Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  When Dan and Quentin had curled up amongst their sleeping bags and blankets to sleep, Clovenhoof sat close to the fire and stared into its heart. When the fire began to die down, he looked around for something to burn. There wasn’t much to be found although there was a fat sheaf of papers in his wallet, red and purple portraits of some woman in a crown, and he burned most of those to keep the flames alive.

  The fire was a tiny thing. Pitiful. Nothing like the great roaring furnaces of the Old Place.

  When exactly was it that he began to see his kingdom slide away from him?

  Satan shook his head at the carnage on the Plains of Hell below him. Carnage was supposed to be part of the package in Hell, there was beauty in chaos, but this was just a mess.

  The entrance gate was clogged again. Built centuries ago for a more modest rate of influx, the constant press of humans coming through in the twenty first century was greater than anyone had ever anticipated. It was now the norm to see crushed bodies oozing through, like meat from a mincer. Other times, like now, the weight of traffic was just too much and blockages occurred. Demons wielded pitchforks and gouged at the writhing mass to try to dislodge the bodies.

  “Mulciber,” Satan sighed, “how did this ever get so bad?”

  “Who could have anticipated the numbers, my lord?” replied his chief architect defensively. “The number of deaths each day is higher than ever, nearly a hundred and fifty thousand. We could maybe cope with that if so many of them weren’t coming our way. Two thirds of them by my reckoning.”

  Satan nodded. “People are turning their backs on religion.”

  “It’s not so much that,” Mulciber said, “but it seems more acceptable than ever now to be religious and to treat people badly. You have crazy fundamentalists in every religion. They hate gays, foreigners, women. You name it, they’ll find you a reason in the bible or whatever to hate it.”

  “Hmmm,” said Satan, indicating the wailing, gnashing wall of bodies, tangled in the agonising crush. “What worries me is that we might have a whole load of low-grade sinners being pulled apart by those pitchforks. We’d normally reserve that for the more serious offenders.”

  “There have been some complaints, sir.”

  “Yeah, I bet there have. How are things at the Lake of Fire?”

  “Same as before, I’m afraid,” said Mulciber. “It’s full, completely full. A mild scorching is all we can achieve in a lot of cases. I’ve seen people walk across it, barely noticing that they’re not on solid ground.”

  Satan paused for a moment to remember the lake as it was. A wild and glorious place where a body could flail and roast in blissful isolation. Now he couldn’t even paddle in the shallows. If he tried, it was likely that some hand would claw at his ankle, accompanied by whining about the overcrowding.

  “I’m going to take a look up at the end of the line, Mulciber,” said Satan. “In the meantime, draft in some more demons.”

  “To help the pitchforkers, sir?”

  “No, to whip the ones that are working there now. Make them go faster.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Satan walked towards the gates. In ordinary times, the sound of so many souls in torment would please him greatly, but this just angered him. The torment was all wrong. Some of these souls had been sent to him for minor transgressions like bigamy or getting babies’ ears pierced. They were only supposed to experience eternal dullness, and maybe the kind of minor discomfort one would get from a mildly disappointing camping holiday.

  The smell was all wrong too. Instead of the overpowering sulphurous reek of brimstone, there was something else. He paused for a moment to sniff the air. It was human sweat.

  He went through the side entrance, emerged onto the road before the gate, and saw a different kind of horror. The road was long and all he could see were bodies packed impossibly together, seething forwards. No wonder the demons were having trouble clearing the blockage, there was no way to reduce the pressure from the other side, even for a moment.

  And how was he, master of this domain, going to get through against the flow of the traffic?

  “You and you, come here.” A pair of demons leapt to attention. “I want you to clear me a way through this.”

  “Er, how?” rasped one of them.

  “You’ve got a pitchfork, haven’t you? Well use it. Pile them on top of each other if you need to, but I want to go that way.”

