram, perhaps with some bull bars off some rich wanker’s jeep-tank-range-rover-thing, Clovenhoof sprinted up the driveway and straight through the gate. Gorky leapt off at the last moment, not away but up and over, swinging along the house guttering and maintaining pace with Clovenhoof.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed a woman, kneeling by the flower beds.
“Lovely garden,” called Clovenhoof, racing past.
Actually, Clovenhoof couldn’t give a damn for gardens or gardening. He had been a resident in the world’s first garden and, frankly, felt he had done those two naked kids a favour when he’d got them kicked out. Gardens were peculiar things, gardeners doubly so, and British gardeners triply so. If an Englishman’s home was his castle, then his garden was the grounds to his estate, treating it as though the natural world was something that needed to be tamed or improved upon. If these lawn-loonies attended to their spiritual and moral lives with the same puritanical diligence as they did their gardens, Hell would have far fewer British residents.
“Mind the bougainvillea!” shouted a man.
In addition to frilly pansies, drooping magnolia, and some weird trellisy thing, these nutters had decided that their garden required a decorative rockery. It stood by the rear fence, several feet high, home to sprouting greenery and prickly cacti, and entirely in Clovenhoof’s way.
Gorky ran down the trellis and shrieked at Clovenhoof.
“No retreat! No surrender!” said Clovenhoof through gritted teeth.
Clovenhoof ran at the rockery, hoisted the pram above his head, an act that required more strength than he actually possessed, took one, two steps up the craggy mound, and leapt over the fence before his arms and legs realised that what he was attempting was impossible. He cleared the fence and, initially, Clovenhoof came down on his hooves, which was a greater success than he deserved. The pram came down right way up which was, again, a matter of luck. Clovenhoof fell into a roll. The pram tottered on two side wheels. Gorky flung himself out to right the vehicle like an expert yachtsman. The pram jolted to a stop in a rut. Clovenhoof exited hi
s roll and leapt up.
A dozen women, babies in hands, stared at Clovenhoof. They stood evenly spaced across this new garden, each in the same peculiar pose. Clovenhoof couldn’t be sure if they were frozen in the middle of a battle with invisible ninjas, or if each of them was driving an invisible tractor.
“Ta dah!” declared Clovenhoof.
The women stared. The babies stared.
“Actually, it’s called Tai Chi,” said one of the women.
Zack found Michael deep in thought in the churchyard.
“Michael, Michael.”
The archangel turned.
“I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t mean to get annoyed at you and Netty but, sometimes, I can’t cope with such faithless talk.”
Zack offered a genial smile.
“It’s not faithless, Michael. It’s a different expression of the same faith. Not everyone can have your… zeal.” Zack breathed deeply and took a moment to look at the exterior of his church. “There is more that binds us together than separates us, Michael. You, me, Netty, even Darren …”
“I heard that,” said Darren, who was weeding around a granite angel.
“… We’re all united by our love, our good deeds, and the sharing of meaningful ritual.”
“I know, I know. It’s just…”
“Don’t question the details,” said Zack. “Our church and faith keep us going even when…” Zack closed his mouth and then looked around suspiciously. “Can I share a secret with you?”
“Yes, Reverend.”
Zack leaned close and whispered.
“Some days, I don’t even believe in God. It doesn’t make me any less of a Christian.”
Zack watched carefully for a reaction. There was a weird look of satisfaction on Michael’s face. He looked like a child who had found a slimy, disgusting thing in the garden, horrified and smug all at the same time.
Michael turned and fled before Zack could say anything further.
“SCUM,” said the woman.
“Most people are” said Clovenhoof.
The woman smiled. She was long-haired and rosy-cheeked, with a dress sense that seemed to be what would have happened if hippies had discovered tweed. She held a baby boy whose face was almost entirely spittle.
