Hooflandia (Clovenhoof Book 7)

by Heide Goody

Angels and saints visiting Hell was commonplace, but invitations were never reciprocated. Pius failed to conceal a shudder of horror as Belphegor wheeled into a gap at the table beside him.

  As the door swung shut, Joan could hear St Francis outside.

  “Ah, who’s a good doggy, eh? You are. You are. Cecil, come say hello to Cerbewus. Play nicely you two…”

  Gabriel spoke to the new arrivals in the tones of one who really wasn’t happy with the situation but, by the Almighty, was going to be dashed civil about it.

  “Please, my friends. Sit. Sit.”

  Rutspud looked at the cushioned chair and then, uncomfortably, at Belphegor. Belphegor gave him some stern and silent eyebrow waggling and nostril hair flaring. Rutspud leaned over to his superior and whispered.

  “But it’s so…. fluffy.”

  Belphegor flipped a switch. A nozzle rose from his chair arm, angled round and blasted the offending cushion with blue fire. Rutspud plonked himself happily onto the burning ruin.

  “Are we all comfortable now?” said Gabriel.

  “They’re not meant to be comfortable,” said Thomas Aquinas. “The fallen angels carry with them their own darksome atmosphere and wherever they are they endure the pains of Hell.”

  “It’s all right, tubs,” said Rutspud. “I’m not fallen.”

  “Hellish, born and bred,” said Joan, giving a nod of greeting to the two of them.

  “Well, not born,” said Belphegor. “Not bred.”

  “Hell-made,” said Rutspud. “I think I’ve got a manufacturer’s mark stamped on me somewhere.”

  “It seems,” said Gabriel, “that Heaven and Hell have found opposite ends of a shared problem.”

  “We have not established that we have any kind of problem at all,” argued Thomas.

  “My shredded wings would beg to differ,” said the archangel and placed a handful of feathery remnants on the table.

  “I don’t know what problems you’ve got up here,” said Belphegor, “but we have a list of missing souls and we have reason to believe that you’re harbouring some of them.”

  He typed on a keyboard. A screen descended from the committee room ceiling and with a finger swipe, it came to life with scrolling lists of names, dates and profile images.

  “Sorcery!” declared Pius in alarm.

  “Bluetooth,” said Belphegor. “See you guys get the nice hardware. But you should really look at your security settings. ‘GodIsLove’ isn’t much of a password.”

  Joan watched the screen. There was the ‘gin and whores’ man. There was the ‘towel bagsy’ woman. And there…

  “Claymore Ferret,” she said.

  “You’ve seen him?” said Rutspud.

  “I don’t think we have to tell you who we have and haven’t seen,” said Thomas.

  “I don’t understand what game you’re playing in the Celestial City,” said Belphegor, “but if you’re harbouring fugitives from Hell then we must politely insist that –”

  “Why would we harbour fugitives from Hell?” said Pius disdainfully.

  “I couldn’t say,” replied Belphegor coolly. “Maybe you’ve been bribed.”

  Thomas Aquinas attempted to slide his recently acquired pile of cash out of sight.

  “Charity gigs,” he mumbled, guiltily.

  “You have some very bad people hiding out in Heaven,” said Belphegor. “Don’t you?”

  “And you have money,” added Rutspud. “Since when did the Celestial City need a currency?”

  “Heaven can neither confirm nor deny that we have any problems at all,” said Thomas stiffly.

  “I think it’s fairly obvious that we do,” said Joan.

  Eltiel had ushered a silver-winged angel into the committee room and they were now crouched together behind Gabriel’s chair having a low-voiced discussion over his ravaged wings.

  “Can you mend them?”

  “Mend them? I’m a miracle-worker but even I have limits. I don’t think I’ve brought enough thread.”

  “So, it’s doable?”

  “Doable. All things are doable but the question is whether they’re worth doing. Sometimes it’s just better to give up and move on.”

  “What?” hissed Gabriel, looking back whilst trying to maintain a presidential demeanour for the visiting demons.

  The tailor-angel, popped up and put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “If you had to choose – had to choose – between flight and looking fabulous, which would you go for?”

  “I have to choose?”

  “If you had to choose.”

