Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  “Oh, yes,” Clovenhoof said, enthusiastically.

  “We certainly had nothing to do with it,” said Ben.

  Nerys grabbed Okra’s phone from his pocket and made a call. “Get me Anette Cleaver for Okra Boddington. No, this takes priority. Who am I? The cheek!” She thrust the phone at her boyfriend. “Talk to them, honey. Tell them you’ve got a proposal that could improve the church’s profile.”

  Okra scuttled into the corner, speaking in hushed tones, and returned very quickly with alarm in his eyes.

  “Google what?” asked Nerys as Okra whispered urgently in her ear. “‘Coked-up priest sex orgy?’”

  Nerys tapped briefly, then held up her tablet so they could see.

  The video appeared to be a live, split-screen feed of a very exciting party.

  “It’s old Ferret’s place,” said Ben. “Who’d have thought he’d host those kinds of parties?”

  “All those plush furnishings,” said Nerys. “They’ll be scrubbing the lube out for weeks.”

  Okra stared at the screen, hand halfway to mouth in shock.

  “Anyone there you recognise?” asked Clovenhoof innocently.

  Okra nodded.

  “What about the chap in the leather mask and ball gag?”

  “All of them,” he answered in faint horror.

  “If that guy in the mask knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep it on and maintain some anonymity,” said Nerys. As she spoke, little labels popped up next to all the people, identifying them for the benefit of the watching public.

  “Ah,” said Nerys, as Okra squeaked in her ear. “It’s the minutes secretary of the Church marketing committee.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  In the car parked round the back of the Ferret estate, Felix finished linking name tags to the devices of the party guests.

  “Right, there’s no escape now,” he said.

  “People could just throw away their phones and devices,” said Rutspud, “and just walk away.”

  “Funny, but people never think of that,” said Felix. “Let’s see who we’ve got.”

  “I don’t want to look,” said Joan but actually unable to tear her eyes away.

  “So, we’ve got the chairman of the archbishops’ council and the chair of the pensions board in the hallway burying their faces in a mountain of Peruvian cocaine.”

  “It’s nice to see the Church supporting the businesses of developing nations,” said Rutspud.

  “Then we’ve got a group in that room, playing… playing… what does that look like to you?”

  “Pin the stiffy on the pope?” suggested Rutspud.

  “Quite possibly so.”

  “What are those two doing?” said Joan, pointing at a couple in a secluded room as they pored over a book.

  “Let me change the angle on that,” said Felix and the camera view shifted. “What’s that? The Illustrated Lives of the Saints.”

  “A spot of innocent reading?” said Rutspud doubtfully.

  “Let’s get sound from the nearest smart speaker,” said Felix.

  “Do her,” said the one man on the screen. “And her. And her.”

  “I’d definitely do her,” said the other. “How old was she when they killed her?”

  “Nineteen,” read the first.

  “Young but legal,” said the second. “That’s how I like ‘em. Pert and fresh, eh?”

  “That’s the party host, Maldon Ferret,” said Felix.

  “And that’s me they’re talking about!” said Joan. “That’s me on the page! Filthy, filthy voyeurs! Oh, if I was there right now…”

  “But you’re not,” said Rutspud. “You are spying on two men in private conversation.”

  “What’s your point?” she snapped.

  “None,” smiled the demon. “Just muddying the moral waters. As you said, what people get up to in private is their own business.”

  “Even if the man currently giving a blow job to the chap in the gimp mask there has repeatedly spoken out against gay rights in church policy meetings?” asked Felix.

  Joan growled with frustration. “This world is full of hypocrites. It’s so confusing.”

  “Best not to think about it,” said Felix. “Let me lighten the tone a little. This was what I’d been aching to try out. You see, that house is full of idiots who haven’t set decent security settings on their web-enabled devices including… six plus five plus eight… nineteen Bluetooth-enabled butt plugs.”

  “Pardon?” said Joan.

  “Bluetooth,” said Felix. “It’s a protocol by which devices can talk to each other within a relatively short range.”

