by Heide Goody
Michael spread his hands.
“Do tell.”
“No idea,” said Joan. “Let’s err on the small side and say ten percent. And how big is the Celestial City?”
“Oh, I know this one,” said Pius, putting a hand over his eyes to think.
“The city is laid out as a square,” quoted St Paul, “and its length is as great as the width and he measured the city with the rod: twelve thousand stadia; its length and width and height are equal.”
“Or fifteen hundred miles to a side in new money,” said Joan. “And how many angels are there?”
“One hundred million,” said St Francis, before St Paul could speak.
“Is there a point to these questions?” asked Pius.
“Can’t you see?” said Joan. “We have a major population problem on our hands.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” said Gabriel.
“Really? Heaven is of a finite size and has as finite number of angels but is accepting the newly dead every day.”
“It is quite busy out there,” said Evelyn.
“If you don’t like it you can leave,” said St Peter.
“All I’m saying is we need to look into it,” said Joan. “We need precise figures and a planned solution.”
“I quite agree,” said Michael.
“You do?”
He nodded enthusiastically.
“This requires immediate investigation. The exact dimensions and capacity of the city need measuring and we need a thorough census of the population. This matter should be subject to a rigorous and lengthy study.”
St Peter caught his tone.
“If you’re going to do this thing, you must do it right.”
“If we could leave this with you, Joan,” suggested Michael.
“Certainly.”
“And Gabriel,” Michael continued, “could you ensure Joan is provided with enough data to work with?”
“Of course,” said the Archangel.
“Next item,” said Michael. “The Easter Bonnet Parade.”
St Francis gave a little clap of his hands in excitement.
“A highlight of our cultural year,” said Pope Pius XII.
“Is it?” said Joan.
“Pardon?”
“Isn’t it – and I don’t mean to be rude here – isn’t it just a bunch of people in hats?”
“No,” said Pius. “It has a far deeper meaning than just hats. It’s about connecting to the true meaning of Easter.”
“Through the medium of hats?” said Joan.
“And then there’s the wabbits,” said St Francis. “I love the wabbits.”
“The Easter Bunny? Symbol of some ancient Teutonic goddess? Is that the true meaning of Easter?”
St Paul, clearly lacking some precise scriptural quote to express his feelings, gave a grunt of support for Joan’s words.
“You don’t like the Easter Parade?” said Gabriel.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Joan, “but perhaps we could try to be bit more progressive. Evelyn, here went to something called Greenbelt last year.”
“I got right up to the stage when Jars of Clay were playing,” said Evelyn.
“I also found these,” said Joan, producing a sheaf of large photographs from beneath her breastplate and spreading them on the table. “You have a pair of operatives at work in England, following this man.”
She stabbed her finger at a guitar-wielding figure leaping about on stage in front of a baying crowd.
“I believe you saw this Devil Preacher band play, Michael?”
“I, er, did,” said Michael.
“I had a listen to some of their music.”
“I thought I had destroyed every recording. It was blasphemous.”
“It was challenging, yes. Refreshing.” She smiled to herself. “They didn’t necessarily have nice things to say about you, Peter.”
“Is that so?” said St Peter haughtily.
“But I want to bring the kind of energy they embody to future cultural events we hold here.”
“You want some guitawists at the Easter Pawade?” said St Francis.
“I want us to hold a festival.”
“Oh, well,” said Michael happily. “You know we celebrate the feast days of hundreds of saints.”
“I mean a rock festival,” said Joan.
Michael saw frowns ripple up and down the boardroom table until Gabriel plucked up the courage to voice what they were all thinking.
“You want us to have a feast day for rocks?”
“No, Gabe,” said Joan. “I don’t.”
Chapter 5 – in which Clovenhoof makes a fortune, loses it all and helps the police with their enquiries
Clovenhoof enjoyed his weekly trip to the supermarket. There was a tangible sense of achievement in walking out with a trolley piled high with boxes of frozen ready meals, crinkling packets of crisps and biscuits and the melodious tinkle of two dozen bottles of alcoholic froth. He felt like a caveman coming home with a mammoth carcass. The fact that his glorious achievement required no real skill or effort did little to dampen the cosy joy it gave him. And the aspects of the supermarket shop that should have irritated him – the aisles filled with dead eyed humans grasping vainly for meaningless luxuries, the bickering families and wailing children denied every treat they reached out for – were in reality gentle reminders of the Old Place.
He had decided that if he ever returned to his old job he would create a special level of hell, an enormous inescapable shop of attractive but useless and overpriced items that the damned would wander for eternity in the cold delusion that this was what they wanted. And then Nerys had taken him to IKEA and Clovenhoof realised the humans had once again beaten him to it.
“Ninety-one pounds and eight,” said the cashier. “Do you have a reward card?”
Oh, and reward cards. Another insanely brilliant soul-destroying human innovation. Make life a game. Collect points. Earn rewards. Distract yourself from any genuine goals and ambitions.
