by Heide Goody
“OK, what do you need?”
“I just need someone to take a photo, come on up.”
She led the way to her flat.
“Wait there while I get everything ready. I need a good shot for some Valentine cards I’m making.”
She handed Ben a camera and disappeared into the bedroom while he studied the controls.
He took a picture of Twinkle to be sure that he understood it and then looked up as Nerys returned.
She held two large fans in front of her, and he could see that she’d changed into a pair of unfeasibly high heels.
“How on earth do you walk in those?” he asked.
“Oh, these aren’t for walking in,” Nerys answered. “So, I need a pose that shows enough to titillate, but not enough to be considered pornographic.”
She adjusted the fans slightly.
“How’s this?” she asked.
Ben swallowed.
“Are you naked?” he asked.
Nerys rolled her eyes. “Well, durrr. It wouldn’t be very titillating if there wasn’t some flesh on show.”
Ben carefully put down the camera and ran downstairs, whimpering. He knocked Clovenhoof’s door, slightly fearful that Nerys might follow him.
As the door opened, swirls of evil-smelling smoke escaped. Clovenhoof stood in the doorway, a saucepan in his hand.
“Can I come in?” Ben asked, glancing nervously backwards.
Clovenhoof stood aside and said nothing.
“What on earth have you been cooking?” Ben asked and then stopped and stared in horror at the saucepan Clovenhoof held. He could see an arm poking out on the melted, blackened mess. An arm, a head and a tiny twisted leg. It looked as though his Seleucidian warriors had drowned in mud.
He looked at the table and saw the headless infantry, the crushed bodies.
“What did you do?” he hissed.
Clovenhoof looked at his hands.
“I think they might have been faulty. They didn’t work properly.”
“Didn’t what?”
“They wouldn’t do what I wanted.”
“Why would you think they’d do anything? They’re models. It’s up to you to make them do things.”
Ben gathered up his paints, which had been tipped across the table.
“Oh. Were they very expensive?” Clovenhoof asked.
Ben shook his head.
“It’s not about the money. I mean, these were mail order from Germany they don’t come cheap but, Jeremy, I trusted you with my things.”
Clovenhoof opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly sneezed instead.
He looked surprised at himself and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“I’m disappointed, Jeremy,” said Ben.
“To be honest, I don’t see how this is my fault,” said Clovenhoof but Ben was already leaving.
Clovenhoof’s clothes had dried onto him from his early morning soaking and he was left feeling stiff and tired. He climbed into bed with his Lambrini.
“People aren’t tricky,” he said, flicking on the TV with the remote and wondering why he couldn’t get warm. “They’re impossible.”
On the news were images of famine victims in Africa, driven from their land by civil unrest.
“Free will is something you’d give to rational beings.”
He changed channels and bellowed insults at a TV game show that was offering contestants money if they’d eat a maggot.
He thumped his pillow and howled with anger and flicked on through a televised riot in some foreign city, comedy clip shows of people hurting themselves in imaginative ways and a bile-fuelled documentary about evil bankers.
“Idiots! Idiots! All idiots!”
The only times he saw genuinely happy faces was in the adverts, people oohing and aahing and cooing over their newest white goods, the coolest gadgets and the sleekest cars. The problem was, the advert breaks were constantly interrupted by the flood of human misery and stupidity evident in all the other TV programming.
People were infuriatingly contrary things, he silently fumed when he finally turned off the TV and put his head under the pillows. His flatmates were proof of that. He had done – what? – nothing and they acted as though he declared a second war on heaven.
“Idiots,” he mumbled groggily into his pillow.
He woke up the following morning feeling strangely light-headed and with only one clear thought in his mind: happiness was to be found in buying stuff, not in people.
He called a taxi and demanded to be taken to the largest shopping centre around.
“The Bull Ring?” said the taxi driver.
“Whatever,” sniffed Clovenhoof.
His nose kept running and he was fascinated to find that his snot had turned thick and colourful.
He scooped a blob of it onto his fingertip and offered it to the taxi driver for an opinion but the man seemed peculiarly uninterested.
Clovenhoof alighted outside a giant edifice of steel and glass and poster adverts of some seriously happy people. He quickly concluded that the Bull Ring was a much more impressive place of worship than any church he’d been in. It had a feeling of space, light and supreme power over mortals.
He nodded in approval.
“My church, my people.”
He saw the brass statue of a bull outside its main entrance.
“And it even comes with its own golden calf. Delicious.”
He prowled through the displays and realised that he could have anything that he wanted. He just needed to use the credit cards that had proven so useful.
He watched a demonstration of a pasta-making machine and decided that he had to have one. He found a useful gadget for electrically rotating his ties so that he could find the right one. He was pretty sure that he only had one tie, so he bought a couple more while he was there.
He went to the computer shop and bought a silver box of delights that looked like it might sprout limbs and take over the world at any moment. He kept stroking it, hoping that it would do just that. It was also (so said the salesman) ‘voice-controlled’, which reminded him of Ben’s crappy non-voice-controlled soldiers and this made Clovenhoof, feel immeasurably superior.
