by Heide Goody
“An old lady who wants me to cremate her fish is trying to claw Nerys’s eyes out because she thinks Nerys slept with her ex, even though Nerys did nothing of the sort, but only played dominos with him, which is not a sex act but a game with tiles. Was that the question you phoned up to ask me?”
“No.”
“Then shoot.”
“Did you offer to sell Ed Lawrence a genetic sample for a bat-eared fox but actually give him cuttings of your own hair mixed in with that of Twinkle and various stuffed animals from Ben’s taxidermy collection?”
“That’s an oddly specific question, wouldn’t you say?”
“Did you,” said Michael with the slow, quiet tone of the deeply annoyed, “stop to think what would happen if the DNA of the Fallen One, the Prince of Hell, formerly one of the most powerful spiritual beings in all Creation, was fed into a DNA sequencing machine, if that mystical coding was unlocked by the tools of modern science?”
“No,” said Clovenhoof, feeling an excitement grow in his belly. “Something terrible I should think. Or amazing. Was it amazing?”
Michael began to shout. And then he began to swear. It grew in volume until it eventually matched the profanities Stella was hurling at Nerys through the closed door. Clovenhoof listened for a minute and then, bored, put the phone down and went into the kitchen to make himself that cup of tea Nerys had rudely failed to make for him the previous night.
Chapter 8 – In which Nerys searches for a job, Ben searches for a beast, and everyone has to learn to live together
Nerys followed Clovenhoof as he unlocked the door of the garage and ushered Ben ahead of him. He flipped a switch to illuminate the large space. Nerys blinked at the brightness of the fluorescent strips, which contrasted sharply with the deepening shadows of outside. They stepped around the shining hearses and went through a discreet door at the back.
“Right, the stairs or the lift?” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, lift please, my feet are killing me,” said Nerys.
Clovenhoof opened a cage and indicated the space beyond with a wave of his hand. It was low and wide. Nerys peered down to stare at the dusty interior.
“You’re an arsehole, Jeremy Clovenhoof,” she said. “That’s for coffins!”
“It can be, if it wants to be. Not everything has to have a label. It’s that kind of judgemental thinking that cost you your job.”
Nerys considered slapping him, but she was too tired.
“Well, it can take my bags at least.”
She tossed a backpack and a large holdall into the lift. They trudged up two flights of stairs, through a door, and emerged into a large storage space.
“This place is a dump,” said Ben.
“This is a funeral directors,” said Clovenhoof. “Show a little more reverence and respect.”
Nerys stared at the chaotic mess and wondered how they ever found anything.
“A funeral directors should be tidier than this,” she said.
“You know, that’s what Gordon Buford keeps telling me.”
There were folding signs to indicate that a funeral was in progress; there had to be enough here to close the Aston Expressway. There were badly folded piles of sombre velvet throws. There were various stands, for coffins, for wreaths, and for other unclear purposes. But the main feature of the storage area, the thing one simply couldn’t ignore, was coffins. They were piled up on every side, cheap pine coffins, fancy mahogany coffins, and something that looked like a chrysalis for an alien life form.
“Is that coffin cardboard?”
“That’s the eco pod, we put dead hippies in those,” said Clovenhoof. “Closest thing you can get to being thrown on the compost heap. You can have one of those if you like. I’ve got something comfier lined up for my sleeping quarters."
Clovenhoof pulled out a luxury coffin and tested the depth of the satin padding with a hand.
“Seriously?” asked Ben. “Then why did we get these sleeping bags from the scout hut?”
“You can put your sleeping bag on this concrete floor if you like, but I’ll take a bit of padding and a draught-proof surround every time,” said Clovenhoof.
Ben gave a small nod of acknowledgement and started to investigate the other coffins.
“So, this isn’t exactly an official arrangement,” said Nerys.
“Nope.”
“How often do people come up here, Jeremy?”
