Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  Clovenhoof walked and looked for the Sutton Railway Building Society. He’d never seen a branch before, hadn’t even heard of the company, and it was only after getting a set of directions from an old dear who was convinced that the place had closed down years ago, that he found the place not far from the town railway station, squashed between a ‘drop and shop’ car valeting business and the Station pub. It was a narrow building with Roman columns on its steps and a carved stone frieze above the door depicting stolid men of Sutton Coldfield engaged in some form of unspecified honest labour and the date the building society was opened (which, eroded by time and the elements, might have been 1806, 1886 or, as an outside possibility 1006). This tiny but grandiose institution was clearly founded by people whose dreams were bigger than their wallets and who were rightly shown up by history for the fools they were. Clovenhoof loved it already.

  Clovenhoof bounded up the stone steps and veritably leapt through the door, nearly causing the rotund middle-aged woman behind the wooden counter to have a heart attack.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked, in the tones of one who was rarely asked to help people and probably wasn’t up to the job anyway.

  “I’m sure you can…” He leaned over the counter and peered at the name badge pinned to her patterned lilac blouse, “Penny. Ha! A Penny in a building society. I bet that never gets old. Any other colleagues with money-based names lurking back there?”

  “My uncle went to school with a boy called Bobby Tanner,” said Penny, “but that was old money and only worked as a joke pre-decimalisation.”

  “Indeed,” said Clovenhoof, who had no idea what she was on about.

  “If you want change for the parking meter outside, I’m afraid we’re only allowed to open the tills for customers.”

  “Nope. No parking meter change for me. No car. Hoofs, you see. They’re a curse and a blessing. No, Penny dear, I’m a customer and I’m here to collect my money.”

  “Ooh.”

  In that single syllable, Clovenhoof grasped that the number of customers who came in to make withdrawals (or who came in at all) could be tallied by circling dates on a calendar. There were other clues to the general lack of custom in this place. The dust motes that hung heavily in the shafts of light from the bank’s high windows. The lack of glass shields and other security measures between the plushly carpeted customer area and the decidedly Victorian-looking back office. The poster on the wall that reminded customers to bring in their green pound notes in preparation for the switch to the new one pound coin.

  “Withdrawal, right,” said Penny. “Do you have your account details, sir?”

  Clovenhoof presented her with the letter.

  “I think you’ll find everything in order,” he said. “Ignore that. That’s just where I used it as a coaster. And there. I was having drinks and nibbles last night.”

  “Chocolate, sir?” she said.

  “Yes. Let’s say it was chocolate. Why not?”

  Penny the cashier copied some details down onto a form and tapped for a minute into a device which was to a modern computer what primordial slime was to modern humans: in other words, utterly indistinguishable in Clovenhoof’s eyes.

  “A withdrawal, sir?” she said. “How much would you like to take out?”

  “All of it. Obviously,” said Clovenhoof and did a little tap dance.

  “All…?” Penny tippy-typed some more, looked at Clovenhoof, looked at the paperwork and then picked up the chunky telephone at her counter. She spoke at length to the person on the other end, mostly in whispers, frequently glancing up at Clovenhoof. Clovenhoof started to get bored. It was no wonder so many people were getting into debt with those unscrupulous lending companies on the telly if it took this long to get their hands on their own actual money.

  Eventually, she put the phone down.

  “Mr Clovenhoof, I’ve just spoken to the manager. Unfortunately, we can’t give you all of the money over the counter today. There are certain regulations and procedures, I’m sure you understand.”

  “Are you? That’s flattering. Wrong, but flattering.”

  “But we can give you a quantity today and arrange for the rest to be sent to you. Someone will be in touch.”

  “Well, I’m not very happy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s the regulations.”

  “I meant just generally. My therapist said it was because I had unrealistic expectations of life. I think it’s because I don’t drink enough.”

