by Heide Goody
Right now, Ken had dug a shallow hole in the verge and had put his ear to it.
If you’re going to be a while we can work out a daily rate,” said Clovenhoof.
“How about half a pasty?” Ken started to move his hand towards his pocket.
“Half a pasty? Well that doesn’t seem like enough, really.” Clovenhoof looked more carefully at Ken and concluded that maybe it was all that he had.
“It goes a long way,” rasped Ken. “Like loaves and fishes.”
Clovenhoof straightened up. “No pasties for me. Have you got any actual money you can give me? We can work out a repayment –”
Ken cut him short with a loud “Shhh!” and a spray of spittle. He put his ear to the hole again.
“What is it?” said Clovenhoof.
“I’m listening.”
“For what?”
“The little hoofy-woofies.”
“The…?”
Ken sat upright suddenly and grabbed at Clovenhoof’s trousers. “You ever seen the devil, man?” he asked with surprisingly clear diction.
“Every day,” said Clovenhoof.
“And do you know where he lives?”
“I do.”
Ken put a finger to his lips. The man’s fingers were bloodied and marked with scratches, scrapes and more than a few trowel-inflicted cuts. He pointed at the earth.
“They say Hell is down there,” whispered Ken. “But is it? Is it?” His milky eyes scanned Clovenhoof’s face.
“Not in my experience,” said Clovenhoof.
Festering Ken sniffed.
“Give us a quid, mate.”
“Haven’t got any money,” lied Clovenhoof despite the clear evidence of the cash in his hand. “I’ve got a half-eaten hairy sweet if you fancy a suck.”
“Give us a quid. I need it.”
Clovenhoof sighed and, after looking round to make sure there were no witnesses, put a fiver in Ken’s hand.
“You have to promise to spend it on booze and hobo hand jobs though,” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, you’re a bad lad,” said Ken and then, hunched over his new wealth, ran off down the street.
Clovenhoof went into his house and called out to Ben and Nerys. “Oi! You two. I didn’t see you paying the pavement toll!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Rutspud returned to the Forgiveness Archives, a little out of breath from his exertions in the Celestial City and all but out of the photocopied sheets he’d taken with him, he found angels, demon and the blessed dead pondering over a table laden with documents. The papers were arranged in neat stacks, some several feet high, so that the overall effect was of an attempt to recreate the skyscraper cityscape of downtown Manhattan.
“Invites distributed. I’ve told them we’ll meet them at the city gates within the hour,” said Rutspud. “Tried to inject a sense of urgency in it all to get them motivated.”
No one said anything. Gabriel was shaking his head. Thomas clutched at his lips pensively. Belphegor twirled an extra-long nose hair in thought.
“What?” said Rutspud.
Joan placed her hand lightly on the nearest pile.
“Guess how many acts of forgiveness Bishop Kenneth Iscansus has carried out in the past six months,” she said.
“Oh, I know that one. Came up in the pub quiz last week.”
“Four million, seven hundred and fifty-one thousand, nine hundred and six.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance to guess,” he said and then thought about it. “That’s a lot.”
“That’s eighteen absolutions a minute, day and night, for the last six months,” said Joan.
“He’s a busy boy.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But here’s the stranger part,” said Belphegor. He held up two sheets. “On the second of April at eleven oh eight, he granted absolution to one Timothy Ng in Hong Kong. One minute later, he granted absolution to Anna Cauldfield in Pennsylvania, USA.”
“They’re nowhere near each other,” said Rutspud. “Are they?”
“You’re Hell’s earth expert. You tell me.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means something fishy is going on,” said Gabriel, “and it demands further investigation.”
“Good,” said Rutspud firmly. “Nice to see someone taking action on this issue.”
“We’re going to send an investigative team to earth.”
“Excellent.”
“Putting our best people on the job,” said Belphegor.
“As you should.”
“Individuals who can blend in.”
“Covert-like. Good.”
“Those with the most experience of dealing with twenty-first century mortals,” said Gabriel.
“Yes.”
“Those who have been to earth quite recently.”
Rutspud stopped.
Rutspud looked at Joan. Joan looked at Rutspud.
They looked at each other a long time because Rutspud truly couldn’t find words to describe how he felt.
“Okay, okay,” said St Hubertus, downing a shot and then leaning against his cervine drinking buddy-cum-barman. “I see where this is going. You need a hip party animal to go down, mix with the kids, mix things up and come up with the goods. In liquor there is truth. You want me to do it, fine. But I’ve got conditions.”
“You certainly have,” said Gabriel. “No, we don’t want you, Hubertus.”
“And you don’t want me,” said Rutspud, backing away, bumping into a chair and turning to apologise to the chair in his unhappy confusion. “I don’t even like earth.”
“You spend enough time there,” said Belphegor.
“But Joan…”
“Led a successful mission to resolve a unresolvable prayer issue a few years back,” said Gabriel.
“But Joan, she wouldn’t want me as a partner. She’s a saint, I’m a demon. It’s…”
“Actually,” said Joan with a shyly cheeky expression, “I put your name forward.”
“But… what? … why?... You!” He growled to clear his mouth. “Did I do something to offend you?”
