by Heide Goody
“Mate, I’m an expert at one-handed web surfing, but it takes both hands to tweet.”
“Whatever. It’s late now. Be quiet.”
“Fine,” whispered Clovenhoof.
Ben exhaled. The bed of mounted animals was very soft and, apart from the occasional paw or snout, very comfortable indeed. It would only a moment or two before he dropped off …
“Findus Crispy Pancakes. Follow. SCUM. Follow. Lambrini. Follow. National Rifle Association. Follow.”
Ben contemplated pulling a couple of smaller mammals out of the bed and stuffing them in his ears.
“Ooh, WeirdBrum has tweeted that a strange and unpleasant creature has been spotted roaming the streets of Sutton.”
“Is that so?” fumed Ben. “That’s odd, because I could swear blind that the strange and unpleasant creature is currently in this basement and irritating the living shit out of me!”
“Really? I can’t see it anywh… Oh, you mean me.”
“Yes, I fucking mean you! Frankly, any weird or dangerous creature would make a better bedmate than you!”
“I don’t know. This artist’s impression makes it look like a Hellhound on steroids.”
“Christ, Jeremy. Can’t you hear the exasperation in my voice? Why won’t you let me get some sleep?”
“Free the nipple.”
“What?!”
“It’s this campaign on Twitter. Some of the SCUM mothers are following it. It’s about getting your tits out to show gender equality, I think. I’m all for that. Follow.”
“That’s it!” shrieked Ben, sitting upright in the darkness. “I’ve had it!”
“Have you?”
“We can’t share a bed!”
“Quite clearly, since you’ve got all the covers and won’t stop shouting.”
“Shouting? I’m only shouting because the dozy twat next to me won’t turn his phone off, won’t stop scratching, won’t stop talking to me, and – for God’s sake, Jeremy! – stop rubbing your feet against me! Are you wearing slippers or something?”
“That’s a big fat no. Me and footwear tend not to get on. Er, Ben? You know taxidermy?”
“What the …?”
“Do you always check that the animals are, like, dead before you stuff them?”
“Shut up, you moron! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Shut your idiotic pie hole and stop asking stupid questions!”
“It’s just that there are two fellers sat on the bed, looking at me.”
Ben formed the opening sounds of a stern and expletive-laden rebuke when his brain interrupted him.
The furry form rubbing against his feet. The scratching.
“Chocolate chip sprinkles?” he said.
He flicked on his miner’s lamp and instantly wished he hadn’t.
Thank God for stockings, thought Nerys. If she had chosen to wear one-piece tights that morning, she would have been forced to remove them and something even more intimate. Sitting in knickers and blouse (her bra having been artfully removed from beneath, in a move that nearly gave Jim a heart attack), Nerys felt confident she retained a level of dignity.
Jim had had to go off home for a bit of a lie-down. Les had his head on the table amid various empty glasses, and was now snoring. Arthur blinked rapidly and tried to focus on his dominos.
“S’your go,” he said.
“Is it?” said Nerys, and pushed a tile onto the table. “Think that’s right.”
Arthur peered, shrugged, and then slammed down his last piece.
“Out!” he declared, and drained his pint. “I’ve won.”
“Oh,” said Nerys.
“Wha’s me prize?” he said.
Nerys frowned.
“I think you get to take me home for the night.”
“Whoopee. Come on then, luv.”
Nerys helped Arthur on with his jacket, and then gathered her clothes up off the floor. She tried to put her skirt on, but gave up after three failed attempts to get one foot inside it.
“Balls to it,” she said, and, half supporting him, half leaning on him, guided Arthur towards the door.
Ben and Clovenhoof beat a fighting retreat up the basement stairs. Ben had turned on the Henry hoover and waved the nozzle aggressively at the tide of curious cellar rats.
“I think one’s gone up my tube!” he yelled.
Clovenhoof, who in a past existence had spent many a joyful hour in Hell’s Pit of Carnivorous Rodents, smiled wryly.