  “Um. Okay,” said Penny and then smiled with relief when a shaven-headed bloke in a jumper with epaulettes came through from the back office with a small silver suitcase. “It’s for Mr Clovenhoof here, Claude.”

  Claude gave Clovenhoof a most deeply distrustful look.

  “You’ll have to sign here,” said Penny.

  Clovenhoof signed the document. He put a smiley face in one of the ‘o’s in Clovenhoof and drew little devil horns on it. Claude passed the suitcase over. It was very heavy.

  “And, as I said, someone will be in touch about the rest,” said Penny.

  “Oh, they’d better be,” said Clovenhoof, grinning nonetheless.

  Clovenhoof knew it would be wise to wait until he was in the safety of his own flat or at least a corner booth of the Boldmere Oak before opening the case to look at his money. He lasted less than a dozen yards and, in fact, sat on the steps of the ‘drop and shop’ car valeting place, put the case on his knee and lifted the lid.

  Banknotes in pristine blocks, bound with paper bands, stacked in an overlapping pattern to make a solid block of cash. Clovenhoof took out one of the neat little bundles and riffled through it with his thumb. He breathed deeply. Oh, yes. Even with such clean, unsullied money, there was the deliciously earthy smell of cash. It sent a devilish shiver through him.

  The devil knew numbers better than almost any other being in creation. Numbers were details and the devil was famous for being up in that jam and down with that shit. One thumb riffle and Clovenhoof knew the block contained a thousand pounds. He did a mental count of the number of cash blocks and found himself unavoidably aroused.

  “Oh, money. It’s been a long time, my friend,” he sighed happily. “Let’s see how long you last this time.”

  He stuffed ten thousand pounds down the front of his underpants - If anyone asked him, he would have possibly told them it was to keep it safe and hidden but he did it because he wanted to stuff ten thousand pounds down the front of his underpants – and then, with a bulging crotch and a happy swagger, strolled home.

  As a small reward, he bought himself a little something on the way home. It was totally worth it and it made the case a little lighter.

  At home, Clovenhoof lay on the living room floor and phoned Narinda Shah.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  “Got what?” said Narinda. “And who is this?”

  “I’ve got your money, babe. Cold hard cash. Well, I’ve warmed it up a bit now. You know that thing where people throw money in the air and roll around naked on it?”

  “Jeremy Clovenhoof,” said Narinda in weary recognition.

  “Well, it doesn’t work with those new plastic bank notes. They’re really quite prickly and I’ve got a couple of papercuts in some of the less obvious places. Still, I suppose they’re wipe-clean which has got to be good for people who believe in hygiene and all that.”

  “Are you saying you have the money, Jeremy?”

  “Yup. Ooh. There’s one right up my…” He grunted and glared at the offending bank note and then gave it an experimental sniff. “Yup. Every last bit to pay off your tax bribe thingy.”

  “It’s a bill, not a bribe, Jeremy.”

  “But I pay it to you…”

  “To Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.”

  “To stop you pestering me for another year.”

  “We never pester, Jeremy.”

  “Sounds like a bribe to me.”

  There was silence on the phone for a long second.


  “You have it in cash?” said Narinda.

  “Yes,” said Clovenhoof.

  “There, with you, at your home?”

  “Yes.”

  Another long second of silence.

  “I will come round tomorrow. As soon as I can. Do not spend it all before I get there.”

  “Ooh, that sounds like a challenge!”

  “It is not, Jeremy. Jeremy? Don’t spend it. You hear me?”

  “Well, maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It’s like that cat in the box. Until you open the box, you don’t know who killed it?”

  “What?”

  Clovenhoof killed the call and laid back on his bed of cash.

  “Milo!” he called.

  “Yes, boss!” came the shouted reply from the kitchen.

  “How’s the cooking coming on?”

  “I’m just grinding down the ciabatta for the breadcrumbs and grating Parmigiano for the sauce.”

  “Okay,” said Clovenhoof. “As long as it tastes like the original, you hear?”

  “Better than the original.”

