Hooflandia (Clovenhoof Book 7)

by Heide Goody

  Clovenhoof grinned and climbed into the limo.

  When he walked into the Boldmere Oak, Lennox called over to him. “Oi. Closed for a private party this afternoon.”

  Clovenhoof walked to the bar. “Well as it happens, it’s a private party that I’m invited to. What’s on the menu, Lennox?” Clovenhoof searched his memory for examples of fine dining. “Pigs in blankets? Happy meals? Tell me there’s going to be Crispy Pancakes?”

  Lennox shook his head and whispered conspiratorially. “To be honest, the only reason I got this booking is that I advertise the cheapest rate of buffet food in the area on that local forum suttonskinflints.net. It’s a round of cheese and pickle sandwiches and a small glass of cheap wine for you, my friend.”

  Clovenhoof was joined at the bar by an elderly woman with a playful smile. Her makeup was applied neatly, almost like a colour-by-numbers painting. Small circles of rouge on each cheek and crisp, pearly blue semi-circles above her eyes. Clovenhoof was reminded of a sex doll, a slightly deflated sex doll.

  “By any chance, is that stuff on the tables the cheapest gut-rot that money can buy?” she asked Lennox.

  Lennox opened his mouth to protest, but Clovenhoof held up a hand.

  “Lennox is bound by client-patient confidentiality, but I can confirm that it is from his special collection. It turns up from time to time as a raffle prize. The wasps of Boldmere know it well, as everyone uses it in those little traps where the wasp is attracted to the faint, sickly smell of the alcohol before drowning in the toxic effluent. Actually, it might taste better when it’s passed through the digestive system of a wasp. Did you ever think of that Lennox? Anyway, enjoy!”

  “I’ll have a G and T, thank you,” said the woman to Lennox, who gave a small shrug and reached up for a glass.

  “So, you’re some sort of connoisseur then?” she asked Clovenhoof.

  At that moment, Lennox returned with a gin and tonic in one hand and a full bottle of Lambrini in the other for Clovenhoof.

  “Good God!” she said, staring at the Lambrini. “Surely there's something in the Geneva convention… They still sell that stuff?”

  Clovenhoof smacked his lips. “A connoisseur indeed, madam. Nobody has a more refined appreciation of this delicious nectar than yours truly.”

  “How did you know Claymore Ferret?” she asked, once she had taken a sip of her drink.

  “Fairly recently,” said Clovenhoof, truthfully. “I didn’t know him well, but I wanted to help send him off.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the woman. “Can’t blame you for that. I think a lot of people wanted to make sure he was definitely dead. Including his son, by the sound of that eulogy.”

  “Not a close friend of yours then?” hazarded Clovenhoof.

  “We don’t really move in the same circles,” said the woman. “I’m Alice Calhoun by the way.”

  “What circles do you move in Alice?”

  Alice Calhoun took a hefty swig from her drink and reflected for a moment. “Well, since my husband died, I don’t even know if I have a circle, but let’s just say that it’s quite a few rungs down the ladder from Claymore Ferret. My sister Cynthia clawed her way up there when she was alive, but then she had the talons for it. She and Claymore were very well matched.”

  “Ah, your sister was Claymore Ferret’s –”

  “– bit of stuff yes. His, er, third I think. He managed to get onto number six before he died.”

  “Busy boy,” said Clovenhoof appreciatively.

  “He had a type,” said Alice, with a significant nod across the room.

  Clovenhoof looked over towards the buffet table where a small gaggle of high-heeled women hid behind sunglasses and yet made clear their disdain for the buffet, the surroundings and the company.

  “Yes, I wonder what they all saw in the multi-millionaire Claymore Ferret,” said Alice with a wry smile. “By all accounts, the man was an absolute pig. I mean all men have their little foibles. Take my Bill. He was a good man, kind and thoughtful, but he was terribly messy. Never could read a paper without spreading it all over the table and chairs. I was always picking towels and clothes up off the floor. And the smell! He had such a wind problem.” She took another sip of her drink and stared into the glass. “I miss him so much.”

  “You miss his bad habits?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “I do. I really do. Strange, isn’t it?” said Alice.

  “No, not at all strange,” said Clovenhoof. “As a matter of fact, I have an established business model that caters exactly for needs like yours.” It was true. It had been established for at least three seconds.

  “Needs like mine?”