After the shopping splurge, he was so exhausted that he decided to find somewhere to eat. He asked a taxi driver to take him to the most expensive restaurant in town and found himself in a place where the staff were most helpful, and made suggestions on what he might like to eat and drink. When he complained that the portions were a bit small, they fetched more.
He found that there were even people whose job it was to tell you what drinks went with different kinds of food. He was so pleased to discover this that he sampled every course on the menu and demanded the drink for every single one. He scoffed and quaffed, belching his appreciation and sniffing his farts to see if his diet made any discernible difference.
He called over the wine waiter, struggling to focus on the approaching man after his sixth glass of claret.
“They call you the nose?” he said in drunken incredulousness.
“Yes sir, that’s right,” said the wine waiter.
“Would you say that this” - he let rip with a thunderous sound - “has a hint of that Mouton Rothschild ‘forty-five that you just served me? Or is it carrying notes of the Carménère from before?”
He used his hands to waft the scent upwards and sniffed appreciatively.
The wine waiter paused for a moment, considering the tip that this dreadful customer might pay for the hours of attention he’d had. He was on the verge of offering his professional opinion in no uncertain terms when the dilemma was removed. Clovenhoof fell forward onto the linen tablecloth and started to snore loudly.
As he helped the other staff members to carry the unconscious Clovenhoof to a taxi he murmured quietly, “I think sir, on balance, that the most assertive notes were of carrion and brimstone.”
“Thass right,” Clovenhoof whispered. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
&
nbsp; The next morning he clutched his head and groaned as he woke. This wasn’t right. His head had never felt like such a giant, throbbing painful mess before.
As he moved, he realised that something was wrong with his entire body. Pain pulsed through every part that he tried to move. He sat upright and found that his head was now throbbing even more ferociously. He saw the computer he had bought on the floor nearby. The words ‘voice-controlled’ were printed on the side.
“Computer,” he called croakily. “Go get me a cup of tea.”
The box just sat there.
“Computer!” he shouted, already hoarse, but again it failed to respond.
He tested his weight on shaky legs and collapsed back onto the bed. He couldn’t understand it. He’d been told that death was not an option for him. But surely, he was close. Suffering like this could only mean death was imminent. He staggered to the toilet, and found that he could barely focus on the “Keep Boldmere Beautiful” leaflets as he picked one up to wipe his bottom. He needed advice, and fast. He couldn’t go to the neighbours, who both hated him now. He decided to try out the computer, and see if it was as smart as they’d said in the shop.
He staggered over the computer box and kicked it.
“Wake up, you great tin tit,” he snarled. Nothing.
Maybe it needed charging. He ripped open the box and began to pull things out. He recognised the keyboard and monitor, but other boxes, wires and disks followed and he realised that it might be trickier than he’d thought.
He turned over all the pieces in his hands, but with his head pounding and his grip wobbly, he was having trouble thinking it through. Surely, what he wanted was to join the keyboard and the monitor? The other bits could wait.
The wire from the keyboard wouldn’t fit into the monitor, however hard he tried. He cursed the shoddy workmanship that allowed this rubbish out of the factory. He picked up the pliers that he’d used on the soldiers and snipped the annoying adapter off the keyboard wire. He tried to poke the wires into the hole on the monitor, but they wouldn’t stay in. He snipped off some other adapters and tied those onto his wire, but nothing he typed on the keyboard showed on the screen.
He rang the number that they’d given him in the shop.
“I bought a computer from you yesterday and it won’t work.”
“Would you like to book an appointment with a Genius?”
“Oh. Well yes, of course. Who wouldn’t?”
“Come in at two thirty.”
Ben knocked on the door as Clovenhoof was trying to gather the pieces together.
“Look, I know you didn’t mean –”
“Can’t stop now, Kitchen. I’m off to see a genius. Put those cables on top of this, will you?”
“Erm, I know a bit about computers.”
“Didn’t you hear? I’m going to see a genius. A genius! I’ve got a lot of questions. Out of the way.”
Clovenhoof made it to the Bull Ring, without dropping too many of the bits.
He rode the escalator, sniffing. He gobbed a wad of yellow phlegm over the side and watched it tumble lazily to the ground floor. He was quite impressed and decided that if he felt equally ill on the way down the escalator he might try an experimental vomit, sure that the results would be quite beautiful. He felt wretched but confident that here, in this place of power and grandeur, were the answers that he needed.
He entered the shop, wondering where he would find the genius. He noticed the pine altar-like counter at the rear, and knew where he needed to go.
His name was displayed on a board behind the altar.
“That’s me!” he said, impressed.
“Hi, Mr Clovenhoof, I’m Ryan, and how can I help?”
The man was impossibly young. He looked a bit like Ben. Clovenhoof wondered if there was a shabby factory that turned out such creatures on a production line.
“You’re the genius?” he asked.
