by Heide Goody
“You don’t believe?” said Joan.
“What? In God? A load of Freudian nonsense about the great big bogeyman in the sky?”
“Bogeyman?” said Rutspud. “I mean that would be a God I could get behind. The Almighty Snotmaker.” He stuck the toothbrush up his nose and gave it an experimental jiggle.
“So, what do you believe in?” said Joan.
Felix gave her a blank look. “I believe in this world, in science. I’m a humanist.”
“He believes in humans,” said Rutspud. “That’s quite easy when they’re always bloody there. It’s like believing in rocks. Or pigeons.”
“I believe people are the masters of their own destiny. Our achievements are our own. Our failings are our own.” A grin slipped out on Felix’s lips. “You people…”
“We people?” said Joan.
“Christians. Bible bashers. And the Muslims and the Jews and the Mormons and all of those people. You believe you need a God to tell you right from wrong?”
“Moral commands need a commander,” said Joan automatically.
“And if there was no God we’d all just rape and murder each other? Is that the idea?”
Rutspud had extracted the toothbrush from his nose and was examining the bristles for the spoils of his nasal excavations. “I think that’s what humans do anyway.”
“PrayPal doesn’t make people do bad things. It only offers the illusion of forgiveness. If people are starting to do bad things because they can now get absolution at the tap of button then they weren’t very good people in the first place.”
“He’s got a point,” said Rutspud.
“The church – dogmatic religion in all its forms – is outmoded and obsolete.”
“I object to that,” said Joan.
“The church teaches that we can choose to do wrong because we have free will. But science now tells us that free will is an illusion cooked up by the subconscious. No one is born evil. It’s pretty much all nurture and no nature. You want to blame someone for doing something wrong, you have to blame the person’s parents. And you can’t blame them because they’re just products of their environment too. And the rules religions cook up about what you can eat, what you can say, who you can fall in love with…”
“I think the faith has made great strides in accepting all people,” said Joan. “God’s love is eternal but the church is willing to steer the faithful in new directions as society develops.”
“You’re kidding me!” said Felix. “You’re not steering the faithful. You’re the bloody anchor dragging behind! And just because society manages to drag the anchor in a new direction does not mean you’re steering anything. And the worst thing is, it’s those bloody stick-in-the-muds who are telling us to follow those outdated moral rules that are spending the weekend at one of those sex parties at Floxton House, snorting every drug under the sun and shagging every orifice they can find. Hypocrites, the lot of them. The church is full of hypocrites who cling to the past and are frightened of the future.”
“The church is not frightened of the future,” said Joan.
“You are. The church. Bible bashers across the globe. You’re frightened of the future, of technology. Anything new comes along and it’s all up in arms and ‘will no one think of the children?’ and worrying that people will only use the new technology to look at porn and have sex with random strangers.”
“This is what most people use technology for,” argued Rutspud.
“But it’s what people would do anyway, with or without technology!” said Felix. “The modern world is better than the past. There was no ‘Golden Age’, no time when Britain was truly great. For every person who is worried about sexting, cyberbullying and identity theft, there’s a hundred people who are alive because of improved sanitation, GM crops and free condoms.”
Felix glowered at them both.
“Have you finished ranting?” asked Joan eventually.
Felix huffed. “You know what? Whatever your problem is with my app you can go fuck yourself because I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Rutspud picked a fleck of snot from the edge of the toothbrush and flicked it away.
“What sex parties at Floxton House?” he asked.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Clovenhoof’s private suite of the Hooflandian presidential palace (formerly the upstairs function room of the Boldmere Oak public house) was abuzz with the affairs of state. High Lord Baronet Ben Kitchen and Minister-without-portfolio Nerys Thomas, assisted by her pet boyfriend Okra, were overseeing the installation of The Game which had been brought over board by board, stack by stack and counter by counter from its original home at four-hundred-and-something Chester Road. The High Lord Baronet consulted a series of photos on his phone and the Minister-without-portfolio arranged the pieces to millimetre accuracy so that there might be no accusations that anything at all was out of place.
In the farthest corner, President Clovenhoof’s personal a cappella choir provided background music. They specialised in beatboxing and barbershop quartet music, a crossover genre that Clovenhoof thought was criminally underappreciated, and were performing their own interpretation If I Were a Rich Man.
Clovenhoof wasn’t paying attention. He stood at the largest window of his presidential suite and surveyed his country.
“I need a balcony here,” he said. “A president needs a balcony if he’s to do some proper surveying.”
“I’m sure one could be put in place by the morning,” said Nerys. “Now, Okra has been talking to me about some excellent investment opportunities.”
“Does he ever talk to anyone else?”
“Oh, oh, y-yes, quite,” mumbled the boyfriend. “In so much that… I-I-I –”
“Okra was saying,” said Nerys, steam-rolling over him, “that most people don’t see ships full of toxic waste as an investment opportunity but as long as you’re not the one carrying the can when it all finally leaks out then they can offer great returns…”
Balcony or not, Clovenhoof had adopted the proper pose for a tyrant surveying his country: feet placed slightly apart, hands together behind his back, crotch not thrust fully forward but presented boldly enough to suggest it was available if needed.
