Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  “Gabriel’s on the fifty dollar note,” said Thomas Aquinas, snapping a note tight as he held it up.

  “Where did you get that?” said Francis.

  “Payment,” said the rotund theologian, patting a small pile in front of him. “I’ve been asked to do some private sermons. Exclusive events. Charity gigs.”

  “You’re taking payment?” said Joan.

  “It’s the woot of evil,” said Francis despairingly.

  Thomas gave him a patronising look. “Giving us quotes from the current lord of Hell? Really?”

  “And it’s the love of money that’s the root of all evil,” said Pius. “So many people get that wrong.”

  “Oh, they love money all right,” said Joan. “And they love lording it over others.”

  “And shooting!” blurted Francis. “They weally, weally love shooting animals.”

  “Among other things,” Gabriel sniffed. Trying to keep his chin up, he turned so that the new arrivals could see the tattered mess that was his wings. “Item one on the agenda.”

  “Claymore Ferret was the man’s name,” said Joan. “Says shooting animals is sport.”

  “It didn’t feel like sport,” said Gabriel, pulling his wings around to inspect the damage. “And I’m not an animal.”

  “Although he did keep calling you his feathered friend,” pointed out St Thomas.

  Gabriel curled his arm protectively around his right wing, as he attempted to straighten some of the feathers.

  “I told you,” said Joan. “We’ve got a problem.”

  There was a jangly burst of harp and in a blaze of pink and silver light, Eltiel appeared.

  “I’m going to put up a do not disturb sign in future,” tutted Gabriel.

  “And a ‘no animals’ sign,” added Pius.

  “The strangest thing,” said Eltiel.

  “You’ve not been shot as well?” asked Gabriel.

  “There are demons at the gate.”

  Joan was on her feet. “An invasion?”

  “Not unless Hell thinks they can take the Celestial City with two demons, a wheelchair and a dog.”

  “A doggy?” said Francis.

  “A horrible fiend with three heads and shreds of flesh hanging from the fangs of at least two of them. It’s tried to bite anyone who gets near.”

  “There are no howwible dogs,” said Francis. “It’s pwobably just tewwitowial behaviour.”

  “Yes, that’s all vewwy well. I mean very well,” said Pius. “But what do they want, these demons?”

  Eltiel descended in cascades of rainbow glitter. “The strangest thing. They want to know if we have any recently deceased souls here in Heaven who don’t belong.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ben removed the third padlock and with a bit of jostling for first place, the three of them entered the space that had once been flat 1b.

  “Daddy’s home!” said Clovenhoof as he took in the view.

  A table stood in the centre of the room. And the table had a board game at its centre. Other game boards sprouted off on every side. Duct tape joined cut-up strips and pieces, and model bridge supports (supplied by Ben) held them up between tables.

  How many tables were in play now? Clovenhoof wasn’t sure if a hostess trolley counted as a table, so he called it six.

  Each of the three players had their home zone, where they kept their cash, tokens, spells and special cards. This was the reason for the high level of security. Each of them had a mound of closely-guarded treasure and worried constantly that the others might cheat and mess with their stuff or tinker with the playing pieces to change the course of The Game.

  Clovenhoof ran his hands over his banker’s cash pile, assuring himself that all was well. He slipped five bundles of extra cash from his sleeve and added them to his pile, knowing that Ben and Nerys were counting their own money and were unlikely to notice. He’d invested in a ream of coloured paper and had printed enough currency to enable the most profligate of playing styles.

  “Initiating start-up routine,” intoned Nerys. “Counting the playing pieces.”

  “Five blue?” said Ben, reading from an over-stuffed lever-arch folder. “Chicken, train and three bottle tops.”

  “Check,” said Nerys.

  “Four green? Cowboy, owl, baguette and Jeremy’s tissue.”

  “Check.”

  “Three purple comedy grape people?”

  “Check.”

  Clovenhoof knew that the pre-game checks were critical to prevent cheating but he zoned out as he checked the date on the newspaper that was wedged solidly under the first game board. Four months they’d been playing The Game.

