Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  “What are you doing, Kitchen?” he shouted down.

  Ben looked up, spade in hand, a look of guilty alarm on his face. Clovenhoof saw there was a bulging carrier bag on the ground next to him.

  “Did you kill one of the neighbours’ cats with a model ballista again?” shouted Clovenhoof.

  “No,” hissed Ben. “And I didn’t kill it, I only stunned it. And it wasn’t a cat, it was one of their children. And could you please cover yourself up. Most people have frosted glass in their bathroom windows.”

  “Nothing wrong with showing off the body God gave you. I mean literally. This body. His design choices all the way. And they say He doesn’t have a sense of humour. So, what are you doing?”

  Ben looked round nervously.

  “I stayed up last night, researching on the internet.”

  “It’s not called researching if you do it one-handed, Nerys says.”

  “Researching how to invest my money.”

  “Ah.”

  “But we live in such uncertain times…”

  “You thought you’d just bury your share of the cash.”

  Ben shushed him. “Not so loud! You don’t know who’s listening.”

  Clovenhoof sighed.

  “You can’t take it with you when you die, Ben. Trust me. I’ve met people who’ve tried. Spend it. Live a little or, if you can, live a lot.”

  Clovenhoof wrapped a towel around his waist, hula-danced into his bedroom and dressed for the day. There were several windows open on his computer browser. He’d been doing some internet research of his own (and not all of it one-handed) but with a more of a focus on spending his cash, rather than saving it.

  Nerys entered his flat without knocking and strode purposefully through the living room, pouted at a non-existent audience, turned and strode back.

  “And here is Nerys Thomas,” she said, “wearing a dress by Roland Mouret, shoes from Jimmy Choo and earrings and necklace from Alexander McQueen.”

  “And since when did Nerys Thomas speak about herself in the third person?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Ever since she became bloody minted.”

  “Ah, Clovenhoof was wondering.”

  “Nerys is glad to help.”

  “Then Clovenhoof wonders if Nerys could help with something else.”

  “Nerys is listening.”

  Clovenhoof gesticulated at his computer. “Why is it so bloody hard for me to spend my money?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have money. I have oodles of money. I have shitting oodles of money with knobs on. And I know what I want. And I’m prepared to pay for it. But can I find the things I want? I can’t.”

  Nerys glanced over the browser tabs. Buy-a-yacht.com, Robots4u.co.jp…

  “The Drugs Advice Centre?” she said.

  “Who aren’t apparently interested in advising on where to buy the best disco biscuits. False advertising.”

  Nerys nodded in understanding. “You need a personal shopper.”

  “Ah!” he cried. “Ah! I tried that. All that means is someone from some department store tries to get you to buy stuff from their shop. And John Lewis’s don’t do class A giggle-cakes or the necessary goods for my planned boats ‘n’ hoes weekender.”

  “Hoes?”

  “Boats ‘n’, yes.”

  Nerys gave this some thought.

  “I know someone who could be your bespoke personal shopper. For a price.”

  Clovenhoof narrowed his eyes. “Would that be you?”

  “It might,” she said.

  “Why do you need to sell your services? I gave you a wad of notes.”

  “But unlike some people, I know how to spend it. And only charge a very reasonable ten percent fee.”

  Satan’s balls, the woman was mercenary. It was one of the few qualities he admired in her. He thrust a scribbled list into her hand.

  “That lot. I want that lot.”

  Nerys read, her eyes widening.

  “Self-driving car?”

  “I’m tired of walking everywhere.”

  “A yacht?”

  “Boats ‘n’ hoes, remember?”

  There was a sharp rap at the front door downstairs.

  “Get that,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I’m your personal shopper, not personal slave,” said Nerys.

  “Ooh, add personal slave to the list on your way down.”

  “Cock,” said Nerys and left.

  While Clovenhoof was picking the best cravat to accompany today’s clothing ensemble, the phone rang. He made a mental note to employ a ‘personal phone answerer’ and picked it up.

