Hooflandia (Clovenhoof Book 7)

by Heide Goody

  Tommy Chuckles rolled his eyes. “It’s Rice Krispies is what it is, sunshine.”

  Rutspud picked up his spoon and stirred the unappetising mass.

  “Give it a try,” said Joan, shoving a spoonful in her mouth. “When are you going to get another chance?”

  “Ah, the ‘give it a go because you can’ philosophy,” said Rutspud. “Fine advice from a saint.”

  Joan glared at him but Sister Anne and Tommy Chuckles had moved away to do the washing up.

  “I was thinking,” said Rutspud.

  “Yes?” said Joan.

  “The PrayPal app is offering indulgences and absolution in the name of Bishop Iscansus.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is, in practical terms, as if he is personally absolving the individual each time they press the ‘submit’ button.”

  “Yes.”

  “But absolution can only be given by a living priest.”

  “Er…”

  “A priest can’t forgive someone post-mortem.”

  “I see where you’re heading with this, Rutspud.”

  He offered her a grin and a twinkle of his very expressive eyes. “I’m not even going to ask you to get your sword dirty. Just give me a dark alleyway and half a brick. He’ll be dead and knocking on Heaven’s door before the day is out. Problem solved.”

  Joan put down her spoon. “We are not murdering Bishop Iscansus.”

  Rutspud sighed dispiritedly. “What’s your idea then?”

  “We need to shut down the app at source.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We find the man who crafted it.”

  “The programmer.”

  “And we tell him to turn it off.”

  “And how do we find him?”

  Joan pulled a face and ate another mouthful of Rice Krispies thoughtfully.

  “We could have a bit of a pray.”

  “Oh, right. Cos Heaven has all the answers,” he snarked and then thought. “We could contact Belphegor. He might be able to help us with that.”

  “Will he?”

  “Yes, let’s do it. Come on.”

  As Rutspud made for the door, Tommy Chuckles’ head turned to look at him while Sister Anne continued to diligently wash up the pots one-handed.

  “Have you eaten all your cereal, young man?”

  “Yes, Sister Anne. The crisped rice were, er, delicious.”

  “My name is Tommy Chuckles,” said the puppet firmly.

  “Yes. Course it is. Sorry.”

  “Where are we going?” said Joan.

  “This way,” said Rutspud, pointing north towards the town centre and setting off without further explanation.

  The shops in the pedestrianised high street were busy. A sign in a department store window read, ‘Buy it now on credit – it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.’

  “I’ve got to make a note of some of these,” said Rutspud.

  “Some of what?” said Joan.

  “Do you not notice?” said the demon. “Every sign, every advert, it’s all ‘buy now, pay later’, ‘live for today, forget about tomorrow.’”

  “Act in haste, repent at leisure?”

  “Exactly. Look.”

  Rutspud pointed at an A-frame advert outside a café. ‘Eat cake. It’s been scientifically proven that fat people are harder to kidnap.’

  “It’s just a humorous little quip,” said Joan.

  He laughed. “Only the virtuous could be so blind. The road to Hell might be paved with good intentions but this stuff should be on the advertising hoardings on the roadside. This country is sliding into decadent short-term hedonism.”

  He cocked his head at a poster in a doorway.

  “‘Swinging – How do you know you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it?’” he read. “I’m sure someone was trying to get me to eat crisped rice with a similar line earlier.”

  Joan grunted a reluctant acknowledgement. “And is ‘swinging’ what I think it is?”

  Rutspud gave her an appraising look.

  “I shouldn’t think so. Not in this context. I recall an ex-politician explaining it to me. This was in the Pit of People Who Died During Embarrassing Sexual Acts.”

  “Oh, it’s a moral perversion,” said Joan quickly. “Say no more, Rutspud.”

  “Don’t you want to be educated, Joan? How can you understand the ways of sin if you don’t know your swinging from your dogging, your fisting from your tea-bagging?”