  Clovenhoof scoffed. “You can’t improve on perfection, Milo.”

  The smells coming from the kitchen were certainly enticing, particularly that guffy note you only got from the most expensive of cheeses. Bored by rolling naked in cash, Clovenhoof got to his feet, put on his game night smoking jacket – Black-Jack-table green embroidered with gold dice – and went down to flat 1b with his silver suitcase of cash.

  He unlocked and removed his padlock and then spent thirty minutes fiddling around inside the others with a paperclip in a manner that he felt looked really professional and cool and just like a lock-picking thief on a TV show before giving up and using teeth, hoofs and horns to wrench padlocks and brackets from the door frame.

  He had just finished setting up when Ben and Nerys arrived.

  “What the hell, Jeremy!” said Nerys angrily.

  “I just wanted to prepare a little surprise,” said Clovenhoof.

  “You’ve ripped the padlocks off the door.”

  “This is a total infringement of the game rules,” said Ben.

  “What are you talking about?” said Clovenhoof. “You two cheat all the time.”

  “Oh, but there’s a scale,” said Nerys. “The footballer might take a cheeky dive when he’s been tackled but he doesn’t pick up the ball and run with it.”

  “She’s using sporting analogies,” said Ben. “I’ve no idea.”

  “I just wanted to make some exciting little changes,” said Clovenhoof and spread his hands over their cluttered gaming spaces.

  “The money!” said Nerys. “He’s switched it around.”

  Ben plonked himself in his seat and ran his fingers over the piles of notes that stood where his printed toy money had once been. He tested the top note between thumb and forefinger.

  “What do you reckon, huh?”

  “Bit plasticky,” said Ben. “Where’d you get this? Poundland?”

  “It’s real!” said Clovenhoof.

  Nerys smirked. “A lot of the modern notes look like toy money anyway. These look realistic enough. Maybe we will play with real money one day.”

  “It is real!” insisted Clovenhoof.

  “Whatever.” Nerys sat down. “I declare it’s Malibu-and-Coke o’clock. Let’s set up drinks and it is my go, I believe.”

  “But it’s real money!” said Clovenhoof.

  “Uh-huh. Of course, Jeremy.” She looked to Ben. “It’s happened. Dementia’s set in.”

  “You said it would be syphilis-induced madness,” said Ben.

  “Whatever. Let’s break out those retirement home brochures.”

  There was a knock on the flat door. “Boss? Are you in here?”

  “In here, Milo.”

  Clovenhoof’s newly appointed personal chef entered the flat, bearing a tray of steaming baked goods.

  “Is that Milo Finn-Frouer?” whispered Nerys.

  “Who?” whispered Ben.

  “The chef at Charretier’s, that swanky restaurant on the high street.”

  “I’m more of a Nando’s person,” said Ben.

  Trying not to grimace at Ben’s comment, the burly chef leaned forward and offered his creation for inspection.

  “Here, we have a light confection of diced York ham in a combination of Schabziger and Parmigiano cheese, lightly spiced with turmeric and paprika, wrapped in a blanket of buckwheat crepe and baked in a crumb coating of authentic Italian ciabatta.”

  Clovenhoof took one of the golden crescent-shaped items and broke it open. Steam burst forth in fragrant clouds.

  “That smells delicious,” said Nerys.

  “It smells a bit like…” Ben sniffed. “Hang on. Are those just Findus crispy pancakes?”

  “They are my crispy pancakes,” said Milo Finn-Frouer.

  Clovenhoof bit deeply, eyes closed. Melted cheese and meaty juices welled in his mouth. He was about to declare them a success but something made him hold back. There was something wrong, something missing. He chewed thoughtfully, stuck his tongue out and ejected the mushy mass into the palm of his hand.

  Ben recoiled in disgust. Nerys pushed her chair back.

  “You don’t like it?” said Milo, shocked.

  “No, Milo, I do not,” said Clovenhoof. “Where’s the glucose syrup? Where’s the sunflower oil? Where’s the added salt? Where, for Hell’s sake, are the antioxidants?”

