Clovenhoof 05 Beelzebelle

by Heide Goody

  Clovenhoof looked up to the windows of the offices set into the mezzanine level of the supermarket.

  “Or it never left,” he said, in his most sinister voice.

  After Nerys left in search of answers to questions she had no right to ask, Ben saw that the protestors weren’t moving anywhere, so did as promised, and put together a little breast-themed window display. He initially arranged some of his taxidermical woodland readers about the display, but the look on the badger’s face seemed somewhat lecherous, and the sight of cute little stoats and harvest mice scampering among books on the female form looked a little sordid, so he moved them on elsewhere.

  Happy with his efforts, he stepped outside into the rain to gauge public opinion. Some of the banner-waving ladies who saw it appeared sceptical, rather than delighted.

  “I like it,” said a voice.

  It was Spartacus Wilson, juvenile delinquent of the parish.

  “Thank you,” said Ben.

  “I like the woolly boobs. They’d make good hats.”

  Ben would have argued, but the knitted knockers did have a certain bobble hat quality to them.

  “Who is this man?” asked Spartacus’s mum.

  “This is Ben,” said Spartacus. “He used to be Baghera at the cub scouts.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I’m Toyah.”

  “We’ve met,” said Ben.

  Toyah frowned.

  “I didn’t go to many of the cub things.”

  “No, I held your handbag for you last year, while you went twelve rounds with those two Essex girls in the Boldmere Oak car park.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, and smiled in fond memory. “Hold this for me.”

  She thrust an open cloth bag into Ben’s hand and rooted through it one-handed as she lifted Beelzebelle out of her pram.

  “Hey, Belle,” said Ben, and gave her a little wave.

  She blew a bubble at him and squirmed in her mother’s grip.

  “Her name’s Bea,” said Toyah, finally retrieving a bottle of formula milk from the bag. “So, you one of Jeremy’s friends?”

  “Friend is a strong word. Victim comes closer.” Ben looked round. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Oh, he went off to talk to the fuzz and got arrested,” said Spartacus.

  “Again?” said Ben unsurprised. “You know he leaves a permanent overnight bag at the police station, don’t you?”

  Belle (or was it Bea?) latched onto the bottle and sucked noisily on it. One of the other protesting women, a tall woman in dungarees, looked at her.

  “A bottle on a day like today?” she said. “I know it can be easier sometimes but, if there was a time to show that public breastfeeding is not only acceptable, but the right thing to do, it’s today.”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Toyah, embarrassed.

  “I express milk for my Tristram sometimes, but I …” The woman paused. “That looks very creamy. It’s not formula, is it?”

  “Perhaps,” mumbled Toyah, angling her body away.

  The tall dungaree-wearer pulled a disgusted face.

  “I don’t mean to scoff, but that stuff’s practically poison.”

  “I think it might mention something about that on the tin if it was,” said Ben.

  “Everyone knows breast is best,” said the woman.

  “Well, it rhymes anyway,” agreed Ben.

  “I was unable to breastfeed Bea for a few weeks,” said Toyah, “and …”

  “Why?” snapped Dungarees.

  “Um, I was on holiday.”

  Dungarees’s look of disgust was replaced by one of even greater magnitude. It was so powerful that, if Toyah had then revealed she drowned kittens and ate old people’s faces, Dungarees’s face wouldn’t really have had anywhere to go.

  “Nothing is more important than your baby’s well-being,” said Dungarees. “Any loving mother knows that.”

  Ben saw an immediate change in Toyah’s expression. Whatever shame or class-consciousness or guilt had allowed her to be browbeaten by the other woman vanished instantly. Ben had seen that expression on Toyah’s face before, shortly before he had been given a handbag and two Essex women had regretted ever coming to the West Midlands.

  “Are you suggesting I don’t love my children?” said Toyah.

  Dungarees’s eyebrows shot up, and she glared pointedly at the formula bottle in Toyah’s hand.