  “I don’t think that’s the part of the phrase Joan was struggling with,” interjected Rutspud. “Sheltered upbringing and all that.”

  “Ah, well, a butt plug…” Felix began.

  “I don’t need you to explain everything to me,” said Joan. “A butt is a barrel and I guess a butt plug is that little cork you put in it to stop the liquid running out.”

  “If only it were,” said Rutspud and gave her the briefest description.

  “And these aren’t used as some sort of preventative against incontinence?” she asked.

  “Nope,” said Rutspud. “Purely for recreational purposes.”

  “I remember there was a man put in the stocks in Reims for… interfering with himself with a carrot,” she mused disapprovingly. “I remember thinking it seemed a waste of a good carrot.”

  “The world has since moved on from root vegetables,” said Rutspud.

  “These are vibrating butt plugs,” said Felix.

  “And why would anyone want them to have this Bluetooth?” asked Joan.

  “Cos everything’s better with Bluetooth,” said Rutspud.

  “And more fun,” said Felix. He tapped his laptop and more than a dozen people across the visible screens gave little twitches, jumps or gasps. “Oh, would you look at that. I’ve somehow hacked into every single one of them.”

  “Really?” said Rutspud.

  “Absolutely,” said Felix and, at a finger tap, swathes of partygoers made involuntary jerks and moans.

  “Sorry, I blinked,” said Rutspud. “One more time, please.”

  Felix obliged. Rutspud tittered.

  “This is funny, is it?” said Joan.

  “Yes,” said Rutspud. “It definitely is. The grunt of surprise that man there gave. And that woman, squeaking like a chipmunk.” A thought occurred to him. “Mealcur, in the Seventh Circle, once conceived a musical instrument he called the scream-organ. It was basically a keyboard attached to a series of blades beneath a range of damned souls, each chosen for the precise tone of their scream.”

  “Way ahead of you,” said Felix, fingers galloping on the keyboard. “Now, if I assign each plug to a different note, based on a sound sample… and then if I find a popular tune to feed through a transcribing program… and then we direct the cameras to cut to the relevant person as they’re activated.”

  “What’s he up to?” said Joan. “He’s not going to hurt them, is he?”

  “Not in any physical sense,” grinned Rutspud.

  Okra Boddington was panicking.

  Clovenhoof could tell because his fear had burst through the bumbling politeness slash embarrassed stuttering slash domineering girlfriend barrier and he was actually using words.

  These words were directed in a very loud whisper into his phone while the carnival of tasteless and hypocritical sex acts played endlessly on the big screen. Clovenhoof preferred it when he was the centre of attention but this was the best TV he’d watched in ages and a dose of outrage was the perfect accompaniment.

  “Graham, this is a public relations disaster!” Okra hissed. “T-the feed is currently being watched by over ten thousand people and growing exponentially. Yes. I am aware that I am a lowly fund manager and PR is not my area but given that the Church’s PR consultant is.. is…”

  Nerys snatched the phone from Okra. “Is that the one?” she asked he
r boyfriend, pointing at the screen.

  Okra nodded.

  “Graham,” said Nerys, “your PR dude is currently walking across a row of naked buttocks whilst wearing nothing but stilettos – Well, yes, a pair of stilettos, a rubber horse head and a – Christ, Graham! If you’re watching it too, I don’t need to describe it to you! No, Graham, I don’t know how they decide who gets invited to these things. Yes, I’m sure you should take it as a personal snub. Now, take a cold shower and try to get hold of any of them on the phone. They need to know that the world is watching.”

  Nerys killed the call angrily. Okra’s phone continued to chirp and buzz with alerts. Nerys calmly passed it back to him and took a long swig of drink.

  “Now, I seem to recall,” she said, “that it’s my turn.”

  She held out her hand for Clovenhoof to give her the dice.

  “You’re able to continue playing while this is going on?” said Ben.

  “I can multitask,” said Nerys. “And I’m shocked that you’d imagine a live sex scandal featuring key church figures could actually be more important than The Game. You like this kind of stuff, do you?”

