by Heide Goody
“Seriously? Clearly one of the Big Guy’s ‘off’ days. Stupid-looking thing.” He sighed. “So, brownish-reddish-blackish fur. Let’s see.”
Clovenhoof yanked a few hairs from his own head and sprinkled them into a bag.
“Now we need something a little lighter.”
Twinkle’s tan-coloured fur was an ideal match. Clovenhoof snipped hairs from the little dog’s belly and added them to the bag.
“It needs a little… ginger.”
Beelzebelle, rolling on the floor, grabbed a ferret off the table and waved it about.
“That’s white,” tutted Clovenhoof. “Focus, girl.”
He picked up a red squirrel.
“You’ll do, Nutkin.”
Clovenhoof cut off some wispy tail hair, added it to the bag and shook.
“What do you reckon?” he said.
Beelzebelle spat and wrestled with the ferret. Gorky squawked and did a backflip.
“Excellent,” said Clovenhoof. “Let’s get another couple of these done, and then we’re off to our swishing party. No, I don’t know what swishing is. I think it’s what Nerys’s parents did in the seventies. Now, what animal’s next? Oryx. What the Hell’s an oryx?”
Nerys parked up outside the flats after work.
“Thanks for the lift,” said Ben, got out, and took the heavy bin bag off the rear seat. “I think I’d have struggled to carry this home.”
“When you said you had supplies to bring home, I thought you meant shopping.”
“Taxidermy supplies,” said Ben.
Nerys locked the car and eyed the soft, shapeless bin bag suspiciously.
“But you don’t mean needles and thread, do you?”
Ben attempted to give her an open and innocent look, but he failed almost instantly. Nerys was a scary lady – a friend, yes, but a scary lady nonetheless – and he found it near impossible to lie to her.
“I think the important thing to keep in mind,” he said, “is that it died painlessly.”
“Did it?”
“I should think so. The lorry was travelling at quite a lick.”
Nerys almost dropped her keys.
“You put roadkill on my back seat?” she said.
“In a bin bag,” Ben pointed out. “There was no actual goat-to-seat contact.”
“Goat,” said Nerys, to herself more than anything. “This hobby is getting out of hand.”
“You were singing my praises this morning.”
“And you did a wonderful job,” said Nerys. “But it feels like you’re just doing one after the next after the next. You’ve got them lined up for a personal stuffing.”
Nerys opened the flat door.
There was a line of stuffed animals going up the stairs. They formed an orderly queue, the larger animals resting across two steps as though climbing up.
Nerys took a second or two to consider this.
“What the fuck, Ben?”
“This isn’t my doing,” said Ben, aghast.
“No, it’s bloody Jeremy, isn’t it? Twinkle!”
Nerys ran upstairs and snatched up her dead terrier from its position near the top of the first flight. She hugged the dog to her breast.
“What did the nasty man do to you?”
“It’s just one of his little jokes,” said Ben reasonably.
Nerys glared at him.
“Don’t you find this weirdness, this invasion of our personal space and private lives intensely annoying, Ben?”
Ben thought about it.
“Yes, I do. But this is still sort of background noise level as far as Jeremy is concerned. Compared to other times, he’s been quiet of late.”
“Yeah, and that’s even more suspicious. You must have noticed it. The weird smells coming from his flat. The cries in the middle of the night. The sound of him watching the Teletubbies at full volume. And that pram. Does he push his monkey round in it?”
“Lennox told me that he bought the monkey off Ed.”
“Animal Ed?”
“Well, you’d be the one who’d know if the man was animal,” said Ben.
Nerys kicked a stuffed hedgehog down the stairs at him. Ben caught it and then wished he hadn’t.
“Ow.”
“I’m going to talk to Ed and see if he knows what Jeremy is up to.”
Ben picked up a scrunched up ball of paper that he had spotted on the hall carpet. He unfolded it and stared at it.
“No,” he said softly, not willing to believe.
“What?” said Nerys.
“I might know what Jeremy’s been up to.”
“And?”
“I think we need to speak to Ed, right now.”