  In the shabby-looking corner building that housed a down-at-heel shopping centre, the Moo Moo Club nightclub, the Sutton Coldfield town library, and the city council’s regional office, Nerys looked through screeds of maps, plans, and documentation that she barely understood. The council worker, Surinder, hovered nearby and tried not to look uncomfortable as Nerys untidied the precious paperwork.

  “Perhaps if you told me what you were looking for?” she said.

  “I’m interested in the company that holds the freeholds and mortgages on these properties,” she said.

  “ARC Residential and Construction,” said Surinder, tapping a document Nerys had already looked at.

  “And what does ARC stand for?” said Nerys.

  “Er, ARC Residential and Construction. A. R. C.”

  “The A in ARC stands for ARC.”

  “Apparently.”

  Nerys shook her head.

  “But who are they? What are they?”

  Surinder pulled out some fresh files, surreptitiously tidying up some of the existing ones as she did.

  “Touch of the OCDs?” said Nerys.

  “Nothing wrong with liking order,” said Surinder happily. “Here.” She passed Nerys a paper-clipped file. “It’s the company’s property portfolio within the city. Own a lot, don’t they? Here’s the planning permits. Oh, they own that new church on Beechmount Drive.”

  “What?” said Nerys, and snatched the papers from Surinder.

  “Can’t say I like it myself,” sniffed Surinder. “Any self-respecting building should be rectilinear. Keeps things nice and neat. But the committee approved it. Signed by our own Councillor Bloom.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “Oh, she’s a very … active woman. Councillor. Justice of the Peace. Wouldn’t be surprised if she runs for parliament sometime. But, look at this, honestly.”

  She was holding the plans for the Consecr8 church.

  “I mean, it’s not bad enough that they can’t build the thing square, but they got all these unnecessarily weird links to the water and electricity in the basement, and a dubious floating foundation. If this thing was in an earthquake zone, it would be rolling off down the street at the first tremor.”

  “And, are we in an earthquake zone?” asked Nerys, not really interested in plans, but utterly taken by the links between the church, the housing estate, and a possible financial scam.

  “No, but that’s not the point.”

  “It’s Chip Malarkey.”

  “It’s what?” said Surinder.

  “He’s behind it. He built the Rainbow development. He built that monstrous eyesore of a church. He owns the ARC lab and this ARC residential thingy. He’s funded it all by taking out mortgages on properties that he’s already sold to other people and …”

  Something caught Nerys’s eyes: one line on the list of properties owned by ARC Residential and Construction.

  “That evil clusterfucking cockthistle!” she exclaimed.

  “We searched up here when we first realised there’d been a break-in,” said Ahmed.

  “Yes, we’re not complete idiots, Jeremy,” said PC Pearson.

  Clovenhoof crept up the stairs to the upper floor. Hooves weren’t ideal for creeping. He had previously considered inventing some hoof-slippers for covert ops, and now wished that he had followed through with that idea. He could have pitched it to Dragons’ Den and everything. Hoof-slippers for horse-riding in noise reduction areas. Hoof-slippers for, er, goat ninjas …

  “Just have your taser ready, plod,” he said.

  “We don’t carry tasers.
”

  “Your big whacking stick then.”

  He opened the door onto the admin area. This level of the supermarket was built directly into the roof. A metal apex roof was above them, dotted with frosted glass skylights. One had been smashed in. Clovenhoof inspected the granules of glass on the floor.

  “So, the beast broke in here.”

  “It’s like seeing a master at work,” said PC Pearson sarcastically.

  In this room and the office beyond, boxes, desks, and computers had been tipped over and flung aside.

  “It was angry,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Or he was very drunk,” said PC Pearson.

  Ahmed gave a start at a scrabbling sound above them.

  “The beast!” he whispered.

  “Builders,” said PC Pearson, and sighed wearily. “Right, lads. Fun though this is, you know how they say the modern police force is hampered by too much paperwork? Well, I’ve got this lovely mountain of paperwork on my desk back at the nick and, astonishingly, I’d quite like to get on with it. Let’s wrap this charade up and get you down to custody, Jeremy.”

  Clovenhoof ignored him utterly.

  “If I’d broken into a supermarket,” he mused, “eaten all the crispy pancakes and drunk all the Lambrini, where would I go next?”