  “Mr Clovenhoof?” said a voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Hold for Maldon Ferret.”

  “Not usually,” said Clovenhoof but the voice was gone.

  “Clovenhoof, is it, eh?” came a new voice, as rich and self-assured as a TV advert voice-over. “Jerry Jerry Jezza, is it? Maldon Ferret.”

  “I heard.” It was definitely the same Maldon Ferret whose father’s funeral he’d attended. Clovenhoof briefly wondered if he was calling to charge him for eating so many cheap sandwiches.

  “Queer Nigel down at head office asked me to give you a call. Lovely chap. Cracking wife. Goes like a broken gate in a hurricane if you get a couple of gins inside her.”

  “Does she?”

  “Seems you’ve come into a spot of lolly and are all too keen to raid the piggy bank. Yum-yum, eh? As one of the major shareholders of Sutton Railway Building Society thought I’d drop you a tinkle and share some pearls of wisdom.”

  “Oh, it’s about my money,” said Clovenhoof, suddenly understanding.

  “Indeedy-do, Jezza,” said Maldon Ferret. “Your money and – I’m guessing here – you’ve not had much of it before. No, don’t apologise. We’ve all been there. Once found myself penniless and near buck naked in Chamonix and was faced with having to spend the rest of the month sans après-ski or make some moolah fast. Of course, I’m much better at doing chalet girls than being one but, fortunately, there was a rugby team on tour who were all willing to pay for some public school specials – scrum fumble! – so it was prayer positions, Handy Andys and fizzy pop all the way after that. No, we’ve all been there, Jezza.”

  Clovenhoof had no idea if the man meant Chamonix or in a scrum or something else and didn’t care to ask.

  “No,” said Maldon, “you’re like a man lost in the desert who’s found himself suddenly at the bar of one of the finer London clubs. Not my club, obviously, but one of the others. And you’ve got a raging thirst. You want to drink the bar dry. Totally understandable, Jezza. But you drink it all and it’ll be chunderbirds are go before tea-time and you’ll be back out in that desert. So, consider me the voice of prudence.”

  “Hello, Prudence,” said Clovenhoof bewildered.

  “Ha! Cracking humour, Jezza. I see we’re going to get on like Fortnum and Mason. Tell you what, I’m having a little shindig at my place this evening. Popped my old man in the crypt recently and a bunch of the boys from the Square Mile are up for drinks – mostly to check that he’s brown bread.”

  Maldon laughed raucously at that though Clovenhoof couldn’t be sure why. He also wasn’t sure if the old man was Maldon’s father or his penis.

  “Look, I’ll send a car for you at six,” said Maldon. “I’ll introduce you to some investment chaps. A right load of bankers, eh? Ha! And let’s get that money working for you. Ciao, bambino!” cried Maldon and was gone.

  Clovenhoof stared at the phone. He wasn’t sure what had just happened and he might need a breakfast Lambrini to help him decode it.

  “I knocked,” said a voice at the door.

  Clovenhoof turned. It was Narinda Shah, his friendly neighbourhood tax collector. Grey suit, dinky briefcase held in both hands.

  “I said I would come as soon as I could,” she said.

  “You did,” he said. “I’m just about to have breakfast. Care for a Findus crispy pop tart.”
>
  “They do pop tarts?”

  “It’s just a crispy pancake with treacle on it and then put in the toaster. Set the fire alarm off three times last week but that’s just a sign that you’re really searing the flavours in.”

  “Jeremy, I’ve come to talk to about your overdue payment.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, wandering into the kitchen to look for breakfast. “Tell me, if I said I’d popped my old man in the crypt, what would you think I meant?”

  “Is this relevant, Jeremy? I’m only interested in facts pertaining to your recent tax assessment.”

  “Ever the professional,” said Clovenhoof. Milo Finn-Frouer had left Clovenhoof’s kitchen worktop covered in a complex arrangement of alembics, muslin sieves, rubber tubing and pressurised containers. It looked like the chef had been engaged in wild science experiments rather than cooking. As long as today’s attempts at recreating the perfect crispy pancake were better than yesterday’s Clovenhoof didn’t mind but, in the meantime, Clovenhoof was struggling to find anything resembling food. In the end, he settled for a bottle of Lambrini. Breakfast power drinks were all the rage with young wealthy types, weren’t they?