Outside, in the orange glow of late afternoon, his realm offered a rich and varied sight. The presidential yacht was now permanently moored in the centre of the moat. Of course it wasn’t much of a moat now, being an incomplete horseshoe shape and also being filled with solid concrete. Ben had cleverly suggested that once they were certain it had set all the way down, they should simply excavate both sides of it and the Hooflandian moat would become the Hooflandian wall. In the meantime, the Boldmere Ponies were using the moat as their private skate park and practice ground. If the British Queen could have her soldiers in silly helmets poncing up and down Horse Guards Parade, then President Clovenhoof could have his trolley-based cavalry performing manoeuvres on the moat. Inside the ring of the moat, a lone figure moved across the ground. He appeared to be scuttling along, digging holes with his trowel and listening intently before moving on again. Around Festering Ken the remains of the family fun day still littered the ground. A coffee stand lay in ruins, its monstrous coffee machine trampled and dented by a thousand feet until it now looked like an aircraft crash site. A bouncy castle, deflated, flapped forlornly in the breeze. A nun’s wimple rolled across the ground like tumbleweed. Oddly (and Clovenhoof couldn’t decide if this was deliciously perverse or just annoying) the only constructions that still remained undamaged from the fun day were Milo’s Croquembouches Biscuit Christmas tree displays. Clovenhoof itched to run down there right now and kick them over.
“Has anyone seen Milo Finn-Frouer since the fun day?” he asked.
“He’s locked himself in my kitchen and won’t let anyone go in,” said Lennox.
“He’s gone crispy pancake crazy. He says he’s not coming out until he’s solved it ‘once and for all,’” added Nerys. “I think we’re ready to start play in a f
ew minutes. But here’s something to think about. Okra says that if you’re interested in being part of the exciting work of toxic waste management and wish to have a meaningful impact on lives up and down Africa’s shipwreck coast, he’s got the paperwork right here. All you need to do is sign.”
“Jeremy won’t be signing anything until he’s sorted out his tax position,” said Narinda Shah, brushing past a presidential guard to enter the room.
“Narinda!” said Clovenhoof, unclasping his hands from behind his back to greet her. “Now, you must remind me because I do forget. Do you work for me now?”
“I don’t,” said the taxwoman.
“I thought I offered you the job of Hooflandian finance minister.”
“You did and I said no.”
“If there’s a job on offer, Okra might be available,” said Nerys, massaging Okra’s compliant face affectionately, as though she was determined to mould him into a finance minister before Clovenhoof’s eyes.
“Did I mention the incredible salary I was offering?” said Clovenhoof.
“Yes, and I didn’t think it was credible,” said Narinda.
“But you’re here now.”
“As I said, there’s the matter of your personal and business tax to settle.”
“But I’ve given you lots of money. Surely, we’re square.”
Narinda paused by The Game board and picked up a house piece to briefly inspect it, causing Ben and Nerys to go into joint squeaks of frustration.
“Tax is an on-going issue, Jeremy,” she said. “Just because you’re now super-rich, it doesn’t mean you can forget about paying tax.”
“I thought that was exactly what being super-rich meant. I’ve set up my little tax haven here and seceded from Great Britain. Hooflandia has very attractive tax rates to encourage the forward-thinking entrepreneur to take up residency here.”
“Residency? Hooflandia consists of a pub, a field barely big enough to count as a field, a rubbish tip and a trench full of building waste that I can’t decide is meant to be a moat or the foundations of a wall.”
“It can be both,” piped up Ben.
“Residency of Hooflandia doesn’t have to be literal or actual. As you know, I invented something called virtual residency, as successfully demonstrated by several schoolchildren who were able to put a local address on the application form for St Michael’s Secondary?”
Narinda briefly closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Let me come on to the reason for my visit,” said Narinda.
“Ah, have you been appointed the British Ambassador to Hooflandia?”
“Hardly,” said Narinda with the most fleeting of smiles. “I have come as a representative, chosen primarily because those so-called soldiers of yours - the ones with more gold frogging on their uniforms than a hotel doorman – it seems I’m one of the few people they’re willing to let upstairs. I’ve come on behalf of various local council committees plus the police, highways authority and local business forums.”
“I’m sure I paid off the cops and the council.”
“And wiser, more honest individuals have stepped in. This Hooflandia stunt –”
“Our glorious declaration of independence, you mean.”
“This stunt has caused widespread problems. Your building works have closed off a number of local roads, cut through mains water supplies, telecoms lines and created a health and safety nightmare for anyone walking within fifty feet of this place.”
“Those sound very much like British problems. Now that we have broken free from the yoke of British bureaucracy, we can forge our own destiny.”
“No one is taking this declaration of independence seriously,” said Narinda. “The Home Office simply refuses to respond to the issue.”
“I wrote directly to the secretary general of the United Nations as well.”
“Who, I suspect, has more important matters to deal with.”