  Joan tutted and inspected the poster more closely. “You can’t just stick ‘-ing’ on the end of an innocent noun and pretend it’s a sexual act. I’m not that naïve. So, you can keep your, um, fingering, pegging and cupping, and just be honest enough to admit you don’t know something rather than making it up. What’s this?”

  Rutspud stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the poster. “‘We’re an informal group that meets on alternate Tuesdays for fun and games’?”

  “No. This bit underneath. ‘In-house moral cleansing service provided.’ And there’s the little picture of a winking cat.”

  “It’s called an icon.”

  “Icons are religious images of devotion,” said Joan.

  “And little computer images too,” said Rutspud. “They’re using the PrayPal app. You see? People aren’t just using the app to forgive what they have done. They’re planning their sins in advance, knowing they can buy absolution.”

  “This is serious,” she said.

  “You’re telling me.”

  She frowned. “Yes. I just did.”

  “Come on. Since you’ve vetoed bashing the bishop’s head in, we need Belphegor’s help in finding the programmer.”

  Rutspud set off down the street.

  “And where are we going?” said Joan.

  Rutspud pointed at a spire in the middle distance. “We’re going to church.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s a secret,” he grinned.

  “We’re meant to be partners, Rutspud.”

  “Well, as long as you promise not to tell anyone,” he said.

  “Tell anyone what?”

  Rutspud stopped and faced her.

  “Promise.”

  She shrugged and raised her hand. “Sure, I promise.”

  “Good. So, your side use prayer to communicate from earth to Heaven.”

  “Yes?”

  “And prayers are felt more strongly if offered in places of worship.”

  “That ‘spiritual desire paths’ thing you mentioned?”

  “Spiritual desire lines,” said Rutspud. “Right. The best communication routes to the afterlife start here. Churches and such are like mobile phone masts, like telephone exchanges for that hotline to the Almighty.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Well, those desire lines, those exchanges… We hacked ‘em.”

  “Did what?”

  “Us lot in Hell hacked ‘em for our own use.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The limo turned up at six o’clock precisely. There was room for a small party in the back, which was a good thing because, despite the driver’s insistence that he had only come to collect one Jeremy Clovenhoof, four of them got in.

  Ben pulled awkwardly at the collar of his new suit. Neither suits nor parties were really his thing, but Clovenhoof had insisted that, as one of the newly rich, Ben must now enjoy the good things in life whether he wanted to or not. Nerys planned to enjoy the evening, come what may, and was wearing a black dress constructed from barely enough fabric to make a hat. Narinda Shah (who had followed along to make sure Clovenhoof didn’t “spend all of his money in one evening”) was dressed far more modestly. When Ben complimented Narinda on her dress, Nerys shot him a look of such indignant malevolence that, if its energy could be harnessed, it could be used to blow up planets.

  The limo was wending its way through the hedge-lined roads on the outskirts of Sutton Coldfield.

  “Where are we?” said Clovenhoof.

 
; “Lord Ferret’s estate covers several hundred acres around the village of Floxton Magor,” said Narinda.

  “Does it now?” said Nerys. “And this lord, is he married?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Narinda primly.

  They turned into a driveway flanked by ancient stone pillars and up a long driveway to a wide-fronted house with high windows and the kind of overly ostentatious neo-classical pillars that suggested the same architect had worked on this grand home as on the frontage of the Sutton Railway Building Society building. Open braziers all along the front of the building threw orange shapes against the house in the deepening dusk.

  A flunky stepped down to open the door as they drew to a stop.

  “Mr Clovenhoof,” said the flunky in unctuous greeting. “And friends,” he noted as the others slipped out behind Jeremy. “Welcome to Floxton House. The entrance is this way.”

  “Just point me towards the drinks, my good man,” said Clovenhoof.

  The flunky raised his hand to gesture.

  “I’m only joking,” said Clovenhoof and grinned. “I don’t need help finding the alcohol.”

  Through the entrance hall and not one, not two but three halls, guests were already gathered, chatting in clusters, striking up conversations, filling the air with inanities, murmurings and exaggerated laughter.

