by Heide Goody
Chip Malarkey growled. He actually growled, deep in his throat, like a cornered dog.
“My church, my rules!” he shouted. “I will not tolerate this licentious behaviour. If you want to cavort naked like witches, then you will do it elsewhere. I insist that you leave immediately.”
As Sandra glanced around at the rest of the group in dismay. Clovenhoof approached the stocky, red-faced man. He knew he could talk him round.
“Listen, Chipster, we’re talking about tits, yeah? Bazookas, puppies, melons, whatever. Why would you want to cover them up? They have all these neat little tricks. Have you ever noticed how nipples stick upwards, whatever position they’re in? Mind you, I haven’t yet found a woman who’ll stand on her head so I can test that properly. These ladies here can even make milk come out of them! Bags of fun to be had with boobs, my friend. I bet Sandra would let you …”
“Stop this utter filth! Let me hear no more of it. This man is proof that the degrading spectacle of naked women leads only to corruption. Get out, now!”
Some of the Not-Sandras were already gathering toys into boxes and strapping babies into buggies, eyes downcast.
Sandra touched Clovenhoof’s sleeve. “Come on, Jeremy. I know you mean well, but I think we need to go.”
Clovenhoof’s eyes moved up to the ceiling where Gorky swung from a light fitting, eyes blazing with malevolence. It would be enormously satisfying to see him launch a surprise attack on the pompous stranger, but Sandra was ushering everyone out of the hall.
“Come on, Gorky,” he sighed. “Save it for later.”
In church, the white jacketed DJ had done an expert job of warming up the congregation and, as a square-shouldered fellow in a button-down collar approached the perspex lectern that stood in for a church pulpit, the DJ turned down the music to a low, pulsing bass.
“Welcome, everyone!” he said into the microphone. “Welcome!” There was a whoop from the crowd. “You all know me. You know Chip. I’m no preacher. Don’t worry – I’ll be handing over to the very, very Reverend Mario Felipe Gonzalez in a moment. I’m no preacher. I’m a listener and a follower. When God told me to build this church on this site, I listened and I followed.” There were further whoops and hollers. “When God told me to reach out to the good people of Sutton Coldfield, I listened and I followed. I’m no preacher, but that doesn’t mean I can’t testify.”
“Testify!” shouted a voice from the congregation.
“I shall,” said the man, Chip. “I must testify to a shocking experience that I have just had. In this very building!”
As the man’s passion rose, Nerys thought there was something very familiar in his bearing, in the set to his red face.
“Wanton cavorting!” he said fiercely. “Wanton naked cavorting!”
There were gasps in the congregation.
“That’s right!” said Chip. “Shameless nudity. It is as was foretold. ‘The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time.’”
“Wait. I know where I’ve seen him before,” hissed Nerys.
“We must be ever-vigilant,” said Chip, “as evil stalks the streets of Sutton and attempts to corrupt this precious house of God. When the day comes – and you know the day I’m talking about – only those who are blameless will be saved and those who …”
“Hey!” shouted Nerys, suddenly on her feet. “Aren’t you the tosser that ran over my dog?”
Chip fell silent. He blinked rapidly.
“Dog?”
“What a fucking twat!” Nerys yelled. “Yeah! My dog? What gives you the right to stand up there all smug and righteous? You animal murdering shithead!”
“Nerys…” Michael started, but Nerys pushed past him and headed for the exit. The last thing that she heard was the odious tit in the pulpit talking about further signs of pervasive wickedness.
Ben poured himself a cider. He deserved a cider.
The chain mail vest, painstakingly knitted, was complete. It hung on a wooden stand in the lounge, ready to be fitted, and, every time he looked at it, tears pricked the corners of his eyes. It was so bloody beautiful. Ben definitely deserved a cider.
He shook the last drops from the can and raised the glass to his lips. There was a thunderous hammering at his door. Ben, startled, sloshed cider on his socks and got none of it in his mouth.
He opened the door.
A very unhappy monkey sat on Clovenhoof’s shoulder.
