by Heide Goody
She gave a vicious sideswipe with her sword. Flower heads from the vase of flowers on the table plopped to the floor like fat spiders.
“Oh, hi,” said Rutspud, cheerily.
“Hi?” she said. She was wearing a furious grimace, but he seemed not to notice.
“I think we’ve reached a new low.”
“You think?”
He prodded the bowl of cereal in front of him. “It’s sawdust with added sugar and the odd dried grape. It is not, despite all appearances and taste, pet food for beavers who craved a sugar rush. It is – and you won’t believe it – meant for human consumption.”
“I don’t care about the muesli,” said Joan, seething.
“The name is stupid too,” said Rutspud. He seemed to catch her expression for the first time. “Have you seen the news coverage for last night?” he asked.
“No, I haven’t,” said Joan coldly, “and do you know why?”
“Um, no,” said Rutspud.
“Because I spent the night in a police station. The whole night. Locked in a cell and then questioned by a bunch of idiots.”
Felix raised his head above his laptop screen. “You were arrested?”
“It brought back some very unhappy memories,” said Joan.
“Wow,” said Rutspud.
“What do you mean, ‘wow’? It wasn’t a fun thing to do.”
“Did you get to ride in the police car?”
“Well yes,” said Joan, “they picked me up just outside the Ferret estate. I shared a car with the couple that we saw in the bathroom.” She grimaced with distaste. “His face was still damp, and I could smell what it was damp with.”
Felix gave a small snort of laughter and Joan shot him a look. His head shot down behind the protection of his screen like a rabbit that had just seen the silhouette of an eagle cross the sun.
“And did they put the siren on?” asked Rutspud.
“Yes, they did,” said Joan, but I really think you’re focusing on the wrong –”
“And the lights as well?”
“Yes, but –”
“That is so cool!” said Rutspud.
“No, it’s not cool!” yelled Joan. “It was very unpleasant. They assumed I was part of that horrible party and said that my armour was, and I quote, ‘some sort of kinky cosplay for the dirty old buggers’. They even told me to knock off the fake French accent.”
Surely that’s not actually a crime?” said Rutspud.
“That’s what I said, but they wanted to make sure that I didn’t have drugs on me and they questioned me about what I had seen.”
Felix swivelled his chair around, suddenly interested. “What did you tell them?”
“Obviously, I told them that I was simply going for a walk along the lane and I saw nothing,” said Joan wearily. “Eventually they had to let me go.”
“Well you need to catch up on all the fun,” said Felix, turning back to his screen. “The ‘net is buzzing, obviously. We have a backlash movement and a series of viral memes.”
Joan looked at Rutspud for a translation.
“It’s really big news,” said Rutspud. “The church is becoming a laughing stock. The Vatican has been silent on the matter, which people are interpreting in different ways. Meanwhile, the world’s computer users are commenting on the matter. A couple of memes are coming to the fore.”
“Stop saying meme. It’s not a word,” said Joan.
“It is a word. It was coined by Dawkins to describe the spread of an idea. It’s based on the word gene,” said Felix.
“What’s a Dawkins?” said Joan.
“He’s a famous and hilariously angry atheist,” said Rutspud.
“Right,” said Felix, “and he coined the term to explain why religion is so popular. Obviously, there’s no rational explanation.”
Joan ignored the dig but was none the wiser. Felix had managed to explain in a way that was both baffling and insulting. No wonder Rutspud seemed to get on so well with him.
“If we show you what the sisters are up to, you’ll soon understand,” said Felix.
Joan looked round. None of the sisters or their talking hand puppets were in the kitchen. She had, in fact, seen none of them anywhere this morning.
Felix propped his laptop on his knees so that Joan could see the screen.
“You have a camera feed in this house?” asked Joan, shocked as she recognised this very kitchen.
“No. The sisters have uploaded it to the internet. Look.”