“Hardly ever. I’m supposed to be doing a stock take at the moment, so I’ve told them all that if they want something from up here then they need to ask me. Genius, eh?”
Nerys rolled her eyes.”
“No windows, that’s handy,” said Ben.
“Yup. So as long as we don’t enter or leave during working hours, then we’re fine.”
Nerys realised that the lift hadn’t yet arrived at the top. She went over to peer at it.
“Jeremy, the lift is stuck!”
He sauntered over, pressed the button, and sucked through his teeth when it made a distant groaning sound, like a wounded buffalo.
“Yeah, it does that sometimes.”
“So, how can I get to my stuff?” Nerys asked, anxiety gnawing at her.
“We’ll call the engineer in the morning. They normally get to us within a week or so.”
“You’re joking. You must be joking. Ha ha?” Nerys gave Clovenhoof a pleading look. “All the things that I brought here, which pretty much equals all the things I have in the world at this moment in time, are stuck in that lift?”
“Yup.”
“And I can’t get to them.”
“Nope.”
“Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
Nerys stared at the lift entrance, trying to imagine how she was going to survive the coming days with no fresh clothes, no toiletries, and no gossip magazines in the company of a pair of buffoons.
“No,” she whispered, “it’s just not possible.”
Ben and Clovenhoof looked on as she sank to her knees and tried to reach down to the lift cage, her hands clawing ineffectually at empty air.
Clovenhoof clapped his hands together.
“Right, let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got everything we need in here. I’ll get a meal on, shall I?”
Nerys turned around and slumped despondently against the wall.
“Well, I’m sure some grub will make us all feel better,” said Ben. “What’s on the menu?”
“We’re pretty much limited to Pot Noodles, as we’ve only got a kettle. Do you want beef and tomato or Chinese chicken? My treat for this evening, we can take it in turns to cook.”
Nerys hugged her knees and tried not to scream.
“Beef and tomato, please.”
There was a toilet, a kettle, and space for them all to sleep. Clovenhoof was pleased with himself. He’d got his friends out of a sticky situation there. He was dimly aware that he had been the one to cause the sticky situation, but he’d come good. It would mean that they all had to live closely together for a few weeks, until the flats were made habitable once more, but they were mates. They knew each other well enough to manage.
“What do you mean, it’s the wrong way round?” snapped Ben.
“The new sheet hangs from the front, everyone knows that!” replied Nerys.
“No. Sorry,” said Ben in what Clovenhoof recognised as his ‘listen, madam, I’m not a sexist, but I’m a man, and you’re going to have to trust me on this’ tone. “That is utterly wrong. It looks wrong. I can’t live with it like that.”
Clovenhoof was surprised to hear his friends shouting at each other. Normally they would be shouting at him. He felt oddly left out. He wandered through to find them both outside the toilet cubicle, red in the face, staring each other down.
“Jeremy, which way round should the toilet paper hang? It’s critical that Ben understands it should not hang down the back like that!”
“It’s like you don’t understand any of
the basic ways that a bathroom works, Nerys!” said Ben. “I bet it’s you who squeezes the toothpaste from the middle.”
“What are you talking about now, Ben? What other way of squeezing it is there?”
“From the end, of course! You make sure that the flow is even and the weight of the tube is balanced.”
Nerys rolled her eyes.
“You’re talking about the olden days when toothpaste was in tubes made of lead or whatever it was. It was always difficult to get the last bits out of those, unless you were an OCD type who rolled it up from the end, but we’ve moved on now. The plastic ones sort themselves out. Oh! That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re so OCD that you’re basically incapable of sharing a bathroom! If it wasn’t the toothpaste, it would be that I moved your jar of bath salts.”
“Those aren’t bath salts. They’re toenails.”
“They’re what? What kind of a person, grabbing the bare essentials for a shoestring existence in a funeral home, takes their toenail collection?”
“It’s not weird or anything,” said Ben.
“Yes, it is. Fucking Hell, it is. Back in the good old days, they’d lock you in the loony bin for that.”
