Clovenhoof 05 Beelzebelle

by Heide Goody

  The inspector ignored him and walked around the room. Ben was behind the sofa, doing the last of the holes, and the faint hissing of his aerosol could be heard, so Nerys coughed loudly.

  “Water stains up there,” said the inspector, pointing at the ceiling. “They look fresh, too.”

  “Ah, that was the bath I left running,” said Nerys. “Silly me.”

  “Hmm, well, we need to be very careful with water damage,” said the inspector, scribbling notes faster now. “It can create lots of problems you know. Perhaps I’ll pop upstairs now and take a look at that before I continue in here.”

  Nerys gave a sickly nod and followed him out.

  “Oh, there’s a squeaky stair up there,” she said, “where that rug is to, er, mark it. You might want to step around that part.”

  The inspector stopped and picked up the rug to look underneath. There was a gaping hole right through the stairs. Nerys’s heart sank.

  “Yeah, I did have a go at fixing it, but DIY really isn’t my strong suit. I’ll get someone in to take a look at that, shall I?” She tried her most winning smile, but the inspector was moving on.

  “You did disconnect the tripwire, didn’t you?” came a whisper from behind.

  “Oh, oh no,” cried Nerys, a hand going to her mouth, “Mr Inspector, Mr Inspector, I think I just saw a mouse!” Her voice dropped to a whisper as something registered. “What do you mean disconnected? Isn’t it just tied to the bannister?”

  “No, it was supposed to empty that water tank,” said Ben, pointing upwards.

  As Nerys looked up, she heard the sound of the inspector falling over the wire with an oof sound and sighed at the inevitability of it all. She saw that the giant water tank that hinged above them teetered on its support and then, against all the odds, righted itself again. She dared to breathe, and prepared to try and explain away the trip wire, but then a furry hand came around from behind the water tank and gave it a push.

  The water cascaded down upon all of them, washing Nerys, Ben, and Clovenhoof straight down the staircase in the deluge. The inspector wasn’t so fortunate, as the huge tank then landed across his legs. Nerys looked up through the tangle of limbs at the bottom of the stairs and wondered what the ominous cracking sound might be. They were getting louder, clearly audible over the screams of the inspector, who really wasn’t happy.

  Water started to spray out from the floorboards where he flailed, still trapped by the tank.

  “Err, guys, did anyone think to turn the hosepipe off last night?” Nerys asked.

  She didn’t need to wait for an answer as further sprays of water appeared, like tiny fountains. The cracking sound turned into a huge, structural groan, and the floorboards erupted upwards around the inspector, who disappeared downwards with the tank. As the floor collapsed, a further torrent of water burst forth from the walls, covering them all with soggy chunks of plaster.

  It was several minutes before things stopped collapsing and piling on top of them. Nerys struggled to disentangle herself from Ben and Clovenhoof. She could hear the inspector bellowing about the duty of care pertaining to a leaseholder.

  “He’s alive,” she said, not sure if that was good news or bad.

  She rubbed her eyes to try and dislodge the plaster and dirt that coated it. She caught a small movement off to the side. The monkey was sitting on Clovenhoof’s chest, picking bits of plaster from his face. Clovenhoof shook himself like a dog and sat up. The monkey hopped across to Ben.

  “Told you he loves a bit of grooming, didn’t I?” said Clovenhoof.

  Chapter 7 – In which Clovenhoof and Ben spend a night with furry friends, and Nerys spends a night with an old man

  Chip Malarkey knelt on one knee and ran his fingers along the grooves that had been clawed into the laboratory floor. He measured the space between them with his extendable tape measure and made a noise to himself.

  “Is there CCTV footage?”

  Michael gave Freddy a terse look. Freddy clicked on the laptop that had been set up to replace the water-damaged lab computer.

  “Here we are, Mr Malarkey,” said Freddy.

  “It’s Chip,” their boss told him. “Everyone calls me Chip, even when they’re a gnat’s todger away from being fired.”

  Michael and Chip watched the low-res image.

