Hooflandia (Clovenhoof Book 7)

by Heide Goody

  Clovenhoof put the phone to his ear. “Go for Clovenhoof.”

  “I’m sorry?” said a woman’s voice.

  “Are you? I wouldn’t worry about it. No one else does.”

  “My name is Linda O’Brien.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about there.”

  “I’m calling about an application for St Michael’s Secondary School.”

  “Then you’ve called the right number,” said Clovenhoof, his chest swelling with pride and avarice. Mostly avarice. “Now, I’ve still got some spaces left, although some of them are in the bathroom and not the nice end either. Maybe you’re not fussy.”

  “You’ve got what?” said Linda.

  “Or I can do the broom cupboard in the kitchen. We’ve had a problem with mice in there. I say problem. I like to think of it as a feature.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “So you said.”

  “The application was made by a Ms Victoria Calhoun. Is it possible to talk to her?”

  “Ah, Archie. Now, he’s in the back bedroom.”

  “Is he not at school today?” asked Linda. “Is he unwell?”

  Something should have clicked in Clovenhoof’s brain but he didn’t quite manage it. Something sort of ‘clonked’ instead. He stopped on the pavement and rewound the conversation.

  “Who are you again?” he asked.

  “Linda O’Brien. Admissions officer for St Michael’s Secondary School.”

  “Ah, and you want to talk to Victoria…”

  “About the application for Archie. I have some questions.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Clovenhoof. “Yes, I’ll get her for you. I’m Bill Calhoun. Her dad.”

  “So what was that thing about Clovenhoof?” said Linda.

  “Clovenhoof? Don’t know what you mean. But then again I do suffer from that… that Altimeter’s Disease.”

  “Do you mean Alzheimer’s, sir?”

  “No, Altimeter’s. I get light-headed when I go upstairs. Ah, here she is now.” He cupped his hand over the speaker, closed his eyes for three seconds to hurriedly get into character and then spoke in which he considered his most convincing female voice.

  “Oh, hellooo. Victoria Calhoun here. Sorry about my dad. He’s quite mad but he’s probably going to die soon so that’s okay. Linda, was it?”

  “Hello, Ms Calhoun,” said Linda. “I’m calling about an application you submitted to attend St Michael’s Secondary School.”

  Victoria had only come looking round the house an hour or so ago. Clearly a woman who didn’t hang around.

  “Why, I only submitted it this morning.”

  “The beauty of electronic applications,” agreed Linda. “Now, the local authority makes the final allocations later in the year but, as a faith school, we have our own admissions criteria.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I couldn’t help but notice that the address you’ve given us is different to the one his primary school has on record.”

  “We moved. Recently.”

  “How very nice,” said Linda. “Schools have to be mindful that some parents make fraudulent applications to get their children into a favoured school.”

  “You’re not accusing me of fraud, are you?” said Clovenhoof. His best falsetto went up an octave in dismay.

  “We do have to make certain checks. Church schools are increasingly popular. Which is funny really when you think about how church attendance figures are going down so much.”

  “Nerys says it’s because of your horrible biscuits and crap tea.”

  “Oh, right,” said Linda.

  “But Ben said he really liked the carrot nativity last year.”

  “That’s nice, I think. Is Ben your other son?”

  “Yes, why not,” said Clovenhoof.

  Now, with young Archie off ill I take it you’ll be at home with him for the rest of the day?” asked Linda.

  “Um,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I have other visits to make, Ms Calhoun, but I’ll come to your house shortly after three. Will that be okay?”

  A decent excuse failed to materialise in Clovenhoof’s brain. “More than okay, Mrs O’Brien.”

  “It’s miss, actually.”

  “Saucy,” said Clovenhoof and ended the call.

  He stared at the ground for a moment. The admissions officer was coming round at three o’clock. Clovenhoof was not Victoria Calhoun. He did not have a poorly boy in his back bedroom. If he didn’t prepare, his rental business would go bust in its first week. The obvious solution was to phone up Victoria and get her young Archie to hurry over. But Clovenhoof was cleverer than that. He knew that the most obvious solution was rarely the most fun one.