  He went back into the living room, swigging from the bottle like the cool dude he knew himself to be.

  “You said you had some or all of the money you owe,” said Narinda.

  “If someone was said to go like a broken gate in a hurricane, would you know what that meant?”

  “Could we please focus on the matter in hand.”

  “Perhaps if I added gin to the equation, would that help?”

  “Jeremy Clovenhoof!” she said sternly. “I came here to talk about the very serious matter of your tax assessment, not to be propositioned with gin and your ‘old man’.”

  “Ah, I thought as much. Yes, Miss Shah. I do have your money. All of it. In cash. Not a word of a lie.”

  “Then I would very much like to have it,” said Narinda.

  “I bet you would. Now let me see…” Clovenhoof scouted about for the location of his case of money.

  Nerys appeared at the doorway, hand cupped over the phone she held.

  “Jeremy.”

  “Yo.”

  “Yacht. Forty foot or eighty foot?”

  “Which is better?” he said.

  “Bigger is better,” she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Eighty then.”

  “They can reserve one today with a ten percent deposit.” Her phone warbled. She put it to her ear and nodded. “They’ll take twenty thousand for now.”

  Clovenhoof retrieved the metal suitcase from under the sofa, opened it and, after a quick count, passed Nerys much of what remained.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve already made enquiries about other purchases. And I’ve sub-contracted some to Ben. You know, the nerdy stuff. I asked him about self-driving cars and he started waffling on about Google-somethings and that SpaceX science guy. I left it with him.” She walked off, cash in hand, chatting on her phone.

  Narinda stared at Nerys and then stared at the suitcase.

  “I told you not to spend it, Jeremy,” she said.

  He raised a finger to correct her. “You told me not to spend it all.”

  Narinda approached the money and with a nod from Clovenhoof began to count what remained.

  “Well, it doesn’t appear to be the full amount,” she said as she efficiently stacked and arranged the notes, “but it would certainly represent a gesture of good faith on your behalf. Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs will look much more kindly upon your case if I can take this with me and –”

  “I can’t let you have it all, obviously,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Obviously?”

  “I’ve got some personal expenses that need settling, Ben is buying me one of those computerised cars as we speak and I’ve got to buy a new suit for tonight’s party.”

  “Party?”

  “Yes. Some bloke from the building society, Maldon Ferret, has invited me to his shindig.”

  “Maldon Ferret?”

  “Yes, he’s going to introduce me to some people who will tell me how to invest the rest of my money.”

  “Lord Maldon Ferret?”

  “Can’t say I know him that well. He’s sending a car for us later.”

  “And what do you mean, the rest of your money?”

  “This?” He tapped the case with his hoof. “Tip of the iceberg, babe.”

  “And Lord Maldon Ferret is helping you invest the rest?”

  “Hey!” he said. “You should come with us.”

  “To the party?”

  “To the party. Reckon you could do to let your hair down. Do tax collectors let their hair down? Do tax collectors get invited to parties?”

  She gave him a firm glare. “Jeremy, I am surprised that you get invited to parties at all, particularly ones with such distinguished hosts.”

  He scoffed. “I’m the king of parties. In fact, now I own a boat, I’m the captain of parties. Set a course for fun!” He frowned. “Darn it. I’m going to need a captain’s hat.”

  Clovenhoof spent the afternoon trying on different clothing combinations for the evening party at Maldon Ferret’s. He owned some of the finest and most visually offensive smoking jackets that the internet could offer but really wanted to create an ensemble that went beyond the merely eye-watering to speak at a deeper level to anyone who saw it. He wanted it to say, ‘Here is a creature of infinite power and intelligence who is so wealthy he could wear the fashion equivalent of a pavement vomit explosion and still have all the honeys flocking round him.’ It was a big ask of Clovenhoof’s wardrobe but he was nothing if not determined.