  “I had to set up a temporary security camera,” Michael explained. “On the night the dog appeared, the broken samples leaked into the original computer and…”

  Chip regarded the massive hole in the wall, the starburst of cracks that spread through the remaining plastic and steel.

  “You’re saying a dog did this?”

  “Sir, I…” Lost for words, Michael pointed at the image on the screen.

  Nerys crouched in front of the Yorkshire Terrier, a collar in her hands. And then the image shook, shadows raced across the screen, and something dark and indistinct swelled into being.

  “What is that?” said Chip.

  “The beast,” said Michael.

  “It’s not particularly clear,” said Freddy.

  The shape shifted, gathered itself, and then there was a final juddering of the camera and the image froze. Nerys was caught in terrified profile, staring at the hole ripped into the side of the building.

  “So,” said Chip. “What’s the impact on your work, Michael?”

  “In addition to the seventy-eight samples lost when the dog appeared, a further fifty-four samples. Just under half of those are duplicates but, in total, we have lost sixty-eight unique species samples.”

  Chip breathed out heavily through his nose, his chest heaving with suppressed anger.

  “Which means?”

  “We’ve been set back four months.”

  “Why is this happening, Lord?” said Chip to the heavens, and then looked at his two underlings. “What has happened here, guys? Theories.”

  “Animal activists,” said Freddy.

  Chip blinked at him.

  “They unleashed a lion or a bear or something in here,” said Freddy.

  “Why on earth would they do that? We’re trying to preserve DNA here. We’re on their side.”

  “Confused animal activists? A lot of them are vegans and a low iron diet can cause light-headedness and tiredness…” Freddy tailed off under Chip’s unimpressed stare.

  “I saw a beast,” said Michael.

  Chip shook his head firmly.

  “Little dogs transforming into monsters? Demonspawn stalking the streets of Sutton? No.” He pointed at the claw marks on the floor. “Do you know what did that? A bobcat.”

  Michael smiled kindly.

  “Chip, I honestly don’t think any cat, not even a North American lynx, could …”

  “Not a bobcat, man! A bobcat! A mechanical digger. Someone rammed that wall …”

  “The wall’s actually been pushed out,” argued Michael weakly.

  “… and tore chunks out of my rented portakabin. This was planned and deliberate.” Chip stabbed a finger at the screen, “I know that woman.”

  “Yes,” said Michael. “She’s the one who stripped naked in your driveway while one man peed on her from above and another doused her in your champagne.”

  “Oh. I was thinking of the woman who shouted obscenities at me in church,” said Chip.

  “Same woman.”

  “Really?”

  Chip peered at the screen closely, perhaps trying to picture her without her clothes on. He gave a quietly furious sigh.

  “I hate that woman.”

  Nerys and Clovenhoof stood on the pavement and watched a succession of men in hard hats and hi-vis tabards bring out their furniture and belongings and dump them without ceremony in the tiny garden space at the front of the house. The suggestion that they could reclaim their own things without the clumsy aid of workmen was brusquely ignored by the still-seething, limping, and waterlogged building inspector who was now engaged in a conversation on his mobile. Ben sorted the sodden, plaster-speckled items into three
piles as the workmen brought them out.

  “A replica Seleucid shield – dented! – mine. Poirot series three box set, Nerys’s. Some sort of fuzzy electric belt.”

  “Stomach toner,” said Nerys.

  “And your ‘men’ folders. Volume one: Targets. Volume two: Acquisitions.”

  “Please, please, tell me they’re not damaged.”

  “They’re fine enough. This yours too? A severed mannequin hand. A jewellery holder perhaps?”

  “That’s mine,” said Clovenhoof.

  Ben frowned at him.

  “For picking my nose,” Clovenhoof explained, as though it were obvious. “You know, for when I fancy doing it with a little class.”

  Ben looked at the fingertip warily.

  “And for the occasional self-administered prostate examination,” added Clovenhoof.

  Ben dropped it instantly.

  “A crate of alcohol,” he said, looking inside a charred cardboard box.

  “What kind?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Ouzo, retsina, sangria in a bottle shaped like a flamenco dancer.”

