by Heide Goody
“Yes, what a lovely notion,” butted in Belphegor. “Utterly wrong but lovely. Sin is real. It is real and measurable. It has its own scent, doesn’t it, Rutspud?”
“Certainly does.”
“It spontaneously comes into existence in the presence of wrongdoing and sticks to the sinful. The unpleasantness of sin clings to them all and is detectable no matter how one tries to cover it up,” said Belphegor. “Acts of confession, contrition and the granting of indulgences causes this sin to diminish or dissipate. When a person is absolved of their sins, they are both metaphorically and literally washed clean. It is the presence of sin, or indeed lack of it, that determines who goes Down and who goes Up. Have a shufti, Rutspud.”
Belphegor passed the detector to his underling. Rutspud jumped down from his still-smouldering chair and began to scan the room. He watched the wing sensors and the light-up dials as he waved it over walls, floors, furnishings and occupants. He noted with absolute delight how the good folk seated at the table each stiffened slightly as he neared. He chuckled inwardly; everyone had something to hide.
“The normal order of things is that those with sin still clinging to them after such purgatorial services they’re entitled to come to us in Hell,” said Belphegor.
“The place must be a filthy sea of the stuff,” said Pius with a sneer that was delight and disgust in equal measure.
“No. Invisible or not, we can’t have it sloshing around, clogging things up. The dead are not sinners. They have sinned in life but now they have faced judgement and sin no more. Before his departure, Satan was the great attractor. Sins would fly from the damned to him.”
“And then what happened to the sin?” said Gabriel.
“Nothing. Well, back in the day he liked to do a bit of walking the earth and tempting the faithful, which basically entailed flinging clods of sin at people and seeing what would stick. But otherwise it just stayed with him. He was evil personified, made flesh. He became more and more sinful until…”
“Until what?” said Joan.
“Until you fired him and sent his sinful carcass to earth where I’m sure he’s been spreading it around with joyful abandon. Meanwhile, in Hell, we’ve just had to adapt and find other ways to scrape the sin from new arrivals.”
Rutspud recalled the air nozzles arranged around the concrete gateway into Hell. Sin extractors then, he thought.
“We have a thorough control of our sin situation,” said Belphegor. “The sinful come to us and become the eternally damned. This recent problem, I suspect, is all due to sloppy screening on your part. Rutspud. Readings?”
Rutspud looked up.
“Nothing, boss.”
“Nothing?”
He waved the detector about. “Nothing.”
Thomas Aquinas giggled in embarrassed relief. “Well, of course there’s nothing. This is the Celestial City after all.”
“What about that pile of money?” said Belphegor. “There’s always some residual sin clinging to –”
“Nothing, boss. Not even a picopeccadillo.”
The peccadillo was the basic unit of minor sin. In one peccadillo there were one thousand millipeccadillos, or indeed a trillion picopeccadillos. Going up, there were a thousand peccadillos in a peccado, a major sin. A thousand major sins made a kilopeccado. A million made a megapeccado.
Hell had been able to create much more refined and balanced torture since establishing a standard system of measurement. Sin was still sin, and it was still correct to say that two wrongs didn’t make a right but at least you could measure which one was biggest with some accuracy.
“And yet there are, you say, evil people in Heaven?” mused Belphegor.
“We didn’t say evil as such,” said Joan.
“Just not our sort of people,” said Pius.
“Our people don’t shoot at archangels,” said Gabriel.
“You’re fifteen minutes from fabulous, dear,” said a voice from behind Gabriel’s chair.
“Well, you’d best hope that someone somewhere has made a mistake,” said Belphegor, “otherwise you’re stuck with these characters.”
“Surely, we just need them to slip up,” said Pius, “catch them doing wrong –”
Gabriel coughed loudly and emphatically.
“Twelve minutes to fabulous,” said the tailor-angel. “Beauty takes time.”
