Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  “Easy!” said Clovenhoof. “PrayPal has a social forum. People can chat and swap cake recipes or whatever it is you Jesus freaks like doing.”

  “It’s not the same. A proper social life can’t be replaced by a thingy on a phone. What about the singing and the playgroups and the coffee mornings.”

  “You can use PrayPal to organise some singing sessions somewhere a bit more convenient, like the pub.”

  “That’s not an answer, Mr Clovenhoof.”

  “But, you have, in fact, given me a great idea. I’m going to organise the biggest social get-together this town has ever seen. If the church can’t create social joy and cohesion then I guess it’s up to the marvellous Mr Clovenhoof to provide. Give me a few days and I will announce the details.”

  The woman fell short of smiling at Clovenhoof’s answer, but her scowl diminished slightly.

  “Next,” said Nerys. “You!”

  “You gunna be one of them tax dodgers who puts their millions in a tax haven?” asked an oily-haired fellow.

  “Apparently I don’t pay tax on money I won in a bet. It’s all mine,” said Clovenhoof triumphantly.

  “Yeah, but you’re earning interest every day on that money. Government are gunna want to tax that,” said the man.

  “Is this true?” Clovenhoof whirled on Narinda.

  “Well, yes –” started Narinda, but Clovenhoof turned his attention back to the man with the oily hair.

  “But I can avoid that? What’s a tax haven?” he asked.

  “It’s where you put your money in a country wiv diff’rent tax rules, so’s you get to keep more of it. Or there’s loads of other things that rich folks do like –”

  “Mr Clovenhoof will not be avoiding tax,” said Narinda, cutting in front of him, “as he is a fine upstanding citizen who intends to play by the rules.”

  Clovenhoof spluttered with rage. “I’ve been accused of some things in my time,” he yelled, “but that is just rude. How dare you!”

  Nerys pointed again. “You, next question.”

  “Is it true that Jeremy Clovenhoof is a fake identity, cooked up a few years ago and you’re currently under investigation by the Fraud Squad,” called out a man who might or might not have been Inspector Gough of the fraud office putting on a voice.

  “And who’s that naked man?” asked a woman, pointing upwards.

  Everyone looked. A naked dishcloth of a man stood dazedly at a second floor window.

  “Put some clothes on, Okra!” Nerys shouted.

  “This press conference is over!” said Clovenhoof and went inside.

  Joan watched Rutspud’s fingers fly across the tablet. She’d stopped asking about how he knew how to work these gadgets. Rutspud had explained emails to her. They were letters that you sent using this new-fangled wizardry and they got delivered instantly. Joan was thrilled by this. They would send a message and the programmer would help them with their mission. They had decided on a brief and truthful note.

  Dear Winkycat,

  We are agents of a higher power. The PrayPal that you created is causing a spiritual imbalance in the afterlife and we need you to turn it off. Please let us know when you have done it.

  Joan of Arc (Heaven) and Rutspud (Hell).

  Unfortunately, since they’d sent the message the previous night there had been no response.

  So, Joan and Rutspud now sat in the living room of the Mission Society of the Thrown Voice doing further internet research. On the upper walls of the living room, glove puppets of deceased society members hung from pegs above little plaques detailing who they had belonged to. Joan struggled to articulate her feelings about this display of dangling mannequins but when Rutspud vulgarly declared it to be “creepy as fuck” she could not disagree.

  The door swung open silently and Tommy Chuckles’ over-sized head peered round the door frame. Joan’s natural instinct was to kill it and then burn it with fire and, much to her shame, she realised her hand was already on the hilt of her sword. She let it go and smiled at the puppet.

  “Hello, Tommy.”

  “Morning, young uns,” he said. “Me and Sister Anne is off into town for an emergency meeting with the regional abbeys, holy houses and religious retreats.”

  “Emergency meeting. Oh.”

  “That jumped-up and godless billionaire Jeremy Clovenhoof thinks he can supplant the work of the church with a tacky street party and we’re going to do something about it.”

  “Have a bit of a pray,” suggested Rutspud with expertly subtle sarcasm.

