by Aston, Tom
“And you have a nasty bump on your head here,” she said.
He moved her hand across his scalp.
“I have two,” he said. “You might have noticed.”
“So you do,” she said.
“And, for the record,” he said, “two is not several.”
Ben stopped outside the door to flat 3, checked his breath against his palm, smoothed down his hair and then did a whole body shake as he tried to build up the courage to knock.
He had read YOU Can Be My Perfect Man in a single sitting and had spent much of the day at the shop re-reading key chapters and making notes. He had memorised the entirety of the ‘How to be spontaneous’ chapter and planned to follow its instructions to the letter. He had also committed to memory her hundred and thirty-seven rules for being the perfect gentleman. He had his handkerchief, wore a tie with his shirt, carried a hat in his hand (to show he had taken it off indoors) and was prepared to open as many doors and draw in as many dining chairs as his lady required.
He knocked in a manner he hoped was manly yet polite and greeted Nerys with his best smile.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s Ben, isn’t it?”
“Good evening, Miss Thomas,” he said in the most refined tones. “Your hair does look lovely tonight.”
“Er,” she said. “Thanks?”
“I wasn’t planning to say that. It was just, you know... I just thought I’d say it.”
“Right. Um.”
She looked at him. Apparently it was his turn to say something again. So soon? He had used up his opening lines and realised he hadn’t planned anything beyond this. The silence stretched out and sagged between them.
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
“I’ve, er, got company.”
“We spoke earlier. On the stairs. I just came up, spontaneously like, and thought we could...”
“You want to talk about-“
“I mean if it’s inconvenient-“
“I’m really thrilled you think-“
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“No,” she said, stepping back. “Come in, do.”
Ben stepped into her flat, wondering if this was the moment when he should kiss her on the back of the hand. The opportunity hadn’t seemed to present itself.
Her flat wasn’t as he had imagined it. From the tone of her book, he had imagined something like the parlour of an Edwardian lady but this room was more like a battle between old lady clichés and brash IKEA-bought accessories: antimacassars versus pink scatter cushions, toby jugs pitted against cheap turquoise copies of Henry Moore sculptures. He had expected to see Twinkle, the Yorkshire Terrier. He had not expected to see the terrier growling at the feet of a man who seemed awfully familiar.
“Ben,” said Nerys, “this is Jeremy Clovenhoof.”
Ben found he couldn’t stop his gaze from fixing on the man’s crotch as though his eyeballs had some muscle memory of the man’s previous nakedness.
“We’ve met,” said Ben.
“Have we?” said Clovenhoof.
Ben suddenly remembered rule twenty-nine for being a perfect gentleman: the firm handshake.
He stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Kitchen. Ben Kitchen.”
Clovenhoof shook his hand. Ben applied a gentle but decisive pressure. Clovenhoof returned it. Ben squeezed tighter and turned his hand over, placing it on top of Clovenhoof’s. Clovenhoof squeezed harder and pushed back in the other direction.
And, at some point, it magically transformed from a handshake to a silent arm wrestle. Clovenhoof gritted his teeth. Ben dropped his hat and gripped his wrist with his free hand to support it. Clovenhoof bent his elbow, drawing Ben in, so he could use his whole upper body strength. Ben dug his nails into the back of Clovenhoof’s hand. There was the machine-gun crack of several finger joints popping, Ben whimpered in pain and dropped to his knees.
“Nice to meet you, Kitchen,” said Clovenhoof, shaking the life back into his hand. “Now you’re kneeling before me.”
“Are you all right, Ben?” said Nerys, apparently oblivious to the alpha male struggle that had just taken place.
Ben, on one knee, stared at his white almost crippled hand and then saw that Nerys and her own hands were very close by.
Deciding that this was the ideal time and a great cover for his submission before Clovenhoof, Ben took Nerys’ hand in his and planted a light tender kiss on the back of it.
Nerys snatched her hand away.
“What are you doing?” she said in disgust.
Ben looked up.
“I thought I was being a gentleman.”
“What?”
“You want me to be your perfect man, don’t you?”
“You?”
“You gave me your book. It was an unusual proposal but I read it and –“
“You’re not my perfect man,” said Nerys.
“I’m not?” said Ben.
“I wanted you to publish my book.”
“Publish?”
“You said it was a really good idea and we ought to give it a go.”
“I thought you meant... us.”
She stared, open mouthed for several seconds.
“What on earth made you think I was interested in you?”
Ben’s planet-sized embarrassment formed a mote of high-density anger at its heart.
“What on earth made you think I could publish your book?” he retorted.
“You’re a publisher!”
“I am not!”
“Mrs Astrakhan in 1a said you worked in the book industry!”
“I own a bookshop!”
“Oh!” shouted Nerys furiously and then, much quieter, added, “Poo.”
The silence that followed was long and eventually broken by Clovenhoof.
“You, Nerys-woman, do you have any Scrumpy Thunder?”
“Scrumpy?” she said. “Cider?”
“It’s very nice.”
A slightly hysterical yet almost silent laugh escaped her lips.
“I could murder a drink,” she said.