“The Marquis de Sade said the same thing to me once.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Clovenhoof, and cheerfully batted a rat off a step with a copy of James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small.
“There’s one on my shoulder!” yelled Ben.
“Hang on,” said Clovenhoof, raised his phone, and took a picture.
“Don’t just stand there!” Ben screeched.
Clovenhoof typed a comment on his phone.
“There’s a rat on ma Kitchen, what am I gonna do? Hashtag, best night ever.”
“Jeremy!”
Clovenhoof casually picked up the brown rat, tossed it down the basement stairs, and closed the door. Ben frantically spun in a circle, checking himself for any further hangers on.
“That was fun,” said Clovenhoof.
“Fun?” said Ben, on the verge of tears. “I’ve been traumatised and violated.”
“Fun,” agreed Clovenhoof. “Now what? Another cup of cocoa and down again for round two?”
“Christ, no. We’ve got to find somewhere else to spend the night. I bet Nerys has found some cosy hotel for herself.”
“Maybe she’ll let us kip on her floor,” said Clovenhoof, and opened the track-my-child app he had installed on his phone. “It’s a good job I slipped one of Animal Ed’s GPS trackers in her purse.”
“You put a tracking device on Nerys?” said Ben, surprised.
“Don’t judge me.”
“Actually, I think it’s a pretty smart idea.”
Michael threw the last of the ruined samples into the yellow biohazard bin. Waiting for the laboratory computer to rebuild itself had given him time to put the lab space in some sort of order. The rampaging beast had indeed set them back by months but, with the salvaged samples and data set neatly aside, at least the road ahead was clear.
As he tidied, Michael’s eyes kept returning to the large square of chipboard that had been placed over the hole in the wall. Maybe it was because it was nighttime, but Michael couldn’t stop thinking of how flimsy chipboard was, and the strength with which the beast had torn its way out of that very wall.
“Maybe I should ask Chip to park one of his vans in front of the hole,” Michael mused.
“Shall I put that as a reminder in your calendar?” said Little A.
Michael looked around in delight.
“Little A!”
“Yes, Michael?”
All the progress bars on the screen had reached one hundred percent. Green ticks ran down the list of diagnostic routines.
“You’re back.”
“I think I might have been … unwell,” said Little A.
“Just a little too much to drink,” said Michael. “Little A, show me your most recent activity log.”
Dates, times, and events raced up the screen.
“What was happening in the lab before you went off-line?” said Michael.
“I offered to make you an omelette, and then you told me to run a diagnostic check, and then I said, ‘can anyone smell sm…’ and then I went off-line.”
“No, before that. What happened when the dog appeared?”
A video screen popped up. In the centre was the sequencing cabinet. Low resolution prevented Michael clearly seeing what was going on, but a shape appeared to form inside the cabinet.
“What’s that?”
“Sample CZ005.”
“What do you mean?”
On the screen, the cabinet shuddered and then tipped over. Glass smashed, and a furry bundle rolled
out and off screen.
“The dog was in the cabinet?” said Michael.
“Yes. Sample CZ005,” said Little A.
“No, that’s nonsense. Sequenced samples do not spontaneously turn into little dogs,” he said, and then mentally added, and little dogs do not spontaneously turn into monstrous beasts. But this one did.
“Tell me about sample CZ005.”
“It came from supplier 255. You have an open reminder to speaker to supplier 255 about his packaging choices.”
“But what is it a sample of?”
“It was labelled as a bat-eared fox.”
“That’s no fox.”
“However, I do have a full genetic analysis of the sample.”
“Yes?”
“Canis lupis familiaris 43%.”
“So, it is dog.”
“Sciurus vulgaris 27%.”
“Squirrel?”
“Martes martes, 19%.”
“What’s that? Pine marten?”
“Yes. And 11% unknown.”
“Unknown?”
“Possibly capra nubiana.”
“What’s that?”
“Wild goat.”