  Ben gave her a look that was both stunned and sickened. “I am a man of simple tastes, Nerys. I’m going to have to wash my eyes with bleach just to erase some of the things I’ve seen.” With a trembling hand, he picked up his cider and black and took a large swig. “I’d be grateful if we could actually turn that off.”

  “Not a chance, Ben,” said Clovenhoof. “I’m loving every minute of this.”

  “You get off on this?” said Nerys.

  “It’s fucking hilarious,” he said. “Middle-aged middle-class wankers acting like they’re sex gods. Donkeys prancing about like stallions. They think they’re sexual adventurers, plumbing the depths of human depravity. I tell you there’s nothing on that screen I haven’t seen in the Old Place a thousand times.”

  “Yet you’re still enjoying it.”

  “Because they haven’t got a clue that the whole world is watching. It’s like when you walk in on someone singing to a hairbrush in the kitchen mirror.” Ben took another hasty swig of cider. “By the way, I think Hey, Big Spender is a bold choice, Kitchen.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben mumbled into his pint.

  “Yeah, you do. Oh, what’s this?”

  The image on the screen was no longer split screen but focusing on individual faces and rapidly cutting between them. The camera lingered on each only long enough to record a little moan or cry from each. Run together, the sounds were rhythmical, almost melodic.

  “Is that meant to be a tune?” said Ben.

  Clovenhoof turned up the sound.

  “Unh.”

  “Urrrrr.”

  “Ooh.”

  “Ah.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “Ahhhh.”

  “Ooh.”

  “Eek.”

  “Ooh.”

  “Nngg.”

  “Ooooh.”

  “Uh.”

  One of Clovenhoof’s backing choir joined in with a soft and amused, “Oh come ye, oh, co-ome ye, to Be-e-thle-hem.”

  “Oh, my God, it is,” grinned Lennox.

  After the first verse, whoever or whatever was controlling these figures, had worked out how to get some chords going and, spread out across the house, the guests launched into a second verse of O Come, All Ye Faithful that was both harmonious and, in more ways than one, rousing.

  Clovenhoof cackled deliriously.

  “I think I might be sick,” said Ben.

  “I know, I know,” grinned Felix. “It’s hardly the season for Christmas songs but you have to admit that the lyrics are apt.”

  “Someone’s coming,” said Joan.

  “My point exactly,” said Felix.

  She tutted. “No. Here.”

  She tapped the rear view mirror. Blue flashing lights were racing down the country lane. Rutspud turned in his seat to see them.

  “The fuzz. They coming for us?”

  “Doubt it,” said Felix and then, to confirm this, a first and then a second police car sped past their parked Eddy-Cab. “I tagged Floxton House in the video upload. I should think the boys in blue are off to make a drugs bust. Right, any requests for the next tune?”

  “Not everyone’s keen to participate,” said Rutspud, pointing.

  “Yes,” said Felix, “although you’ll observe that it’s quite tricky extracting a butt plug while it’s buzzing to the max and your fingers are covered with KY jelly.”

  Joan watched a man on the screen as he spoke urgently on his mobile whilst simultaneously trying to disengage a buzzing toy from his backside.

  “I think the penny’s dropped,” she said.

  The man cried out to those around him but there were others too now who were getting calls or alerts on their phones. Some put their hands to their faces as though to cover their shame. Others ran about in search of cameras to cover up, an act that was clearly as ineffective as trying to swat a swarm of bees one by one.

  Felix’s laptop pinged.

  “Ha!”

  “What?” said Joan.

  “Guess where there’s a sudden surge in clicks on PrayPal?”

  “They only want forgiveness because they think they’ve been caught in the act?”

  “Of course,” said Rutspud. “They’re human.”

  Joan opened the car door and stepped out.