“Catch them doing wrong and then what?” said Belphegor. “Just as with the damned in Hell they’ve already passed through judgement. You can’t judge them again. You can’t punish them.”
“Actually, I might have an idea about that,” said Rutspud.
“I still say it’s Satan’s fault,” said Gabriel.
Belphegor chuckled grimly. “You know that old joke then.”
“What old joke?”
“Knowing that his end was near, Stalin wrote two letters to his would-be successor, Khrushchev, telling him to open them, one at a time, when things got bad and the wolves were at his door. In Soviet Russia that didn’t take long to come around. Khrushchev opened the first letter from Stalin. It read, ‘Blame everything on me.’”
“Oh. I see. Very funny.”
“Of course, the next crisis wasn’t very far away and Khrushchev soon opened the second letter.”
“What did it say?” asked the archangel.
“Just three simple words,” said Belphegor. “‘Write two letters.’”
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the way out of the house, Narinda pointed at the table where they sorted their post.
“Do you not open your mail?” she asked.
“Oh, I have a system,” said Clovenhoof. “If it looks like a parcel, I open it straight away. If it looks like a hand-written letter, I try to guess the horoscope sign and favourite sexual position of the person who’s written it. If it looks dull, I throw it to the back. Sometimes I have a look and see who it’s addressed to, but that’s if I’m feeling really organised.”
“If I may,” she said, scooping up a dozen of the topmost letters and bringing them along as they stepped out onto the pavement. “Here, look.”
She passed Clovenhoof a brown envelope.
“From us, at HMRC. If you’d opened it, you’d know that you owe close to a million pounds in income tax.”
“Taking the cosplayer to the pub,” said Nerys. “And she’s staying in character. This one’s gold. Where did you find her, Ben?”
Ben cradled the rules folder in his arms and flipped back and forth, marking the relevant parts by slotting in pieces of paper.
“Not one of mine,” he said.
“There is also a footnote to the letter that says a squashed squirrel cannot be submitted as a tax return,” said Narinda.
“That’s a good forgery,” observed Clovenhoof, looking over her shoulder. He had come to appreciate a decent fake document since they had been playing The Game.
“I am confused how you were able to make so much money from a cat cremation service,” said Narinda, conversationally. “I looked at one of your adverts, and to make the amount of money that you have, you would need to have cremated at least fifteen million cats in the last tax year. As I understand it, there are only around nine million cats in the whole of the United Kingdom, and at least some of them are still alive. Look, here is your most recent tax demand.”
They trailed down the road. While Nerys argued loudly that the scale of cheating should be considered and have a suitably weighted punishment, Clovenhoof spent the time securing the spare volcano cards back up his sleeve and ignoring Narinda and her boring questions about net and gross income.
“Oh, it’s some special promotion night tonight,” said Nerys as they arrived outside. “Sanatogen and Sangria. Spanish themed evening for the over sixties. The place will be chocka!”
They entered warily, not wanting to be trampled by over-stimulated oldies. Lennox stood at the bar overlooking a completely empty pub.
“Where are all the pensioners?” asked Clovenhoof.
; “Alan Titchmarsh signing in the town,” said Lennox gloomily. “That celebrity gardener’s like old-lady catnip. And I went to an effort – little wicker donkeys, romantic tea light candles on the tables.”
“Never mind. Means you get an easy night of it.”
“And no takings. Keeping a pub financially afloat isn’t easy.”
“Reckon it’d be a piece of piss,” said Clovenhoof. “Even thought about making you an offer on this place.”
“Half a million pounds. If you’ve got it, mate…”
He certainly has not,” said Narinda.
“Anyway, Lennox my man, it means that you’re free to help us. We have a situation that needs resolving, just as soon as we all have a drink in our hands.”
Lennox was already on the case and moments later Clovenhoof sipped on a delicious Lambrini, while Ben had a cider and black, Nerys had a large chardonnay and Narinda had a glass of tap water.
“Water?” said Clovenhoof.
“I’m driving,” said Narinda. “This was meant to be a flying visit on the way home.”