Sandra’s home was a Victorian villa a short walk from the Chester Road. Clovenhoof, Gorky, and Beelzebelle stood on her doorstep shortly after six. Clovenhoof reached into his trousers and adjusted the spandex thong he’d put on for the occasion and knocked. Sandra answered the door, a cup of coffee in hand.
“Jeremy!” She looked back over her shoulder and shouted, “Well somebody’s lost a bet!”
There were titters from a distant room.
“A number of them reckoned you would be too frightened to spend the evening with a gaggle of women,” said Sandra.
“Why?” said Clovenhoof. “I like women.”
“Yes, but en masse, some men find us intimidating.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been intimidated by a woman,” said Clovenhoof, wheeling the pram in, “but I’m willing to give it a go.”
Sandra directed him through. Clovenhoof carried Beelzebelle on one shoulder. Gorky perched on the other. In a back room, a dozen women sat on low chairs, chatting and drinking while their babies bounced on their knees or rolled about on the floor. There were several bags piled high on the one table in the room.
“Does everyone remember Jeremy?” asked Sandra.
“How could we forget?” said a woman, and another laughed.
“I do have a memorable profile,” Clovenhoof agreed.
Sandra introduced all the women present, and their children, and offered a potted biography of most. Here was Regina with her daughter, Clytemnestra, who had both recently returned from India. Here was baby Astra with mum, Jocasta, whose husband was the director of the Victoria Theatre. And this was Savannah and little Lyric, with the unfortunate eczema, who had a narrow escape when someone had smashed into their Octavia at the traffic lights.
Clovenhoof made an effort to remember.
Was it Octavia with baby Regina who had recently returned from the savannah? Maybe India and baby Eczema whose daddy worked at the Lyric Theatre? This was Jocasta and little Victoria with the unfortunate case of clytemnestra who had recently been involved in an accident with an Astra?
By the end of the introductions, all Clovenhoof was certain of was that there was a woman called Sandra and lots of other women who were definitely not Sandra.
“So,” said Sandra, “tea, coffee, or can I tempt you to an alcoholic tipple?”
“Tempt away,” said Clovenhoof. “I’m not driving, but I did bring my car keys.”
Sandra frowned at him.
“You know,” said Clovenhoof. “That bit where everyone puts their keys in a bowl and…”
Sandra thumped him in the shoulder playfully.
“Swishing, Jeremy! Not…” She laughed. “Oh, you are awful.”
“Are we swishing then?” said one of the not-Sandras.
Clovenhoof was nonplussed.
“So what does swishing involve?” he said.
“We swap clothes,” said the not-Sandra.
“Kinky,” said Clovenhoof with an approving nod and began to strip.
A not-Sandra pulled open one of the bags on the table to reveal neatly folded blouses and jeans within.
“Swap clothes,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Like a jumble sale,” said a not-Sandra. “But without the smell, the elbowing, and the money.”
“Maybe we’ll all
find something nice and new to wear, without having to get all consumerist and splash out the dough,” said another.
“Not sure if we have any men’s clothes,” said Sandra apologetically.
“I’m nothing if not adaptable,” said Clovenhoof, not bothering to do up his shirt again. “Let’s take a look, eh? Maybe I’ll find that mankini I’ve been dreaming of.”
While Beelzebelle floundered on the floor with several other babies and Gorky (who was in monkey au pair heaven) cheerfully supervised and played with the lot of them, Clovenhoof joined the ladies of SCUM in search of that ideal outfit.
Ed was not at the pet supplies shop, or in his flat above, but was to be found in a booth at the Boldmere Oak. He looked quite content and pleased with himself, until the moment he saw Nerys striding purposefully across the bar floor toward him with a slightly less purposeful looking Ben Kitchen in her wake and, oddly, he thought, a stuffed Yorkshire Terrier under her arm.
Ed coughed, spilt the foam on top of his fresh pint, and hurriedly sat upright.
“Nerys.” He clutched a beer mat like a tiny, soggy, and entirely useless shield. “You’re not still, you know, mad at me, are you?”
Nerys glared.
