by Heide Goody
“No. No. But Andy has got himself quite worked up, worried that they’re going to leave splash marks on the furniture and woodwork. Things are a little …” Michael pulled a tense expression, teeth gritted.
“No, sure,” said Nerys, deflated.
“I’m sorry.”
“I understand.”
“Decorators.”
“That’s right.”
“Tuscan.”
“It’s beautiful. Sorry.”
Nerys sighed heavily, and then inhaled the remainder of her wine.
“So,” she said, “why did you want to talk to me?”
“The beast,” said Michael.
Clovenhoof’s new phone rang as he clip-clopped down Boldmere High Street. There were no buttons on the slim and shiny device, only shifting icons on the screen. Trust humans to take something as simple and reliable as a button and fuck it up.
It took him several attempts to work out what the little green telephone symbol required of him but, as he shouted at it and pushed it with his fingers, something seemed to happen.
“Hello,” he said into the phone.
“Where are you, Jeremy?” said Ben. “It’s gone seven.”
“On my way back. How’s the dungeon bedsit coming on?”
“I’ve tried,” said Ben tiredly. “I moved stuff out. I hoovered. I think the hoover’s died now, choked on dead spiders and cobwebs. It’s still not particularly clean, and there’s this weird, toilet-y funk in the air. All told, it’s a bit gross.”
“Sounds wonderful,” said Clovenhoof merrily, and pushed open the door to Books ‘n’ Bobs. “Ding dong, I’m home.”
He dumped his bag of supplies on the shop counter, and clattered down the stairs. The basement was just as Ben had described it. The essential grottiness of the basement had been retained, but Ben had cleared space for their belongings and a large double bed. Ben, rosy-cheeked and smeared with grime, stood in the middle of it all.
“Looking good,” said Clovenhoof. “Job’s a good un, Kitchen.”
“It’s not exactly the Ritz,” said Ben.
“Oh, no. You’d have to go a lot further to find a room with this kind of charm.” Clovenhoof tested the bed. It was high, but surprisingly soft. He looked under the quilt. Lumps and bumps distorted the sheet below. “You found a mattress?”
“Not quite,” said Ben. “I knew we’d need something to sleep on, and I had brought a lot of pieces of taxidermy and I thought …”
Clovenhoof’s eyes sparkled.
“We’re sleeping on a bed made of lots and lots of dead animals?”
“I’m not sure we should think of it like that,” said Ben.
“It’s brilliant!”
“Oh, well, if you’re happy with it.”
Clovenhoof clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m impressed. This kind of ingenuity deserves a slapup tea.”
“Thanks. I am rather hungry,” agreed Ben.
“Good. The food’s on the counter. You get cooking. I’ve got to set up my Twitter account,” said Clovenhoof, waving his phone in Ben’s face.
Michael and Nerys went to a corner where they could talk in private.
“For a moment, I thought I had imagined it,” said Nerys.
“No, I saw it too,” said Michael. “Perched on a rooftop, staring at me. As large as a tiger.”
“Larger. What the Hell have you been cooking up in that lab, Michael?”
“It’s not that kind of laboratory. I’ve seen the CCTV footage from when you broke in.”
“Look, I’m sorry about that. I just had to see that dog.”
“It’s not Twinkle, Nerys.”
“I know. And I shouldn’t have done it, but your cock of a boss didn’t have to send the video to Tina.”
Michael grimaced.
“I think you got off lightly. The amount of damage done by …” He straightened up and took a sip of mineral water. “So, tell me. What happened in the lab last night?”
“You saw the video.”
“Yes, but I can’t believe it. I want to hear it from you.”
“Okay.” Nerys put her hands flat on the table. “It was a dog. Just a dog. A little Yorkshire terrier. Friendly, lovely little thing. I was rescuing it. I was going to take it home. I reached down to put the collar on it and – Bam!”
“Bam?”
“It changed, like a bad special effect. It grew. Muscles, hair, teeth. It was the cutest little thing but then suddenly … It … It’s like, you know, when you wake up after a night on the pull and you discover that the Johnny Depp you went to bed with has magically transformed into Johnny Vegas?”
“Er, no, but I take your point,” said Michael. “But what you describe is not natural, it’s not scientifically possible.”
“Said the Archangel Michael.” A thought occurred to her. “Was it a demon?”
“You think a demon has come up from Hell to terrorise suburban Birmingham?”
“I share a flat with Satan.”
“Jeremy is not a demon. Technically.”
“Nitpicker,” said Nerys. “The thing is, the one thing that happened before the dog changed is that it touched my crucifix pendant.” She held out the diamante pendant to show him. “You say it wasn’t a demon, but the feeling I got from just looking at that thing … I was so…” She struggled to find the words to express the religious terror that it had inspired in her.
“Cross,” said Michael.
“I was too bloody frightened to be cross,” she said.
“No. It’s a cross, not a crucifix,” he said. “A crucifix would have a little …”
“Oh, shut up, Michael,” she snapped. “And get me another drink.”
