by Heide Goody
“Grit in the gears. We have standards of behaviour to maintain.”
“If this is about the table-dancing at Dave’s leaving do, I told you that someone had slipped me a …”
“It’s not about that – not just about that. We have to retain a level of decorum, of social responsibility. Particularly when it comes to interactions with our clients.”
“I am always nice to the clients,” Nerys insisted, “even when they’re idiots.”
Tina laid a tablet flat on the desk and tapped the play icon. It took Nerys several seconds to realise what she was looking at. She recognised the dog first, then herself, then the setting. She watched it to its blurry shaky-cam ending.
“Firstly,” she said, “I was not there on work business. It was a mission of mercy carried out in my own time.”
“I thought you said your dog was dead.”
“That’s not my dog. Trust me, that’s definitely not my dog. And, secondly, the ARC Research Company is not one of our clients.”
“In the past year, Helping Hand has placed more than two hundred workers in Mr Malarkey’s construction and property management companies.”
“Chip Malarkey? That’s his lab?”
Tina nodded.
“So you can probably see why your situation here has become untenable.”
“He’s trying to get back at me,” said Nerys. “He’s the one who killed my dog! That small-minded, self-important, shit-rinsing cockweasel! You can’t fire me for this!”
“Oh?” said Tina. “Well, once it became clear that you could no longer continue with Helping Hand, I cleared out your desk drawers and locker. And I found this.”
Tina placed a sack-cloth doll on the table. It had yellow wool hair, sinister button eyes and half a dozen round-headed pins sticking out of it.
“Now, you know I’ve been suffering from significant lower back pain of late,” said Tina, her voice cracking with emotion. “I’d be devastated to learn that it was caused by … dark forces.”
“Tina,” said Nerys, “who says that’s a voodoo doll of you?”
Tina pulled a rolled up scrap of paper out of a slit in the doll’s back.
“‘My name is Tina …’” she read.
“Okay, but I’ve never seen that before. There’s no saying that I made that doll.”
Tina read the note in full.
“‘My name is Tina and I’m a small-minded, self-important, shit-rinsing cockweasel.’”
“Mmmm, yes. I admit there’s a superficially familiar tone to that.”
“It’s your handwriting.”
“Ye-es.”
Tina put it aside.
“Clearly, I’ve offended you in some way. I’m sorry that you did not feel you could discuss your concerns and grievances with me.” She sniffed back her fake tears. “However, this meeting can also serve as an exit interview. Perhaps you would like to offer your thoughts both on this job/no-job transition process and your time at Helping Hand in general.”
Nerys blinked.
“You want to know what I think?”
Tina nodded supportively.
“I think it’s an important part of the process.”
“Okay,” said Nerys and cleared her throat. “Strap in, Tina. Here it comes.”
Clovenhoof trotted merrily through the frozen food aisle of the supermarket. Having had to leave their food supplies back at the flats, Ben had charged Clovenhoof with the task of getting something in for dinner. The bookshop had a kettle and a toaster and a tiny microwave, so the cooking options were limited. However, Clovenhoof was quite keen to discover what toasted Findus Crispy Pancake and what microwaved Findus Crispy Pancake tasted like. He was even contemplating popping one in the kettle. It would probably make an intriguing crispy pancake soup.
A brief, but recognisable, gurgle snapped him out of his culinary cogitations.
Beelzebelle, sat back in the baby-seat of an unattended trolley, held out her arms to him.
Clovenhoof looked around. There was no one else in the aisle. He trotted over.
“I’m not really meant to talk to you,” he whispered. “PC Pearson said I could go to prison if I did.”
Beelzebelle clenched and unclenched her hands excitedly.
“How have you been?” said Clovenhoof.
Beelzebelle rocked against her straps.
“Does your mum take you rollerblading like I used to? Maybe a parent-child trip to the bookies? No?”
Beelzebelle frowned furiously, her face reddening. For a moment, Clovenhoof thought she was brewing something in her nappy, but then her lip wobbled and he saw that she was about to cry.