  “Boss,” said the chef, “I was trying to recreate the best aspects of the original recipe and present an interpretation of –”

  “No, Milo,” said Clovenhoof, disappointed, pouring the slop back onto the chef’s tray. “This… this… forgery is like… a Christmas present from Ben.”

  “Eh?” said Ben and Milo as one.

  “Oh, it’s all shiny and seductive on the outside and then…” Clovenhoof stuck a finger in the chewed gloop. “It’s a pair of socks.”

  “A pair of socks?” said Milo, affronted.

  “A perfectly decent gift,” said Ben sniffily.

  “Horrible,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s back to the kitchen for you, Mil-i-o. I want the real crispy pancake experience. You’re not inventing. You’re rediscovering.”

  “Rediscovering,” said the chef. “Sure. Back to basics. Reverse engineered.”

  “Yeah, that. Whatever that is,” agreed Clovenhoof.

  Milo retreated slowly, deep in thought.

  “What the hell?” said Nerys when he was gone.

  “I know,” said Clovenhoof. “That tasted like rubber. And not the good kind neither.”

  “That was Milo Finn-Frouer!” said Nerys. “He’s got a Michelin star!”

  “Maybe that’s why it tasted like old tyres.”

  “Why’s he working for you?” said Nerys.

  “And re-inventing the crispy pancake?” said Ben.

  “Not re-inventing, dear Kitchen. Rediscovering. The company changed the recipe a while back. I wasn’t totally happy with the changes. Frankly, I should have been consulted –”

  “But how did you get him to do it?” said Nerys.

  “I paid him,” said Clovenhoof simply.

  “With what?”

  “I. paid. him.”

  Sometimes, thought Clovenhoof, people just didn’t know happiness until he entered their lives. It was like that time he’d shown the fruit to that cute naked couple, like that time he’d taught Onan that one didn’t have to be the loneliest number you could ever do. Realisation dawned on their faces as growing smiles and widening eyes.

  Ben ran his fingers over the pile of cash.

  “Real money?”

  Clovenhoof nodded.

  “And you’ve replaced like for like?” said Nerys, apparently trying to remember how much her toy money stash had been worth.

  Clovenhoof nodded.

  “And this is for us?” she said.

  Clovenhoof shrugged. “But if you spend it, it’s gone.”

  “We’re playing for real now?” said
Ben, oscillating rapidly between excitement and worry.

  “We were always playing for real,” said Clovenhoof.

  Nerys’s hands hovered over the pile, caught in a moment of indecision, and then she snatched up the top inch and dashed for the door, stumbling over the quote-deciding hamster ball and an unfinished Lego ring road on her way. The front door of the house opened and slammed shut a moment later.

  “Keen to spend it, isn’t she?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Not one of life’s deferred gratification types,” said Ben, rising and going to the window to look out.

  “What’s she up to?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Um. She’s running around.” He pushed the curtain further aside. “Nope. She’s seen Victoria Calhoun. Ah, and is offering her some money for that Hermès handbag.”

  “Is Victoria selling?”

  Ben pulled a face.

  “Hard to say. Either that or we’re witnessing the world’s first mugger to pay their victim in thanks.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  There was no lovelier sight to behold from one’s bathroom window than that of a man in his dressing gown in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Clovenhoof had been polishing his horns with an electric shoe buffer he’d bought off the shopping channel with Nerys’s credit card – a shoe buffer with a spinning duster disk that not only doubled as a horn buffer but also as a hoof buffer and, on days when he felt bold, a powerfully dangerous toothbrush. He was polishing his horns to a minty-fresh shine (there was still a residue of toothpaste on them) when he looked down at the back garden of four-hundred-and-something Chester Road and saw Ben, in his dressing gown, pants and a ‘miniature wargamers do it on your table’ t-shirt hastily digging a hole in the middle of the lawn.