“Wild goat?” said Michael, confused. “How the Hell did that get in there? The only wild goat I know is Jeremy,” he chuckled humourlessly.
The chuckle died almost instantly in his throat.
Arthur flopped back on the bed. Nerys pulled off his shoes, and dropped them on the floor. The old man focussed blearily again on Nerys.
“Why’re you here, again? You’re not the home help, are ya?”
“No, I’m Nerys,” said Nerys. “You agreed to put me up.”
“Ah,” said Arthur. “Were we going to have sex?”
“I hadn’t necessarily planned …”
“Because I don’t think I’m up to it, luv.”
“Oh, well, if you’re certain.”
“I think I’d rather just have a cuppa. Could you do that for me?”
“With pleasure,” said Nerys, giving the drunk old geezer a warm smile.
“Besides, you’re not really my type.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I like more of your … your wosname … Beyonce type. With the …” Arthur mimed a curvaceous backside.
“You get a lot of them round here, Arthur?”
“Man can dream,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“How do you have your tea?” she asked at the door.
“Hot and sweet,” he murmured.
“Course you do.”
“Lots of sweet, sweet sugar,” he said and, perhaps drifting off into improbable dreams of Beyonce Knowles, performed a mime that Nerys was sure elderly gentlemen had no rights to know.
Nerys was on a plateau of drunkenness. She knew she wasn’t going to get any drunker, recognised that, technically speaking, she was utterly smashed but, in recognising it, was able to function in a very limited capacity. Moving cautiously, as though the floor was made of slick ice, she stepped out of Arthur’s bedroom, past the empty bedroom she had ear-marked for herself, and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea for the now snoring Arthur. It was the least she could do in thanks.
She found the kettle, momentarily fought to get it off its stand, and then filled it at the sink. At that point, she saw the horned figure leering at her through the kitchen window. She screamed, dropped the kettle, and sprayed much of the kitchen with tap water.
“Bloody Hell, Jeremy!” she yelled.
She then saw Ben, seemingly wearing nothing but pyjamas, stood beside Clovenhoof in the alleyway.
She went to the back door, unlocked it, and opened it.
“What the bloody Hell?” she said.
“We need somewhere to stay,” said Ben.
“What about the bookshop?”
Ben’s face paled.
“It didn’t end well,” said Clovenhoof.
“Well, you can’t stay here,” she hissed. “How did you find me, anyway?”
“Tracker app,” said Clovenhoof, and held up his phone. “Hang on. Stay there.”
The phone’s camera flash momentarily blinded Nerys.
“Hashtag, don’t fancy yours much,” said Clovenhoof.
“You two need to piss off,” she said. “And now.”
“But we’ve got nowhere to go,” said Ben.
“You’ve no idea what I had to go through to get a bed tonight,” she said.
“Depraved and sordid acts,” said Clovenhoof, nodding.
“Dominos,” she said.
“The pizza?” said Ben.
“The game.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think it’s a sex act. I think you have to crouch behind them and stick your tongue up their …”
“The bloody game!” squeaked Nerys. “Tiles. Dots.”
“What am I thinking of then?” said Jeremy.
“There’s an old man in bed back there who will not be pleased to find I’ve let two strangers into his house.”
“We’ll be quiet,” said Ben.
“Like perverts loitering in bushes,” said Jeremy.
“Or church mice, perhaps,” suggested Ben.
Nerys looked at the pathetically hopeful expressions on their faces and relented.
“You both sleep on the sofa. You get up at six …”
“But it’s gone two a.m. already,” complained Ben.
“… At six, and you are out of here.”
“Fine,” said Ben tiredly.
They stepped inside. Clovenhoof looked at the half-filled kettle.
“And if you’re making a cup of tea, that’d be great.”
“I’m not making you a cup of tea, Jeremy.”
Clovenhoof tutted.
“Ben made me a lovely cup of hot chocolate with sprinkles.”