  He made another call.

  “Hi, Alice. Jeremy here. It’s going to be a flying visit this afternoon. Something’s come up. Do you, by any chance, have some women’s clothing in my size?”

  Joan and Rutspud sat at a table in a Large Mike’s fish and chip restaurant with the man called Festering Ken who Joan was convinced was also Kenneth Iscansus the previously missing bishop of Birmingham. It wasn’t the first placed they had tried to get served but staff at three coffee shops and a pizzeria had all taken one look at the grubby and unwashed Ken and told him to get out.

  But the folks at Large Mike’s were less fussy and, in fact, seemed to know Ken sufficiently that the woman at the counter gave his order an extra portion of chips. Rutspud tucked into his fish and chips hungrily.

  “Better than bloody Marmite on toast.”

  “You can’t beat a good honest piece of fish,” agreed Ken, broke his open with his fingers and doused its steaming innards with vinegar.

  Rutspud was less enamoured by the fish but the chips were greasy bags of delicious white pus and the fish batter was crunchier than toenails. Joan nibbled at hers politely but clearly had mixed feelings.

  Ken looked out at the sudden and heavy rain that had just started up outside. A woman came in, trying to shelter her hair beneath her handbag. She shook herself momentarily like a dog, saw the demon, saint and homeless man watching her and stalked over to the counter.

  “I blame the Peter Principle,” said Ken.

  Joan frowned at Rutspud.

  “Medieval heretical group, I think,” said Rutspud.

  “You know why I became a priest?” said Ken.

  “Those who can do, those who can’t preach?” suggested Rutspud.

  “You had a calling,” said Joan simply.

  “I did. I did. I wanted to serve the Lord and my local community. You know why I became a bishop? Because they told me I could.”

  Joan nodded in understanding.

  “You seized too much power,” said Rutspud. “Put your head above the parapet.”

  “Ha! Built my own ivory tower and shut myself away from what I cared about,” grunted Ken. “I had one of those, thingamies, moments of clarity. I was in a financial accounts meeting, listening to some dullard called Okra Boddington droning on and on about our investment portfolio and I realised I wasn’t involved in religious ministry. I was an executive in a multi-million-pound company. And I just stood up and do you know what I said?”

  “‘I didn’t sign up for this’?” said Rutspud.

  “Exactly that,” said Ken, pointing at him with a chip before eating it. “I now preach to the pigeons and the squirrels and do my little experiments. It’s not as fulfilling as it sounds if I’m honest with you.”

  “It doesn’t sound very fulfilling at all.”

  “And it’s less fulfilling than that.”

  The woman with the handbag sat at a table in the far corner with a coffee in a take-out cup and played on her phone.

  “Have you been offering to give confession or absolution recently?” Joan asked the homeless bishop.

  “To the pigeons and squirrels?” said Ken. He shook his head. “They’re not keen on sinning as far as I can tell and even less keen to confess what they have done.”

  “We meant people,” she s
aid. “We’re investigating a… significant number of absolutions granted in your name.”

  Ken shook his head again and concentrated on getting as many calories down his throat as quickly as possible. Rutspud didn’t know what to make of that. Here was the bishop, of that he was certain. He couldn’t imagine many of the faithful would rush to Ken for absolution but the detector in front of him was going click-click-click.

  “Yes, mummy,” said the woman in the corner, now conversing on her phone. “I did meet him. He’s a peculiar sort and that’s an understatement. But – no, I rented a corner of a bedroom from him. Already used the address to make the application. Yes, very helpful. What? Say that again? Can he have some of my old clothes? Whatever for?” She stared at the phone. “He and I are not the same size. Well, really!”

  The woman put the phone down.