“This is nice,” said Clovenhoof, patting the covers as Ben put his cup of hot chocolate down on the bedside cabinet. His bedside cabinet was made from a stack of Roy of the Rovers annuals. Ben’s was made from copies of Obama’s The Audacity of Hope. Ben wore a miner’s lamp on his forehead. Clovenhoof sipped his chocolate by the light of his new phone.
“I’m surprised Nerys didn’t want to join us,” said Ben, taking off his dressing gown and climbing in beside Clovenhoof.
“I did text her,” said Clovenhoof.
“Maybe she’s had a better offer. Anyway, three in the bed would be a bit snug.”
Clovenhoof chuckled.
“You ever wondered what a threesome would be like?”
“With you and Nerys?” said Ben. “That’s … that’s the most horrible thing I could possibly imagine.”
“All right. The threesome of your choice. Mine would be me, obviously, and I think perhaps another me – because I am super sexy – and then the third person would be … I’m tempted to say me again but I think I’ll have to go with Eunice Gandridge.”
“Who?”
“At the library.”
“Dare I ask?”
“She’s got this really strict manner,” said Clovenhoof, and shuddered with pleasure. “Sometimes, I take books back late just so she can give me one of her looks. Also, she plays tuba in the Sutton Coldfield brass band, and I think if she can get her lips round one of those …”
“Enough,” said Ben. “Frankly, I think having sex with one person is scary enough. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do it with two.”
Clovenhoof had lost interest. He was busily engaged in setting up accounts for every form of social media he could find and was currently creating @SatanColdfield on Twitter. He wasn’t sure what Twitter was, or what it was for, but felt certain he should have it nonetheless.
“Anyway, it’s been a long, tiring, and emotionally draining day,” said Ben. “I think I shall say goodnight.”
He flicked off his miner’s lamp and shuffled down into the bed.
“Can I have some of the covers?” he said.
“You’ve got some of the covers,” said Clovenhoof.
“Half the covers.”
“Half? That’s nearly most of them.” Clovenhoof gr
udgingly pushed some of the quilt over.
“Thank you.”
Clovenhoof looked at the red error message on his phone.
“Twitter wants to know how old I am. Why?”
“To ensure you’re old enough to use it.”
“Of course I’m old enough. Haven’t they seen this face?”
“Just put in your date of birth. Now, I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”
Ben pulled the covers up closely and settled down. Seconds later, his eyes were open again as Clovenhoof dialled on his phone, his phone beeping loudly with each button press.
“What are you doing now?” muttered Ben, in the half-voice of a man trying to delude himself that he was on the cusp of sleep.
“I need to find out what my date of birth is.”
“You don’t know?”
“I need to know what it’s meant to be.”
“Meant? Are you in witness protection programme or something?”
“Something like that. Michael!”
“What is it, Jeremy?” said Michael. “I’m very busy at the moment.”
This was only a half-lie, unlike the out-and-out lie Michael had told Nerys in order to avoid having to put her up for the night. It wasn’t as though Nerys would have been the worst houseguest imaginable (that accolade belonged to Jeremy, of course), but the flat he shared with Andy was their flat, a haven from all the irritations, annoyances, and stupidity of the wider world. As far as he was concerned, the front door was an airlock, and he wasn’t going to let any potential contaminant inside. He was sure it had been better to lie than to hurt her feelings.
On the other hand, he had only half-lied to Clovenhoof, because he was indeed busy, having left Nerys in the Boldmere Oak in order to pull an all-nighter at the lab, rebuilding the laboratory computer and restoring Little A to life. However, that mostly involved watching various percentage bars on the computer screen as the hardware and software reinstalled, reconfigured, and repaired the vital systems.
“How old am I?” said Clovenhoof.
“You phone me at ten o’clock to ask me that? You and I are older than time itself, Fallen One. We were there at the moment of creation. Do you not remember?”
“I’m not senile yet.”
“More’s the shame. I’m looking forward to the day you forget who I am and what my phone number is.”
“Twitter wants to know how old I am.”
Michael’s brain leapt like a frightened gazelle and bounded to several rapid conclusions.
“No. Social media is not for you.”
“Why not?”
“You are meant to be keeping a low profile while here on Earth.”
“So are you, but I’ve seen you on the computer doing … stuff.”
“Yes, but I’m the responsible one.”
“Fine. I’ll just have to go to the registry office tomorrow and ask them to find my birth certificate.”
Michael had a sudden image of the chaos Clovenhoof would cause at the register office, in search of a document forged by Heaven in the creation of Satan’s earthly alias.
“Please don’t,” said Michael and, reluctantly, reeled off the date. “Do not give me cause to regret this,” he said, and hung up.
Michael saw that he’d had a missed call while on the phone to Clovenhoof. There was a voicemail message. It was Andy, and he didn’t sound happy.
“Michael. Dearest. I’ve just taken the strangest call from your friend, Nerys. I think she was drunk. She said that she knew she couldn’t stay at ours because of our bedroom situation, but suggested that perhaps we should put plastic sheeting down in the bedroom before the men came over so that the splash marks wouldn’t stain the furniture. She understands that it can be quite messy – some men she’s had in like to splash it all over the place, don’t you know – but that if we just take sensible precautions, then I’ll feel a lot more relaxed about it. You need to call me now, Michael, and explain.”