  “Have you ever heard of gigoloafing?” asked Clovenhoof, confident of the answer, as he had just invented the word.

  “No,” said Alice.

  “It’s where you pay someone a very reasonable subscription for them to come round to your house to replicate the experience that you’re missing. Give us a tenner now and I’ll pop round later.”

  Alice Calhoun stood for a moment, her mouth open, aghast. Then she gave a small shrug and reached for her purse.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On a long table in a side office of the Forgiveness Archives, thousands of individual paper records were arranged in various piles and clumps. A team of virginal admin staff carried in more by the minute. The demon Rutspud had gone off with his photocopies and his brilliant plan which was probably just as well, thought Joan, as there was barely enough room for the people and paper currently in the room.

  “Indulgence,” said Joan, reading the heading of one.

  “This pile,” said Gabriel, taking it.

  “Any confessions and penances, bring over here,” said Thomas Aquinas. He glanced at the next one passed to him. “Absolution granted to Mickey Fletcher by Bishop Kenneth Iscansus for the act of procuring prostitutes and running a house of ill-repute.”

  “Iscansus,” said Joan. “I’ve seen that name already.”

  She rifled through the pile already in front of her. “Here. two absolutions granted by Bishop Iscansus.”

  “I guess Mickey had a lot to confess to his bishop,” said Thomas.

  “Then so did Hank Schlaeber-Foster and Yukari Shima,” said Belphegor. “Forgiven for their sins by Bishop Kenneth Iscansus.”

  “Bishop Iscansus,” said Gabriel, finding an example near the top of his pile.

  “Another three, four here,” said Hubertus.

  “Is this the link?” said Belphegor. “One priest has forgiven them all?”

  “Wiped the slate clean for each and every one of them,” said Joan.

  “Individually,” said the virgin bringing in the latest pile of records. “All individual acts of forgiveness and absolution.”

  “Including,” said Gabriel, waving a sheet with righteous anger, “forgiveness for the gun-toting, angel-shooting Lord Claymore Ferret.”

  “He’s been a busy man,” said Joan.

  “Indiscriminate,” said Gabriel huffily. “Ferret, forgiven.”

  “Forgiven,” repeated Belphegor in a dead tone. “And we’d built a pit in Hell especially for him. It was beautiful too.”

  “Well, you’ve found your answer,” said Hubertus. “Closure. That’s the important thing. Time for a celebratory round of drinks! Hirsh! Hirsch-baby, shots all round.”

  Gabriel stared at the sheet in front of him, the confirmation that Claymore Ferret, wing assailant, had as much right to be in Heaven as anyone else.

  “No,” he said softly. “This cannot stand. You!” A finger stabbed at a random virginal clerk. “I want to see the paperwork every act of absolution, forgiveness and ministerial pardon given by this over-eager Iscansus priest.”

  “What? All of them?” she said with an uncooperative pout of derision.

  Gabriel’s eyes blazed with the fires of creation. “ALL OF THEM!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Clovenhoof strolled through Boldmere, his pockets filled with Lennox’s unlove
d cheese and pickle sandwiches and a payment from his first gigoloafing client. As he passed Ben’s bookshop he heard screams coming from inside. It was quality screaming as well. Clovenhoof wouldn’t have broken his stride for the ‘eek-a-mouse’ level of scream, but this was sustained and heartfelt. He went inside and found Ben, attempting to escape into the cellar. He was naked apart from a pair of underpants and had wax strips applied all over his chest, legs and torso. Some were tucked into the top of his underpants, which was a very Ben look, Clovenhoof decided. Nerys held some of the removed strips in her left hand, while she was finding the corner of another with her right hand. Ben wriggled to escape, and when he saw Clovenhoof he mewled with relief.

  “Jeremy, you have to stop her! She’s gone mad!”

  Nerys turned, one hand on her hip. “Ben’s being a baby about this. He agreed to the plan and now he won’t go through with it.”

  “I didn’t agree to be waxed,” wailed Ben. “I just said I’d talk to Narinda. She seems like a nice lady. I don’t see why waxing is necessary.”

  “Yes you do, we’ve been through this. You need a makeover so you can properly turn her head.”

  “I don’t want to turn her head! Have you forgotten that I am still technically married to your sister?”