  Gabriel gave him a look both stern and terrified. The tailor-angel pouted, dipped down from sight and continued to work.

  Belphegor reached into the chair behind him and produced a handheld device, a chunky plastic box. It was covered in little lights and had two wing-like sensors on the side.

  “What is that thing?” said Pius.

  “Basic sin detection equipment,” explained the inventor demon. “It goes all Christmassy in the presence of sin. I’m sure any wrongdoers or general wrongdoing will immediately stand out in your gleaming and virtuous city like a turd on a wedding cake.”

  “Turd,” smirked Mother Teresa as she scribed.

  “It will only light up because you’re here,” said Thomas, unconvinced.

  “No, guv,” said Rutspud. “Demons can’t be sinful. To sin you have to choose to do bad. We started out on the bad side. It’s just who we are.”

  “Devils incapable of sin?” said Thomas. “Poppycock.”

  “We all know one devil who was quite clearly capable of sinning,” said Gabriel.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Clovenhoof watched as Ben tried to wipe away the worst of the Vaseline with a towel. Ben had passed his credit check, and Clovenhoof’s ribs hurt from laughing.

  “At least I can build something now,” said Ben, surveying the game board.

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” said Nerys. “It appears that you’re in an area of outstanding natural beauty.”

  “I’ve seen the Fort shopping centre, it’s about as natural as David Dickinson’s tan,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I’ve got a card that says it is an area of outstanding natural beauty,” said Nerys, raising her hand to reveal it.

  Ben gave her a triumphant smile. “Well, then it’s lucky that I have a fast-pass building permit, isn’t it?” He held up his own card.

  Nerys scowled and they both placed their special cards on the discard pile. “You need a quote for your building work then. I’ll get Twinkle.”

  Twinkle was Nerys’s miniature Yorkshire terrier. Clovenhoof was fairly sure that this dog was not the original one. In fact, now he came to think about it, he was certain that the current Twinkle was a shape-shifting, genetically modified hellhound that Nerys had adopted after it was liberated from the lab where it was created. It was adorable and obedient for its owner but was demonically aggressive towards the rest of the world. But didn’t that description apply to all tiny terriers? It was hardly evidence of malign forces at work.

  “Twinkle, you’re on,” crooned Nerys as she plucked him from his basket.

  Tiny Twinkle fitted comfortably into the large hamster ball. The ball could roll to any of the numbers that formed the outer boundary of its miniature arena. Nerys held Twinkle up before popping him into the ball, and whispered loudly into his ear.

  “Now remember your training. This is not Mummy’s turn so you need to head to the left. Head to the left! A nice high quote for silly Ben. Do Mummy proud.”

  She shut Twinkle in the ball and placed it on the starting spot.

  “Spin it!” shouted Clovenhoof.

  “You can’t spin it, you’ll make him puke,” said Nerys. “It’s animal cruelty.”

  “Oh, I think we’ve already established we’re willing to do animal cruelty,” said Ben guiltily.

  Nerys gave the ball a small twist.

  “You’ve twisted it towards the high numbers,” cried Ben.

  Cl
ovenhoof raised his hands and walked towards Twinkle. “Let me help,” he said and flipped the hamster ball upside down on the spot.

  Twinkle staggered upright and lurched to the right.

  “No! No!” said Nerys. “Go left Twinkle. Left! Remember left is Dinky Granules and right is Wholesome Milky Nutrition Compound. Think Twinkle, think!”

  Twinkle rolled the ball further to the right.

  “A hundred quid?” whooped Ben with delight. “I will take that quote.”

  “Gah!” Nerys rolled her eyes. “You got lucky there. Blindfold, Jeremy. It’s building time!”

  Clovenhoof blindfolded Ben and handed him the bucket of Lego. He knew that Ben practised his blind Lego-building skills every day, so he threw in a bar of soap, a small black pudding and a mousetrap. At a look from Nerys he pulled the mousetrap out.

  “Spoilsport,” he mouthed. “Thirty seconds to build something, Kitchen, starting…”

  The doorbell rang.

  Clovenhoof looked to Nerys. Nery looked at Clovenhoof. Ben peeked out from under his blindfold.