“Those weren’t sprinkles,” said Ben. “They were rat droppings.”
Clovenhoof sucked at something between his teeth.
“Bold choice, Kitchen.”
“Just get in here and let me get some sleep,” said Nerys. “I’ve had the worst forty-eight hours of my life. I’ve not only lost my house, but I’ve also lost my job because Michael’s been conducting freaky Frankenstein experiments in his lab and turned a little dog into some ravenous monster that’s now prowling the streets of Sutton Coldfield.”
“What?” said Ben. “A monster? Are you drunk?”
“Of course, I’m drunk,” said Nerys. “But it’s true.”
“But how is that even possible?”
Clovenhoof suddenly clicked his fingers.
“A thought?” said Ben.
“Rusty trombone,” said Clovenhoof. “That’s what I was thinking of.”
The first rays of dawn crept through the gaps in the chipboard of the laboratory wall.
Michael had been deep in thought for several hours. An archangel who had watched over the Almighty’s creation for aeons, he was capable of sitting in thought almost indefinitely. He had reams of genetic data on the computer. He had the laboratory CCTV footage and the video on his own phone. In his left hand, he held a plastic freezer bag decorated with penguins and snowflakes. In his right hand, he held a pink dog collar that had been torn apart.
“It’s Jeremy,” he said.
“Sorry, Michael?” said Little A.
“Talking to myself,” said Michael. “Actually, could you put a call through to Jeremy Clovenhoof?”
“Are you sure, Michael? It is only seven a.m.”
Michael grunted appreciatively. Programming AI with manners and a sense of decency was tricky, but much underrated.
“To Hell with him,” said Michael.
Clovenhoof was dragged from sleep by the peculiar sensation of his chest vibrating. For a frightening moment, he wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. Then he remembered that he couldn’t die, and relaxed.
He had been lying in a fat armchair, head lolling over one arm, hoofy legs dangling over the other. Ben lay curled up on the sofa. A
dditionally, an angry woman was banging on the window and swearing.
Clovenhoof gave her a cheery thumbs up, and answered the phone.
“Hello, Happy Endings Massage Parlour. No job too small. How can I help you?”
“Jeremy, it’s Michael.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that cleared up,” he said, and killed the call.
Clovenhoof went to the window. He was surprised to recognise the woman. She had a furious look on her face. He opened the front door.
“It’s Stella, isn’t it? Belle’s grandma?” he said. “Come to arrange the funeral plans for little Nemo?”
“What the Hell are you doing here?” she spat.
“I often ask myself the same thing. It’s life’s great conundrum.”
“Where’s our Arthur?”
“Arthur?”
“Our Arthur?” croaked Ben, waking up.
“Did he say you could crash here?”
“No, Nerys did,” said Clovenhoof.
“Nerys?”
Clovenhoof’s phone started to vibrate again.
“And you would be Arthur’s, um … better half?” said Ben.
Stella stabbed Clovenhoof in the chest with a gaudily painted nail.
“I blame you for the attitude I get from Spartacus. He used to be such a good boy, my grandson. Then you take Bea, my granddaughter. Try to make me look stupid while you’re doing it! I hear you’ve been propositioning my Toyah. And now Toyah’s dad! Sure, we’ve not been together for years but …” She shook with anger. “Are you trying to muscle in on my whole family? And who the Hell are you?”
This last was directed to Nerys, standing in the doorway, in a blouse and knickers, and holding her head delicately. Her hair was all over the place, as though each individual strand was doing its damnedest to flee the hangover.
“What’s going on?” she mumbled.
“Whore!” shouted Stella.
“Easy now,” said Ben, disapprovingly.
Stella, moving with surprising speed for an older woman, leapt at Nerys, nails out like talons. Nerys squealed and hid behind the door.
Clovenhoof answered the phone.
“What is it, Michael?”
“I need to ask you a simple question,” said Michael and then, “What’s going on in the background?”
Clovenhoof assessed the scene thoughtfully.
