by Heide Goody
As the women hollered, the pen bearer tried to draw a representation of Jeremy on the map.
“Make it longer!” shouted one woman.
“Take it down towards Castle Bromwich!” shouted another.
“No! Now it looks like he’s treading grapes!”
Drinks were pressed into the hands of the three gobsmacked visitors.
“This is obscene,” whispered Michael.
A woman sidled up to him.
“Puts me in mind of the Rude Man of Cerne,” she said. “We’re all going to walk it out next weekend. Mums and babies.”
Ben nodded.
“Well, ancient man did love his, er, phallic earthworks. It’s no different really.”
“But look where he’s putting it!” said Michael.
“What?”
“The, er, tip. It’s going right into Beechmount Drive!”
Ben peered.
“Oh, that new Consecr8 place.” He chuckled. “That’s quite funny. At least he’s not sticking it in the front doors of your church, eh, Michael?”
Chapter 4 – In which social services intervene, Nerys finds little solace in religion, and alcohol proves to be the answer to everything
Clovenhoof hummed to himself as he bustled around the kitchen. It was Wiggly Fingers Baby Signing class at the Consecr8 church that afternoon, and he had a lot to do. Gorky sat on top of the cooker, peeling an orange. Clovenhoof felt the soggy pieces hit the back of his head as Gorky screeched at him to get a move on.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But she’ll be awake a lot sooner if you keep making that racket. Now, help me out and get some things together for when we go out.”
Gorky shrugged and leapt down from the cooker. He grabbed a carrier bag, put ten oranges into it, and added some nappies and baby wipes on top. He cocked his head to one side in contemplation, and then added another three oranges as an afterthought.
Clovenhoof nodded in appreciation.
“Sorted. Nice work!”
There was a knock at the flat door. Gorky yelled, back-flipped onto the counter, and grabbed a whisk and colander as a makeshift sword and shield.
“It’s not going to be the postman again,” said Clovenhoof. “But you stay in here and keep out of harm’s way.”
Clovenhoof opened the door to find on his landing the moustachioed Police Constable Pearson and a woman in a dress with flowers so bright that they hurt Clovenhoof’s eyes. A hearty wail pierced the air.
“Look what you’ve done,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “PC Pearson. My favourite party-pooper.”
“Not seen you in a while, Mr Clovenhoof,” said the constable. “Have you been keeping out of trouble?”
“Not really,” Clovenhoof replied honestly. “You know, every time I get arrested by someone else, I feel like I’m cheating on you.”
“This is Diana Dickinson from our family liaison unit. We’ve come to take charge of the infant you have on the premises.”
“Infant?” said Clovenhoof.
“Baby Beatrice,” said PC Pearson.
“Never heard of him,” said Clovenhoof.
“I wonder if we might come inside?” said Diana with a wide smile. Clovenhoof saw movement behind her as she stepped forward, and he realised that Nerys was standing on the stairs. She looked away and then turned and left as Clovenhoof closed the door.
“Right, I think we can soon clear this up,” said Clovenhoof, as they entered the lounge. “There’s no baby here.”
“I can hear a baby crying,” said Diana.
“It’s a recording,” said Clovenhoof, eyeing the progress that Gorky was making as he swung across the picture rail behind the heads of his two visitors. “From the BBC sound effects CD. Do you want me to turn it off?”
He picked up the remote control for his television as Gorky left the room, counted to five and pointed it meaningfully at the waste paper bin. The crying stopped, as he knew it would when Gorky picked up Beelzebelle.
“Neat, huh?” he said, indicating the waste paper basket. “State of the art media centre, that.”
“Jeremy,” said Diana. “May I call you Jeremy?”
“You can call me Dr Wonder-Nuts if you like.”
“Why?”
“Always fancied being a doctor.”
“Jeremy, we know you have the baby here. Concerned neighbours have given us all of the details.”
“You mean Nerys.”