She shrugged, armour plates sliding against each other. “It’s like Belphegor says, the best people for the job.”
Rutspud fumed. He fumed at the cosmos in general because that was a usually good place to start. He fumed at the teenage saint who had just dropped him in it. But, mostly, he fumed at himself. He had spent all of his existence maintaining a careful balance. Be clever but not too clever. Be useful but not too useful. Seize power in dribs and drabs but never too much. Build a protective wall around yourself but never put your head above the parapet.
Now here he was, capering along the battlements and some damned French girl had shot him in the face.
“I do this under duress,” he said.
“Good,” said Belphegor. “Hell prefers it that way. We wouldn’t want you to actually enjoy yourself.”
Rutspud gestured, still angry, at the mountains of papers on the table.
“And where is this Iscansus fellow then?”
“His absolutions are popping up all over the globe,” said Gabriel.
“So, you don’t know?”
“No, but Kenneth Iscansus was – technically still is – the bishop of the city of Birmingham. So, you could start there.”
“Birmingham?”
“Yes. Have you heard of it?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Clovenhoof stepped out of his flat wearing a shabby suit and did some practice lunges on the landing to see how much give there was in the crotch. Loud, angry voices came from Ben’s flat. He could make out the sound of Nerys shouting bossily and Ben complaining bitterly. It was like a well-loved tune, where words weren’t necessarily needed. He went to see what they were doing.
“Ah Jeremy, you can help with this. Alpha male training assertiveness module,” said Nerys.
“It’s games day,” said Clovenhoof.
“Precisely,” said Be
n. “So, no time for any of this alpha crap. Um, what the hell are you wearing, Jeremy?”
Clovenhoof gave them a twirl. “An old man’s suit.”
“You been raiding the bargain bin at the charity shop again?” said Nerys.
“It’s for my gigoloafing session tonight. I will be inhabiting the role of an old man and getting paid for it by a sweet old cougar called Alice.”
“You smell like an old man,” said Ben.
“Thank you. I’ve been working on that. Mostly by stuffing my pockets with leafy vegetables and pissing my pants.”
“You piss your pants anyway,” said Nerys.
“A lifetime of rehearsal is about to pay off. Now, to the games room!”
“Not yet,” said Nerys. “Ben needs to get his alpha skills up to scratch.”
“Games day!”
“And I’ve told Narinda to come over later to discuss financial matters with you – which is a little white lie – so Ben can start a-wooing her.”
“I’m not ready for a-wooing,” said Ben. “And I strongly doubt that Narinda wants any wooing of any sort.”
“That’s a defeatist attitude,” said Nerys.
“We don’t know if she has a boyfriend already. Maybe even a husband.”
“She doesn’t.”
“You know?”
“Maybe.”
“You been stalking her?”
“Is lightly googling someone stalking? Is making a few phone calls stalking? Is sitting outside someone’s house with a camera and telephoto lens stalking?”
“It’s the third one,” said Clovenhoof.
“Definitely the third one,” agreed Ben.
Nerys huffed. “Any successful seduction begins with thorough research. Trust me.”
“Someone else’s lifelong habits about to pay off,” said Clovenhoof snidely.
Nerys scowled. “Well, ‘old man,’ if you’re so keen to inhabit roles you can help with this next exercise.”
“Yes?”
“We’re going to roleplay being in a bar.”
“We need alcohol then,” said Clovenhoof. “To make it properly realistic.” He sniffed a bottle that was on Ben’s table, but it was the thinners that he used for his model painting. He gave it a tentative swig. Not bad.
“Right. The challenge is to be served first at the bar,” said Nerys. “It’s a well-known test of alpha male superiority, and the contest will have two rounds.” Nerys held up two fingers for emphasis, and possibly, just because she could. “The first round is to see how loud you can be. I am both judge and bartender, and I will award points for attention-grabbing language, but most of all volume. As loud as you can. Go!”
Ben looked at Clovenhoof. He leaned on an imaginary bar and raised his voice slightly. “Can I please get served?” he asked Nerys.
Clovenhoof shook his head in pity. “Serve me now!” he bellowed ferociously. “I want a Lambrini and I want it right now!”
Ben shook his head. “I can’t behave like that, it’s appalling!” he cried.
“Nice touch of anger, Ben. Use it! Channel it!” urged Nerys.
“I want a drink and I don’t want to have to make a fuss about it!” said Ben, more stridently.
“Good work,” said Nerys. “Wait, where’s Jeremy off to?”
Clovenhoof was back in Ben’s flat in a minute and feeling pleased with himself. He lifted the loudhailer. “PUNY MORTALS, DO MY BIDDING! GET MY DRINK AND DO NOT WASTE ANY MORE OF MY TIME!”
Ben and Nerys covered their ears and looked pained. Clovenhoof put down the loudhailer.
“I win, yeah?”
Ben and Nerys looked at him, not responding, both tenderly probing their ears.
“I said, I win. Yes?” repeated Clovenhoof. He was clearly not getting through. He picked up the loudhailer again.