  “There’s somebody at the door,” said Ben, in the arch tones of a bad actor.

  “On games night,” said Nerys with equal playfulness.

  “What a coincidence,” said Clovenhoof with deliberate woodenness.

  Visitors had become a recent staple of games night. Involving other people added an extra frisson. A few weeks before, Ben had introduced a group of angry tenants. They staged a sit-in and bore placards, protesting about Nerys’s extortionate rent increases. They eventually uncovered that these people knew Ben through LARPing, which (Clovenhoof later discovered) wasn’t anywhere near as kinky as it first sounded. But it had set a precedent. Murder mystery actors, strip-o-grams, and even unwitting Deliveroo drivers had since been used to add a bit of am-dram je ne sais quoi to the evenings.

  “Get building, Kitchen. I’ll go,” said Clovenhoof and with a hoofy hop, skip and a jump was at the front door which he opened to find a slender woman dressed in a business suit. Clovenhoof grinned at her.

  “Jeremy Clovenhoof?” she asked.

  “The one and only! And who awaits his pleasure?” he asked with an exaggerated bow.

  “My name is Narinda Shah. I work for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs office. I have written to you numerous times, Jeremy.”

  “Mmmm,” he looked her up and down approvingly. “Love the naughty accountant outfit.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t know whether to show you my undisclosed assets or ask for some double entry action.”

  “Are you trying to be vulgar, Jeremy?”

  “Thought I was doing better than trying,” he said, a little dispirited. “But please, come in. Don’t want the others to miss out on this whole performance.”

  He ushered her into the flat. Ben and Nerys looked up with interest.

  “Oh,” she said, taking in the runaway mental illness that was their game-playing area. “This is very… interesting. What are you doing?”

  “Mostly lying, cheating, stealing each other’s money. It’s like a home from home for a ‘tax inspector’,” said Clovenhoof, marking the air quotes as he kicked the door shut.

  The impact of the door closing made the board wobble and Ben’s new building toppled over. Clovenhoof was impressed to see that the roof had been formed from a bar of soap, but possibly that was what had made it top-heavy.

  “Oh, dear,” said Nerys with gleeful malice. “You’ve got to forfeit the building now.”

  “No way! It’s not my fault that Jeremy slammed the door like that. Wasn’t there something in the rules that if we can’t find someone to sue for damages,” he looked darkly at Clovenhoof, “then we can declare it to be a ruin and charge admission. I’ll do that, but I’m really not happy about it.”

  “Hmmm, a ruined shopping mall,” mused Nerys “Sounds like quite the tourist draw! We got rid of the ruins clause a month ago. It was a change that you introduced, saying it was more likely to be bad foundations,” said Nerys. She turned to Narinda. “Anyway, who’s our guest?”

  Clovenhoof gave a big grin, like a bad TV host.

  “This is Narinda Shah, everyone. She’s from ‘Revenue and Customs’.”

  “No need for the air quotes,” said Narinda. “I am from Revenue and Customs.”

  “Sorry.” She ‘is’ from Revenue and Customs.”

  “You did it again.”

  “Sorry. ‘She’ is from Revenue and Customs.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “And which of us are you here for?” asked Nerys.

  “I really do want to talk to Jeremy here,” said Narinda. “But it is a private and confidential matter so I’m sure you’ll understand…”

  “Well it’s my turn now, so you’ll just have to wait,” said Nerys. “Pull up a pew, Narinda.” She took a huge swig from her wine glass and rubbed her hands together. “Right, well I’m not going to roll the dice for my next move. I have here a chartered flight card.” She held the card aloft and made sure that everyone got a good look. “This girl’s headed straight to the Mailbox!”

  “Oh dear. It could be that a natural disaster might have to change those plans for you Nerys,” said Clovenhoof. “A volcanic ash cloud has stopped all flights.” Clovenhoof gave a quick waggle of his volcanic ash card, but leapt up to do the fun part. He wheeled over the trolley that contained their papier mâché volcano with vinyl streamers running down the sides. “Been dying to try this out!” he said.

  “Yes,” said Ben doubtfully. “A volcano in Birmingham. I’m still not sure how we decided it was remotely authentic but please don’t light it, Jeremy.”