“Concerned neighbours. Please can we see Beatrice now? We all just have the child’s best interests at heart.”
Clovenhoof pouted and stomped out to the kitchen.
“One moment, I’ll be right back.”
He glanced around for inspiration. He moved quickly and returned to the lounge, holding a bundle to his shoulder.
“There, there, Beelzebelle,” he crooned. “You’re going to be fine. We’ll tell them all the things you like. Make sure they let you keep your cool new name.”
He handed over the bundle with exaggerated care to Diana. She gave him a look as she weighed the bundle in her arms and pulled back the cloth.
“Jeremy, this is a bag of oranges wrapped in a tea towel. Please bring us the real baby.”
Clovenhoof nodded, stalling for more time.
“Shall we share an orange in the meantime? They’re navels. My, er, friend says they’re the best. I can get you a Lambrini to go with it, if you like?”
“Perhaps I’d better take a look around,” said PC Pearson.
“No, no, you stay there,” said Clovenhoof, leaping. “I’ll go and sort her out now.”
He hurried through to the bedroom to see how Gorky was getting on. Beelzebelle was dressed and changed, and Gorky was fastening her into the baby sling as she gurgled happily.
“Over here,” hissed Clovenhoof, opening the sash window. “You’ll need to go down the drainpipe with her.”
Gorky chattered with excitement and headed over to the window, threading his lanky arm through the sling as he went.
“I don’t think so,” said PC Pearson, striding across the room and sliding the sash down onto four sets of fingers. Gorky and Clovenhoof gave a yowl of pain. PC Pearson unfastened the sling and carefully lifted the baby into his arms. Beelzebelle giggled.
Clovenhoof scowled as he eased the sash off his fingers, and the capuchin screeched in fury. Diana stepped through the doorway and deftly removed the baby from PC Pearson, just as the angry Gorky leapt onto his shoulders and began to pull on his moustache.
Clovenhoof watched in interest, wondering what the policeman would look like with a bald upper lip, but noticed that his hand was reaching round for something in his belt.
“Ah, Gorky, you might want to watch out for – oh!”
The taser shot out and Gorky fell to the floor, twitching.
“Never make things easy, do you, Mr Clovenhoof?” said PC Pearson.
The next few minutes were a blur. Clovenhoof was vaguely aware of the muted conversation between the two police officers about the correct protocol regarding animal accomplices and their arrest. Diana scooped Gorky up and laid him out on a pillow. PC Pearson got out his handcuffs.
“Are those necessary?” said Clovenhoof.
“Yes,” said PC Pearson.
“Probably so,” said Clovenhoof. “I was still considering grabbing the baby and making a dash for the Mexican border.”
“Well, that might be tricky, given that Mexico is on the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Is it?” said Clovenhoof frowning. “What’s that one with all the pasties and in-bred fisherman?”
“Cornwall?” said Diana.
“Ah,” said Clovenhoof. “Explains a lot.” He held out his hands to PC Pearson. “Cuff me, big boy. Cuff me good.”
“Yes, do come in,” Ben said, glancing up as Nerys stomped into his flat. She went straight to the window that overlooked the front.
“Look, they’re taking him away. He’s got handcuffs on.”
Ben could see the reflect
ion of the blue flashing light on the ceiling.
“It’s not the first time, Nerys,” said Ben. “They’ve probably got a cell with his name on it. He’ll be fine.”
“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” she asked. “I mean, we couldn’t just leave the baby there with him. What are you doing?”
Ben removed the jeweller’s magnifying glass from his eye and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Knitting miniature chain mail,” he said. “It’s very delicate work. This is forty-four gauge wire, almost as thin as a human hair. I have to knit it using cocktail sticks.”
Nerys peered at his notes, and the scattered diagrams on the table.
“You’re making a chain mail tabard for a rabbit?” she asked.
“You’ll barely see it underneath his armour, but you know I’m all about the detail.”