  “Jayne? Don’t worry about her, I’m sure she’d understand that we’re dealing with an emergency here. Now, We’re just going to start with a little light manscaping and then we’ll move on to the deportment and assertiveness lessons. Jeremy, your hands are free, google the best way to incapacitate someone will you?”

  Ben made a break for it. He wriggled from Nerys’s grip and dodged around Clovenhoof, using him as a shield. Clovenhoof turned towards Ben.

  “Hm. Hold on a moment, Kitchen. You’ve given me some inspiration for my list.” He pulled a piece of tattered cardboard from his pocket. “Pen?”

  “On the counter. What list?” said Ben.

  “In my quest for making money I have been listing my many talents. I’m just adding two more. One. Doing things that other people can’t bring themselves to do. Two. Taking things too far.”

  Clovenhoof put the list back in his pocket and then grabbed a wax strip from Ben’s shoulder, ripping it away with a flourish.

  “Oww! Jeremy, I thought you had my back! Why would you do that to me?” Ben clutched his shoulder.”

  “Just helping make you into a smooth operator. Had you thought of oiling him up and taking pictures for a calendar, Nerys?” Clovenhoof asked.

  “No,” said Nerys, “but it might be worth a shot.”

  “Wait,” said Ben, “What was the thing you said about always taking things too far?”

  “Oh that?” said Clovenhoof. “Let me show you.” He reached into the top of Ben’s underpants with both hands and yanked all of the wax strips upwards at the same time. It made a satisfying tearing sound, which was musically enhanced by Ben’s screams.

  “Oh good,” said Nerys, watching Ben faint to the floor. “No need to google. Job done.”

  The three of them walked back towards home. Ben wore knotted tea towels as a makeshift sarong after finding that his jeans chafed too badly against his newly-plucked skin. Clovenhoof especially enjoyed that the tea towels sported novelty designs, so Ben was wearing what amounted to a skirt featuring cartoon lobsters and cats drinking wine.

  “Right Ben, this is a great opportunity for you to practise the alpha male swagger,” said Nerys. “You’re wearing an idiotic outfit, and the only way to deal with it is to style it out. Imagine you’re David Beckham, launching a new fashion line.”

  “Nerys, I don’t think you realise that every single part of that idea is utterly alien to me. Even if you said I should imagine I’m David Beckham selling books, it would be a struggle,” said Ben.

  “That’s because you don’t sell many books,” Clovenhoof pointed out helpfully.

  “Think about how you’re walking,” said Nerys, ignoring both of them. “What you’re doing now is an embarrassed slouchy thing like an emo with low self-esteem. You should be doing an alpha strut. Stick out your chest and your chin.”

  “Like this?”

  “Hm. Tuck your bum in. It’s a bit funky chicken at the moment. Now, slow it all down, take your time, because the world is your oyster.”

  “But oysters –”

  “No!” roared Nerys. “Not a word about your allergies! Take a look at Jeremy. It’s not often that I would hold him up as a role model, but he has mastered the art of walking unselfconsciously. Look at that unconcerned, arrogant swagger.”

  “Why thank you,” said Clovenhoof, adding a little jiggle and a pelvic thrust.

  “Arse-scratching, farting, tackle-shuffling, you could even add the same sort of embellishments as Jeremy,” urged Nerys.

  “But why would I do that? Narinda is a nice lady. She doesn’t want a drooling Neanderthal!”

  “Ben, deep down, all women want a bit of drooling Neanderthal. Remember, we’re trying to appeal to the subconscious, lustful part of her brain.”

  Ben stalked unhappily down the road. It was very much like watching a freshly-damned soul who had been used for poker-shoving practice.

  Outside their house, Clovenhoof checked his honesty box. It contained a small handful of loose change along with a fluff- and dog-hair-covered sweet.

  “Thirteen pounds twenty. Someone’s not paying their way,” he grumbled.

  Coming down the pavement towards them was a gaggle of youngsters, riding what appeared to be…

  “Are those shopping trolleys?” said Nerys.

  Clovenhoof stepped forward and held up his hand. “Spartacus Wilson. You know there’s a toll on this part of the road, don’t you?”

  “What’s up, paedo?” said the juvenile terror who seemed to have suddenly grown into a gangly pre-teen. “I don’t see me moving, do you?”

  “A parking fee then. What’s all this?” said Clovenhoof, gesturing at Spartacus’ novel transport.

