by Heide Goody
“It’s a harmless bit of gamification,” said Michael huffily.
“Gay what?”
“I think it’s quite clever, especially if it encourages best practice. Anyway, your monkey is in the car.”
“You let him in your car? Oh dear. Has he been in there long?” asked Clovenhoof. He could see him now, as they approached, hanging from the sun visor and jigging anxiously.
“Yes, why?”
“No reason,” said Clovenhoof, giving a tentative sniff as he opened the door.
Gorky launched himself forward and grasped a handful of Clovenhoof’s hair in a gesture that ensured he was paying attention. He urgently mimed the cradle manoeuvre, peering into Clovenhoof’s face to underline the query.
“Aw Gorky, she’s gone,” said Clovenhoof, kicking the side of Michael’s car.
Gorky squeaked.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” said Clovenhoof.
Clovenhoof’s shoulders tried to slump, but they didn’t get very far. His head was snapped up as Gorky yanked at his hair.
“We had to give her back, mate,” said Clovenhoof.
“I need to get back to the office. Can I drop you off on the way?” asked Michael, shouting to be heard above the keening sound that Gorky was now making.
Clovenhoof wanted to jump and screech like Gorky, but, somehow, he just didn’t have the energy.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” he said and climbed into the back of the car with his suddenly unemployed au pair monkey on his lap. “Nothing else on. We were gonna have such a fun time this evening. I got fireworks and sausages so we could go to the park.”
“Jeremy, what were you even doing with a baby? Can you just imagine what people would think if they knew who you really were?”
“As with most things, Michael, it was a situation that was thrust upon me. One moment I’m footloose and fancy free, the next I’m father to a baby. I didn’t ask for it, but I tried to make the best of it. Surely you can appreciate that? In fact,” he growled, “why don’t you upload it to your Goodness Archive, and swivel on it?”
“Surely you can do those fun things anyway?” said Michael, pulling away from the kerb. “You’re footloose and fancy free again.”
“It just won’t be the same without Beelzebelle,” said Clovenhoof. “Our day was structured around her. She’ll be wanting her nappy changed about now, won’t she, Gorky? I’m going to miss that smell of bubbling sulphur.”
Michael pulled a face.
“Beelzebelle? I take it that wasn’t her given name? Well, perhaps it’s time for you to find solace in good honest labour again. Or maybe for the first time, I don’t know. I can drop you off at Bufords now if you like.”
“I work with dead people! What’s the point in dead people? They’re going nowhere. Beelzebelle was doing something new and different every single day. Only yesterday she said ‘gah’ to me, clear as a bell. ‘Gah!’ You heard her, didn’t you, Gorky?”
Gorky increased the volume of keening in response, and rattled the door handle in agitation.
“Well, if you don’t want to go to work, shall I just take you home?”
“No. No, stop here,” said Clovenhoof.
Michael pulled the car over and looked out. The only building of note within sight was the Consecr8 church.
“Here?” he said.
“Here,” said Clovenhoof and took Gorky’s hand.
“Can you smell something?” said Michael, as Clovenhoof opened the door.
“I think it’s your air freshener,” said Clovenhoof quickly, with a sideways glance at Gorky, and then slammed the door.
“You’re welcome,” said Michael.
Michael passed the Consecr8 church and pulled up outside the ARC offices that occupied the scrubby wasteland between the Consecr8 church and the not-yet-finished Rainbow housing estate. It was a messy hinterland that was the subject of heated opinions in the letters page of the local paper, but, to Michael, it was the centre for much fascinating research.
His mood brightened at the prospect of a couple of hours of careful cataloguing. Oh, he knew that it would seem mind-numbingly dull to most people, but nothing was more pleasing than bringing order to chaos, and, in the pristine environment of the lab, he could impose a sense of calm. The lab was like his own private universe and he (he thought with a thrill of mild blasphemy) was like the Almighty creator. The difference between Michael’s universe and the Almighty’s was that Michael was wise enough to keep all the little lifeforms under tight control. There would be no serpent in this particular Eden. The DNA samples in the tubes and dishes here would not be escaping and smearing their filthy ways across all creation, as humans had done in the wider world. Michael’s little universe was perfect and pristine, and he was a kind and just God with a ready supply of disinfectant.