  “Right, team. Time for Operation Mingle.”

  “Mingle?” said Ben nervously. “You know I’m not one of life’s minglers.”

  “Everyone can mingle,” said Nerys.

  “Not me,” said Ben. “I don’t mingle. I’m excused from mingling. I’ve got a note from my mum and everything.”

  “This is an ideal opportunity for you to alpha-up, Ben,” said Nerys.

  “Whatever, kids,” said Clovenhoof. “Skedaddle. Don’t want you cramping my style.”

  Nerys snorted. “Your style consists of replacing your belt with a string of sausages and pulling them through your flies to the tune of New Pork New Pork.”

  “Well, I’m sticking by your side, Jeremy,” said Narinda. “I’m going to be your shoulder angel for the evening.”

  “I hate those fuckers,” said Clovenhoof. “Very well. Then I insist I get you a drink, toots.” He led her through the throng towards a bar, leaving Ben and Nerys to their own devices. “So, you’re an accountant, yeah?”

  “A qualified tax assessor, yes.”

  “The joke works anyway. What do tax assessors do when they’re constipated?”

  “Do they, by any chance, work it out with a pencil, Jeremy?”

  “Maybe,” said Clovenhoof. “You know, it’s polite to pretend you’ve not heard a joke.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Jeremy,” she said. “I’ve heard it and it’s not a good joke.”

  “Well, that’s just rude.”

  “Honest,” she said. “Shoulder angel, yeah?”

  He gave her a little frown.

  “And this shoulder angel would like a brightly coloured cocktail with an umbrella in it.”

  “Now you’re talking,” he grinned.

  Soon enough, Clovenhoof found himself on the rear terrace, drink in hand, peering into a large fish pond and wondering if there were any piranhas in it. He had explored much of the house. There were stylish furnishings throughout and a range of tall and gorgeous females draped over much of those furnishings. Men in sharp suits, looking like upper-class Reservoir Dogs, held court or held furtive conversations. Security were evident everywhere, although Clovenhoof wasn’t sure if they were there to protect the wealthy partygoers or the fine art on the walls. Based on what Clovenhoof had learned from TV and movies, this was clearly the home of an international supervillain. There was probably a secret bunker under the house where at this moment a secret agent was being bisected by a high-powered laser.

  A shape briefly broke the surface of the water.

  “Koi,” said Narinda joining him at the balustrade with her cocktail with a little umbrella in it.

  “Not piranha then?” said Clovenhoof.

  Narinda smiled tolerantly and raised her glass.

  “No. Ferret keeps those in his secret volcano base. Here he disposes of his enemies by cannon.”

  She indicated the half dozen small cannons arranged along the edge of the terrace.

  “Surely they’re just decorative,” said Clovenhoof.

  She tilted her head. “Unused but very real. I was told by one of the more elderly Ferret relatives that they date from the time this was a royalist command base in the civil war.”

  Clovenhoof contemplated the idea that you could own cannons for several hundred years and not be tempted to use them. It had to be a mistake.

  “Have you seen any other unused weaponry around the place, Narinda?” he asked. “I wonder if these Koi are hiding a small nuclear submarine at the bottom of their pond? Where do you suppose they keep the ground-to-air missiles?”

  “I’m sure I heard Nerys asking the barman for a heat seeker,” said Narinda with a mischievous smile, “but I assumed it was a cocktail.”

  “You can never be completely sure with Nerys,” said Clovenhoof. “She sent me a text just now saying that I should look at the amazing pergola but to watch out for the ha-ha. I think she’s drunk.”

  “No, those are things that you find in a large garden. A ha-ha is a ditch, and the pergola is a timber construction with plants growing over it. I saw the one she means, and it is spectacular.”

  Clovenhoof looked at her with stark disbelief. “We have timber with plants growing over it in our garden after the shed had an unfortunate accident. Nature’s wonderful and all that, but I’d never thought of showing it off as a feature.”