“I’m going to get absolutely fucking wankered on homebrew Lambrini,” said Clovenhoof earnestly. “And I don’t drink alone, so you’re coming too.”
“You drink alone all the time,” said Ben.
“Yeah, well, misery loves company, and I’m bloody miserable.”
“What have you got to be miserable about? The police let you go, didn’t they?”
Clovenhoof gripped Ben’s shoulder hard, spilling more cider.
“They took my baby, Ben. They took our baby.”
Gorky the monkey squawked ardently in agreement.
“So grab your fizzy apple puke and get over to my flat.”
Ben sighed.
“I need to change my socks first.”
Clovenhoof looked down.
“That’s why I don’t wear socks. That way, the piss slides straight off.”
Nonetheless, Ben did change his socks, and grabbed half a dozen cans of cider. As he crossed the landing, he found Nerys sitting on the stairs leading up to her second-floor flat. She had stuffed Twinkle on her lap and stroked him with every morose sniffle.
“You all right, Nerys?” said Ben.
“What do you think?” she snapped.
“Do you perhaps want to join Jeremy and me for some drinks?”
“God, yes!” she said, grabbed a can from him, opened it, and downed it.
Ben led the way into flat 2a. Clovenhoof had a fat demijohn in his hand.
“It’s Ben,” he declared. “And he’s brought booze, broads, and a dead dog.”
“Don’t talk to me,” Nerys snarled around another mouthful of cider. “I’m in the foulest of moods.”
Ben pulled a face to Clovenhoof, a sort of man-to-man “Women, eh? Who knows?”
Clovenhoof pulled one back, a sort of Satan-to-human “People, eh? You’re all stupid arses.”
“Well, is no one going to ask what’s wrong?” demanded Nerys.
“You said we shouldn’t talk to you…” said Ben.
“And I doubt your mood is fouler than mine,” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, really?” said Nerys.
“I’ve lost my baby,” said Clovenhoof, “but then I think you know that.”
“Ah. Um. Yes. Yes, of course.”
Michael entered the flat, slightly out of breath.
“Nerys. I came as soon as I could,” he said.
“Really? Oh, Michael, it was nice of you to worry about how I’m feeling.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course I’m worried about that, yes.” He coughed lightly. “Actually, I need to get the hymn book back off you. If it doesn’t go back to the church, I’ll lose even more points.”
Nerys stopped and sighed. Nerys made throttled noises under her breath for a few moments, and then pointed a finger directly into Michael’s face.
“I just met the dickwad who killed Twinkle. Turns out he’s the leader of your precious church.”
Michael winced.
“And your response is to worry about your Jesus points or whatever they’re called?” she said, and then sighed. “But I’m prepared to overlook the crassness of your behaviour, because I know you think you’re doing the right thing.”
“That’s very charitable of you,” said Michael. “Now, about that hymn book…”
“There is one condition to my forgiveness, though,” she said. “You have to stay here and get shitfaced with us, because it’s that kind of an evening. And, no, you’re not having the hymn boo
k. I will be having a ceremonial burning of it.”
Michael’s face fell, and Clovenhoof slapped him on the back.
“That’s the spirit. Now, we’ve all got reason to drown our sorrows!”
“Actually, I feel quite chipper,” said Ben. “Sorry.”
Clovenhoof gave him a viciously clean punch in the side of the head, sending him to his knees.
“Ow!”
“Now we’ve all got reason to drown our sorrows,” said Clovenhoof. “And I’ve got just the thing for that.”
Clovenhoof held the demijohn up to the light and admired its murky heart. He opened it. The airlock gave a sinister burp, and the room was filled with a pungent aroma. It was somewhere between a stagnant pond and the forgotten gorgonzola in the back of the fridge. It pleased Clovenhoof immensely. The sediment in the bottom drifted up like ghostly fingers.
He put it in the centre of the living-room table.
“Looks fantastic, doesn’t it?” he said to the others. The others regarded it with well-founded suspicion.
“I’m already on the cider,” said Ben, raising his now entirely empty glass from which he’d not yet drunk a drop.
“And, um, I promised to mix up some dry martinis for Michael and me,” said Nerys. “He got me the glasses and everything for Christmas, if you remember.”