  “Crazy old bat!” she grumbled loudly and then, Rutspud could see, her expression immediately relenting. The woman picked up the phone again and tapped at it.

  Rutspud grabbed Joan’s arm. The needle on the detector had leapt up higher than ever before, just for a few seconds and was now settling down again.

  “Oscillating between two points very close together,” Rutspud said to himself.

  “You just forgave someone,” Joan said to Ken.

  “‘id uh?” he said around a mouthful of fried food.

  “Something happened,” said Rutspud. He slid out of his chair and hurried over to the woman in the corner.

  She gave him a look that was both fearful and suspicious.

  “What did you just do?” asked Rutspud.

  The woman was perplexed. She held up her coffee cup. “It’s a latte.”

  “No, just now,” said Rutspud. “You did something, something on your phone.”

  “I was talking to my mother if it’s any of your business which it is not.”

  “No, after that. Just now. Just, just now.”

  The woman was recoiling into the corner of her seat. Joan appeared beside Rutspud.

  “Please, you might be able to help us,” she said.

  “Are you the police?” asked the woman.

  “Near enough but you’re not in any trouble.”

  The woman wordlessly turned her phone around to show them. An app on the screen showed a big blue tick. Above it were the words ‘Negative thoughts about a loved one.’ Below the tick were the words ‘Go in Peace!’ and a tiny animated angel which appeared to be doing a little rumba dance.

  “What the Hell…?” said Rutspud.

  “It’s PrayPal,” said the woman. “It’s free to download.”

  “I am confused,” said Joan bluntly. “Am I an idiot or am I right to be confused?”

  “It’s very simple,” said the woman. She hit the back button and typed in a search box until she found a listing entitled ‘Discourteous to a stranger’. “That’ll do,” she said and hit a submit button. The big blue tick came up again and Rutspud’s detector gave an excited leap. “It’s very freeing,” said the woman. “You know, emotionally and spiritually. And the PrayPal does all sins, big and small.”

  Over at the other table, Ken gave a sudden cry. His hands were raised in enthusiastic surprise.

  “I did that!” he said.

  “That?” said Rutspud and pointed at the app on the woman’s screen.

  “That! That’s a thing I did!”

  Joan listened as Bishop Kenneth Iscansus attempted to explain the origins of PrayPal. She hoped Rutspud understood what he was saying because half of it was just flying over her head.

  “And we did it here!” said Ken, delighted.

  “Here? Here where?”

  “This delightful chip shop,” said Ken. “The three of us.”

  “You and…?”

  “The shifty chap and the lad with the computer.”

  “Names?”

  Ken’s mouth went through several experimental shapes before he gave up. “Don’t get to exchange names with people so much these days,” he said. “But the shifty one. He lives on the Chester Road. Offered me a suck on his hairy sweet the other day.”

  Joan had no idea what item of slang that was. She didn’t want to think about it.

  “Chester Road is near here,” said Rutspud, already looking it up on his tablet. “A long road but we could go knock on doors.”

  “He was the one who came up with the idea,” said Bishop Ken.

  “The shifty one?”

  Ken nodded. “He came in and ordered a round for everyone.”

  “A round of fish and chips?” said Joan.

  “I think he might have been drunk,” said Ken thoughtfully. “But generous. We got to talking. He knew who I was, don’t know how. I had been on the streets for a few weeks by then. Din’t look like a bishop. Who does without the vestments? We might as well be empty robes.”

  Ken’s gaze drifted off to an empty and introspective place. Rutspud clicked his fingers in front of his face to bring him back.

  “The shifty one with no name,” clarified Rutspud, “came up with the idea for a mobile phone application that automatically provides the user with forgiveness at the click of a button. And you put your name, your metaphorical seal to it?”

  “And the lad with the computer said he’d make it work. Said we’d all have a share in the proceeds. Advertising revenues or something. I wasn’t interested in that. It was just a conversation, a bit of chit-chat while I ate a free tray of chips.”