“Me too,” said Ben, sullenly.
“I think you owe me one,” said Nerys.
“Me?” said Ben.
“Raising false hopes in a woman.”
“Think how I feel.”
“Scrumpy Thunder?” said Clovenhoof.
“Pub,” said Nerys and pointed at Ben. “You’re buying.”
“What’s a pub?” said Clovenhoof.
A pub, it turned out, was an establishment called the Boldmere Oak, a sort of tavern or coaching inn but without the silly fripperies such as rooms or wenches-for-hire. It was filled with people who seemed to be enjoying themselves, in spite of the fact that someone was loudly singing that they wished it could be Christmas every day.
Ben put a pint down in front of Clovenhoof.
“There you go,” he said.
Clovenhoof took a big gulp. It certainly tasted similar to Scrumpy Thunder but it seemed to lack the chemical bite and there was a strange additional taste.
“Is there fruit in this?” said Clovenhoof warily.
“It is made from apples,” said Ben.
“Really?” He put the pint down. “Not sure I approve.”
“Of apples?”
“Apples are fine. One of my first jobs was dishing out apples to young naked couples. I’m not sure if I approve of them in drinks.”
He gave another experimental sip.
“What have you got?”
“Cider and black,” said Ben.
“Chardonnay,” said Nerys.
Without further word, Clovenhoof picked up each of their drinks in turn and took a swig. He mulled over Nerys’ for a few seconds thoughtfully. Ben’s he spat out on the floor the moment he tasted it.
“Apples and blackcurrant?”
“I like it,” said Ben.
Clovenhoof got to his foot and looked about the saloon bar and the knots of drinkers about the room. So many diff
erent shaped glasses. So many differently coloured drinks. He strode over to the nearest table, took a man’s pint of brown flat beer and supped at it thoughtfully.
“Hey,” said the man.
“Tastes of socks,” said Clovenhoof and gave it back to him.
He moved on, sampling from unguarded glasses and bottles.
“Oi,” said a woman wearing reindeer horns.
“What is this?”
“It’s my bloody gin and tonic.”
“I don’t like bloody gin and tonic,” he declared. “Why is there a lime in it?”
“Piss off.”
Ben and Nerys watched him circulate around the room.
“I swear he’s concussed,” said Nerys.
“I think he’s Swedish,” said Ben.
“His English is flawless.”
“That’s the Swedes for you. Natural linguists.”
Nerys watched Clovenhoof receive a slap in the face and move on unfazed to the next table.
“So, you’d met him before,” said Nerys.
“Briefly,” said Ben. “Yesterday. He appeared outside my shop.”
“You’ve not known him a long time then?”
“He left a lasting impression.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was.... Well, it happened like this...”
Clovenhoof was taking an experimental sip of a drink called ‘lager’ when a hand slapped on his shoulder and turned him round. Clovenhoof looked up at the barman, a tall man with fat muscly arms and a genial but not pretty face.
“Are you drunk?” said the barman.
“I intend to be when I’ve found the right drink,” said Clovenhoof.
“You having a laugh?”
“Not yet,” said Clovenhoof.
“Don’t think that because you’re Old Nick you can just upset my customers.”
“Old...? How did you know?”
The barman looked him up and down.
“The horns and the hooves were clues.”
“You can see them?” said Clovenhoof, amazed and thrilled.
“A barman sees many things. Fact is though, way I see it, you need to buy a lot of people fresh drinks.”
“Buy?”
“Cash. Money.”
Clovenhoof shrugged.
“I don’t have any money.”
“You’d better have.”
The barman saw the bulge in Clovenhoof’s pocket and clicked his fingers for him to hand the wallet over. He opened it and looked at the contents.
“Bugger me. Do you know how much you have in here?”
“I burned most of it,” Clovenhoof admitted. “Is it enough to buy people drinks?”
“It’s enough to buy everyone here the worst hangover in history.”
“Excellent. Drinks for everyone!” he declared loudly.
“He was stark bollock naked?” said Nerys, laughing.
“Like a newborn baby. And there were these two old ladies just staring at him, goggle-eyed.”
“I’m surprised one of them didn’t have a stroke,” said Nerys.
“Couldn’t reach,” said Ben, because he felt he had to.
“Was he...? Is he...?” Nerys raised her eyebrows.
“What?” said Ben.
“Well-endowed?”
“I wasn’t exactly looking.”
“But you saw.”
“Unfortunately.”
“So, was he?”
Ben blanched.
“That would depend on what you regard as well-endowed or, you know, an average endowment.”
Nerys put her hand a distance apart on the table. She knew the measurements. She had conducted studies.
Ben took a long long sip of cider and black and wondered what the hell to say.
“I,” said Clovenhoof once the barman had poured fresh drinks for those he had offended, “will have one of everything.”
“What do you mean?” said the barman.
“What I mean, mortal man, is – what’s your name?”
“Lennox.”
“Lennox, what I mean is that, all those drinks there, the pint pulling things –“
“Taps.”
“All the beer taps, all the bottles in your fridge, all those upside drinks behind the bar. I would like one of every one of them.”
“Are you sure?”