  Spartacus grinned with pride. He stood in a shopping trolley, and seven of his friends stood behind him, each at the helm of their own shopping trolley.

  Clovenhoof recognised Kenzie Kelly, PJ McTigue, Jefri Rehemtulla and couple of the others. They had been members of the St Michael’s cub scouts when Clovenhoof had helped out for a few months. All of them (Clovenhoof included) now had the proud distinction of being banned for life from all wings of the scouting movement. There was a herd of cows in Shropshire that still had traumatic flashbacks to a certain camping trip a few years back and would faint at the sight of a neckerchief and woggle.

  Right now, Spartacus and chums looked like a raiding party of urban Vikings about to set sail for the grocery aisle in Tesco. “We’ve invented a new sport.”

  “What sort of sport?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Street polo,” said Spartacus. “Our mom showed me polo in a celeb magazine.”

  “It’s all posh boys wearing hats and daft clothes,” sneered PJ McTigue.

  “Bunch of bloody toffs,” agreed Spartacus.

  “That’s why it’s called polo,” said Clovenhoof. “You have to be minted to play it.” Spartacus gazed blankly at him. “Minted. It’s a joke,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Are you sure?” said Spartacus. “Anyway, the sport’s well due a makeover. First thing was the horses. These here are Boldmere Ponies. Adapted for the street.”

  Clovenhoof thought momentarily about the times that he’d struggled to make a supermarket trolley go where he wanted even when pushing it, never mind punting it along with what looked like a washing-line prop. “Aren’t the wheels a little bit...what’s the word?”

  “Crap. Yeah. Kenzie found a load of skateboard wheels. He’s pimped our rides. These Boldmere Ponies are customised.”

  Clovenhoof looked down. Clusters of skateboard wheels replaced the usual will-they-won’t-they-turn-when-I-want rigid wheels. “They look good. Did Kenzie find some aerosol paint for the paint job as well? You talk a good game, Spartacus my man, but
what are they like in action?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “You’re in luck old man,” said Spartacus. “Watch and learn. We don’t just play Street Polo, we do synchro too.”

  “Sin what?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Synchro,” said Jefri Rehemtulla. “We do a synchronised display.”

  “Watch us and be amazed,” said Kenzie.

  Clovenhoof watched as the shopping trolleys swooped into formation. Each member of the team had a long pole (mostly clothesline props, but some fishing rods as well) and once they had formed a line, they linked together by bracing the poles horizontally across the group, leaving those at the side to punt and steer them down the road. They moved along in a box formed of two rows, four trolleys wide. Just as Clovenhoof was getting used to this spectacle, the four boys in the middle started a routine that was a bizarre combination of parkour, pogoing and Morris dancing. They jumped and stepped between each other’s trolleys, balancing precariously on trolley handles and basket edges, with mid-air high fives.

  “Ben, I take back everything I said about you looking ridiculous,” said Nerys as the Boldmere Ponies finished their bizarre routine and zoomed away down the road. “Now the world has gone completely mad, I think tea towel sarongs are the new normal.”

  “I think we’re all missing the key point here,” said Clovenhoof, “which is that several people have now passed this point without paying.” He cast around, anxious that no more freeloaders would make it past without putting something in his honesty box. “You! You over there!”

  Clovenhoof walked over to the man who was sitting on the pavement, poking at a narrow grass verge with a trowel.

  “That’s Festering Ken,” said Nerys. “He’s harmless.” Nerys tutted loudly and ushered Ben into the house.

  “Ken, you need to pay the pavement tax for sitting there,” Clovenhoof said.

  Ken was clearly homeless. He had the grubby coat and shoes so worn and filthy it was impossible to say what kind of shoes they had once been or indeed if they had really ever been shoes at all. A lot of the homeless people Clovenhoof saw these days fit a certain mould. They had the beany hat and the scruffy beard and the sleeping bag and the little dog that sat on their lap while they begged with one hand and played Candy Crush with the other. But Ken was old school. His hat looked like he’d stolen it off a scarecrow. He had the beard of a department store Santa on the run for undisclosed sex offences. He didn’t have a little dog or a mobile phone. He had fingerless gloves, newspaper for socks and a red nose that shone like a warning light to any medical professional who saw him. Nerys had told Clovenhoof that it was not politically correct to call homeless people tramps but the word suited Ken so well that Clovenhoof made an exception for him.