“But we’re in a pub.”
“I don’t have to drink just because we’re in a pub.”
“I think you do. It’s the law or something.” He shook his head, bewildered. “I didn’t even know pubs did water.”
“So, the things you need to know, Lennox,” said Nerys. “First, Jeremy was caught red-handed with a load of fake cards up his sleeve. The ones that let him cancel flights with a volcano ash cloud.”
“You will need to study paragraphs four and five on this page,” said Ben, pointing at the folder.
Lennox put on his reading glasses.
“Next thing you need to know is that Jeremy knocked over Ben’s building by slamming the door when he came in the room,” said Nerys.
“Act of God,” said Lennox, without looking up.
“Good one!” chortled Clovenhoof.
“Don’t let’s forget that Nerys owes me money, and wasn’t able to pay,” said Clovenhoof.
Narinda nudged him in the ribs. She had another letter. This was one out of a white envelope with a jolly cartoon pound sign logo.
“You owe money. You have a loan against the house, one you haven’t paid in several months. You owe nine thousand pounds there. I assume you’re aware of this. And then this one.” Narinda pulled out another prop letter. “Here’s one – no, one of one, two, three… well, several letters from a debt collection agency.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Clovenhoof.
“So, did Nerys do a strip forfeit?” asked Lennox. “That’s her usual.”
“How can it count?” asked Ben. “We’ve all seen Nerys naked too many times now for it to be a worthwhile forfeit.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t changed the rules to reflect that,” said Lennox, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger.
“It is a mystery to me why it appears that you are struggling financially and yet you clearly have undisclosed millions somewhere,” said Narinda.
Clovenhoof wasn’t yet sure what Narinda’s role in The Game was. He wished she’d get to the point. Or start her strip if that was her plan, he wasn’t fussed either way.
Nerys thumped the bar in front of Lennox. “I think we’re overlooking Ben’s forfeit.”
“My forfeit?” said Ben.
“You made a building with bad foundations, if it was so easy for Jeremy to knock over. You should still pay a forfeit.”
“Says what rule?”
“Well, if you stopped hogging the rules book, maybe I’d find it.”
Narinda held up a letter for Clovenhoof to see.
“And this. Your house is being repossessed, Jeremy. Are you aware?”
“Okay, drama college. You’ve played your part. The adults are drinking now. You can knock off the act.”
To make his point, he plucked the letter from her fingers and did the only thing that seemed sensible. He held it over one of the table candles and set it alight.
“You can’t solve your problems by setting fire to them,” said Narinda angrily.
“She’s very good,” said Ben.
“So, didn’t you hire her?” said Nerys.
“No, did you?”
“No.”
A strange sound made them all look towards the door. “Oh Twinkle!” said Nerys. “I forgot to take you out of the hamster ball! Bad mommy!”
The ball had something trapped in the opening. It was a vinyl streamer which pulled taut behind it, dragging the trolley with the model volcano. The whole procession made its way to the bar as Twinkle sought out Nerys.
“Come on my beautiful baby, let’s get you out of there.” As Nerys bent down to retrieve Twinkle, the flames of the burning letter reached Clovenhoof’s fingertips.
“Ow!”
Ben saw where the burning paper fell.
“Duck and cover!” he shouted.
The top of the volcano began to sparkle gaily.
“Oh, not as bad as I thought,” said Ben, uncurling himself from a protective ball. “Quite pretty really.”
Nerys hugged Twinkle apologetically. “Yeah, but wouldn’t it be just like Jeremy to start with nice sparklers and then –”
Her words were lost in the blast.
As closing time drew near, two humans, one devil and a Yorkshire terrier sat in a corner booth. Three of them had sooty scorch marks on their faces. The fourth was slightly singed around the edge. Three of them sat in stunned silence. The fourth was lapping at a bowl of pale ale. The stunned silence was a mixture of fireworks-induced deafness, the discovery that the taxwoman (who had stormed out in apoplectic and soot-streaked fury some hours before) was indeed a real taxwoman, and the discovery that one of them had, yet again, put their home at risk.