  The cold night air was a bracing and welcome slap in the face. It did nothing to alleviate the sickness that had been broiling in her stomach but it cleared her thoughts, sweeping away the disgust, the ethical mess, the confusion if only for a few moments. She looked back at the car, at Rutspud and Felix Winkstein, faces in the dark illuminated only by the cold and unloving light of various screens. Joan didn’t think herself a fool. She knew people were shallow and debased creatures but this… this wasn’t part of her world.

  She walked away, back the way they had come.

  “Hey!” called Rutspud, leaning out of a car window. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t do this,” she said.

  “That’s the beauty,” said Rutspud. “You’re not doing anything. These people have done it to themselves.”

  She shook her head. “G’night, Rutspud. I’ll see you back at the mission.”

  “But it’s miles. You’ll get lost.”

  She shrugged sadly.

  “Already lost,” she said and turned her back on him.

  PART THREE – THE FALL OF HOOFLANDIA

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Jeremy Clovenhoof, President for Life of the state of Hooflandia, rose from the silk cushions where he had fallen into an alcoholic stupor and walked naked to the balcony that had been erected in the night on the side of his presidential suite. The big TV screen was tuned to a news channel, the sound down low. Something terrible was happening somewhere – protests and riots – but that place was not here.

  Clovenhoof scratched his balls and regarded the funfair wasteland that was Hooflandia.

  “Here is my utopia,” he said, feeling very pleased with himself.

  Nerys entered the room. “Morning, Jeremy. Busy day today. You’ve got a ten o’clock with the Church Commissioners to discuss your suggestions for rehabilitating the church. You’ve got a midday with the builders to decide whether you want the moat-wall thing to be a moat or a wall. The antiquities chaps are coming round at one thirty to install the cannons on your yacht and we’ve taken a dozen calls from a woman called – Jesus Christ! Put some clothes on, man!” she yelled, having looked up for the first time.

  “What?” said Clovenhoof, giving a bit of a wiggle because what was the point of having a penis if you couldn’t take it out a spin now and then. “Are you not awed by my beautiful schlong?”

  “One,” said Nerys, “red really isn’t a good colour for external genitalia. Two, we’ve all seen it before. You’ve posted pictures on lampposts saying, ‘Have you seen this cock? Would you l
ike to?’ and, three, take it from a woman who’s done extensive research, that is distinctly average.”

  “Ouch,” said Clovenhoof, pretending to cover up Little Jeremy’s ears. “It has feeling, you know.”

  “Now, stop scratching your balls –”

  “I wouldn’t have to do that if you’d hired me a Personal Ball-Scratcher.”

  “Would that be before or after I hire a…” She checked her list. “… Full-Time Flatterer, Crack-Wiper and Cold-Caller-Abuser?”

  “And you said you could multi-task,” he sneered. “Add Personal Person-Hirer to the list. And Official List-Maker.”

  “Come on,” she said, clapping her hands. “Put on some clothes. Something understated and formal. The cars are waiting.”

  “Could you at least get Milo to rustle me up some breakfast,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I would, if we could get him out of the cupboard he’s shut himself in. He’s just rocking back and forwards muttering ‘crispy golden breadcrumbs, crispy golden breadcrumbs’ over and over.” She stopped at the door as she went to leave. “Oh, and we’ve been getting a number of calls from an old biddy called Alice Calhoun. She wants to know when you’re coming round again. I would have put her in the ‘nutters and crackpots’ blocked list but she seems to be very familiar with some of your personal habits…”

  “Ah,” said Clovenhoof as he trotted over to his walk-in wardrobe of smoking jackets. “How is Alice?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Nerys.

  Clovenhoof considered a black smoking jacket. It was made from space-tech fabric and practically sucked in light. It was lovely to wear but it was impossible to find the buttons.

  “A president should have a wife,” he said thoughtfully.

  “I think she’s in her seventies, Jeremy.”

  “Or a harem,” he shrugged.

  Joan stormed into the kitchen at the Mission of the Thrown Voice to find Rutspud and Felix sitting at the breakfast table, Felix merrily chomping at some yellow, buttered toast, both of them glued to their computer screens. Neither one gave her a word or nod of greeting.