“Indeed,” said Clovenhoof. He let the woman scan his reward card, then inserted his credit card, and typed in his pin.
“I’m sorry that’s not gone through,” said the cashier.
He frowned at her.
“What?”
“Your card has been declined. Do you have another means of payment?”
He shook his head, took out his card and looked at it. It didn’t appear damaged. The bumpy writing, the black strip, the magic golden sigil thing all seemed fine. He wasn’t exactly sure where the money flowed out of the card, in the same way that he didn’t understand how televisions worked or where poo went, but everything seemed in order. He blew on it, gave it a rub and put it back in the card reader.
“Give it another go,” he said.
The cashier sighed, put the bill through again and when he typed in his pin once more, said, “No. Sorry, it’s not working. Do you have another card? Or cash?”
Clovenhoof shook his head.
“Could I owe you?”
“What?”
“Could I come back and pay you tomorrow?”
“That’s not company policy.”
“Oh.”
“I can put your goods to one side and maybe you could draw some cash from the machine outside.”
“I suppose.”
Reluctantly, Clovenhoof said farewell to his trolley-load of groceries, like a caveman watching the wounded mammoth escape across the tundra, and went outside. He waited in line for the cash machine, inserted his card, pressed the mystical combination of buttons that would reward him with banknotes and then watched with horror as his card was spat out again. He tried again. He tried a third time.
The old bloke in line behind him leaned forward.
“You’ve got insufficient funds, mate.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve run out of money.”
Clovenhoof stared with disbelief and increasing frustration. In his anger, he was torn
between punching the cash machine or kicking the old bloke in the shin. He opted for the latter as the cash machine looked fairly solid and he didn’t want to bruise his knuckles.
He stomped back inside the shop.
What to do? What to do?
He had no money. He couldn’t go and take his trolley of shopping without paying. The cashier would see and the security desk and Doug the security guard were close by.
And then he saw the in-store cafe off to the other side and the bays of parked trolleys next to it, trolleys filled with goods that had already been paid for by inattentive fools who were now rewarding themselves for another successful shopping trip with coffees and teas and sticky cakes.
Sure, those cake-eating fools hadn’t shopped with Clovenhoof’s needs in mind but some shopping was better than no shopping and, clearly, it couldn’t be stealing if it was already paid for.
Ben entered flat 2a to find Clovenhoof, naked from the waist down, experimenting with disposable nappies and sticky tape.
“I’ll come back,” said Ben.
“No, it’s all right,” said Clovenhoof, attaching a final piece of tape so the makeshift loincloth, two nappies taped together, just about stayed up.
Ben gestured, wishing he didn’t have to.
“Are you going to a fancy dress party?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s a medical condition, I see. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
“I’m not incontinent, Kitchen,” said Clovenhoof and did a couple of lunges to test the solidity of his construction. “I found them in my shopping. I thought, you know, there are just some times when you can’t be arsed to go all the way to the toilet. Thought I’d treat myself to a little luxury. Know what I mean?”
“No,” said Ben. “Have you been hiding in here all morning? Nerys was looking for you.”
“What for?”
“To help her deliver some charity envelopes.”
“What?”
“You know, raising money to dig wells in Africa.”
“Can’t they dig their own wells?”
“They need the equipment though.”
“What? Spades?”
“She says she’s got to raise four thousand pounds.”
“How expensive are these spades?”
“And it’s your fault.”
“What?” Clovenhoof paused to adjust his nappy and pop a stray testicle back inside. “How is it my fault?”
“That message you put on those flowers you gave her. Something about her ‘generous spirit.’”
“Is that what it said?”
“And now she’s got herself involved in some charity drive. And, with her, everything’s a bloody competition. And you weren’t here this morning to help her.”
“Ah,” said Clovenhoof, finally understanding Ben’s peevish tone. “So you...?”
“Two hundred poxy envelopes through two hundred poxy letterboxes. Yes. On my morning off.” He rubbed his fingers together and sniffed them. They smelled coppery, like old pennies. “People don’t clean their letterboxes, do they? Who knows what’s touched them.”
“Well, letters mainly,” said Clovenhoof.
Ben suddenly felt unclean, went into the kitchen and washed his hands under the hot tap. The handwash dispenser, usually empty, was full for once and he pumped several blobs into his palm and lathered up thoroughly.
“To be honest, I’ve had more important things on my mind,” said Clovenhoof.
“Oh, I can see.”
“My bank has stopped giving me money. My cards don’t work.”
“Are you overdrawn?” said Ben, feeling the pungent soap tingle pleasantly on his skin.
“I’ve no idea what that means.”
“I mean, have you looked at your statements?”
“Again, gibberish.”
“Have you spoken to your bank?”
“I am going in later.”
Ben was about to tell him to put on some trousers before he did but was distracted by the realisation that his hands were tingling a lot. He sniffed at the soap. It was a powerful combination of lemon scent and ammonia. He quickly rinsed it off. His fingers had gone bright pink and were still tingling though no longer pleasantly.