  “Yes,” said PC Pearson. “Where did you go next?”

  “I’d throw up,” said Ahmed. “Not that I’ve ever drunk, obviously. It’s haram.”

  “Funny that,” said Clovenhoof. “The Guy Upstairs tells one bunch of the faithful to quaff wine every time they think of His son, like it’s some kind of weird drinking game. And then He tells the next bunch that all alcohol is sinful. It’s almost as if He makes it up as He goes along.” He clicked his fingers. “The toilet!”

  “What?” said PC Pearson.

  “To throw up,” said Ahmed.

  “Or just have a kip,” said Clovenhoof.

  He led the way, through the devastated rooms, to the end corridor and the single staff toilet. The door was closed.

  “I’d bet money it’s in there,” said Clovehoof.

  “I’ll give you fifty quid if there’s a burglar in there,” said PC Pearson.

  “And if it’s the Beast of Boldmere?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  “Done.”

  Clovenhoof approached cautiously. Ahmed, realising how close he was, scuttled round to stand behind PC Pearson.

  “Really?” said PC Pearson.

  “I’m on minimum wage,” said Ahmed. “You’re not.”

  “Ready?” said Clovenhoof.

  He reached out slowly, turned the handle, and opened the door. A dark shape filled the small space, half-draped over the toilet bowl, half-hugging it. Two eyes, as big as pool balls, glared at them.

  “Oh, crap,” whimpered Ahmed.

  PC Pearson’s moustache quivered as he gargled and stammered.

  “It … it … it’s some – it’s a wolf, a bear a – oh, crap.”

  “It’s a thousand pounds, thank you very much,” said Clovenhoof. “I think I’ll be using it to kickstart my hoof-slipper business.”

  Ahmed was descending into a crouch, curling up into a ball, as though he could hide inside his own hi-vis security jacket. PC Pearson had reached for his police radio, still burbling.

  “Control, this is Lima Zulu Papa Wolf Bear Tiger thing.”

  “Come again, Lima Zulu Papa.”

  “Lion, lion. Dog. Teeth. Big, big fudging animal.”

  Clovenhoof smiled at the beast. It was a magnificent monster, all muscle, sinew, fangs, and take-no-prisoners attitude, wrapped up in a sleek coat of midnight. There was no mistaking the lineage of this half-ton beauty.

  “Hi,” said Clovenhoof. “I think I’m your dad.”

  The beast bared its fangs and growled. A waft of the most deliciously foul breath surrounded Clovenhoof.

  “Well, me and a Yorkshire terrier and some other dead things. It was sort of a group effort,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Come in, Lima Zulu Papa,” crackled the radio. “Matthew, are you there?”

  PC Pearson readjusted his grip on his truncheon.

  “Get back, Jeremy,” he said, his voice trembling.

  “It’s okay,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Get back!” PC Pearson hissed. “I do not want to die saving your life. That would be a truly shitty way to go. Worse than embarrassing.”

  Clovenhoof smiled. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

  The beast roared.

  “Lambrini hangover?” said Clovenhoof. “Tell me about it.”

  The beast pounced.

  A full-scale slanging match had broken out between Toyah and the dungaree-wearing mother, and Ben wished he could be somewhere else entirely.

  “What you saying?” said Toyah. “Just because I don’t breastfeed my kid, I’m a bad mum?”

  “As mums,” said Dungarees, adopting a super-calm and condescending tone that would probably earn her a punch in the gob within seconds, “our role is to care for and nurture our children. We are responsible for raising the next generation.”

  “And – what – because I ain’t done this one thing, I’ve failed? I didn’t breastfeed Spartacus here. Did I fail to raise him properly, yeah?”

  “Perhaps not the best example to use,” Ben muttered quietly to himself, although not quietly enough to avoid getting a kick in the shins from the ten-year-old thug.

  “Breast milk is superior to artificial substitutes and, moreover, it’s free. You’d be a fool to not breastfeed your child.”