“Don’t be upset,” he said. “It wasn’t my choice. And I’m sure your mum is able to provide you with all the things I couldn’t. Like … like … towels and cushions and …” He looked in Beelzebelle’s trolley for inspiration. “… Alphabites.”
The relative merits of letter-shaped potato products did nothing to appease Beelzebelle. The little girl keened unhappily and took a deep breath to begin some serious wailing. Clovenhoof tutted, looked up and down the aisle, then unclipped her restraints and lifted her out. The transformation was instantaneous. The nascent bawling became a coo of happiness.
“You’re a bloody blackmailer,” said Clovenhoof, and then, hugging Beelzebelle close, said, “A chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
Beelzebelle clapped her hands inexpertly and grabbed Clovenhoof’s horns and pulled.
“I’m not a space-hopper, you know.”
“Oi! You! Perv! Security! Security!”
The pregnant woman in the tight blonde ponytail, pointed an accusing finger at Clovenhoof and waddled up to him as fast as her baby bulge would allow her. Clovenhoof vaguely recognised her, from parent pick-ups at St Michael’s cub scouts, from Boldmere Oak karaoke nights, and from the occasional girl-on-girl fights in pub car parks.
“Toyah!” said Clovenhoof to Beelzebelle’s mum. “I can assure you that this is not what it looks like.”
“What are you up to then, eh?”
“Um. Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m up to, and then I can assure you that it’s something completely different?”
Toyah pulled her daughter from his arms. Beelzebelle flailed her limbs and cried.
“You’re a fucking baby-stealing monster. I bet you sell them mail-order to rich Americans.”
“You can do that?” said Clovenhoof, totally unaware that such an exciting business opportunity even existed.
Beelzebelle wriggled and squirmed and bawled out her frustration.
“I should call the fucking police,” said Toyah.
Clovenhoof shrugged.
“Well, here comes the supermarket’s own brand.”
He nodded down the aisle. A broad-shouldered security guard was walking unhurriedly, almost reluctantly, towards them.
“His name’s Ahmed,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s surprising how often he ends up talking to me.”
Toyah had suddenly become edgy and anxious.
“Right, well … Come on, Bea, let’s go.”
Toyah’s fingers shook as she tried to put her girl back in the seat.
Clovenhoof looked from Toyah to the security guard and then back to Toyah’s bulging stomach.
“Hang on,” he whispered. “How long have you been pregnant?”
“Er …” said Toyah.
Clovenhoof grinned.
“Leave it to me.”
He reached into a freezer compartment, took out a pack of fish fingers, ripped them open and scattered them across the floor.
“Swim free, my darlings!” he shouted. “I have released you from your icy prison!”
Ahmed yelled and broke into a jog.
“Step away from the fish fingers, sir.”
Ben had little need to go down into the basement of Books ‘n’ Bobs. Or, if he was honest, very little desire. He had watched enough horror movies in his time to know that bad things happened in basements. The single
naked bulb hanging from the ceiling did not cast enough light to illuminate all the corners. Who knew what demonic horrors or grisly remains lurked there? Nonetheless, with their homes rendered uninhabitable, Ben felt there was no option.
The basement still contained some of the stock from the previous occupant’s fancy dress enterprise, and Ben had added to it with those books that were too damaged, old, or niche to even warrant shelf space in a second hand bookshop. Ben spent a good hour shifting boxes of tinsel wigs, vampire fangs, and body paint, and piles of books with titles like How I Tamed the Savage Hindoos of Rajasthan and Rousing Stories for Bigger Boys. He had twelve boxes filled with copies of the recalled 1975 Bunty Annual, featuring an obscene and unforgiveable misprint, which a friend had rescued from the pulping machine and passed to Ben in the vain hope that they would be priceless rarities one day.
Ben, never noted for his upper body strength, balked at moving all those boxes, and then decided that, if they were going to make a bedsit of sorts down there, the boxes could serve as a bed base. He arranged the books into a large rectangle, and then brought his asthmatic Henry hoover downstairs and began the lengthy process of removing decades of cobwebs and brick dust.