In the laboratory, he removed the latest batch of samples from the deep freeze. They had arrived in little freezer bags, decorated with penguins and snowflakes. Michael frowned at the frivolous packaging in his immaculate, scientific workplace.
“Little A,” he said aloud.
“Yes, Michael.”
“Make a diary entry for me. I want to suggest to supplier number 255 that he should reconsider his packaging choices. Prepare a catalogue cross-reference of lab suppliers’ specimen holders for me to attach.”
“Yes, Michael.”
Michael put on a fresh lab coat and added disposable sleeves and gloves before he headed into the sterile room of the lab. It was essential that the samples he prepared were untainted. He worked slowly and methodically, according to his exacting protocol. It was soothing to prepare and label test tubes, working on a single sample at a time. He had already prepared a stock of the reagent solution, so he added this to his ground-up samples with a pipette, and then used the vortex machine to mix it all up. He prepared all of his samples, and then popped them into the freezer for analysis the next day.
“And he looked upon His work and saw that it was good,” said Michael.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” said Little A.
“Nothing,” said Michael.
Clovenhoof and Gorky arrived at the Wiggly Fingers Baby Signing class ten minutes late, and there was already a raucous din coming from the Consecr8 church hall. For something that was billed as a lesson in unspoken communication, there was a surprising amount of bellowing and braying.
Nobody was making more noise than Sandra, who spotted Clovenhoof as he entered.
“Jeremy, welcome!”
Clovenhoof, who had been dealing with a lot of unwanted and novel emotions in the last few hours, surprised himself as well as Sandra by throwing his arms around her and burying his face in the cradle of her neck.
“Oh,” said Sandra. “This is intimate, isn’t it? Is everything all right, Jeremy?”
Clovenhoof disengaged, teary-eyed and shaking his head.
“Is everything all right with…?” Sandra looked around. “Where’s Baby Belle?”
Clovenhoof threw himself backward into an empty chair and gazed around at the tiny forms sitting in a warzone of plastic toys. He inhaled deeply and took in the unique nasal assault that comprised biscuity dribble, untended nappies, and wet wipes.
“I’m going to miss this,” he sobbed.
Gorky gave a sympathetic moan, and started to root through the toy boxes, presumably checking whether Beelzebelle was hidden in any of them. He sagged in a morose monkey heap when he found nothing, and sat down on the carpet. He started to build a pile of bricks for a delighted pair of twin babies to knock over.
“What’s happened to Belle?” said Sandra.
“She’s been taken into care,” said Clovenhoof.
There was a collective sigh-cum-gasp-cum-mutter of outrage from the Not-Sandras.
“Ridiculous!”
“How does this happen?”
“Nanny state gone mad!”
“There’s nothing I can do,” said Clovenhoof.
“That’s appalli
ng,” said Sandra with quiet passion. “We’ve all seen you with Belle. You’re such a great dad.”
“I am, I am,” agreed Clovenhoof earnestly.
“They can’t just do that to punish you for having an alternative lifestyle.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said one of the Not-Sandras. “Fathers get a really poor deal.”
“We do, we do,” nodded Clovenhoof.
A lot of thought and design had gone into the Consecr8 church. The exterior was a cool blend of modern curves and hipster sensibilities, a spaceship built out of polished pine. But it was the interior that grabbed Nerys’s senses. The layout and style were oddly familiar, and it only took her a moment to work out why; Consecr8 might have been a church, but it had the heart and spirit of a nightclub. There were no funky lights, disco balls, or bars – of course there weren’t – but the décor, stylings, and mood of the place sent out the very clear message that this was the place where cool people came and, simply by coming here, one was instantly made cool. This was still a house of God but, boy, this was the one where God threw house parties.