Joan watched as Sister Anne stared grimly at the screen from a seat at the kitchen table with Tommy Chuckles at her side. Tommy bent down and picked up a piece of cardboard from the table. He lifted it up to the camera.
My love for God is a pure and wholesome love
He put that one down and picked up another.
I don’t need a church that is run by corrupt perverts to love my God
Sister Anne shook her head in mute agreement. Tommy picked up another message.
#notmychurch
There followed another set of cards held up by Sister Valerie and Bubbles, ending with the same message.
“Do you see how people are distancing themselves from the Church?” said Felix. “#notmychurch is a meme, and lots of people are using it.”
“I can’t say I blame them,” said Joan. “I would feel the same way. No, wait. I do feel the same way. But where are they going with these placards?”
Three sleek Eddy-Cabs pulled up outside the Birmingham cathedral diocesan offices in the centre of the city. There was a crowd of protestors on the pavement outside. Many waved placards. Some of them had hand puppets too. The Hooflandian soldiers (one ‘centurion’ and one ‘Terminator’) Clovenhoof had brought with him created a protective barrier as he battled his way to the door. Nerys, Ben, Narinda, Prime Minister Lennox and various other flunkeys had to fend for themselves.
As office security separated protestors from visitors and made sure only the right people got in, a man with a pastel suit and a perfect smile greeted them.
“Hello, Mr Clovenhoof! You are looking dapper, dear sir! And Freddy doesn’t say that to everyone.”
“Feeling good, Freddy,” said Clovenhoof with a grin. “Love the welcoming committee.”
Freddy gave the protestors outside a complex frown. “People are entitled to their opinions, aren’t they, I suppose. And it’s no good bottling things up inside.”
“Better out than in,” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, you are a card, Mr Clovenhoof.”
“Yes, I am. So, where’s this meeting?”
Freddy gestured to the lifts. “The… remains of the Church Commissioners and the national strategy steering group are waiting for you on the fourth floor.” He smiled brightly at everyone else, some of whom were still checking themselves to make sure they had got through the mob unscathed. “We weren’t expecting such a large delegation – it’s great being out with mates, though, isn’t it? – so if I can ask you all to stay down here.”
“Sending him off alone?” said Ben dubiously.
“I really think I ought to go too,” said Nerys.
“Oh, he’ll be fine, silly. Off you go, Jeremy. I will take good care of your friends. Freddy makes a double choco mocha that is simply to die for! Seriously. If I was taking a trip to Dignitas, it would be my last request: yummy scrummy choco-coffee and then bring on the pentobarbital. It is that good.”
Clovenhoof stepped into the lift.
“Don’t say anything stupid!” Nerys shouted after him.
“I’m just going to share my wisdom!” Clovenhoof shouted back. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Joan strode with a pace that Rutspud struggled to match.
He wanted to believe it was because she was still buzzing from a ride in a cop car like some gangland bad girl, but he sadly suspected it was because she was inexplicably angry about the whole thing.
“And what are we doing now?” he said, as they hurried along the Chester Road.
“Looking for Bishop Ken,” she said.
“Because?”
“Because he deserves to know what members of his Church are doing. He is a good man.”
“Are we taking him for breakfast?” he asked hopefully.
“That would be a very charitable thing for us to do,” she said, her tone softening slightly.
“Something greasy and unwholesome?” suggested Rutspud.
She gave him a sideways look. “Demons don’t need to eat,” she said.
“No, but if you torment him with muesli, a demon might hanker for some of the good stuff.”
Joan made a dubious noise. Rutspud pointed ahead.
“There he is, playing with holes again.”
They approached Ken, who was scratching at the grass verge with his trowel and muttering darkly as a buried house brick impeded his progress.
“Morning, Bishop Ken,” said Joan brightly.
“Bishop, am I?” said the man, scratching his filthy beard. “And what is a bishop, eh?”
“Bit early in the morning for philosophy,” said Rutspud. “We wanted to take you for breakfast.”