“Oh, like this?” asked Nerys, indicating a squirrel dressed in full armour and thrusting a lance aggressively forwards.
“Yes, a bit like that,” said Ben, “but I think a rabbit would want heavier weaponry than a squirrel. I’m thinking maybe a halberd, a maul, or a mace.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Nerys with a shake of her head. “Does it make you happy, all of this?”
Ben turned in surprise.
“I suppose it does, yes.”
“You’re lucky.”
Ben was not one for reading emotional and social subtext; he was a man, and one of many men for whom social interactions and emotions, especially of those pertaining to women, were utterly beneath his radar. However, by pure fluke, his subconscious mind latched onto some critical nuance.
“You’re still missing Twinkle?” he said.
“So much,” said Nerys, plonking herself into the chair across the table from him.
Ben searched for something to say. His repertoire of consoling noises was limited in scope and mostly consisted of agreeing that no, the film wasn’t as good as the book. Luckily for Ben, Nerys continued to speak as if he weren’t really there.
“I’m even going to that new church of Michael’s tonight.”
“That’s that ‘Prayers 4U’ place?”
“Consecr8.”
“That’s the one.”
“Michael tells me it’s given him so much more energy and focus. Maybe it can work for me as well.”
“You’re hardly of a religious bent, Nerys.”
“I just need something meaningful to fill the void.”
Ben’s gaze travelled across the table in front of him, and inspiration suddenly struck.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “How about I teach you how to knit?”
Ben contemplated Nerys’s reaction for some time afterwards, as he cleared up the cocktail stick splinters from his carpet. It wasn’t so much the swearing that bothered him (most of it had been in Welsh), nor was it the violence (he had plenty more cocktail sticks), but he had the sense, not for the first time, that he understood Clovenhoof more readily than he did Nerys.
The foyer of the Lichfield Road police station was harshly lit and furnished with hard plastic chairs in an unappealing shade of orange, so Michael had arrived prepared with a cushion and a sleep mask. He settled himself down for the inevitable wait, and concentrated only on the voices that could be heard from down the corridor. He knew that the two female voices belonged to the baby’s mother and grandmother, after their loud entrance, moments earlier. The male voice belonged to the pleasantly unflappable PC Pearson.
“Where’s my Bea? You can’t keep her from me. I’m her mother. Her mother!”
“And, believe it or not, I’m the grandmother. I know, right? We get taken for sisters all the time.”
“Shut up, mum.”
“Ladies, can I please straighten a few facts out so that we can get through the paperwork? Now, Ms Wilson, I gather that you left the baby in the care of Mr Clovenhoof before you left the country for your holiday. Is that correct?”
“No! I sent her round to my mum’s with my Spartacus.”
“He’s your son.”
“Yes.”
“That would be the Spartacus Wilson who put an actual man on the top of Sutton Coldfield Lions’ bonfire last year?”
“That was a case of mistaken identity.”
“He had the wrong guy, officer.”
“Very good, droll even. So, the baby was left with Mr Clovenhoof, and you, Mrs Wilson …”
“Call me Stella.”
“… Mrs Stella Wilson, you later spoke with Mr Clovenhoof yourself and assured him that you were happy to leave Beatrice with him. Correct?”
“I didn’t even know he had my granddaughter.”
“And yet your grandson told you by phone, and, indeed, instructed you specifically to go to Buford’s to collect her.”
“I thought he was trying to sell me a funeral plan!”
“Mum! How could you be so stupid?”
“It wasn’t my fault! He kept talking about my fish dying!”
“You’ve got him bang to rights though, yes? He’s a kidnapper! He took her from me, and that’s against the law!”
“I’m afraid to tell you, Miss Wilson, that the events you’ve described to me would appear to corroborate his story entirely. If there is a criminal case to be answered, it could very well be one of parental neglect.”
Michael covered up his ears at the cacophony of distressed bellowing that followed PC Pearson’s remark. It sounded like a flock of seagulls trapped in a phone booth.