  They called it The Game because no one could pronounce Qizi-o’yin Vaqti.

  It had started as some much-needed tidying out of the cupboard in flat 1b. After the refurb, they realised that flat 1b might actually make them some money if they could rent it out to another tenant. Unfortunately, that meant emptying it first. Whose stuff was in the cupboard? Nobody knew. There were dozens of board games. The one with the most interesting box turned out to be some sort of property trading game. Clovenhoof’s first guess of Guess how many of these plastic shapes I can stuff up my arse? was very quickly quashed. The name and the instructions were all written in something that they initially guessed to be Turkish, but which, after extensive research, Ben declared to be Uzbek, although he wasn’t confident on that point.

  “Hey Kitchen, kutok bosh!” said Clovenhoof.

  “That is not part of the start-up routine Jeremy,” frowned Ben, “and if you put as much energy into translating the rules as you did into learning the swear words of Uzbek, we might have finished The Game months ago.”

  They all paused, aghast at the idea.

  “I like to think that my creativity shaped what it is today,” said Clovenhoof. “A bit like when Nerys threw in all the extra game pieces, and the Lego and the contents of that sewing box or whatever it was.”

  “I think you give Nerys too much credit for basically being drunk and dropping things,” said Ben.

  “Play nice, boys,” said Nerys. “We’ve got the most important part of the start-up routine to do now.”

  “No, wait! We haven’t signed the non-liability waivers!” said Ben.

  Nerys pushed a piece of paper at both of them. Ben read the whole thing.

  “It’s the same as last week’s Ben, come on, just sign it!” said Nerys, exasperated.

  “No, it’s got the normal stuff about if one of us gets murdered it’s a crime of passion because of The Game, but you’ve added something new at the bottom. Nobody is allowed to use demonic powers. What on earth is that for?”

  Nerys glanced quickly at Clovenhoof. “Just in case. Covering all bases, you know?”

  “And we’re all happy that Lennox at the Boldmere Oak continues to be our arbitration service?” said Ben. “He has the final word and we trust his judgement.”

  Nerys huffed with impatience. “As I was saying. Most important part –”

  “Oh wait!” said Ben, heaving a giant wad of pages out of the way in the rules folder. “I re-translated subsection 5 of part IV of the rules. I’m pretty sure it’s right this time. It goes like this: When we want to bake a transaction correctly, the player to the right must capitulate without despair.”

  Nerys stared at Ben. “What on earth does that mean?”

  Ben nodded and thought for a few long moments. “I think it’s one of those things that will become obvious when we get to it. It’s all about context.”

  “So we get Lennox to decide,” said Nerys with a roll of her eyes. “He is the expert on context.”

  “Reminds me, Nerys. That was a nice try with the dictionary,” said Clovenhoof airily.

  “Eh?” said Ben, confused.

  “Nerys gave Lennox a new dictionary. A thoughtful gift, if it wasn’t for the edits she’d applied. Lennox showed it to me. If you look up key terms like beneficiary it tells you that it must always be a woman.”
/>   Nerys scowled at Clovenhoof. “Do you want to do this or not?” she said, holding aloft a cocktail measure. I have everyone’s lucky glass here. Or bucket in Jeremy’s case. I will fill to the agreed lines. Toilet break times are the usual, limited to three minutes away from play.”

  “Fill ‘em up, Nerys!” whooped Clovenhoof.

  Nerys passed the drinks around, grinning giddily. “I read my horoscope today. It said that I would achieve global domination. I’m paraphrasing slightly, but that was the gist of it. Watch out, boys.”

  “Well if that was true, then you’d be sharing the world with a twelfth of the population,” said Ben. “I wonder what mine said?”

  “I can pretty well guess,” said Nerys. “It would say that you’ll mostly be wallowing in rules and trying to crush your housemates’ dreams.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, I need to update the Risk board. You do the weather, Nerys.”

  Nerys consulted a weather app on her phone. She went over to the wall and removed a cardboard cut-out of a blazing sun from a hook. She replaced it with a sun that was partially obscured by cloud. “There we are. Tell me Ben, how did crushing my dreams remind you of the weather and the Risk board?”