He went back into the living room hands outstretched.
“Jeremy, what kind of soap have you put in the kitchen?”
Clovenhoof picked out a bottle from the half-unpacked shopping on the table.
“It’s, er, Drain Blaster.”
“You’ve let me wash my hands in drain cleaner?”
Clovenhoof took the lid off.
“It smells lemony.”
Clovenhoof dropped in at Books ‘n’ Bobs on his way back home from the bank that afternoon. The woman at the bank had spoken to him at length and he had being thinking about how little he understood the banking system as he walked down Boldmere high street. He now had questions and resolved to put them to Ben.
The shop was empty as usual. The sound of Aussie rockers AC/DC turned down to a faint warble emanated from Ben’s computer on the counter. Ben made a harsh scoffing sound when he saw Clovenhoof and held up his hands to show him. The raw, split skin of his hands and fingers was plastered with thick white cream.
“I’ve got to ask,” said Clovenhoof.
“I bet you bloody do,” said Ben.
“Is money-lending legal?”
“What?”
“Is lending money to someone legal?”
“Of course it is.”
“I mean, I’m only just getting used to the concept that it isn’t free. I thought it just magically appeared. Like... like snot. And earwax.”
“Jeremy,” said Ben, waving his hands at him, “haven’t you noticed something unusual?”
“That’s what I’m saying. I went into the bank and spoke to a very nice lady and she told me that, for months, I’ve been spending money that isn’t mine.”
“You’ve been borrowing money.”
“I never asked anyone for it.”
“No, you sort of have to say you don’t want it. The banks assume you do.”
“That’s odd. And what’s odder is that they want it back now. With extra money on top called interest, which is like a fine or something.”
“They usually send out a reminder letter in red ink before the situation becomes too painful. And speaking of red and painful...”
Ben waved his hands under Clovenhoof’s nose again. It was almost as if he was trying to tell him something.
“Well, I didn’t pay attention to those,” said Clovenhoof. “I thought they weren’t to do with me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know. And the nice lady said that my home would be at risk if I didn’t pay up. Do they firebomb it or something?”
“No, mate, they’ll send round the bailiffs first.”
“Who?”
“Big, beefy men who’ll take all your possessions and sell them to pay off your debt.”
“Sort of like pirates. Or brigands.”
“Yes, except they’re called bailiffs.”
“So, let me get this straight. I have borrowed money I didn’t ask for and now, if I don’t pay back more than I borrowed, the lady at the bank will send thugs round to take my precious stuff and probably take my flat off me too.”
“Yes.”
“And she’s doing this to people other than me?”
“Absolutely.”
“She must be very rich to be able to lend out so much money.”
“It isn’t hers. It belongs to the owners of the bank.”
“And who are they?”
“I don’t know. Shareholders. Businessmen.”
“And how did they get their riches?”
“Through investments, I suppose.”
“Which is?”
“Lending money to other people and getting back more than they put in.”
“So, the rich investors are rich because they’ve been lending
money to poor people and they use the money they make to put more poor people in debt.”
“Well, that’s probably a bit too simplistic.”
“And this is legal? It’s not a criminal offence?”
“No. I suppose it’s not very fair when you put it like that.”
“It’s fantastic. I had no idea such things were possible. We had nothing so brazenly devious back in the Old Place.”
“You’re not worried?”
Clovenhoof shrugged.
“I’ll find some money somewhere. Sell my services somehow. As long as I can afford life’s simple pleasures. Look, Ben...”
“What?”
“I know you’ve been avoiding mentioning it but” – Clovenhoof pointed at the man’s cream-smeared hands – “have you been eating ice-cream without a spoon or something?”
Ben’s cheeks flushed hotly.
“This is emollient cream.”
“French ice-cream?”
“It’s to soothe the burns I got from washing my hands in drain cleaner.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Why did you put drain cleaner in a soap dispenser?”
“It smelled lemony.”
Ben growled.
“I’ve not been able to get on the computer all afternoon. I’ve got a dozen items to put on eBay and my fingers keep slipping off the keys. And hurting.”
“I could help,” said Clovenhoof.
“It’s the least you could do in the circumstances.”
Clovenhoof frowned.
“No, I don’t think so. The least I could is just go home or stand here and laugh at you.” He came round behind the counter. “Show me how this eBay thing works then.”
Ben showed him the website and explained the principle.
“So, it’s an auction,” said Clovenhoof.
“Yes, but one open to anyone with access to the internet. I sell more books this way than to actual shop customers.”
“I was wondering how you made a living without anyone actually coming into the shop.”
“Hey, I had six people in here this morning.”
“Was that when it was raining?”
“Might have been.”
“So, you have to show photos of the stuff you’re selling.”
“It helps a lot.”
“And you can use this to sell anything.”
“Pretty much. Books. Clothes. Cars even. I think I saw a Chieftain tank on eBay once.”