Clovenhoof nodded.
“And then we will move onto” – he savoured a new word he had learned – “cocktails.”
“He’s kind of rugged, don’t you think?” said Nerys, watching Clovenhoof work his way along a row of bitters, lagers, stouts and ciders, dwelling on some, shaking his head instantly at others.
“You mean weatherworn,” said Ben.
“How old do you think he is?”
“Sixty.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“You’re not... interested in him, are you?”
She gently swirled her glass.
“I don’t know,” she said playfully.
Ben sighed.
“So that’s your perfect gentleman, is it?”
“Hardly.”
“Right,” said Ben in disbelief.
Nerys downed the remains of her drink.
“Hercule Poirot.”
“What?”
“The perfect gentleman. No, the perfect man.”
“Fat Belgian detective Poirot?”
“Suave, mannered, precise and intelligent. And that little waxed moustache!”
She gave a little shudder of pleasure.
“Each to their own,” said Ben.
“When I was a little girl, I wrote to David Suchet and asked him for a signed photograph of him as Poirot.”
“Did he send one?”
“No.”
“That’s not very nice. I think famous people should always be good to their fans.”
“I mean I did ask for a photograph of him naked but, still, you’re right.”
Clovenhoof lurched against their table.
“I’ve done it!” he declared.
“Done what?” said Nerys.
“Found the perfect drink,” he said and placed a wine glass reverently in the middle of the table where its contents gently fizzed.
“Champagne?” said Ben.
Clovenhoof shook his head. “It’s called...” – he licked his lips – “Lambrini.”
Ben looked at it.
“As drinks go, isn’t it a bit... girly?”
“It looks like fizzy piss,” said Nerys.
“I know!” said Clovenhoof in ecstasy. “And it tastes great too!”
In the corner of the pub, unnoticed by everyone were two old ladies. With theirpuffy blue-rinses and thick knitted coats, they were of the type that were often called something like Betty and Doris. The one who might have been called Betty was sipping a small sherry. The one who might have been called Doris had a glass of tap water, untouched, on the table in front of her.
“It’s man again,” said possibly-called-Doris.
“Well,” said possibly-called-Betty. “At least he’s wearing clothes now.”
Details on buying Clovenhoof from: www.pigeonparkpress.com
A Gateway Made Of Bone by Iain Grant
Coming in late 2012...
The Seelie Court controls an empire of a thousand suns, each world linked to the next by the black oneirium gateways of the Sacred Guild of Gatemakers. While the empire plunders the conquered worlds to stave off its own destruction, Edenist rebels fight for independence. Caught somewhere in between is Celandine Brey, orphan, apprentice gatemaker and key to a treasure of untold wealth.
Chased by imperial agents and corrupt soldiers, Celandine is aided in her quest by Mr Sukh, mute veteran of the Engine Wars, Orlando Swaan, Edenist and naïve schemer, and Ana Zanbir, a clone on the run who has made an unbreakable vow to protect Celandine.
From the narcotic grasslands of Aphid to the ancient temples of Nachista, from the high-rise cityscape of Termagore to the junk world of Immon
da, A Gateway Made Of Bone is a fantastic journey through the conflict and chaos of a civilisation on the verge of collapse.
Read the opening chapter here and then go to www.pigeonparkpress.com for details on how to get the complete novel.
A Gateway Made Of Bone
IDIX
Celandine Brey, Disciple Cleric of the Course of Divine Liminis sat alone in the café at Bayan Street Station and waited for Barbegris’ guests to arrive. A can of Sula Soda, half-drunk and now flat, sat on the table before her, next to it a small stone statuette of a squirrel, carved from glassy black oneirium. A fan turned sluggishly above her head, too slowly to do anything about the stiflingly hot air.
Out on the platform, people fought each other for a seat on the last train out of Idix. Even before the steam locomotive had come to a halt, the crowd surged towards the doors, hands outstretched and shoulders hunched. Young men climbed onto the roof or attempted to squeeze through the small sash windows. Children were held aloft, either to be offered to those closer to the train or to protect them from the suffocating press of bodies. The weak, the elderly and the simply polite were pushed aside or trampled underfoot.
Suitcases became shields. Trunks became barricades. Elbows and feet became weapons. People cried, shouted, screamed and bled.
The window pane between Celandine and the platform muffled the noise of the crowd and made their frantic struggles seem less real, less tragic. She watched the people with as much concern as she showed for the Seelie soap opera playing silently on the teleoptic screen on the corner of the bar. It had no more meaning than a dream.
She wasn’t a heartless or unfeeling person but in Idix, in recent times, everyone had to find a means of coping with the hardships of life or else simply break down in despair. When the gatemakers diverted the Largesse River into Agrium, the people coped. When the floodwaters did not come and the crops failed, the people coped. When the gatemakers began closing the gateways between Idix and the rest of the empire claiming that Idix was no longer a profitable enterprise and the rare oneirium gateways were needed elsewhere, still most people coped.
Most people. The people on the platform were trying to escape the dying world. Few of them would make it. Those who did probably wouldn’t get any further than Junction or Facto.