  “We’re going to do a lot more than that. We’ll have a million nuns marching on his doorstep and what’ll he think then?”

  “There’s a Sound of Music sing-a-long?”

  Tommy Chuckles’ face screwed up in a puppety frown and was gone.

  “There was no need to be rude,” said Joan.

  “We’ve got work to do,” said Rutspud, and resumed his dextrously speedy typing.

  “Do you think that Winkycat is the programmer’s real name?” asked Joan, looking over his shoulder.

  “No, it’s a nickname,” said Rutspud. “I found an older account using the same nickname though, and it was someone based in Birmingham, so I think it might be the same person. Look, there’s a photo.”

  Rutspud enlarged the picture. It was a young man. He didn’t look much older than Joan. He wore a chunky woollen sweater with a zip up the front and had a thick crop of curly hair. He sat on a low wall, his hands buried in the pockets of the sweater.

  “It would be good if we could work out where this picture was taken,” said Rutspud.

  “Is that a shop in the background?” said Joan. “That big glass window behind him.”

  Rutspud enlarged the picture. “Yes, there’s a sign saying OAP Specials on Wednesday.”

  “So, we just need to find a shop that sells OAPs,” said Joan. “Why don’t you use the laptop to find out?”

  Rutspud gave her a look. “OAP is shorthand for an old aged pensioner. That sign means they sell something cheap for old people on Wednesdays. I think it might be food. Look, you can see the edge of the sign at the top.”

  “Oh, wait. Is that Large Mikes?” said Joan, poking the screen with her finger. “That name keeps coming up. We need to go there.”

  “Let’s kidnap an OAP on the way there and claim the special!” said Rutspud, closing the laptop and jumping up. He laughed as Joan glared at him. “That was a joke by the way. You should see your face.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Clovenhoof sat in the Eddy-Cab and grinned at the world. He had been filthy rich for less than a week, was still getting used it, and was currently having some fun on the dual carriageway, putting his feet up on the dashboard and catching the eye of other motorists as he overtook them in the fast lane. He had no idea how this car was a more capable driver than the humans who swerved and honked at the slightest excitement, but it was and he loved it. This car was possibly the best invention since the crispy pancake. On the subject of crispy pancakes...

  “Kylie, send a text to Milo asking how his latest pancake is coming along,” he said.

  “Texting Milo asking how his latest pancake is coming along,” said the automated voice of the car. He had set its name to be Kylie because it reminded him of the dinky Australian singer, in that it was low to the floor, with a shimmering airbrushed finish and it was way out of his league. Except now he had twelve of them. He had yet to try to drive them all at once...

  “Kylie, text Nerys and tell her to buy me a new loudhailer. Then set destination for the Boldmere Oak.”

  “Text sent,” said Kylie and then pulled smoothly into the left lane to turn off.

  On the road outside the Boldmere Oak, Spartacus Wilson and his gang were charging up and down in their shopping trolleys. To the inobservant viewer it might have simply appeared to be a bunch of lads messing about but there was a studied precision to their manoeuvres, like a ballet for daleks.

  “Window, Kylie,” said Clo
venhoof. “Oi! Spartacus!”

  The teen menace wheeled over.

  “Kerb-crawling now, are you?” he said.

  Clovenhoof waved at the choreographed trolley action.

  “You guys are getting good at that.”

  Spartacus sniffed. “I heard you’re stinking rich now, you can sponsor us, yeah?”

  “You reckon you could do a demonstration of your trolley stunt –”

  “Street polo.”

  “– for my Family Bumper Fun Day?”

  “Maybe,” said Spartacus. “Where is that going to be?”

  “Right here,” said Clovenhoof, pointing at the pub. “You’re looking at the pub I just bought. I bought a few bits and pieces around it too, so I can fulfil the more ambitious parts of my vision.”

  “Like what?” asked Spartacus.

  “Well, as well as being the fun venue of choice for amazing gatherings like the one we’re about to have, this is also going to house the Clovenhoof Lifestyle Academy where people can learn to be more like me. But first, we’ll be building a moat all the way round the place. The diggers are coming today.”