  “I read the news before we came in. I’m just not sure whether world domination’s going to be possible today with so many smaller territories vying for independence. I’m going to split Cornwall away from the rest of England on the Risk board. We’ve got an increased nuclear threat over North Korea as well, so pass me a marshmallow, will you Jeremy?”

  Clovenhoof plucked a marshmallow from the bag, passed it over and then changed his mind at the last minute, popping it into his mouth instead. “Uh ook, orl beh-ah!” he said, his mouth full.

  Ben sighed. “We need to reflect the actual state of the world. I said we should use mushrooms rather than marshmallows, at least they wouldn’t get eaten so often.”

  Once Ben had positioned another marshmallow, they all sat up straight in their chairs, ready to commence play.

  Clovenhoof had always derided Ben’s wargaming hobby – it was a cornerstone of their relationship. Watching nerdsome beta-males taking on the roles of savage and masterful military leaders, pretending that their little battalions of lead miniatures were representations of real might, was a pathetic and obvious parading of their personal and emotional shortcomings. They might as well walk around carrying signs saying, ‘I am a waste of food and oxygen with a tiny penis.’ And yet… and yet, with his collection of property cards in front of him – Highbury Hall, the BT Tower, the Alexander Stadium – backed up by his pretend wealth and his various action cards – including a Get Out of Jail, Escape the Traffic Jam, several artfully forged Volcano cards and even an STD Clinic Gives You The All-Clear – Clovenhoof felt a warming sense of ownership and pride. This was his realm, his kingdom, his own little Hooflandia. He’d even started composing a little national anthem and hummed it to himself now.

  “Ben to start,” said Nerys.

  “I get an extra dice, remember?” said Ben. “Because I own a fitness gym.”

  He popped the dice into a cup, put his hand over the top and shook, muttering a soft incantation of throw a seven.

  They all gasped as he threw the dice and Nerys squealed in anticipation. The dice settled.

  “Seven!” shouted Clovenhoof. “He shoots, he scores! It’s a seven! What does that mean then?”

  They all leaned over to watch Ben move his counter, which was an egg cup with the face of a clown on it. They had renamed all the property squares on the board with local landmarks. Villa Park, the Custard Factory and Lickey Hills were a bit more meaningful to them than Kukelras Bidzu, Shayakh Babur and Suzani-oi-Suzani.

  “Birmingham City Football Club,” said Ben. “That means I can –”

  “No, you can’t!” shouted Nerys, and slammed a small plastic traffic cone onto the board. “I am the traffic controller and I am going to have to insist that you move to –”

  “No, you’re not,” said Ben.

  “What? Of course, I am. It’s listed in my roles manifest.”

  “You’re not wearing your hat.”

  Nerys went to reply but the words died on her lips as she felt the top of her head and found that it was, indeed, hatless. “Arse,” she said. Well I can fix that. Hold on.” She went to the back of the room and returned with a full-sized traffic cone. She put it on her head. “Hah! Behold Birmingham City Council’s newest recruit. It’s Wizard Nerys, the sexy traffic controller, and she is putting a traffic blocking spell on you, so there!” Chardonnay slopped from her glass as she swigged triumphantly at the same time as she held a card aloft.

  Clovenhoof looked at the board. “She’s got you mate, you’ll need to park somewhere else.”

  “No! I don’t think so. I’m going to complain to the council about those cones.”

  “I am the council, puny mortal!” shouted Nerys. “You can take your complaint up with my colleagues, Mr Up and Mr Yours!”

  Clovenhoof picked up the rules folder and flicked through. “No, it’s a thing, Nerys. Here’s what we’re supposed to do. You and I phone a number of our choosing and then Ben must make his complaint to them. If he can keep them on the line for two minutes without laughing, stalling or repeating himself then his complaint is upheld.”

  Clovenhoof whipped out his phone and brought up his favourites. Nerys leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, I’m way ahead of you,” he said. He put it onto loudspeaker and placed it in front of Ben as the call connected.