“Bishop,” said the man, straightening up with an audible crack of his vertebrae. “From the Old English ‘biscop’ and that from the Greek ‘episkopos’. One who sees from above, an overseer. And what should I be overseeing?”
“Bacon and eggs and a dirty great sausage?” suggested Rutspud.
The man’s eyes positively gleamed. “Hot dang. Why didn’t you say so before, eh?”
Twenty minutes later, at the Sutton Park pub, Ken and Rutspud were tucking into glistening mounds of fried food, while Joan looked mildly queasy. Rutspud couldn’t be sure if that was caused by the food, or the re-telling of the appalling scandal that now beset the church.
Ken’s frown deepened. “When I left my job, there was an excess of bean-counting and bureaucracy, but how did things get from there to butt plugs?”
Joan shook her head. “I don’t pretend to understand, Bishop Ken, but I think that your app might have had something to do with it.”
“It’s basic human behaviour,” said Rutspud. “Certain people will behave one way in front of others and another way when they think that nobody’s looking. Christians are just the same, but they think that God’s watching, so they behave more of the time. What we’ve been seeing here is a cast-iron excuse for Christians to behave badly, knowing that they can square things with God. If their conscience is satisfied by the forgiveness that they get from PrayPal then they can sin as much as they like.”
Ken paused in demolishing his fried eggs and looked troubled. “Then I am partly to blame for this,” he said.
“No,” said Rutspud. “Nobody here is bishop bashing.” He watched Joan and Ken. Not a flicker of comprehension. “Bashing the bishop is not what we’re about.” Nope. “I’ve been a bishop basher in my time but it’s not something I’m proud of.” He looked from one to the other, both none-the-wiser. He chalked up a minor win for smut and innuendo. “Point is, bish, the people who commit these sins are committing them because they choose to do so.”
“No, I must do something. I will do something,” said Ken. “Although I’m not sure what. Not yet.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A tall stick insect of a woman met Clovenhoof at the fourth-floor lifts, curtly introduced herself as Poppy Tollerman and led him through to a meeting room. The room was a disappointment. Clovenhoof had expected to find an audience chamber furnished with polished wood and gilt-covered furniture, perhaps even a throne or two, with Renaissance paintings (or the best knock offs Birmingham could source) along the walls. Instead, the dull walls were hung with photo prints of happy Christians doing good works in sunnier countries and the meeting table and chairs could have been bought from IKEA.
There were three men waiting for them.
“Okra Boddington you know,” said Poppy, gesturing to Nerys’s boyfriend-cum-slave. “This is Graham Duncan of the Church of England’s national strategy committee.”
“Ah, the one who was disappointed he didn’t get invited to the party,” said Clovenhoof. The round-faced man blushed deeply but shook his head.
“I am here as a representative of the Church’s marketing committee and to speak for the Church Commissioners who are still in post,” said Poppy. “And agreeing to chair this extraordinary meeting, we are grateful to have His Lordship Dominic Anyange, bishop of Coventry.”
Bishop Dominic stood to politely gesture to Clovenhoof to sit. The white-haired man had a warmly open face, the kind given easy to laughs, though these seemed in short supply right. Clovenhoof sat at the head of the table, directly facing the bishop along its length.
“I am very glad you could join us today,” said Bishop Dominic as Poppy took her own seat. “There are a great many Christians who would like to meet the man who created PrayPal.” The tone of that last sentence was unmistakeable.
“Hey,” grinned Clovenhoof, reaching for a carafe of drink that disappointingly turned out to be water. “I’m only one of the PrayPal guys. I didn’t even write it. I’m just the one with the desire for fame, the ability to sell myself to the world, and the balls.”
“The balls to… what?” said Graham.
“Just the balls,” said Clovenhoof. “I hear your church attendance figures are plummeting, that the collection plates are coming back empty. You’re losing ground to the Muslims, the Catholics and the Jedi every day. But you can’t blame that entirely on us.”