  The two demons soon formed an efficient tag team. They bullied and prodded the crowd so that people tried to press away, and hefted the bodies over the heads of the others if they couldn’t move fast enough. Progress was still agonisingly slow, and Satan had to endure the incessant grumbling from all he passed.

  “What are you all in such a hurry for?” he yelled irritably. “‘Are we there yet?’ Do you people not know what eternity means?”

  “But we’ve been waiting for hours!” moaned one of the yet-to-be-damned.

  “Waiting for what?” Satan asked her.

  “Well, you know,” she said. “To get in.”

  “Don’t you know where it is you’re going? You must have seen enough clues by now, hmmm?”

  He indicated his horns and hooves. One of the demons stabbed her arm with his pitchfork for good measure.

  “Course I know,” she said. “I just think it’s disgusting that you make people queue like this.”

  Satan rolled his eyes and pressed on, tuning out the mutterings of the crowd. At the Styx, Satan had them find Charon’s old boat and they made a private crossing, avoiding the overcrowded ferries. On the other side, they plunged back into the impossible crush and then, after several hours, the demons broke through the back of the queue and Satan staggered out into open space.

  As Satan walked on, he waved the demons to stay behind.

  “I’ll need you to get me back through when I’m done here, boys.”

  They scowled at each other and settled to wait, poking passing humans with their pitchforks, competing to see who was quickest on the draw.

  Clovenhoof awoke, slumped beside the still glowing embers with dew clinging to his trousers and shirt. He was on Earth and it was still shit. Quentin and Dan were already awake, sitting upright in their sleeping bags.

  Dan offered him the Scrumpy Thunder bottle.

  “Morning mouthwash?” said Dan.

  Clovenhoof took it without a word and drank.

  “I can’t live in a place like this,” he said, passing it back.

  Dan lit a cigarette.

  “We all got to live somewhere,” he said.

  Quentin nodded in agreement.

  “But the people here,” said Clovenhoof. “The way they look at me. No recognition.”

  “No respect, I know.”

  “It’s unbearable,” said Clovenhoof.

  Dan grinned.

  “We’re like something they found on the bottom of their shoe.”

  “Right. Smarmy bastards, going about their pointless little lives.”

  “Too true.”

  “It’s like they think they’re living in the bloody centre of the universe. But what is this place? I’ve walked its length. It’s some nowhere town, all shop windows and rows of identical houses.”

  “That’s about the measure of the place,” agreed Dan and offered Clovenhoof a drag of his cigarette.

  Clovenhoof inhaled deeply and looked at the cigarette wistfully.

  “God, that reminds me of the Old Place,” he said.

  “Yeah?” said Dan.

  “The smoke from the furnaces. Those Satanic mills turning. It’s a sight to behold. And the city. Not like this place. We’ve got beautiful ruins and towers that stretch up beyond sight. And my people knew exactly where they were, a real sense of place. Wailing and writhing. Acreages of human flesh.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Dan uncertainly. “Can’t you go back?”

  “No,” said Clovenhoof bitterly, handing the cigarette back.

  “Well, then you’d best make the m
ost of it. Wherever you are.” Dan wriggled out of his sleeping bag and began to roll it up. “What other choice do you have? It’s either this or make an end of it and top yourself.”

  Clovenhoof blinked.

  “You’re right,” he said quietly.

  “Of course I am,” said Dan.

  Clovenhoof jumped to his feet.

  “Dan,” he said, grabbing the man’s ears and planting a kiss on the top of his knitted hat, “you are a bloody genius.”

  “Am I?”

  Clovenhoof ran off into the grey light.

  The two men watched him go.

  “Where do you reckon he was from?” asked Dan eventually.

  Quentin stroked his stubble thoughtfully.

  “Coventry, I think.”

  Nerys later reflected that, all told, Tuesday had started out so very promisingly.