“The state of your nails is a good indicator of overall health. They indicate the levels of nutrients and impurities in the body. It’s like ice cores or tree segments. It’s a glimpse back into biological history.”
“It’s bloody crazy, you revolting man!”
Nerys’s voice reached a high pitched scream, making Ben wince with its ferocity. Clovenhoof decided to give his ears a rest by retreating, but he’d captured the entire exchange on video using his phone, so he trotted off cheerfully to review his footage.
Ben was pleased with the space he’d created for himself in the storage room. He felt quite at home, surrounded as he was by the last remnants of his taxidermy supplies, a handful of salvaged wargaming soldiers, and the last remaining animals from his collection.
He had also been creating grand plans for his next piece of work. In pride of place on the wall was a large scale map of Boldmere and Sutton Coldfield. He had found a cupboard with some stationery supplies, and had spent a happy couple of hours using string, glue sticks, and pictures from the newspaper.
“What’s this?” said Clovenhoof.
“Project Beast,” said Ben, intoning the words in a low and ominous voice.
“Pardon?”
“Project Beast,” said Ben, and then coughed as the cinema trailer voice proved too much for his vocal cords. “These are all sightings of the creature Nerys was talking about. She’s far from being the only one who’s seen it. I’m trying to spot patterns and clues in the seemingly random sightings that had been reported so far.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you interested?”
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” said Ben, and then, “And, although I’m sure the authorities want to capture it alive, if they end up shooting it – and I must emphasise I’m not saying they should – then it would be nice if a local taxidermist was on hand to preserve this unique specimen.”
Clovenhoof looked at one of the pictures.
“You do know that one’s a tabby cat, don’t you?” he said, pointing. “You can even see its collar.”
“That’s not a collar,” said Ben. “The eye witness said it was bloody entrails, dragging behind it as it snarled at her from her garden path.”
“Did the eye witness also say how big the beast of Boldmere was?” asked Clovenhoof.
“She says it stood four feet high at the shoulder,” said Ben. “She managed to get her kids out of the way just in time.”
“That’s amazing,” said Clovenhoof.
“Yes. Amazing to think that this thing walks amongst us,” said Ben, his eyes bright. “It could be crouched around any corner, ready to spring out at an innocent member of the public.”
“No, I mean it’s amazing that she has a watering can that’s four feet high. It’s the same size as the beast. Must be back-breaking work to water her flowers with that thing.”
Ben sighed, and squinted sideways at the photo.
“Maybe this one is a fake. It does seem to be a different colour in the other photos.”
He pulled the suspect photo down from his wall, and picked up some fur samples, comparing them with the other grainy images.
“Would you say it’s dark weasel, or is it closer to mole?” he asked.
“I’d say it’s a dead ringer for Satan’s pubes,” said Clovenhoof.
“Has it got a webcam?” asked Nerys, as Ben set up the laptop on a handy coffin.
“Yes,” said Ben, “this is my old laptop, but it’s got everything you’re going to want, I think. Only thing to watch is the keyboard. The t key doesn’t work.”
“I’ll be able to manage, I’m sure. I won’t need the keyboard to become a YouTube sensation.”
“So, what is it you’re doing, exactly?” asked Ben.
“Ooh, I’ll practise my spiel on you,” said Nerys, clapping her hands in excitement.
She shifted in her chair and assumed her presenter’s face. Serious but sultry. Could she get away with an Angelina Jolie pout? She pushed her lips forward slightly. A bit more, maybe. Sultry.
Ben frowned.
“A bucket, Jeremy, quickly!”
“I’m busy!” Clovenhoof shouted.
“Nerys is going to puke!”
“No, I’m not, you idiot!” said Nerys, exasperated. “I was just, you know, trying on a face. That one’s not working then?”
Ben shook his head.
Clovenhoof appeared, his phone raised.
“Where’s the puking?”