  “It’s ages since we had a fire,” said Clovenhoof sulkily. “And they’re only indoor fireworks inside it.”

  “Indoor fireworks does not just mean fireworks you’ve brought indoors.”

  “Stands to reason,” said Clovenhoof

  “Right, flight’s cancelled,” said Nerys. “Change of plans.” She rolled a standard movement dice. “Aston Hall.”

  “That’s one of my properties!” said Clovenhoof. “It’s an expensive stop, Nerys, you’re looking at ten thousand pounds rent.”

  Nerys made a huffing noise as she checked her cash reserves. “Well I can’t pay.”

  “Forfeit!” said Ben and Clovenhoof together. Ben did a fingertip drumroll on the table edge.

  “Fine,” said Nerys and started to pull off her top.

  “No,” said Clovenhoof, standing. “Not the strip forfeit again.”

  Clovenhoof looked down. As he’d jumped up, he’d dislodged the extra volcanic ash cloud cards that he’d wedged up his sleeve. They all now formed an untidy pile on the floor. Even Narinda, who wasn’t fully up to speed with The Game looked at him questioningly.

  “Well, I expect you’re all waiting for me to explain the perfectly good reason why I had a few spares,” he started.

  “You cheated!” said Ben, flushed with outrage.

  “It’s forfeits for you now, scumbucket!” crowed Nerys.

  “Perhaps we could just pull away from this for a few minutes and have a little chat, Jeremy…” said Narinda.

  Nerys wagged a finger in threat. “Don’t you bloody dare. He’s been caught red-handed and you’re not getting your man out of it.”

  “She’s not mine,” said Clovenhoof, jerking a thumb at Narinda. “And anyway it’s your turn, and you need to do the forfeit.”

  “But you knocked over my building,” said Ben. “You need to do the forfeit.”

  “That’s history. Stop clinging to the past, man.”

  “You stuck cards up your sleeve. That’s the issue here,” said Nerys.

  “Oh, you too harping on about the past! Someone knocked over a building. Someone had some extra cards. Maybe it was you, maybe it was me. It’s all lost in the mists of time. Who knows?”

  “So, the rent I owe you is ancient history too. If that’s the way you want to play it.”


  “Don’t try to wiggle out of paying your debts. It’s unseemly. Could ruin friendships.”

  “And with that in mind,” said Narinda, “if I could just chat with Jeremy for a few minutes. Important though this all is…”

  “Is no one listening to me?” said Ben.

  “Don’t think so,” said Nerys.

  “I was constructing a lovely little building.”

  “It fell over. End of.”

  “He slammed the door!”

  “It wasn’t deliberate.”

  “He was out of the room when it wasn’t one of the allotted toilet breaks!”

  “I went to answer the door!”

  “And whose fault was that? Who hired this woman, huh?”

  “It wasn’t me!” said Nerys.

  “Trying to hide it now?” said Clovenhoof.

  “I can assure you that no one hired me to do anything,” said Narinda.

  The three of them glared at one another with poorly contained fury.

  “Lennox!” growled Ben.

  “Lennox!” replied Nerys with passionate righteousness.

  “Lennox,” said Clovenhoof darkly.

  As one, they stood.

  “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?” said Narinda.

  “In the beginning,” said Clovenhoof cheerfully, “the Almighty created the world and his first big mistake, in my opinion, was the –”

  Nerys punched him in the arm and smiled at Narinda.

  “We’re off to the pub. Ms Shah. You look like you could do with a drink. Ben, put some clothes on.”

  Ben put fingertips to his jelly-smeared chest. “But I’m still sticky and unpleasant.”

  “All the more reason to cover it up.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rutspud watched as Belphegor flipped a toggle on the sin detector and it began to hum. The wing-like sensor rods on the side rose into position.

  “As we know,” said Belphegor, “sin is formed from discrete particles of spiritual matter than come into existence in the presence of wrongdoing.”

  “Sin, I’ve always thought,” said Thomas Aquinas in the drawn-out tones of one about to begin a much-loved lecture, “is essentially the absence of good. The Almighty can create only good things so evil things must simply represent an absence, a turning away.”