  “Free?” snapped Toyah. “How the fuck is it free? It’s only bloody free if you’ve got the time to be there for them! If you’ve got to work a fucking zero hour contract, five hours here, two hours there, at a bloody shop that’s a two hour bus ride from home, how the fuck am I going to be there to breastfeed her?”

  “Does your mum have a job?” Ben whispered to Spartacus.

  “Not the point,” Spartacus replied smoothly.

  “It’s only fucking free if you’ve got a toffee-nosed twat of a husband who earns enough dosh so’s you can stay home and play mum!” shouted Toyah.

  “I don’t play at being mum,” retorted Dungarees. “Parenting is a full-time vocation and the most important job there can be. And, even if you’re scrubbing the floors at Lidl …”

  “It’s Aldi, bitch.”

  “I thought you said she didn’t have a job,” whispered Ben.

  “She really gets into character,” said Spartacus.

  “… You should still have time to express milk for your baby,” said Dungarees.

  “Time?” shouted Toyah. “Time is a bloody luxury. I don’t have the time to cook Alphabites and Turkey Twizzlers like Nigella fucking Lawson every night. Frankly, they’re lucky if they get Pom Poms and a Capri Sun sometimes.”

  “Not really winning the argument there,” said Ben.

  “Well,” said Dungarees, “if you’re not able to provide the time or nourishment your children need, then maybe you shouldn’t have had children.”

  Toyah stepped back, stunned.

  “Take Bea,” she said, and thrust the baby into Ben’s arms.

  Dungarees should have taken that as a signal to run. Run far and run fast. She either didn’t notice it, or chose not to heed it. The builders mending the supermarket frontage were yards away, and they were able to spot it. They paused in their work to watch as Toyah squared up to Dungarees.

  “You telling me you should decide who gets to breed and who don’t?” said Toyah.

  “With parenthood comes great responsibility,” said Dungarees.

  “Is she quoting Spiderman?” Spartacus whispered to Ben.

  “I am responsible!” snarled Toyah.

  “Responsible mothers do not jeopardise their children’s health by feeding them nutritionally deficient milk!”

  “I believe that there’s no conclusive evidence to suggest that children raised on formula suffer significantly worse health or ar
e more likely to suffer life-limiting illnesses than children who are breastfed,” said someone, and then Ben realised it was he himself who had said it.

  Toyah and Dungarees stared at him.

  “Children who are breastfed are much less likely to suffer from conditions such as obesity, asthma, and ADHD, you idiot,” said Dungarees.

  “Um, yes,” he said, wondering where the Hell his mouth was taking him. “However, that might be a reflection of the type of households those children were raised in. It’s like children raised in houses with lots of books do better at school, but it’s not the books that are responsible, but the parents who, incidentally, read themselves. I believe that sibling studies, where one child is breastfed and one isn’t, show no real difference whatsoever …”

  Ben trailed off under the glare of more than one passionately pro-breast mother.

  Dungarees shook her head in disgusted disbelief.

  “I don’t know what poppycock your husband is spouting …”

  “He ain’t my husband,” said Toyah.

  “Boyfriend, whatever.”

  “I’m not her anything,” said Ben. “I’m married, I think, but not to her.”

  “But if you’re not in favour of breastfeeding, then what the Hell are you doing on this protest march?”

  “Because,” said Toyah softly, and only softly because she was going to build to an almighty crescendo, “I hate the idea of some jumped up little Hitler telling us that we can’t breastfeed our babies in public because it somehow offends them. I love my children, and how I choose to raise them and feed them is up to me. If I want to parade up and down the high street, flashing my tits, I can.”

  And she did exactly that. Toyah whipped off her top and, seconds later, her bra.

  “Mum,” moaned Spartacus, mortified.

  “These are my children and this is my body, and neither of them is anyone else’s fucking business. It’s not their business to tell me what I can and can’t do, and it certainly isn’t fucking yours either!”

  Ben expected one of two things to happen then. One was Dungarees to launch into a loud retort. The other was for Toyah to launch a topless and unarmed assault on the woman. He wasn’t expecting the mothers of SCUM to erupt in loud applause, but that’s what they did.