  Rutspud blinked. Joan could see a faint smile forming on his lips.

  “Does this make sense to you?” she asked.

  “It explains the recorded facts,” said the demon. “The thousands of absolutions. The double readings I’m getting; one for the user and one for Ken here.”

  “So we can stop it?” she said.

  Rutspud grimaced.

  “Stop what?” said Ken.

  Rutspud tapped at his tablet for a minute.

  “PrayPal. Produced by WinkyCat Studios. Shareholders… only two listed. One Kenneth Iscansus and one Jeremy Clovenhoof.”

  “Oh, no,” said Joan, her heart sinking.

  “What?” said Rutspud. “You know this Clovenhoof character?”

  She blew out the sudden tension that had risen in her chest. “Yes. I do know him. And you know him too?”

  “Don’t think I do,” said the demon, none the wiser.

  “What’s more I know where he lives. I was briefly on the committee that relocated him when he was sent to earth.”

  “Re…?” Rutspud looked up at her. “You mean, the old boss?”

  “Did you never wonder where they sent Satan after they fired him?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Clovenhoof knocked on the door to Nerys’s second floor flat. The door opened a fraction and Twinkle came out and sniffed critically at Jeremy’s hoofs.

  “I’m impressed by any dog that can open doors but how do you even reach the handle?” he asked the Yorkshire terrier.

  “I’m here,” said Nerys, angling the door open with her knee as she took a shoe off with one hand and the opposite earring with the other. “Just in from work. What do you want?”

  “Do you have boobs?” he asked.

  Nerys stared at him for a long time and then, bereft of words, grabbed her own breasts. Living with the devil as a neighbour had engendered a certain brutal honesty in Nerys.

  “I meant for me,” said Clovenhoof.

  Nerys looked him up and down.

  “You know, any other person would ask why you’re wearing a woman’s blouse and skirt but I haven’t got the energy.”

  “It’s for an important reason,” he said.

  “Are you sure? Because you seem to find quite a number of ‘important reasons’ to dress up as a woman. You know, you don’t have to make up reasons to dress in whatever way you feel is comfortable. Whatever lifestyle choices you wish to adopt, no one’s going to judge you.”

  “You judge me all the time,” said Clovenhoof.

 
“Yeah, that’s because you’re a dick,” she said. “What makes you think I’ve got false breasts lying around the house?”

  “I know you’ve got a bunch of dressing up things, even though you’ve shown no interest in the theatrical arts.”

  “Those are for personal entertainment.”

  “And private performances, sure. Boobs, please.”

  Ten minutes later, after a briefing ransacking of Nerys’s suitcase of roleplay get up (and the fruit bowl), Nerys had equipped him with a passable brunette wig and a pair of citrus tits.

  “They’re not very pert,” he said.

  “Take a look at your face, mate,” she said. “A woman your age does not do pert. In fact, I should squeeze the juice out of them a bit.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he said, clutching his cleavage.

  The front door bell rang. Clovenhoof looked at the clock. It was barely half past two.

  “She’s early!” he said.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not ready. I texted Spartacus but he’s not got back to me.”

  “About what?” she asked but Clovenhoof was already running out of the flat and barrelling down the stairs.

  As he came to the hallway he slowed, smoothed down his blouse and put on a little feminine sashay. He had the clothes, the hair, the anatomical accessories. He’d even taken the time to apply a little make up and nail polish. This admissions officer had better be appreciative of the effort he was putting in.

  He opened the door and was about to offer Miss O’Brien a ladylike greeting when he saw it wasn’t her.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Narinda, confused. She looked at Clovenhoof then at the house number to the side of the door and then back to Clovenhoof. “Jeremy?”

  “You’ve caught me in the middle of something,” he said.

  “Evidently,” she replied.

  Clovenhoof looked up and down the street to check no one else was coming along and then dragged Narinda inside.

  “I don’t have time to discuss trivial tax matters today,” he said.

  “It was Ben who invited me round.”