  “Exotic.”

  “My collection of horrible holiday booze,” said Nerys.

  “And Viagra,” said Ben, looking from a blue plastic case to Clovenhoof.

  “I don’t need that stuff.”

  “Well, I don’t even get the opportunity to need it. Which I don’t,” Ben added hurriedly. “You are a man of a certain age, Jeremy. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “It’s mine, all right,” said Nerys testily.

  “Dude!” said Clovenhoof, approvingly. “I knew there was something mannish about you.”

  “We’ve seen Nerys naked,” argued Ben.

  “Yeah, but maybe she – I mean he – does that thing where she – he – tucks it under and …”

  “It’s not for me,” she snapped. “Jesus! Sometimes, a gentleman friend has had a bit too much to drink and maybe I can help him along …”

  “Vermin!” said a workman.

  “Easy now,” said Ben, quick to leap to Nerys’s defence.

  The man threw down a plastic container.

  “You’ve got a rat problem.”

  “They’re not rats!” wailed Ben, pulling out sorry-looking examples of taxidermy. “Well, that one is but generally, oh!” He regarded a damp and patchy badger and a rabbit wearing a look of terminal surprise on its face. “Captain Brockleton! And Sergeant McFuzzyshanks!”

  “He’s lost his marbles,” Clovenhoof said to Nerys.

  “They were going to lead my woodland commando team,” explained Ben. “You know, in some tastefully arranged diorama. Guns of Navarone meets Watership Down.”

  “Tasteful, yeah,” said Nerys.

  “You haven’t seen any live animals in there?” Clovenhoof asked the workman. “Specifically, a little turd of a monkey who’s definitely one banana short of a bunch?”

  “Oh, him. Attacked our Brian on the top floor. Think it’s hiding in the attic now. So, who does the nudie calendar belong to?”

  The three flatmates looked at each other questioningly.

  “Men or women?” Clovenhoof asked the workman.

  “Men,” he said.

  Nerys shrugged.

  “Not mine, but I’ll take it.”

  “Male or female, I think nakedness is both hilarious and culturally satisfying,” said Clovenhoof, and held out his hand to take the calendar.

  Ben snatched it from the workman.

  “That’s not a nudie calendar! That’s Warriors of the Ancient World.”

  “They’re not wearing many clothes,” the workman argued.

  “They’re from Mediterranean civilisations, and fighting is hot and sweaty work.”

  “I’ll bet,” said the workman sceptically. “And what are those guys with shields doing in November?”

  “Making a tortoise,” said Ben.

  “Disgusting,” said the workman.

  The inspector was winding up his conversation on the phone.

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Sorting it out right now.”

  He turned to face them.

  “Mr Kitchen, Mr Clovenhoof, Ms Thomas,” he said. “Once all items of …” He looked at Ben’s pathetic mammalian commandos. “… of value have been removed, I will need to make a full assessment of the damage you have caused.”

  “Will it take long?” asked Ben.

  The inspector consulted his clipboard. Most of the pages were wet and fused together.

  “Four weeks,” he said.

  “Got to be fucking kidding,” said Nerys.

  “Four weeks. Minimum.”

  “But that’s my flat. I own it. You can’t kick me out of a flat I own.”

  The inspector attempted to look like he wasn’t enjoying his revenge and almost succeeded.

  “You own the flat but not the ground it stands on. The law on this matter is clear. In fact, the landlord may choose to bring legal proceedings against you.”

  “But it was him!” she said, pointing at Clovenhoof. “And his fire-breathing stoat.”

  There was a crash from inside the house. It sounded like a wall falling down. It was followed by a simian screech and a lot of swearing.

  “I’ll be sure to pass that on,” said the inspector.

  “And it was Ben’s anyway,” Clovenhoof said to Nerys.

  “And it was a ferret, not a stoat,” added Ben helpfully.

  “But what do we do?” said Nerys. “We can’t be homeless!”