“And you say I can’t maintain standards!” said Nerys, her rant having entered top gear and now cruising down the motorway of bitter parting shots. “Do you know why we didn’t get that account with Dempsey Feinstein?”
“No,” said Tina.
“Could it be that the managing director’s wife made a pass at our James at the spring conference event and the MD found the pair of them playing tonsil hockey by the chocolate fountain?”
“Really?”
Tina made a note.
“Oh, and speaking of chocolate fountains. You remember that time we had a break-in and the burglars did a dirty protest in the stock cupboard?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Actually, Vivian brought her Lhasa Apso in when her dogsitter was on holiday, and the mutt got a dodgy belly from scoffing your secret stash of jelly babies.”
“I thought Eduardo the cleaner stole those. We fired him.”
“That’s okay. If my sources are correct, he was doing unspeakable things to your coffee mug after hours anyway.”
Tina gagged.
“Oh, come on,” said Nerys. “The crappy free tea and coffee we get in this place, I should think a splash of Eduardo’s special seasoning would enhance the flavour.”
“We don’t have free tea and coffee,” said Tina.
“Yes, we do. In the kitchen.”
“That’s the tea and coffee club. You have to pay a fiver a month for that.”
“Well, no one told me that.”
“We asked you when you joined. Eight years ago.”
Nerys tried to work out what a fiver a month for eight years added up to.
“Oh.”
Forty minutes after the supermarket tannoy had called for “fish finger clean-up on aisle three”, Clovenhoof emerged from the supermarket in the strong and capable grip of Ahmed.
“Perhaps you could consider doing your shopping elsewhere in future,” said Ahmed.
“Oh, I’m a big believer in customer loyalty.” Clovenhoof grinned.
Clovenhoof trotted out and found Toyah Wilson sitting on a streetside bench, struggling to get her daughter to accept a milk bottle. Toyah eyed him doubtfully.
“You reckon this makes us even?” she said.
Clovenhoof couldn’t tell if it was a threat, a warning, or a reconciliation.
“How was the African holiday?”
Toyah shrugged.
“Bit shit. Lions are lazy buggers, aren’t they?”
Clovenhoof nodded.
“Giraffes are funny, though,” he said. “The day the Guy Upstairs made them, I knew he’d lost his grip.”
“Did you know, there’s no Nando’s in Kenya?” said Toyah. “I mean, not one. Chickens, yes. Nando’s, no. Not impressed. Stop squirming, Bea!”
“Here,” said Clovenhoof, holding out his hands for her.
“You kidding?” said Toyah but, an instant later, handed her daughter over.
Clovenhoof slung her in the crook of his arm and offered her the bottle. Beelzebelle grabbed it and drank.
“What? You’re like some fucking baby whisperer?” said Toyah.
“We communicate on a deep level, mostly through the secret language of farting.”
With his free hand, he reached into his shopping bag, ripped open a pack of frozen crispy pancakes, and began to munch on one.
“You’re meant to cook them.” said Toyah.
“I call them pancake lollies.” He looked at Beelzebelle. “Wednesday. We’d normally be at Mum-Baby-Zumba right now.”
“What the Hell…?”
“Belle and I used to shake our things with the other girls. Bit of arse-wiggling, a few giggles, and a cup of coffee with the SCUM ladies.”
“SCUM?”
“Sutton Coldfield Union of Mums.”
Toyah scoffed.
“I can imagine. A bunch of self-righteous, middle-class cows, eating baby placenta with that quinoa stuff, planning what grammar school to send their babies to, and bragging about how much their husbands earn while he’s off shagging his secretary somewhere.”
“Oh no, they’re not like that,” said Clovenhoof. “At least half of them are not like that.”
“Can’t quite see me and Bea cutting it with that kind of crowd.”
Clovenhoof spun Beelzebelle around, and she burped loudly in his face.
“It’s these special moments I miss.” He smiled. He looked at Toyah. “You could come with me?”