“You’re filming this?” said Nerys.
“False alarm,” said Ben. “Nerys was just trying on a face. She’s going to become a YouTube sensation, apparently.”
“I was just about to explain what my videos are going to be all about.” Nerys tried to compose her features into something less alarming. She smiled at them, and imagined her grateful viewers. “My name is Nerys Thomas, and I want to share with you the accumulated wisdom from my time in the dating game. It’s a jungle out there, but I can help you find your way.”
She gave a knowing smile.
“Which jungle animal are you, a cougar?” asked Clovenhoof.
“I’m far too young to be a cougar, Jeremy. I may not be love’s young dream anymore, but I’m a long way off cougar. I see myself more as a MILF, only, you know, without any actual kids. Having said that, cougar dating advice has a nice ring to it. I might use that.” She attempted a sexy feline yowl, but stopped when Ben advanced again with the bucket.
“Give us some advice then,” said Clovenhoof, still wielding the camera phone.
“I think I’ll start with clothes,” mused Nerys. “Right, viewers, I’m assuming that you’ve done the necessary research on your dating partner. If not, we’ll cover that in a separate video. I mean, that’s dating 101 and, if you haven’t done that kind of research, you really do need help. Anyway, you’ll know if he’s a boobs or bottom man by now, so you will select your outfit to showcase your assets accordingly. I recommend a push-up bra and some sort of laced-up top for boob men. They love to unleash the girls by undoing the top.” Nerys thrust her chest forward and pointed, in case her audience was slow in catching on.
Ben shuffled uncomfortably.
“Do you think that people really want to see this sort of thing?”
Clovenhoof snorted. “From what I’ve seen, the internet was made for this sort of thing. Carry on, Nerys.”
“Right, where were we? Oh, yes. If you’ve got a bottom man, then you’ll be wanting the highest heels you can stand up in, so it makes your bum stick out. Don’t worry about being able to walk in them. If you follow my advice, you won’t be on your feet for too long.” She winked at her audience, and then relaxed her features. “So, stuff like that. I’ll be doing regular updates, guiding people through the d
elicate art of dating, step by step.”
“The delicate art of getting laid you mean?” said Clovenhoof. “You’ll be a hit, Nerys. The internet’s going to love this.”
He wandered off, tapping away on his phone.
Clovenhoof had already built up a substantial following on Twitter and Vine, and dozens of friends on Facebook, and they seemed hungry for more updates, so he uploaded the video of Nerys trying her weird faces and vocal styles, followed by her dating advice. He put some thought into the correct hashtag, settled on #shagmebigboy, and posted the video onto all of his social media channels. He then spent a few minutes arranging Ben’s taxidermy animals into sex positions so he could take some pictures to upload later to Snapchat.
Clovenhoof was particularly enjoying the voyeuristic side of social media. He had found Sandra on Facebook without too much difficulty, and discovered that she had over a thousand friends. She only seemed to actively talk to about six of them, but it was like having tentacles that spread throughout the community. There was very little that occurred in a five mile radius that Sandra wasn’t alerted to by one of her friends. He’d already set about systematically friending Sandra’s many contacts, and their contacts too.
SCUM had its own Facebook group that shared parenting problems as diverse as which nappy brand was best (this was something akin to the war between Heaven and Hell, he discovered) to the delicate question of what time was considered too early to start drinking wine. Clovenhoof’s own views on alcohol were straightforward (it was never too early), whereas the ladies of SCUM had built up a set of rules based on things like whether it was a school night and whether you were with friends or alone. He scrolled back through old discussions and discovered that very little was off limits to this group. He particularly enjoyed the lengthy debate about post coital clean-up rituals, and determined that his new aim would be to start a discussion as fruitful and entertaining as that one. He started them off with a “whose bum print is this?” photo competition. He hoped to find some entertaining responses, and maybe even some more pictures when he checked back later, rather than the slightly bland chatter about the next day’s protest in the park.