And just like a nightclub, there were the bouncers: young men in identical charcoal-grey suits and with identically perfect teeth, like Mormon missionaries who had taken up free weights and a career sidestep into personal security. Michael swiped himself in at the door, but Nerys had to register with one of the bouncers/ushers. A young man took her details on a tablet computer and handed her a hymn book and a membership card. She tucked both into her bag, only half-listening to the murmurs behind her. Michael was checking that points had been allocated to his account for recruiting a new member.
Nerys gestured to the outward-sloping walls.
“Why’s it shaped like that?” she whispered to Michael as they walked towards the pews.
“I believe it’s to show that the church is embracing the Heavens,” said Michael. “Bit of a dust trap, if you ask me.”
“Tell me, Michael, why does God want us to go to church?”
“Sorry? Are you asking me why the Almighty wants us to believe in him?” asked Michael, his brow furrowed.
“No, no, not that. What I want to know is why it’s not enough to believe in him quietly, while we’re going about our lives? Why do we have to go to a special place and sing his praises?”
“Faith in the Almighty is not just about a relationship with God. Implicit in our faith is a fellowship with one another. If we are to love as the Almighty loves, then we must reach out to our fellow pilgrims.”
“And join together for a big ol’ love-in, eh?”
“Exactly. In this space, before God, we’re all equal and as one. Every man, woman, and child stands side by – no, we can’t sit there.”
Michael steered Nerys away from the plush pews at the front.
“That’s the celebration zone,” he explained. “People can only sit there if they have shown exceptional service.”
“Well, who’s that woman sitting there? Jesus’s mum?”
“That’s Tessa Bloom. Very active woman in the local community and an example to us all.”
Looks like she’s got a broom shoved up her arse. There’s no room anywhere else for us to sit.”
“We can squeeze in here.”
Nerys tutted.
“It’s a bit elitist, isn’t it? Better seats for teacher’s pet?”
“Oh, you shouldn’t worry,” said Michael. “It’s not elitist. I’m sure the people in the zone feel very humble and, of course, we’re happy for them, aren’t we?”
Nerys sidled into a cramped pew.
“I’d be a lot happier if I got me one of them luxury seats,” she muttered.
A high-energy dance beat filled the church. Nerys saw a white-jacketed man standing off to the side, pushing sliders and buttons on a synthesiser. He punched the air in time to the beat, and used his other arm to make a beckoning motion to the audience. He turned his attention to each section of the crowd, making eye contact and urging them on to follow his lead.
“God, it is like a nightclub,” said Nerys.
She was determined that she wasn’t going to join in, but, moments later, she realised that she was the only person in the church without her hands in the air. She’d come along looking for some sort of meaning to her life. If she’d wanted to dance badly to synthpop music, she could do that any night of the week. In fact, come chucking-out time at the Boldmere Oak, it was exactly what she was doing most nights of the week.
“When do they break out the alcohol?” she said snidely but, after a few minutes, she had to admit that this felt a bit different. This place, this crowd, this scene. It was energising, being part of a gathering all enjoying the same moment. It actually felt… good.
Maybe, she wondered, it had something to do with being sober.
Down in the Consecr8 church hall, the bassy reverberations from the church service barely cut through the final Wiggly Fingers song. Clovenhoof and a dozen mothers frantically signed various animals and a flurry of E-I-E-Os while their offspring joined in, ran around, screamed, and generally did what they damn well pleased.
While the mums gave a self-congratulatory round of applause, Clovenhoof saw Gorky was forming baby signs to twin babies. Clovenhoof regarded them thoughtfully. If this particular Not-Sandra had two babies already, she wouldn’t miss one of them, surely? He could take one of them back with him, maybe tuck it up his jumper, like he had the stuff from the police station. He absent-mindedly pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his waistband and jangled them over a nearby buggy, making the occupant giggle and reach out. He wondered if Gorky was also selecting a baby to steal, when Gorky rolled away from the pair and looked at Clovenhoof sorrowfully.