“Of course not, Ed. Past’s in the past. Who wants to go to Kenya anyway? I’ve moved on. In fact, I’m seeing an absolute cutie at the moment. A, er, fireman. I tell you, one look at him, and I just fell into his arms.”
“Really?” said Ben. “I didn’t know that you were seeing anyone at the – ow! – The only date you’ve been on lately is with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and a box set of Poirot – ow! – Why do you keep jabbing me in the ribs with your – ow!”
Nerys smiled sweetly at Ed.
“We need to ask you some questions, Ed.”
“Questions?” said Ed. “What questions?”
“Like why you gave a monkey to Jeremy?”
“I didn’t give it to him. I sold it to him.”
“Why on earth would he want a monkey?” said Ben.
“To help look after the baby, of course,” said Ed.
“Baby?” said Nerys.
“Yeah, baby.”
“Told you,” said Ben.
“Baby!” squeaked Nerys.
“Yes. Baby,” said Ed irritably. “You do know he has a little baby girl? You do live with him, don’t you?”
“I think I’m going to faint,” said Nerys.
“Really?” said Ben, rubbing his bruised chest. “If only there was a cute fireman whose arms you could fall into.”
Despite the lack of drunkenness or sexual promiscuity or presence of a mankini, Clovenhoof realised he was actually enjoying the swishing party. He had found a skirt that he declared would be a passable kilt he’d wear to the next wedding he attended (or any church service, he decided). He insisted on modelling for the mums, and they gave him approving applause.
“A welcome addition to SCUM,” said a not-Sandra.
“We do have a full programme of events,” said Sandra. “We’ve just moved our play mornings to a new venue on Beechmount Drive. You’d be very welcome.”
Clovenhoof looked at Beelzebelle. She and another spittle-faced baby were pushing plastic blocks back and forth. Elsewhere, Gorky wiped chins and picked up dropped bottles. When Clovenhoof had first taken Beelzebelle in, it had been a possessive thing, as though this little life was a vessel he could fill with his own personality and dreams. Now…
“Yes,” he found himself saying. “That sounds nice. Bit of socialising for the girl.”
One of the mums was breastfeeding her baby. She had unfastened her blouse and unleashed a large rounded breast that soon filled the hungry baby’s face. The baby had a significant chunk of flesh in its greedy mouth, like a tiny cannibal. He wondered if the not-Sandra might get her other breast out if he asked her to, so that he could try to estimate how much boob a baby could get in its mouth. Michael would be proud of his scientific methodology.
“And you’ll have to introduce us to parent and baby parkour,” said Sandra.
“What? Yes? Well, that wasn’t quite what I was doing. You see, there’s this mapping website. Do you have a phone or tablet-thingy?”
Nerys stared, slack-jawed, as Ed explained all he knew of the baby situation.
“But didn’t you think to alert the authorities?” said Ben.
“Alert them to what?” said Ed. “He’s a man and he’s got a child. That’s not abnormal. Men do have children.”
“Men, yes,” said Ben, “but not men like Jeremy.”
“He had a real paternal aura about him.”
“Sorry,” said Nerys, “are we talking about the same individual? Jeremy Clovenhoof. About this tall. Passing resemblance to Satan. Likes Lambrini, ugly print clothes, and making lives Hell.”
“Maybe fatherhood has brought out his caring, nurturing side,” said Ben.
“He doesn’t have one,” exclaimed Nerys. “He’s fifty percent goat, fifty percent git. We need to find him at once, before something terrible happens. He’s not at home.”
“Have you got a phone on you?” said Ed.
“Why?”
“Go to track-my-child.com. I put a tracker on Gorky – that’s the monkey – and it’s probably in the same place as Jeremy. That’s it. Account name is Ed underscore Lawrence.”
Nerys fiddled with her phone.
“Which of the trackers is Gorky’s? And what are all these other ones?”
“Um, animals I’m tracking,” said Ed, quite unconvincingly. “Wild animals.”
“Really? One of them appears to be in Harvey Nicks in Birmingham.”