A short while later, he could still hear shouting, but footsteps approached.
“Why you wearing that? You look like a twat.”
“Hello, Spartacus,” said Michael, lifting his sleep mask. “How’s your family getting on in there?”
“My gran’s faking a migraine and my mum wants her arrested. It’s cool.”
Michael didn’t know what to say to that, so he nodded cautiously.
“Why aren’t you Akela at cubs anymore?” Spartacus asked. “Darren gets out of puff just walking up the steps. He’ll never be able to control us.”
“Darren will do a marvellous job, I’m sure,” said Michael, although, privately, he agreed with Spartacus on this point. “I have found that my faith has taken me somewhere different. I’m attending a new church now, so I’m passing on my duties at St Michael’s.”
“A new church? New one, old one, they all talk the same molten cack.”
“You might be surprised.” Michael pulled out his membership booklet. “Look. There’s an RFID tag in the cover, so I get loyalty points added to my account every time I attend and swipe on the touch point.”
“What? Like Nectar Points?”
“Take a look at the stamps I’ve collected for extra services.”
Spartacus flicked through the pages.
“One of my mum’s boyfriends had all these stamps in his passport. He was a drug mule or something. It was sort of neat, though, like this.”
“You think that’s neat?” said Michael. “What about this?”
He pulled out his copy of Bible Action Stories, a glossy creation full of cartoon strips in eye-popping colours. An excited member of the Consecr8 congregation had told Michael that it featured an artist who had worked on DC comics. Some of the pictures of women bordered on inappropriate in Michael’s eyes – he knew, for one, that the real Esther had never been so… pneumatic, and Eve’s fig leaves could probably have been a little more substantial.
Spartacus was mesmerised.
“I can keep this, yeah?” he said, as the voices of his family grew nearer.
“Of course. You can get the rest of the set if you get the right badges.”
“I’ve got to go to church to get these badges?”
“Yes.”
“To church?”
“Yes.”
“To earn badges?”
“That’s right.”
The boy gave it some thought.
“S’pose I could do that,” he shrugged.
“There
’s a renewal service this afternoon,” said Michael. “Make sure that you tell them I recruited you. If you do go, I get points for that.”
“Come here, Sparts. It’s your sister!”
Spartacus and Michael both looked up to see Spartacus’s mother pushing the baby buggy. His grandmother held a damp towel to her head, and leaned theatrically on PC Pearson’s arm.
“Look at her little face, she’s so excited to see us all. My precious angel! You want to push for me so I can take this call? Yeah, I’m going to cancel the Daily Mail interview. It’s not appropriate for someone in my situation, apparently. Terrible pity when I’ve still got this lovely tan.”
Spartacus shrugged, and took the buggy by the handle. Michael peered inside and saw that the baby was fast asleep.
It was another ninety minutes before Clovenhoof emerged into the lobby and announced to the world that he was free to go.
“Suppose you’ve come to have a good old laugh?” he asked Michael, as he followed him out. He rearranged his jumper as he walked, causing a small cascade of pens, paper clips, and rubbers to fall out from beneath. “You might not have any sympathy for me, but those police brutalised my monkey and took my baby! They’ll be sorry though. Want a pen?”
“I would never laugh at you. I’ve come as part of my Christian duty, to support you as a friend,” said Michael, a little too loudly.
“Why are you shouting? And what are you doing with your phone? Are you recording this?” Clovenhoof grabbed Michael’s phone and stared at the screen. “What’s this? ‘Uploading to the Goodness Archive’. What on earth are you doing, you arse?”
“Now, Jeremy, I’m just taking my duties seriously, like all true professionals.”
“Michael, you’re a sodding archangel! What are you trying to prove?” Clovenhoof wheeled his arms around to indicate the huge absurdity of the situation. “Seriously, who on earth could you possibly be trying to impress?”