Clovenhoof understood that look clearer than words.
“Nah, it wouldn’t be the same, would it?” he said.
These babies weren’t quite right. They weren’t the right shape. They weren’t really squishy enough. He gave one of them an experimental prod. The infant squealed with delight, but Clovenhoof sighed. No, it just wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t Beelzebelle.
His train of thought was interrupted when Gorky leapt onto the chair next to him and thrust his hand down Sandra’s top, grasping fervently her breast.
“What in the blue blazes …?”
She stopped when she realised that Gorky’s other hand was pointing urgently to her baby, Jack or James or Jizbert or whatever it was called. Jack or James or Jizbert was signing the udder-squeezing hand signal that indicated she wanted milk.
“Well I never!” she exclaimed, firmly removing Gorky’s tiny hairy hand from her top. “You’ve got him well-trained, Jeremy. He’s really looking out for the little ones.”
Clovenhoof gave Gorky the thumbs-up as Sandra undid her bra and unleashed her fleshy milk-boob.
“Nice work, monkey,” said Clovenhoof.
“How could they take a child away from such a switched-on dad?” said one of the Not-Sandras.
“You’ve got visitation arranged though, yeah?” asked another of the Not-Sandras.
“No, nothing,” said Clovenhoof. “I just can’t see her anymore.”
“Seriously? That’s outrageous. You should see your MP!”
“Should I?” said Clovenhoof, not entirely sure why his massive penis was a factor in this discussion.
Nonetheless, Clovenhoof was impressed by the depth of feeling for his predicament. He realised that it was based on the entirely false premise that he was Belle’s father, but it was touching nevertheless.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
A man stood, frozen, in the doorway to the hall.
“It’s the Wiggly Fingers Baby Signing class,” said one of the Not-Sandras.
“Is there a problem, Mr Malarkey?” said Sandra. “I’ve have to say that we really like this space. Lots of natural light and the kitchen’s much better than the one …”
“You sit there flaunting your… your bosoms and ask if there’s a problem?” said t
he man.
Clovenhoof abruptly recognised the red face, the wet lips, and the furious brows that seemed to wrap around his bulging eyes. Clovenhoof had seen it all before, staring from the driver’s seat of a stretch transit van. It was the very important businessman, Chip Malarkey.
Sandra looked down. “Er, I’m just feeding the baby.”
“Why would you do that in a public place? Have you no shame?”
“Shame of what?”
“This lewd and sexual display,” said Chip.
“To be fair,” said Clovenhoof, “she’s only got one of her chesticles out and, if I’m honest, the other one is far more lewd and sexual.” He looked at Sandra. “Seriously, it’s a classic.” He then worried that the other mothers might think he was being biased. “I mean you’ve all got top notch norks, ladies. Ten out of ten for effort.”
Chip Malarkey’s head shook and spasmed as though he was trying to get a bad taste out of his mouth.
“This behaviour is unacceptable. Couldn’t you at least cover yourself with something, or go sit in a corner? Don’t you know how uncomfortable this makes people feel?”
“What people, Mr Malarkey?” asked Sandra, her cheeks now flaring an angry red.
“Normal people!” he snapped. “This building is devoted to the worship of God. I took your booking in good faith, assuming it would be wholesome and appropriate, but I can see that my trust was misplaced.”
“Mr Malarkey, this group is very wholesome, and I think that your views on breastfeeding are a little outdated.”
“Does not Paul say that ‘women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel with modesty and self-control’?” demanded Chip.
“I’ve no idea,” said Sandra.
“And does not the Bible say, ‘And you shall not go up by steps to my altar, that your nakedness be not exposed on it’?” demanded Chip.
“Does it?” said Sandra.
“Yeah,” said Clovenhoof, “but it also says cripples, dwarfs, and blind folk can’t worship at the altar either. The Good Book’s kinda goofy like that.”