“I will go and get them,” said Michael quickly, almost tripping in his haste to get away from Clovenhoof’s concoction.
Within ten minutes, Nerys and Michael had reclined side by side on Clovenhoof’s sofa.
“Look, we’ve even got olives on little sticks,” said Michael.
Nerys lifted the glass to admire her handiwork.
“If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”
Clovenhoof shrugged, grabbed a handful of olives from the jar and popped them into the top of the demijohn. Then he went to the kitchen, rootled for a moment through a drawer before returning with a straw. He put it into the top and took a long draw on his homebrew. It didn’t taste very much like Lambrini, but then he expected it would have characteristics all of its own, like any artisan brew. It was undoubtedly alcoholic, he could tell that much from the caustic burning sensation. There were interesting botanical flavours competing with the yeasty effervescence. He belched loudly and took another huge slurp through the straw.
“Now that,” he said, “is a work of genius.”
He heard a clattering from the kitchen and turned to see what Gorky was doing. He had the bottles and milk formula out on the counter. He expertly filled the bottles to the correct level and added the milk powder. He then popped on the lids and started to shake the mixture. He came back into the room, shaking the bottle with an exaggerated swing.
Nerys had Twinkle at her side, and petted his inanimate head absently.
“Jeremy,” said Nerys. “Is your monkey mixing cocktails?”
Sure enough, Gorky continued the shaking routine with nifty passes behind his back and flipped the bottle into the air, spinning before he caught it again. They all clapped, and watched as Gorky prepared four bottles of formula. He then shared them out and motioned with the udder-squeezing signal that they should drink up.
“That’s hilarious,” said Nerys, toasting Gorky with her martini, “but I’m not drinking it.”
Gorky glowered and pressed the bottle into her hand. Nerys glanced around at the others, then sighed and put the teat in her mouth. Nerys gagged and spat out the milk.
Gorky whisked Twinkle away from the spray of formula milk, and gave Nerys a chittering earful of monkey scolding. It was only when all the humans had mimed appreciative sucking noises on their formula bottles that Gorky looked away and they were able to hide them.
Gorky slapped at the milky droplets on Twinkle’s fur, wrapping his scrawny arm around the dog’s neck to apparently hold him still while he tried to brush it off. Ben watched, and Clovenhoof could see a thought formulating in his mind. It was sure to be profound or thought-provoking.
“Makes you wonder…” said Ben.
“How human-like some animals are?” suggested Nerys.
“I’m not drunk enough for your blasphemies yet,” said Michael.
“Whether we should open a dog-grooming parlour staffed only by monkeys?” suggested Clovenhoof.
“No,” said Ben with the tipsy irritation of someone who might have their train of thought derailed at any moment. “I was wondering… if there was a fight between a Yorkshire terrier and a capuchin monkey, who do you think would win?”
Clovenhoof was intrigued.
“Good question. I mean the capuchin’s definitely got the dexterity…”
“But the Yorkie’s got a much lower centre of gravity,” countered Ben.
“And sharper teeth and stronger jaws,” added Michael.
“But the dog’s a one-trick pony,” said Clovenhoof. “Bite and shake, bite and shake. The monkey… he’s a master of a myriad fighting styles. I’ve even taught him a little of my own Hoofjitsu.”
“Hang on,” said Ben, opening a fresh can of cider, “is this about a monkey versus a Yorkshire terrier, or Gorky versus Twinkle?”
“Mmmm,” agreed Clovenhoof, waggling his half-empty demijohn at Ben. “Point. Cos Twinkle doesn’t know his arse from its elbow. Didn’t. Didn’t know. That would be a seriously unfair fight.”
“It would be a darn unscrupulous promoter who would even let Twinkle in the ring with Gorky,” said Ben.
“True. I have seen that dog lose a fight with its own tail,” said Michael.
“Hey, don’t talk about Twinkle like that!” whined Nerys and, with an emotional sniff, she got up to prepare another round of martinis.
“You taught your monkey martial arts?” said Ben to Clovenhoof.