“No,” agreed Bishop Dominic. Poppy passed down a spiral bound booklet of financial data. Clovenhoof didn’t know what to make of it but he reckoned he could make a decent frisbee of the laminated cover.
“Our congregations are ageing, our church families shrinking rather than growing,” said the bishop. “Young Okra Boddington spoke very… passionately about some of your ideas to reinvigorate the church.”
“W-well, they were certainly remarkable,” mumbled Okra. “That is to say, th-th-that we could at least –”
“We would be very interested in what you have to say,” said Bishop Dominic. “We perhaps need some of your entrepreneurial spirit and insight.”
“Okay,” said Clovenhoof and leapt to his feet. “I’m going to need a flipchart.”
“Certainly,” said the bishop and Okra stood up to move one from the corner of the room into position.
“Cos if this meeting gets any duller, we’re gonna have to break out for a game of pictionary or hangman.” He grabbed a pen and drew four blanks, a slash and four more blanks in preparation. “Idea one!” he declared loudly. “Coffee and Wi-Fi.”
“Many of our churches have pop-up coffee shops and we’re looking at a national programme to get Wi-Fi.”
“Not enough!” said Clovenhoof.
“Eh?” said Graham.
Clovenhoof wrote an ‘A’ on the hangman board.
_ _ _ _ / _ _ A _ _
“Good call, Graham. How many churches do you have?”
“In the UK, approximately twelve and a half thousand,” said Poppy.
“How many Costa Coffee shops are there in the UK?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“Three and a half thousand. I googled it. If you convert all your churches to coffee shops with decent Wi-Fi, you’ll outnumber the competition four to one.”
“And there’s Starbucks too,” Graham pointed out.
“No one cares about them because they’re shit,” said Clovenhoof. “You think people go to coffee shops because they like coffee? No one really likes coffee. They just think they ought to. It’s like BBC Four or couscous or jazz. People want good Wi-Fi, soft seats and a place to sit out of the rain. And they’d pay for that. You need to make that transformation in all your churches.”
Okra was concerned. “Al-although the expense of that, if we consider, that is, the financial impact –”
“We’re looking at the closure of up to forty percent of those churches in the next financial year,
” said Graham, “so those costs will come right down.”
“Closing churches, Graham?” snapped Clovenhoof. “Closing churches! Are you mad as well as sexually depraved? You don’t sell when times are hard. If The Game has taught me anything it’s that you hold onto everything you’ve got and push on through. Borrow, scrape and mortgage to the hilt but never give an inch.”
“What’s The Game?” said Poppy.
“Oh, it’s the best. You should play it some time. It’s the world in microcosm. You roll the dice and scoot around the board and you buy up properties and then charge other people if they land on them.”
“Oh, sort of like Monopo –”
“No, Poppy,” said Clovenhoof firmly. “It’s not like any other game. If it was, I’m sure there’d be some sort of copyright infringement and someone could get sued. This is definitely different. Do not close any of your churches. Those ones you’re thinking of closing, convert them first. I want a first-class coffee house in every backwoods and backward rural community in the country.”
“Nonetheless,” said Bishop Dominic with a gentle avuncular smile, “this would constitute an enormous outlay of money and we have little scope for acquiring new funds quickly.”
“Very well,” said Clovenhoof. “Idea two will cost you virtually nothing and make you millions. Do you know if churches can still offer sanctuary?”
“Why?” said Graham.
“Left-field guess,” said Clovenhoof, writing a ‘Y’ on the flipchart and drawing the beginnings of a hangman. “Bold though. Churches could traditionally offer sanctuary to criminals wanted by the law.”
“Abolished in the sixteen twenties,” said Poppy.
“My legal team thinks they can create a workaround,” lied Clovenhoof. “We offer traditional sanctuary to criminals and safe passage to the nearest port. I think that’s how it worked.”
Okra was intrigued. “I-I-I –”
“Much better guess,” said Clovenhoof, putting an ‘I’ on the flipchart.
_ I _ _ / _ _ A _ _