  “What you need a moat for?”

  “Two things. I have a sizeable yacht and I plan to moor it here. Second reason is that I am creating a moat around my tax haven.”

  “Tax what?”

  “The nation state of Hooflandia will be contained within that moat.”

  “Like a foreign country?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “So, what, you’ll be like, abroad?”

  “That is correct, Spartacus. You can come on your holidays. Provided you get your passport and exchange your currency, of course,” said Clovenhoof.

  He went inside the pub-recently-turned-country to find Lennox tapping on a laptop in the saloon bar.

  “Yo, Lennox, my man! I mean that literally by the way, given that you now work for me.”

  “I will overlook that arrogant remark since you’re Old Nick himself and have recently given me a million quid for this old ruin, sir,” said Lennox. Lennox was one of less than a handful of humans who knew Clovenhoof’s true identity. No one had ever told Lennox that Clovenhoof was Satan. Jeremy just reckoned that, as a seasoned barman, Lennox saw through bullshit instantly and no amount of heavenly hocus pocus was going to blind him to Jeremy’s horns and hoofs.

  “A million was twice the asking price,” said Clovenhoof, “so I’ll have less sass from you. But don’t call me sir, Lennox. Landlords only call people sir when they’re about to tell them they’ve had too much to drink. Have you made progress with my army yet?”

  Lennox called out towards the back. “Florence, get your brothers out here!”

  A group emerged from the back. Florence was clearly in charge of the three tall youths and made strange swooping attacks upon their clothing with pins as they walked.

  “My niece and nephews,” Lennox explained. “Florence is working on the uniforms.”

  “You want lots of gold braid on the dress uniforms, yeah?” queried Florence, through a mouthful of pins. “You want desert camo or jungle camo for the combat fatigues?”

  “Just make them look kick-ass. Use your judgement,” said Clovenhoof. “Lennox, I want more people in this army. You still recruiting?”

  “Sure! This is just the first set to get through basic training,” said Lennox.

  “And what is the basic training? Sniper rifles? Knife fighting?”

  “Since Hooflandia currently has no actual weapons our army’s mostly ceremonial so we focused on relevant skills.”

  “Changing of the guard? Silly marches?”

  “No, that’s advanced training. We’ve just focused on the basic standing still and looking fierce but reassuring.”

  The three conscripts stood to attention and did their best fierce-but-reassuring looks, looks which Clovenhoof would have otherwise described as ‘doing a difficult poo.’

  “Very good,” he said, unconvinced.

  Florence continued chasing and pinning as the army went back to their quarters.

  “You can show me to my presidential suite now, Lennox,” said Clovenhoof. “Or should I say, Prime Minister?”

  Lennox smiled. Clovenhoof decided that he would need to start with Lennox when it came to coaching the world on being more Clovenhoof. Lennox still moved in a gentle, laid-back way. He was the prime minister of a brand new country now, he might want to learn to strut and swagger.

  “Come and take a look,” said Lennox.

  They went up the stairs. Clovenhoof was hazy on whether this upstairs room was new or extended, but the important question was simply this: did it ooze vulgar excess?

  He went through the double door with side columns supported by golden cherubs. The space that he entered was vast. Somehow it must extend further back than the pub itself. This was excellent! Velvet was gathered artfully on the walls into complicated sculptural arrangements. There were chaises longues covered in leopard skin fabric. There was a television the size of a cinema screen and a bar padded with leather and topped with beaten copper. He could see the Lambrini lined up on glass shelves.

  Small water features dotted throughout the room had more of the golden cherubs. This must be Nerys’s doing, she knew how much he enjoyed poking the bare bottoms of cherubs with anything sharp – it helped him to think. He breathed deeply, enjoying his first sight of his new favourite place.

  “Needs some mood lighting,” said Clovenhoof. Lennox flipped a switch by the bar and lamps burst into life along the walls. They had flickering bulbs that looked like flames. As Lennox turned the controller the colour of the flames turned from white, through a soft apricot to a Hellish red.