“Well, he already knew monkey-style kung fu. I’ve got my own moves.” Clovenhoof threw some drunken karate chops in the air. “We workshopped some other stuff. S’clever monkey. Hear that?”
Ben and Michael listened.
“That splashing sound,” said Clovenhoof. “He’s bathing the baby. A more devoted nanny, you could never find.”
“What baby?” said Michael.
Clovenhoof frowned in difficult concentration.
“No, wait. We haven’t got a baby any more. Oh, I’d forgotten to be miserable for a few minutes. Oh, Beelzebelle. I do miss her.”
He slumped back in his chair and stared forlornly at the carpet.
A howl went up and all heads turned to the doorway. Nerys walked in, carrying a sodden, deformed Twinkle.
“Your stupid monkey was bathing Twinkle! Look at him, he’s ruined!”
Gorky swung in behind Nerys and dropped a towel on her head.
“Oh dear, Nerys. I’m sure it can’t be as bad as it looks,” said Michael, picking up the towel and dabbing the wretched animal, while Nerys batted ineffectually at Gorky. “We’ll just get him dried off a bit, oh …” Michael looked at the tail that he’d just pulled off and promptly hid it down the edge of the seat cushion. “Can I get you another drink, Nerys?”
Twinkle stood drying on Clovenhoof’s lounge table. Clovenhoof had popped an olive in his slightly open jaw. Nerys had lined up the cocktail sticks from her successive martinis on the table edge as a little wooden tally. Unfortunately, she couldn’t quite focus enough to count them.
“Do you think…?” she said and hiccupped.
“Rarely,” said Clovenhoof, swishing his straw in the sludgy depths of his homebrew Lambrini.
She wafted her hand at him to shut him up.
“Do you think Twinkle’s in Heaven and looking down on us?” she said.
“Yes,” said Ben.
“I’m afraid you know that’s quite impossible,” said Michael.
“I don’t care what you think, Michael,” said Nerys.
“Animals don’t go to Heaven,” he insisted.
“That’s what Heaven’s there for!” said Nerys, turning sharply. “If you lead a good life, you can go there and live in God’s ho
use for evermore! You told me that!”
“Humans, yes, but not animals,” said Michael. “No soul. No special relationship with God.”
“How about a squirrel and a guinea pig?” said Ben.
“No, none of them go to Heaven.”
“No,” drawled Ben drunkenly. “Who’d win in a fight?”
“Can one of them have a knife?” asked Clovenhoof. “I’d back the one with a knife.”
“That’s ridiculous, Jeremy,” said Michael. “You might as well arm them with helicopters and ballistic missiles.”
“I would,” said Clovenhoof emphatically. “I would arm the squirrels and the guinea pigs and reap the profits while they destroy each other in their petty rodent war.”
“No, you’re both wrong,” said Ben, “because hardly any animals could operate things like that. Now, if we were talking about using tools and weapons, it’s well known that crows and monkeys have been seen using tools in the wild.”
“So, what weapons of war could a crow use then?” asked Michael. “They can use a stone to smash a snail’s shell, but you couldn’t give it a sword.”
“Have you tried?” said Clovenhoof.
“Maybe you could adapt a crossbow so that a crow could pull the trigger,” said Ben.
“But a crow could never load a crossbow.”
“Maybe that woozle could help it,” said Nerys, and then frowned. “Wazzle. Woozler. One of them things,” she said, pointing.
Gorky had come into the room, carrying an armful of stuffed creatures.
“Hey, he’s been in my flat!” said Ben. “That weasel’s only just finished.”
“Gorky’s only trying to help,” said Clovenhoof.
The monkey tossed a misshapen and patchy-furred thing into Nerys’s lap.
“See, he thinks maybe a new friend will make you feel better, Nerys. He doesn’t know how special Twinkle was to you.”
Nerys peered blearily at the possibly-badger-possibly-wombat thing in her lap.
“Twinkle,” she sniffed. “He was the best.”
“He was,” agreed Ben.
“And he could have defeated all of you!” she declared, throwing an accusing finger out at all the stuffed creatures.