“Urban fox?” He cleared his throat. “Gorky’s tracker is …”
“Found it,” said Nerys in a cold, flat voice.
“How did you know it’s that one?” said Ed.
Nerys showed him the screen and then Ben.
“Yeah, that’ll be him,” said Ben.
“I’m mailing this to Michael.”
“Why?”
“I think we’re going to need an intervention.”
She said the word as though intervention had taken on a whole new meaning, one involving baseball bats, dark alleys, and shallow graves.
Michael had spent a very informative evening with Chip Malarkey. He would not have thought it possible, but Chip had demonstrated that measureable religiousness was a possibility, a not-quite-perfected science.
Michael had downloaded the Consecr8 app to his phone, and signed up to the accompanying social media plug-in.
“Now, I’m not one for the Facebooking or Twitting,” said Chip, “but if you give the app permission, it will scan your feed – is ‘feed’ the right word? – and evaluate your posts for accreditation in the Goodness Archive.”
“And that will earn me Piety Points?” said Michael.
“That’s right, mate,” said Chip. “However, the Goodness Archive uses an algorithm to compare your Faith Score and Works Score and then calculate your overall Piety Points. You can’t be saved through faith alone, nor through good deeds. Doesn’t matter what you do if you don’t have faith. ‘None shall come to the Father except through me.’ That’s what Christ said.”
“And the weekly introspection questionnaires monitor my spiritual devotion.”
Chip held out his arms wide. “Do good.” He brought them in to his chest. “Be good.”
He opened a folder and removed a white and gold swipe card.
“We’ll register this to you and your account. You can use this to access all our events and redeem your points in the celebration zone.”
“Celebration zone?”
“It’s over here.”
Michael’s phone vibrated.
“Oh, I’ve just received a message.”
“It could be your registration with the website.”
Michael opened the message. Before he could whisk it out of sight, Chip had seen it too.
“What is that, Michael?”
“Um. It would appear to be
a message from a former neighbour of mine.”
“Is that a…?”
“Map,” said Michael firmly. “Yes. It’s a picture of a map.”
“But this stuff on it,” said Chip, beginning to trace his finger over the lines on the map and then recoiling as though catching himself doing something obscene. “Is that…?”
“It would appear to be genitalia, Chip,” said Michael, as casually as possible. “Someone has used GPS tracking software to draw an enormous penis and testicles on the streets of Sutton Coldfield. Oh, look, and they’ve shared it on the internet.”
Chip grabbed Michael’s hand to pull the phone closer.
“But that’s my road! My driveway! What were they doing on my driveway?”
“Pubes,” said Michael.
“Here!” said Ben, looking at his phone and pointing to a house on the left.
Nerys braked sharply and pulled up.
“Here?”
Ben showed her the tracker app on his phone.
Nerys looked up at the property.
“These are nice houses, Ben. What would Jeremy be doing here?”
“If we’re in time, maybe nothing.”
They got out, just as another car pulled up behind them.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” said Michael as he got out. “I was in the middle of something spiritually important.”
“But you’re here now,” said Nerys, “and you don’t know the half of it. Babies.”
“Babies?”
“Babies.”
The three of them walked up the path. Nerys knocked on the door.
“Sounds like there’s a bit of a party going on in there.”
A woman opened the door.
“Oh, more newbies?” she said. “And, er, a stuffed dog.”
“Yes, this is Twinkle. We were wondering if there was a man with a monkey here?” said Nerys, perfectly aware of how stupid it sounded.
“Friends of Jeremy’s,” said the woman. “Come in. We’re busy planning an outing.”
“Outing?”
The woman led them down the hallway to a back room where ten or more women were shouting and laughing as another woman took a marker pen to a large map that had been hastily pinned to a wall. The floor was a mass of clothing, through which various babies and toddlers crawled and flailed. Clovenhoof, stripped to the waist and wearing what looked to be a gingham skirt, stood on the table in the centre of the room in a pose that, to Ben’s eyes, looked like someone pretending to carry a heavy rock at waist height, but was probably nothing so innocent. He struggled to maintain the pose because of the brown capuchin monkey bouncing on his head.