“Jesus fucking Christ Jeremy, don’t you dare!” said Nerys. “You’ve made us both deaf.”
It took several minutes before Clovenhoof got confirmation that he had, in fact, won. He didn’t feel as though his victory came with the respect that it deserved, though.
“Right, round two is body language and positioning. Same challenge. You want to be served by the barman, played by me,” said Nerys. “We’re looking to be closest to the bar, which will be the table, here.” She positioned herself behind Ben’s table. “You get there by discreetly pushing and shoving as needed. The person who has their knees and elbows in front, up against the bar, when I complete the countdown is the winner. Three-two-one, go!”
“Ten!”
This seemed straightforward to Clovenhoof. He pressed himself against the table, braced against any efforts to dislodge him. Ben sidled up and tried to push him sideways with his hips, but Clovenhoof was going nowhere.
“Nine!”
Ben tried another tactic. He leaned across the table and twisted, using the whole of his upper body to push Clovenhoof backwards. Clovenhoof sank his teeth into Ben’s shoulder.
“He bit me! He bloody bit me!” screeched Ben.
“Five!” said Nerys, ignoring him.
Ben used his legs now, levering with his feet and his knees. However, Clovenhoof’s legs were not built in quite the same way as Ben’s (although Ben failed to notice, as did everyone else). A quick backwards flick and a vicious hoof stomp later and Ben was sprawled on the floor, clutching his injured foot.
“Aargh, I think it’s broken!” howled Ben.
“One! Jeremy wins again,” said Nerys.
Clovenhoof performed a victory dance, which was tenuously based on the Haka that he’d seen on the telly the other day.
Ben rolled away, fear in his eyes. “Nerys, make him stop before he gets my other foot!”
“I’d be more worried about catching something off all the crap that’s falling out of his pockets,” said Nerys, withdrawing with a grimace.
They adjourned to the games room in the ground floor flat but not before Nerys had inspected Ben’s foot, declared him to be a ‘whinging softy’ and then dressed him in his Narinda-seducing gear. Ben looked uncomfortable in the leather trousers and designer shirt, although Clovenhoof was warming to his old man suit. It had so many pockets! And not just your standard pockets but double-stitched reinforced pockets. He could keep enough change in his trouser pockets to run a small bank and the inside pockets of his jacket just cried out to be stuffed with ‘man stuff’: ticket stubs, handy-sized tools, stationery and all those little oddments that men seemed to accumulate. Clovenhoof found himself increasingly drawn to creating a snail sanctuary in one of them or perhaps opening the world’s tiniest pencil stub museum.
“Ah, no Lambrini for me,” said Clovenhoof as Nerys reached for the bottle of fizz.
“What?” she said, stunned.
“Got to get into character,” he said and produced a bottle of Thunkerston’s Super-Dark Stout. “Old Bill Calhoun liked a drop of stout.” He broke off the bottle top on his horns and poured it out into a cocktail glass.
“Did old Bill like it in a Lambrini glass?” asked Nerys.
“Hey, I’ve got to pretend to be him, not actually become him,” said Clovenhoof. He tipped his fingers in the stout and dabbed a bit on his neck. “Fragrant!”
Ben moved forward to roll the dice for his go. His trousers gave a mournful squeak as he did so. He did it again, with an exaggerated leg shuffle, to prove it was the trousers. Nerys rolled her eyes.
“Get on with it Ben, and do me a favour will you? Land on my Club of Exotic Delights, I need the cash.”
“I didn’t think it was that much to get into your club?” said Ben.
“No, I make most of the money from the compromising photos I get of you while you’re in there,” said Nerys. “It would be so much fun to do that while you’re all dolled up for Narinda.”
Ben tugged uncomfortably at the fitted shirt that Nerys had selected. The top buttons were undone and Clovenhoof observed that what Nerys had described as a gleaming, bronzed Adonis look was more akin to chicken breasts –
reduced for quick sale.
Ben rolled the dice and Clovenhoof crowed with delight. “Saint Philips Cathedral. Get in!”
“Okay,” said Ben. “We need to consult the new rules on religious buildings.”
“New rules,” said Nerys.
“Yes,” said Ben, getting up and crossing to a row of filing cabinets Clovenhoof had never noticed before. “Properties that represent the headquarters of a significant religious group are subject to a new set of rules and playing –”
“Where did those filing cabinets come from?” said Nerys.
“I had them installed,” said Ben. “We just had too many files.”
He opened a file drawer filled with sheets and wallets, all neatly labelled with brightly coloured tabs. “Here we have the basic rules.” He continued along the row of cabinets, pointing at drawers. “These are the rules for property purchase, surveying, conveyance, contracts and ownership clauses. These are the rules for various actions – legal and illegal – although the criminal justice system sub-rules are filed over there in the general law, policy and governance drawer. These are the rules regarding appeals, arbitration, conciliation and judgements. (I’ve given Lennox his own set.) The next two drawers are for exceptions to the rules: acts of God, force majeure and weird phenomena. Finally, we have a drawer for bits of the original rules book that we can’t translate or are currently subject to edit wars on Wikipedia.”
“Oh, my God, it’s a monster,” said Nerys.