  “Candy here, what’s your name, caller?” came a throaty voice.

  “Hello Candy, it’s Ben, and I’m calling to report a problem.”

  “Has it made you angry, honey?” Candy asked.

  “Well yes, a little bit,” said Ben.

  “I can help you with that. Tell me about it while I slip off my panties and bend over. I need you to tell me how angry you are and how much I need to be punished.”

  “Right, well – wait, what did you say?” He covered the phone and mouthed “This a sex line again, isn’t it?” Clovenhoof and Nerys made mocking dur noises and pointed at the phone. “Well, actually I’m angry about someone who illegally applied a cone.”

  “Ooh honey, I can picture you there now, you must be so mad. Give a little swivel along with me. I spank, you swivel: how does that sound? Slip it further in. You’ll thank me later. Did I tell you I’m using a leather whip? I can change to a paddle if you want me to, but I like the noise it makes on my flesh.”

  There was a loud thwack from the phone.

  “No, please! You don’t need to hurt yourself!” said Ben in horror.

  “Oh, but I’ve been a very naughty girl. How’s that cone feeling, honey? Lube it up and slip it in a little more. You can take it.”

  “The cone isn’t giving me that sort of problem,” said Ben, contorting uncomfortably, as though his prudish embarrassment was melting his spine. “It’s just, um, in my way.”

  “Oh sweetie! Thwack. Argh! See how bad I feel? You didn’t tell me I was at a party! Your friend with the cone can’t wait for you to take its place.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” he whimpered.

  “Come on, show off what you’ve got,” said Candy. “Take that cock in your –”

  Ben ended the call, threw the phone down and shook himself off in disgust.

  “I’m going to have to disinfect that phone before I use it again,” he said as his friends offered him entirely unsympathetic laughter and finger-pointing.

  “The cone remains in place,” said Nerys, and set them off again.

  “Yes, yes. Well it’s the next square for me then,” huffed Ben. “The Fort shopping centre. I think I’ll buy it.”

  “Oh good,” said Clovenhoof, “I always enjoy this part. First of all, let’s see your stamp duty.”

  Ben peeled a second class stamp from a book under the edge of the board and stuck it onto his forehead.

  “Looking
good Ben,” said Nerys. “Right, it’s credit score time!”

  Clovenhoof pulled the giant-sized tub of Vaseline from his bag. “Are you feeling lucky, Ben?”

  “We don’t want any friction!” called Nerys gleefully.

  Clovenhoof scooped up a huge handful of lubricant and winked at Ben. Then he knelt on the floor and applied a thick layer to the Twister mat.

  Ben stepped resolutely forward. “Right, tell me what the colours are worth,” he said.

  Nerys and Clovenhoof used the spinner to determine the highest scoring colours and Nerys set an egg timer.

  “Go Ben! Remember blues are high this round!”

  Ben launched himself at the slippery mat. Clovenhoof and Nerys stomped and clapped as he struggled for purchase. It looked for a moment as if he might secure a decent score but then his foot skated away and he landed heavily on his bottom.

  “Come on! You can recover that!” screeched Nerys.

  Clovenhoof had a sudden flashback to the Pit of Greasy Nuns back in the Old Place, but he shook his head. No point dwelling on nostalgia. He was sure that Hell was getting on fine without him. They’d probably even forgotten who he was by now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “This is Satan’s fault,” said Gabriel. “It has his stink all over it.”

  “Maybe,” said Joan, unconvinced.

  The committee room door opened noisily and the demon lord Belphegor trundled in. The minor demon, Rutspud followed close behind. Joan had met them both before. On occasions when Heaven had been required to step in, to steer Hell away from trouble and put it back on course, Joan had been there. Belphegor, one of the true powers in Hell, was usually there, busily trying to fix the current catastrophe. And Rutspud turned up surprisingly frequently, very near the epicentre of the troubles but always just a couple of steps to the side and just outside the blast radius of actual guilt.

  Angels and saints visiting Hell was commonplace, but invitations were never reciprocated. Pius failed to conceal a shudder of horror as Belphegor wheeled into a gap at the table beside him.