“Good God,” Michael whispered to himself.
The progress bars on the screen crept upwards very, very slowly. It was going to be a long night.
Nerys tottered back to the bar for her fifth glass of wine. Or perhaps the sixth.
“Lennox,” she called. “Top me up.”
“You really want another? Maybe it’s time to move on.”
Nerys pulled a face.
“Got nowhere to move on to, as you know full well.”
“Life is full of hardships,” he agreed, and opened a fresh bottle of Chardonnay.
“Hey, Lennox …” she slurred.
“No.”
“No, what?”
“The answer is no.”
“You don’t know what the question is yet. It might be, ‘Hey, Lennox, would you like a million pounds?’”
“Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Is it the question?”
“Er. No.”
“Would the question be something along the lines of, ‘Hey, Lennox, will you put me up for the night?’”
“Might be,” she admitted.
“And the answer would be no.” He passed her the glass. “Nerys, not that I advocate such things, but many’s the night when you come here and go to a bed other than your own, if you catch my drift.”
Nerys tried her best to look shocked, but she was drunk, and drunkenness ripped away the veil of social pretence and mock decency.
She turned around and scanned the bar. There was not much of a crowd in the Boldmere Oak on a Wednesday. There was a smattering of couples, and a bunch of men and women in one corner. Mixed sex groups were tough to break into, and it was always hard to figure who was paired up with whom. What she really needed was a single bloke or, failing that, a bunch of men together whom she could target generally.
She eyed her only option.
“Oh, well,” she said. “Needs must when the devil knocks holes in your walls, floods your house, and gets you kicked out on the street.”
She straightened her skirt, adjusted her cleavage, and strode over to the three men.
“So,” she said, channelling her inner sex kitten, “which one of you stud muffins gets to take me home tonight?”
“Eh?” said one of them.
“I think she’s saying your taxi’s arrived, Arthur,” said a second.
“I didn’t order a taxi.”
“Sorry, babe, I think Jim, Arthur, and I will just stick with our dominos, if it’s all the same with you,” said the third old man, and supped his pint of mild.
“Oh, come on,” said Nerys. “When was the last time you felt the touch of a young woman?”
“It was during the three day week,” said Jim. “I accidentally tripped and fell on my Jean during a power cut.”
“What are the chances of that?” said the mild drinker.
“Quite low, Les,” said Jim. “Had to do it three times before I got her.”
“I think dominos is excitement enough for us,” Les said to Nerys.
“You’d rather play children’s games than …”
She stopped as Jim held up a warning hand.
“Not a word more,” he said. “The simplicity of the Game,” he said with such emphasis, Nerys could hear the capital letter, “belies the complexity of the playing. A lifetime to master, dominos.”
“Really?” she said.
“Really,” said Les.
“Fine!” she declared loudly. “Then I’ll make a bet with you. I’ll play your piddling game and, if I win, one of you will give me a bed for the night.”
“And if you lose?” said Jim.
“I’ll … I’ll take off an item of clothing. Strip dominos.”
“Does she have to?” said Les, distastefully. “I’d rather stick to my drink.”
“Right. If I lose, I’ll buy you beer.”
“And strip off,” said Arthur.
Nerys sighed.
“Have it your way.” She sat down on a stool and nearly missed. “Deal me in, boys.”
“You’re stealing the quilt again,” grumbled Ben, his eyes screwed shut, refusing to admit to himself that he was still awake.
“I’ve not moved at all,” said Clovenhoof. “If you want it all, have it. I sleep above the covers most the time anyway.”
“It gets cold. You’ll have sciatica in the morning.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll have Rice Krispies, like I usually do.”
“Don’t blame me if you get a chill.”
“I’ll find a way to keep myself warm,” said Clovenhoof, and farted loudly.
“Oh, God!” choked Ben.
“Better out than in,” said Clovenhoof.
“No. No, it’s bloody not. It’s never better out than in. In is infinitely preferable to out. Agh! What have you been eating?”
“Nothing. The usual. Crispy pancakes. A Lambrini night cap. That hot chocolate was nice, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I liked the chocolate chip sprinkles.”
“I didn’t put in any chocolate sprinkles.”
“Who’s Taylor Swift?”
“What?”
“He, or possibly she, has lots of Twitter followers. Should I follow him?”
“She’s an American …” Ben ummed.
“An American what?”
Ben exhaled, and thought for a moment. “Nope. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Do you think she’ll follow me back?”
“No.”
“Oh. Screw her, then. Ooh, God’s got a Twitter account.”
“Great. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
“And the pope.”
“Good for him. Go to sleep.”
“And, look. A whole load of local shops and stuff. Follow, follow, follow.”
Ben huffed mightily.
“Damn it, Jeremy! Are you tweeting, or just trying to annoy me?”
“I can do both.”
Ben tried to roll himself more securely into his sheets, as though he could physically force himself down into sleep.
“Just quit it,” he seethed. “And, while you’re at it, whatever you’re scratching, just stop. Consider it fully scratched.”
“I’m not scratching anything,” said Clovenhoof.
“I can hear you.”