Ben sipped at his sixth cider and black of the evening and winced once more at the pink burn mark on his lip.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” said Clovenhoof. “The Catherine Wheel didn’t go off.”
“You have secured a personal loan against our house for several thousand pounds. Bailiffs are coming round to repossess everything you own and potentially evict us. And yet – and yet! – simultaneously, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs think you are a multi-millionaire and owe them hundreds of thousands in unpaid tax. I mean, how do you do it, Jeremy?”
Clovenhoof gave him a winning smile. “You’ve just got to reach for the stars, hold onto your dreams and believe in yourself.”
“It’s literally the worst of both worlds! How are we going to find the money to pay off your loan and foot that massive tax bill?”
“We don’t have to,” said Nerys.
Ben turned to look at her.
“Our only concern is our home,” she said coolly. “It’s in joint names. Leaving aside the legality of him getting a loan against it, if we can pay off the debt-collectors, then the house is safe.”
“See?” said Clovenhoof brightly. “I knew there’d be an easy solution. And the tax bill thingy, Nerys? What about that?”
“That’s your problem. Do you like prison food?”
Clovenhoof was not impressed. Ben seemed to be nothing but impressed.
“Wow.”
“What a cold-hearted cow,” said Clovenhoof. “Can you believe her, Ben?”
“I can,” he said without hesitation.
He leaned across the table to her.
“So, we rustle up the money together, settle the debt and then get Jeremy to sign his share of the house over to us.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Now I’ve got some cash stashed in the flat. The last of a little bonus for shifting so many properties last year.”
“Okay,” nodded Ben. “And I’ve got my fifty pee collection.”
Nerys was sceptical. “We’re going to need a lot of fifty pence pieces to make – what was it? – nine thousand pounds.”
“These are rare and collectable fifty pees. I check every coin that comes through the shop and put any rare ones asi
de. I’ve got more than a dozen stamped with Mrs Tiggy Winkle on the reverse. They’re worth a quid or two. I’ve got some 2009 Kew Gardens ones that are worth at least fifty quid each. And a stack of London Olympics swimming ones and they’re going for over seven hundred on eBay.”
“Seven hundred pounds?”
“Each.”
“Ah,” said Clovenhoof, dropping that single syllable into the conversation like a concrete block on a train track.
“Ah?” said Ben.
“Ah.”
“What the fuck is ‘Ah’?” said Nerys, her voice rising in pre-emptive anger.
Clovenhoof took a fortifying gulp of Lambrini. “Yeah, Ben, you know when I said I borrowed some change to buy the petroleum jelly…”
“There were nearly a hundred coins in that collection. You can’t tell me you bought fifty quids’ worth of Vaseline.”
“And some lottery scratch cards.”
“You are an absolute bastard, Jeremy Clovenhoof,” seethed Ben.
“And that money you’ve got stashed in your flat, Nerys…” said Clovenhoof.
“Yes?” she said warily.
“Which you keep in the bedside drawer underneath all your lady toys.”
Nerys was shaking her head, fuming silently.
“Well, you know how you said that the toy money we’ve been using in The Game recently looks almost as good as real money?”
“You didn’t! That’s my money.”
“Almost as good as your money.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Hey. At least I replaced it with something.”
Nerys smashed her wine glass on the edge of the table, leaving a jagged stem in her hand.
“Woah,” said Clovenhoof. “I can see you’re upset but there’s no point crying over spilt Chardonnay. Let’s just talk about this like adults.”
There was fire in Nerys’s eyes. “Hold him down, Ben. I’m going to rip his throat out.”
Clovenhoof rapidly emptied the contents of his pockets on the table. “Look! Scratch cards! Maybe there’s a fortune waiting for us here.”
“Can you sodding believe him?” said Nerys but reached for a scratch card anyway.