  She woke to find a text from a Trevor (or was it a Stephen?) who had been on her ‘second date material’ list but who had been in danger of being moved to her ‘mysteriously disappeared’ list. These were not imaginary lists but scrupulously kept documents in the back of her diary. A lot of ‘second date material’ moved to ‘mysteriously disappeared’ rather than the hoped for ‘successful second date’ list so she was cheered by the message.

  Then, on her way out to work, she met that man from flat 2b on the stairs, the one she had heard the neighbours say worked in the book industry. He was a shifty looking man with low standards of dress but, since she had asked him to look at her manuscript, she made the effort to be polite.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  “Er, er, morning,” said Ben and gave her a rictus-like grin. “Do you need a handkerchief?”

  “What?” she said, wondering if she had something smeared on her face.

  Ben pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket with a magician’s flourish.

  “‘A fine gentleman always carries a handkerchief,’” he said and she realised he was quoting from her book.

  She blushed.

  “You read it?”

  “I did.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Um,” he said and then, “Yes. Yes, it’s a really good idea.”

  “You think it has potential?”

  “Well, er, we can only give it a go, can’t we?”

  She beamed.

  “That’s great news. Wow. Thanks.”

  She trotted merrily down the stairs with a sudden song in her heart and thoughts of her imminent publication.

  Her buoyant mood carried her through an otherwise humdrum day at the Helping Hand Job Agency in Sutton Coldfield town centre. It was the usual round of HGV drivers and office temps in search of the next contract. She despaired at how they all conformed to the stereotypes of their trade. Fat with sagging waistline: HGV driver. Cheap ugly shoes and poorly co-ordinated make-up: office temp. It would have been so simple to sort each of them out, a belt and a low-carb diet for one lot, a ten-minute tutorial in fashion and make-up for the others. She had in fact produced a leaflet with those very guidelines, but the regional manager hadn’t approved.

  Her colleague Dave, technically on the same rung of company ladder but in so many ways her underling was out on a training course that day so she had to get her own coffee. At least that meant she wasn’t plied with so many cuppas that she spent the whole afternoon busting for a pee. It also meant she didn’t have anyone to brag to about her future publishing success. The rest of the people in the office were either gormless idiots or strangely uninterested in her personal news and views, frequently both.

  She left the office at four, collected her dinky car from the shopping centre multi-storey fighting Christmas shoppers at every turn, and set off for home. As she pulled out of the car park exit, something flashed downward through her vision and landed with a thump. Even before the man had rolled off the dumpster and onto the pavement, Nerys was unclicking her seatbelt and getting out of the car.

  She didn’t stop to think about what she had seen in that second before she had leapt from her car but if someone had asked her what she had thought she had seen, she would have said she had seen a man fall from the roof of the multi-storey car park and smash into one of the dumpsters outside the service doors. But, of course, that couldn’t be what had happened because no one who had fallen six storeys onto unyielding steel would be rolling around, clutching their elbow and swearing viciously to themselves.

  As she ran towards him, remembered diagrams of how to make a tourniquet from a belt, of the recovery position, of how to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a disposable biro, flashed through her mind in vibrant Technicolor. Heroic first aid related glory was within her reach.

  And then something terrible happened. Out of nowhere, a woman had appeared and was crouching over the man, professional care oozing from her outstretched hands. Nerys put in a final spurt and cried out, “Don’t touch him!”

  The woman looked up.

  “I’ll deal with this!” Nerys shouted. “Stand back!”

  “Are you a paramedic?” asked the woman.

  “Pretty much,” said Nerys.

  She knelt down next to the man. He wore a shirt and trousers and a sleek goatee beard. His face was screwed up in pain, adding extra lines to his already deeply lined face. He had the leathery skin of an ageing rock-star and, Nerys noted, had quite probably been a sexy-looking feller in his youth although time had not necessarily been kind.

  “My name’s Nerys,” she said. “I’m here to help.”

  The man blinked tears and looked up at her.

  “Am I dead?”

  “No,” said Nerys with a comforting smile.