  Narinda ushered him out to the garden. “No, it’s not a weed-covered wreckage, it’s a rather lovely bespoke construction dripping with wisteria. Come and see.”

  “Now that sounds like something I could appreciate,” said Clovenhoof, following her. “By the way, it’s pronounced ‘viscera’.”

  Clovenhoof was disappointed to find that the pergola was just a fancy shed with no roof that seemed to exist only for flowers to grow on. In that respect it really wasn’t so different to the fecund wilderness at the back of their house. Nerys sat at the centre on a bench with a tall man who was so limp and rangy he could have been replaced by a dishcloth (if you’d sent the dishcloth to Eton and taught it how to wear a suit). Clovenhoof recognised in Nerys the signs of a predator that had trapped its prey.

  “New toy, Nerys?” he asked breezily.

  “This is Okra Boddington,” said Nerys, stroking the pinstriped arm. Okra’s face looked like a gazelle who’d currently got a lion’s paw upon its head. He wore an expression that tried really hard to be neutral, but which fell short and settled into swivel-eyed panic instead. “Okra manages the investment portfolio for one of the largest landowners in the country.”

  “The National Trust?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “W-w-w-well,” burbled Okra. “The f-fact of the matter is –”

  Nerys silenced him with a pat on the thigh that sort of missed and was more of a gentle groin squeeze. “Okra is disappointed that his client has lost considerable ground in recent years to organisations like the National Trust.”

  “And does Okra not like to speak for himself, or is it just that you like speaking too much?” Clovenhoof asked Nerys.

  “N-n-not at all,” began Okra nervously before being cut short by Nerys.

  “Shush now, darling.” She smiled at Clovenhoof.

  “He manages the investment portfolio for the Church of England,” said Narinda.

  “See, darling, you’re famous,” said Nerys, patting his thigh again and missing as badly as before. Okra moaned in delighted confusion.

  “No,” said Narinda. “I just heard him chatting over there – before all the blood ran away from his vocal cords – about how the Church could make some serious money if only it was prepared to invest in a few wars now and then.”

  “N-not
quite…” said Okra.

  “Apparently, Church Commissioners are weirdly cagey about war, slavery and regime change,” explained Nerys.

  “Weird,” said Narinda, deadpan.

  “I have a lot of experience in regime change,” said Clovenhoof. “Attempted regime change, at least.”

  “Really, Jeremy?” said Narinda sounding cynical.

  “Pretty much the first job I had,” he said, sighing wistfully. “Maybe I should invest some of my newfound wealth in that direction.”

  “Jeremy?” said Okra. “Jeremy Clovenhoof?” He caught a glance from Nerys and then leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, yes!” said Nerys. “The host of this lovely party is very keen to meet you, Jeremy.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Finding a church that was actually open had proved a more difficult task than either Rutspud or Joan had expected. It wasn’t Sunday certainly but, in Joan’s eyes, every day was a day for collective worship. They had tried handles and rapped on doors.

  “Why would anyone lock a church door?” Joan had said.

  “I know,” Rutspud had replied. “Churches haven’t had anything worth nicking since the Reformation. Seriously. The Pit of Church Thieves has seen a real tail-off in the last five hundred years.”

  By evening, they were still looking, having wandered far from the town centre.

  “That one,” said Rutspud, pointing.

  “You think it will be open?” said Joan.

  “The lights are on.”

  “But maybe no one’s at home.”

  “A metaphor for the priesthood if ever there was one,” grinned the demon.

  Joan gave him an admonishing shove but not a big one. She’d met priests and, certainly in her earthly lifetime, it was rarely the brightest son of the family who was sent into the priesthood.

  Joan pushed open the door of St Jude’s parish church. “Hello?”

  She watched Rutspud hesitate in the doorway before stepping across the threshold as though he might be banished back to hell just for stepping on consecrated ground. She knew he’d been in churches before but she guessed it was just force of habit.

  “Hello!” came a rather strained reply from within the church.