  “I gather that tens of thousands of people are,” said the inspector. “I’m sure you’ll pick it up as you go along. Oh, and this …” He waved the tip of his biro at the sad piles of belongings on the ground. “The skip is coming in half an hour. Anything left here will be assumed surplus to your current requirements.”

  Ben stared, gobsmacked. Nerys quivered with incandescent fury. Clovenhoof stepped forward and punched the inspector in the face. The inspector stumbled, tripped over a stuffed owl, and went down, his hand clutching his busted nose.

  “Jeremy!” said Ben.

  “Oh, come on,” said Clovenhoof. “You were both thinking it.”

  Ben and Nerys did not ask where Clovenhoof got the trolleys from. The fact that each of the three was marked with the name of a different supermarket either indicated he had been very even-handed in his trolley-stealing, or that he knew a central source for stolen trolleys, some sort of backstreet cut-and-shut trolley den.

  With belongings piled high, they pushed all their worldly goods down Boldmere High Street to Ben’s bookshop. Nerys led the way.

  “She’s got a fair turn of speed, hasn’t she?” said Ben.

  “Enjoying the life of a bag lady,” agreed Clovenhoof.

  “I don’t want anyone to see me!” she hissed at them. “Now get this door open. My phone’s buzzing like crazy. It’s probably Tina. The office will be falling into chaos without me.”

  Ben unlocked the shop door with one hand while trying to stop the trolley rolling into the road with the other, and then helped the others squeeze their trolleys through the narrow doorway. Nerys closed the door behind them and stared morosely at her lot. Three lives in three trolleys. And what did hers amount to? A pile of clothes, knick knacks and jewellery, boxes of papers detailing her meagre finances, and a bunch of files in which she had catalogued her successes and failures with men.

  “I’m struggling to remember a crappier day than this,” she said.

  Her phone began to ring again.

  “Look,” said Ben. “I’ll get this stuff stored in the back. I’ll put the kettle on. We can even think of making a temporary bedsit thing in the basement.”

  “God, not bloody likely,” said Nerys. “As soon as I’ve explained the situation to work, I’m splashing out on a four star hotel and washing this crappy day right out of my hair.”

  She looked at her phone. It was indeed Tina.

  “Right,” she said, taking a cleansing breath. “Let’s turn this shitty day arou
nd.” She hit the answer button. “Hi, Tina.”

  “I’m fired?”

  Tina shook her head regretfully.

  “Fired is a strong word,” she said.

  “But it’s the right fucking word,” said Nerys, her voice rising shrilly.

  “Come, now. Let’s discuss it in my office.”

  The rest of the staff in the front office of the Helping Hand Job Agency avoided Nerys’s gaze as she followed Tina into the tiny back office.

  “Now,” said Tina, “although you have grasped the fundamental headlines here vis-à-vis your departure from this company, I think it is critically important that we discuss the ‘whys’ and the ‘what nows’.”

  “Absolutely bloody right. I want to know why I’m being sacked.”

  Tina nodded sympathetically.

  “As you know, Nerys, Helping Hand’s ethos is the delivery of customer-centric and outcome-focused brand experiences. Our emphasis is on building on past successes, working through current challenges, and achieving key deliverables and targets.”

  “Yes,” said Nerys tiredly. “We find people jobs.”

  “No,” said Tina. “We provide sector-relevant expertise, skill-actioning, and workforce enhancement. We insert ourselves and our product into industrial positions at key locations and time-critical periods. Do you know what we are?”

  “An employment agency, Tina.”

  “We’re lubricant. You and I exist to lubricate the needs of the captains of industry.”

  “I don’t recall that being on the job description.”

  “Our product …”

  “People, yeah. The HGV drivers, secretaries, and shelf-stackers.”

  “… enables local and global businesses to function efficiently and achieve their potential. Like the lubricant in the engine gears, the more effective we are, the less we are noticed. We are the silent partners behind the scenes who ease the bumps, quell the upsets, and ease the passage of …”

  “Hang on, are we a lubricant or a laxative? And what the fuck has this got to do with me?”

  Tina’s genial manner switched off like a light.

  “You’re grit, Nerys.”

  “What?”