  Meanwhile, Milo Finn-Frouer beavered away in the kitchen, creating the new (old) crispy pancake. The man was certainly going about his business with a passion. When the chef came through from the hallway with a gas cannister labelled ‘liquid oxygen’, Clovenhoof didn’t stop or question him. Anyone willing to bring dangerous chemicals into the home should simply be applauded and allowed to get on with it.

  As evening fell and Clovenhoof was considering whether wearing no trousers at all was a fashion statement too far, Ben came into the flat, phone in hand.

  “Nice tux,” said Clovenhoof.

  Ben grimaced. “Nerys told me I had to buy a suit because we’re going to some party. Two hundred quid this cost me,” he said, disgusted. “You know if I wanted to spend a lot of money on a suit, it’d be a historically accurate suit of plate mail.”

  “A man who turned up to a party in plate mail armour would definitely make an impression,” said Clovenhoof, entirely in favour of the idea.

  Ben held out the phone.

  “Could you do me a favour and talk to this guy,” said Ben, waggling the phone.

  “I don’t do favours anymore. I’m rich, don’t you know.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred quid.”

  “Done. What is it?”

  “These Eddy-Cab guys. They’ve taken the deposit. They’ve got six of them coming down from their Manchester factory today but, apparently, there are other people on the waiting list. I’m not good at being forceful with people.”

  “You want me to sort him out?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Just make our case,” said Ben and handed the phone over. “Polite but firm.”

  Clovenhoof gave him a knowing wink and put the phone to his ear.

  “Listen to me, you goat-sucking inbreds!” he yelled. “What the hell do you mean you can’t make the delivery today?”

  There was a worried silence. “Er, who is this?” said a confused voice.

  “Never mind who this is!” Clovenhoof bellowed. “I don’t have time to discuss who I am or what infectious diseases I’m carrying when you’re dilly-dallying and giving my friend, business partner and intimate companion, Ben Kitchen the runaround! I’ll not have it! You hear? You hear?”

  Another silence. This was good. Clovenhoof had them on the back foo
t.

  “I did try to explain to Ben that –”

  “That’s Mr Kitchen to you, buster!”

  “ – to Mr Kitchen that we have a waiting list for the Eddy-Cab 900 and while we’re grateful for his custom –”

  “Grateful?” roared Clovenhoof. “You should be licking the ground we walk on, sunshine! Break out the red carpet. Throw a path of roses before me. Do you know who I am? Do you? Do you?!”

  “No, sir. You said it didn’t –”

  “But you think it’s okay to bamboozle my Ben with your excuses? I know this man! Like brothers we are! You don’t know a man until you’ve buried a body together! That’s an unbreakable bond!”

  “Er, Jeremy?” said Ben uneasily.

  Clovenhoof gave him a big thumbs up.

  “Sir,” said the man on the line, “I told Ben – I mean Mr Kitchen – that we do have six being transported down today but –”

  “We’ll take them,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Take them?”

  “Take them all, yes.” Clovenhoof had no idea what Ben was buying but six was always better than one. “And have them delivered directly to me. Cash in hand. No questions asked. There’s an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “An offer I can’t refuse…”

  “Or do you need me to come there and repeat myself in person? Huh?”

  There was a reflective silence.

  “No. No, I think that will be fine.”

  “Damn straight it will!” growled Clovenhoof and, with a cheeky grin, passed the phone back to Ben.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Rutspud was still adjusting to operating in daylight hours, so it was long past noon when he and Joan sat down for breakfast in the kitchen diner of the Mission Society of the Thrown Voice. Rutspud stared with interest at the confection that Sister Anne had put in front of him.

  “So,” he said, “these are grains of semi-aquatic grass from distant Asia, baked until they go all fluffy and dry, and then served in a bowl of the glandular secretions of an animal called a cow.”

  Tommy Chuckles rolled his eyes. “It’s Rice Krispies is what it is, sunshine.”