“Where?”
“To a SCUM event.”
Toyah snorted.
“Why not?” said Clovenhoof.
“I don’t know. Look, those women, I know the type. They won’t accept … you know, me.”
“I’ll be there to hold your hand.”
“Yeah. And that. Look, it’s a sweet suggestion, but I’m not looking for another man right now, particularly one who’s so …”
“Handsome? Daring? Aromatic?”
“Old.”
“I think you’ve got this wrong,” said Clovenhoof.
“No, really. You are quite a lot older than me.”
“No, I don’t want you. I’m sure you’re very attractive, but it’s Beelzebelle I’m interested in.” Clovenhoof, rarely conscious of innuendo or social taboos, caught himself. “Not like that. Obviously, not like that. I mean …”
Toyah was smiling. Clovenhoof reckoned she wasn’t the kind of person who smiled openly or often.
“Okay, weirdo. WhatsApp me some time with the details.”
“WhatsApp?”
“You know, WhatsApp?”
“I have no idea what’s up.”
“But at least you Facebook,” said Toyah.
“I’m assuming it’s like doing a facepalm, only more violent.”
“You can install it on your phone,” she said, and clicked her fingers for his phone.
Clovenhoof pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Toyah stared at it.
“God, you are old,” she said.
“You have no idea, lady.”
Toyah hoiked up her top, reached inside her ‘pregnant’ tummy and pulled out part of her shoplifting haul from the supermarket. It was a mobile phone in a fat cardboard box.
“That’s what you get for sleeping with a robot,” said Clovenhoof.
Toyah ignored him, opened the box, and snapped the back off the sleek thing within.
“Just give me five minutes,” she said.
Nerys slouched into the Boldmere Oak. It wasn’t easy to slouch in heels, but Nerys’s mood was so low, all things had become possible. Michael was waiting for her at the bar.
“Chardonnay,” she said to Lennox, the barman.
Michael gestured to the glass of wine he’d already ordered her. Nerys took it and downed it in one.
“Chardonnay,”
she said to Lennox.
“Tough day at the office?” said Michael.
“There won’t be any tougher ones,” she said. “I’ve been fired.”
“For what?”
“Nothing I didn’t deserve, I guess,” she said.
Lennox, who usually kept a stoic and emotional distance as befitted the best barmen, looked at her aghast as he passed her a drink.
“They broke you,” he whispered.
“No home. No job,” she said. “God clearly hates me. Why?”
“That’s more his department,” said Lennox, jerking a thumb at the Archangel Michael, and went off to collect empties.
Nerys drank deeply.
“Well?” she said.
“The Almighty doesn’t hate you,” said Michael. “He loves unconditionally.”
“What he’s given me today doesn’t exactly feel like love. Feels like a steaming plate of shit with a side order of rubbing my nose in it.”
“He never gives us more … woes than we can handle. And I’d be grateful if you could moderate your language when discussing the Lord.”
“Fannybumwang to you, God,” said Nerys with cheery spite. “So, did God tell you I was homeless and jobless?”
“No. The Almighty does not speak to me, um, directly these days.”
“Sent you to Coventry, huh? I just assumed that, when you asked to meet me you here, well …”
“Well, what?” said Michael.
“Can I stay at your place?” she said.
Michael was taken aback.
“Please,” said Nerys.
“Oh. Um. I see.”
“You know, I’m in need of somewhere to stay, and that bitch Tina deducted nearly five hundred quid from my final pay packet – for coffee, for fuck’s sake! – and I can’t afford a hotel, and there’s no way I’m dossing in Ben’s basement, and …”
“I would love to say yes,” said Michael.
“It’s very Christian of you.”
“Would love to, but Andy and I have got the decorators in.”
Nerys was momentarily robbed of speech.
“Ah,” she managed eventually. “Decorators.”
“Yes. Doing the bedrooms. Walls and ceilings. We’ve gone for a beautiful Tuscan colour range.”
“Right. But they’re not decorating at night, are they?”