“I don’t know. I sort of hinted in my letter that Hooflandia might become one of those ‘rogue nations’ if he doesn’t take us seriously.”
“Rogue nation? You have no military forces!”
“We do!”
“No. What you have is bouncers with an identity crisis. You are unarmed.”
“I’ve already arranged the purchase of Maldon Ferret’s old ornamental cannons. Going to install them on the former presidential yacht out there.”
“Former presidential yacht,” said Narinda, too indifferent to make a question of it.
“It’s a bit too stationary now to count as a yacht,” Clovenhoof admitted, “so I’m designating it Hooflandia’s first border fortress. Fort Floaty McBang-Bang.”
“If you like,” said Nerys, “Okra here could source some high-grade military equipment for you. There are certain embargoed African nations, even a number of former Soviet satellite states that could provide you with the kind of hardware –”
“You should not be buying,” cut in Narinda. “Now, tomorrow morning, I have arranged a sit-down meeting between you and the various services, council workers and quangos that you need to appease.”
“And if I throw enough dosh at them?” said Clovenhoof.
“If you listen and act to fulfil your responsibilities as a rational human being –”
“Bit of a stretch.”
“– then you might just avoid jail time.”
Clovenhoof tickled his chin and thought.
“So, this international delegation…”
“It’s the council and the Boldmere business forum.”
“This political and trade delegation wish to hold a summit with me tomorrow to discuss matters of mutual interest and Hooflandia’s acceptance into the wider global community?”
Narinda pouted. “Well, in not so many crazy words, yes.”
Clovenhoof nodded presidentially. “Nerys, what’s my schedule looking like for the coming day?”
Nerys finished arranging a series of multi-coloured meeples on The Game board. “You were going to review the official designs for the Hooflandian stamps in the afternoon. I think the big debate was whether the licky side should taste like the picture side.”
“There’s no debate,” said Clovenhoof firmly.
“No, the actual debate was what your face tastes like.”
Clovenhoof presented a cheek to Narinda. “I told them I taste of victory, animal magnetism and just a hint of Imperial Leather. Have a lick. What do you think?”
“Is Jeremy free in the morning?” she said, ignoring the old devil completely.
“He’s got a hangover lined up between eight a.m. and noon. Games night hangover, although that’s not going to happen if we don’t get started.” Nerys gestured to the board.
The chairs were in place. The piles of cash were ready. Lennox – possibly the only man in history to work simultaneously as a barman and prime minister – was already pouring the games drinks.
“Then let’s do this,” said Clovenhoof. “Narinda, schedule that meeting for ten. I will be wearing sunglasses and might throw up from time to time, but I promise they will have my undivided attention. Poppy, pull up a pew, come see some financial gamesmanship in action. Guys.” He clicked his fingers at his a cappella choir. “Give me something suitable for a high stakes game. Something rousing.”
The little choir launched into some thumping bass harmonies with a beatbox ‘dub-a-dub-a-tsssh’ on top.
“And throw some swears in this time,” said Clovenhoof, dropping into his gaming seat.
He swayed along.
“Eye of the fucking Tiger,” he nodded approvingly. “Let’s get this game started.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Joan pulled Rutspud aside before Felix got to the Eddy-Cab car.
“I’m not happy about doing this,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. If Felix tries to run again,” said Rutspud, “you break out some of the tin-plated whup ass and we’ll restrain him.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “Well, it�
�s not just that. But mostly it’s this… what is it we’re doing?”
“We’re going to Floxton House,” said Felix, coming up behind them. “To the ancestral home of the vile Ferrets, where I’ll show you what the great and the good get up to when they think no one’s looking. And then we might do some light guerrilla hacking on the side.”
He opened the rear door and climbed in.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m not happy with,” said Joan.
“He’s just going to introduce us to a slice of his work,” said Rutspud. “We show an interest, show this kid we care, and then talk him round to doing the right thing.”
Joan wasn’t convinced they should be letting this young man do anything at all until he had agreed to shut down the PrayPal but she said nothing as she got into the driving seat.
Clovenhoof had been good enough – well, indifferent enough to lend them Kylie 2. Kylie 1 was currently in a garage somewhere having a smashed axle replaced, several bodywork dents repaired and the computer interface thoroughly overhauled. The official Eddy-Cab mechanic had shed an actual tear when describing the ‘brutal lobotomy’ Rutspud had given one of their precious vehicles.
Joan gave Kylie 2 directions and the car set off through the evening traffic.
“This thing you want to do. This hacking,” said Joan. “It sounds a bit illegal.”
Felix, sitting in the back with laptop on his knee, nodded unashamedly.
“It is. But that doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Well, no, but…”
“Your issues with my work. Your mad-as-a-kipper’s uncle issues with PrayPal are moral issues, not legal ones. Don’t confuse morality with legality.”
“I’m not,” she said.
Felix gave her a blankly disbelieving stare in the rear-view mirror.
“New technology comes along and presents us with new ethical dilemmas, new moral situations and the knee-jerk conservative reactionaries – that’s you, Joan, by the way – respond by trying to ban things.”