  “Smart bulbs. We can change the presets to be any brightness and colour saturation that you want,” said Lennox.

  “Reminds me of the Old Place,” said Clovenhoof approvingly.

  “By the way,” said Lennox, coughing uncomfortably, “I do want to make it clear that, just because I’m your employee now, I do not consider myself a servant of Hell.” He directed half of this in a generally upward direction as though Heaven itself might be listening in. “I consider myself to be a… a shoulder angel of sorts. Just one on the payroll as it were.”

  “Bloody shoulder angels everywhere,” sighed Clovenhoof. “And now I’m paying for them. Ooh, talking of money…”

  “Ah, yes.” Lennox went behind the copper-topped bar, pulled out a courier’s box and placed it on the counter. “We have some samples of your new currency, the Hooflandian pound.”

  “Are they as I requested?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Only pretty much?”

  “Yes. I chatted with some legal people and, apparently, having, um, vulgar anatomy as the main image on each banknote would make it extremely unlikely they would ever be accepted as a recognised currency.”

  “But I’ve already started practising calling a ten pound note a ‘titty’.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that but –”

  “As in, ‘cool hat, I’ll give you a titty for it.’”

  “Yes, I’m –”

  “Or ‘I’d like to put two titties on a horse in the three fifteen.’”

  “Very droll.”

  “And then there’s the other notes. The snatch. The ass. The dong. Hey. How come those foreign lot can get away with calling their money the dong and I can’t?”

  “I think it means something different in Vietnamese,” said Lennox.

  “Excuses. Let’s have a look then.”

  As Lennox pulled out piles of notes and stacks of coins, Nerys and Ben arrived.

  “This is where you two are hiding?” said Nerys.

  Ben pulled a face at the décor. “Is this place meant to look like a tart’s boudoir?”

  “And how would you know what a tart’s boudoir looks like?” said Nerys.

  “Or any boudoir for that matter,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Boudoir,” said Lennox.

  Everyone looked at him
.

  “It’s a fun word to say,” he said. “I just wanted to join in.”

  “Boudoir,” agreed Ben. “You serving, Lennox?” he asked and the barman was already pouring their usuals before he’d even got to the question mark.

  “Diggers are all set to excavate the moat,” Nerys said to Clovenhoof. “We need to talk about the border wall that you wanted as well.”

  “Oh yeah, an absolute must-have,” said Clovenhoof.

  “What’s it for?” asked Ben.

  “Well, we need to clamp down on the movement of drugs,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Oh, fair point,” said Ben, taking receipt of his cider and black and giving Lennox a twenty. “Are people going to try to smuggle drugs into Hooflandia?”

  “No, no, no! I need to stop drugs going out,” said Clovenhoof. “If there are drugs in here then they’re mine and I don’t want them leaving.”

  “Um, what’s this?” said Ben, looking at the coins and notes in his outstretched hand as though Lennox had just spat in it.

  “Hooflandia’s exchange system,” said Lennox. “The pub takes payments in British pounds and gives change in Hooflandian.”

  Nerys took a jagged edged coin from Ben’s hand.

  “Are these jigsaw pieces?” she asked.

  “Part of our plan to encourage saving,” said Clovenhoof. “The fifty pences are cut in jigsaw shapes and, if you collect enough, it will build up into a two-thousand-piece jigsaw.”

  “Of what?”

  “Might be a tasteful picture of your Hooflandian president. Might be Her Maj, Queen Elizabeth, topless. Who can say?”

  “And these?” said Ben, holding up a thick and shiny brown coin.

  “A stroke of genius,” said Lennox. “I told Jeremy here that old wise saying about once all the trees and fish have gone that people will discover they can’t eat money.”

  “And I decided to change all that,” said Clovenhoof. “That’s why the Hooflandian pound coin is a densely compacted cup-a-soup. Pop that in a cup of hot water and you’ll have a nice oxtail soup.”

  “And dysentery,” said Nerys, “considering all the grubby hands and pockets it will have been in. What was it they say about the amount of urine on the average coin?”