  “Shit,” said the man. “Shit shit shittity shit!”

  That was an unexpected response.

  “What do you mean, pretty much a paramedic?” asked the woman standing above them.

  “I’m first aid trained,” said Nerys. “Can you feel your legs, sir?”

  “I’m first aid trained too,” said the woman.

  Nerys stood.

  “Listen, sweet-cheeks. I don’t mean I’ve just watched a few episodes of Casualty. I am first aid trained. I’ve helped out during several medical emergencies.” She pulled out her phone, flipped to her photo library and passed it to the woman. “Look. Here’s me helping a boy who was choking on a mint imperial.”

  Nerys knelt down again and began feeling the man’s arms for fractures. The woman looked at the photograph.

  “How many emergencies?”

  “Several,” said Nerys.

  “How many?”

  “Two,” said Nerys. “Including this one.”

  “Two is not several.”

  “Two is more than one and therefore is several.” She put her arms under the man’s shoulder and began to turn him over. “Sir, I’m just going to put you in the recovery position.”

  “Oh, what’s the point?” he said, producing fresh tears.

  “To stop you swallowing your tongue, I think.”

  “Hang on,” said the woman. “Did you ask someone to take a picture of you giving this boy the Heimlich Manoeuvre?”

  “Yes,” said Nerys irritably, getting the man onto his side.

  “He was choking but you stopped to get out your phone so someone could take a photo before you stopped him choking?”

  “Who wants to see a photograph of someone who is no longer choking?” She raised her eyebrows to her patient. She was sure he understood that the woman was some sort of imbecile.

  “Suicides go straight to hell,” the man was muttering unhappily. “Straight to hell.”

  “You’re all right, now,” she said soothingly.

  She felt his legs for signs of injury. There was something odd about his legs. His knees seemed to be in the wrong place, his leg going backwards when it should be going forward. It was as though he had one too many joints in each leg. That, or he had the legs of an animal...

  Nerys shook her head to herself, looked up and was irri
tated to see the woman still there. “Do you plan to stand there all day?” she said.

  “I don’t think you have a clue what you’re doing,” said the woman.

  Nerys snorted.

  “Well, at least make yourself useful. You’ve got my phone.”

  “Of course. Do you think he needs an ambulance?”

  “I mean, take some pictures. Make sure you get both of us in them.”

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Clovenhoof.

  Nerys put her shoulder under his armpit and helped him out of her car.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  “You just need somewhere to sit down. Maybe a cup of tea, yes?”

  “Don’t take me to a hospital.”

  “You said that before. Here we are.”

  He raised his head. They were approaching the door of a tall old house on a long road of other tall old houses.

  “This is your house?” he said.

  “I have a flat here,” said Nerys. “Well, it’s technically my Aunt Molly’s flat but I live with her and pay her bills and she’s an old lady so, you know, fingers crossed, it’ll be mine soon enough. Do you live nearby?”

  He looked up at a sign in a first floor window that read, “Flat to Let”.

  “Er, no,” he said. “I’ve recently been relocated.”

  She stopped at the door and fished for a key in her coat pocket.

  “Where are you from? Originally?”

  He raised his eyes to the heavens. “Here. There. Nowhere.”

  “You’re not an illegal immigrant, are you?” she asked.

  He frowned.

  “I couldn’t even begin to answer that question.”

  “Not that I’m judging,” she said hurriedly. “I know that I’m a lucky woman to have been born in this country. Who can blame people for wanting to come here?”

  “I was hoping to go back home.”

  “Maybe you will one day.”

  Nerys unlocked the door and then half-led half-dragged him up several flights of stairs.

  Ten minutes later, he found himself sat in a high-backed armchair, nursing a cup of strong sweet tea whilst the weird young woman quietly argued with her shrill-voiced but otherwise invisible aunt in another room. A dog no larger than a gerbil was staring with what seemed to be intense fury at the new houseguest’s feet.