“Yes I am,” said Ryan. “What can I help you with today?”
“Oh, so many things. I’ve got this horrible mucous in my throat and my friends don’t like me anymore. And this suffering business, should it hurt as much?”
Ryan winced.
“I’m more of a computer-type Genius.”
“Right.”
Clovenhoof unloaded the computer onto the counter.
“Yeah, this thing won’t work.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“Yeah, but first, I have to know, how did you become a genius?”
“Company policy forbids me to speak of the training.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess it would.”
“Some of these leads are badly damaged. When did you say that you bought it?”
“Yesterday, from here.”
“And did you make any modifications?”
“Nope.” Clovenhoof said, avoiding his gaze. “It just wouldn’t work.”
“Right. I’m going to try some new leads and see where that gets us. This will take a few minutes. You’re absolutely sure that you made no modifications?”
Clovenhoof shook his head.
“Our computers are made to be reliable and foolproof, but only if you treat them exactly as intended. Like it says in the manual.”
“Manual?”
“Yes the manual, the instruction book. It tells you exactly what to do, and if you stick with that you’ll rarely get problems.”
“Since when did people do what the book told them?”
Ryan nodded knowingly.
“I know. Bane of our lives.”
“So you agree that humans should never have been given free will?”
“Um, I don’t think I said that,” said Ryan.
“Why would you give them free will, if they could do anything they liked?”
“Isn’t free will sort of the point of us being here?”
“But some of the stuff they’ll do will be wrong, or evil or stupid. They might mess up your computers, for instance. Any time you make it all better, someone will come along and break it again.”
Ryan gave Clovenhoof a sideways look.
“But that’s what I’m here for, to make things better. Sometimes you can see that people caused the damage, but that just means that they have to pay for the repair. They still deserve to have stuff that works, don’t they?”
“Well I suppose you get paid either way.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s not like you’re doing it because you care.”
Ryan frowned at that. For a genius, he did seem somewhat uncertain.
“There are lots of people in the world who live completely selfless lives,” he said.
“Really?”
“Like some people are working hard to protect children or end wars. They probably feel as if the odds are against them ever making a difference, but they’re doing what they can, and that’s what’s important.”
“But the crazy thing is that evil’s allowed to exist.”
“Allowed?”
“Any decent God would prevent suffering by making humans do the right thing, and not cause all that harm.”
“Most people I know do the right thing.” Ryan said. Clovenhoof rolled his eyes but Ryan continued undaunted. “But sometimes, you need some exposure to the bad stuff out there so that you can appreciate the good stuff. It’s all about balance.”
The computer chimed into life.
“Oh look, the leads have done the trick.” Ryan said. “Now you can Google your questions.”
“Google?”
“Oh. Let me show you.”
Ryan opened a browser window and showed Clovenhoof how to search the internet. Guided by Ryan he asked the internet how to find out what kind of illness he had. He found the NHS Direct site, which offered to check his symptoms.
He dismissed suggestions about pregnancy, mental health and wounds. He went into the section about headaches, as this was the thing that he’d found the most unpleasant. He answered a series of questions. He couldn’t find wh
ere to enter details of his running nose and his wrong-smelling farts, but he thought he was on the right track.
A red warning flashed up on the screen
“It says I’ve got to go the accident and emergency department.”
“Are you not well?” said Ryan.
“What do you think?”
He clutched his head and wondered what could be happening to him. If it was death, then maybe he had a chance to get back where he belonged, but he had no idea that it would hurt so much. He thought about the damned in hell. He liked to think of them as his playmates. Did their torments hurt like this too? They always seemed so... playful. This unfortunate new knowledge would kill the party atmosphere if he ever did get back.
He sighed and looked on the computer to see where he’d find an accident and emergency department near his home. It provided him with both directions and a map.
Clovenhoof was impressed despite his imminent demise.
“So, what you were saying about balance,” he asked Ryan, picking up his computer, “do you really believe all that? That bad actions are balanced by good actions, and vice versa?”
“Yes I do, as it happens,” said Ryan. “It’s been a fascinating discussion, Mr Clovenhoof. Tell you what, I won’t charge you for those new leads.”
He winked conspiratorially at Clovenhoof.
“That’s very kind.” Clovenhoof said. He turned to go and then, almost as an afterthought, he leaned over and head butted Ryan, flattening his nose and sending fresh blood across the pine counter.
“Just making sure there’s balance. Didn’t see that coming did you, genius?”
“I went to try and make things up with him,” said Ben, “but he just, well, you know...”
“Acted like a total knob?” said Nerys. “Yeah I know. He’s a pig. In fact, that reminds me.”
She went across to her table where there were magazines and pieces of paper and scribbled out something she’d written. “There.”
“What are you doing?” Ben asked.
“I’m working on my Valentines card list. Clovenhoof’s definitely off.”
Ben remembered their previous encounter and edged quietly towards the door.
“Don’t worry, the photo’s all done. I got Dave to do it. It’s at the printers now.”
