by Heide Goody
He grabbed the mouse from her, smearing her with his slimy gloves.
“Those are my records!” he exclaimed. “And my phalanx of Argyraspides! They cost me fifty quid in kit form! Oh no!”
He had clicked on the picture of the blue and brass trunk that stood in his flat.
“Current bid twenty-five pounds,” said Nerys. “Not bad.”
“How could he do this?” Ben moaned.
“Who?” said Nerys.
Ben glared at her.
“Who do you think?”
Clovenhoof sat on a leather armchair, across from Roger – stubbly, beer-drinking Roger – and looked at the amassed pile of cash, now his, on the coffee table.
He was no longer entirely sure what was going on. Roger had invited him in, and despite his initial offish nature, was clearly glad to have someone to talk to. All the curtains in the house were drawn, Roger was the only occupant and the way he moved about the place indicated that Roger was trying very hard to act as if nobody was home at all.
It might have had something to do with three gym bags full of cash beneath the living room floorboards, all neatly banded and wrapped in cellophane. Roger had explained he was holding it for someone.
“Like a bank?” Clovenhoof had asked.
“Like a bank,” agreed Roger and passed him another beer.
Roger hadn’t been forced to dip into the gym bags or even reveal their presence until he had lost seven successive tosses of the coin and found himself owing Clovenhoof one thousand two hundred and eighty pounds.
Roger had tried to laugh it off, said, “Fun’s over. I’ll give you that twenty, we’ll have a beer and you can be on your way,” and reached for the money but Clovenhoof drew it close to himself and gave Roger a warning look.
“I won it fair and square, Roger,” he said.
“Don’t make me unhappy, Jeremy.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“That’s not my money, mate.”
“I know. It’s mine.”
“It belongs to some nasty people.”
“Thank you,” said Clovenhoof.
Roger gave him a pained look.
“Please.”
Clovenhoof leaned forward and grinned broadly.
“Double or quits?”
And so the floorboards were lifted up, the first of three gym bags removed and the game continued.
Half an hour later, three beers and two gym bags later, Clovenhoof stretched and said, “I’ve got to go.”
“You can’t,” said Roger.
“It’s nearly tea-time.”
“I have to have that money back.”
“No.”
“I have a knife,” said Roger abruptly.
Clovenhoof nodded thoughtfully.
“Is it worth...?” He paused to calculate, “...ten thousand two hundred and forty pounds?”
“What?”
“Didn’t think so.”
Clovenhoof stood, hoisted a bag in each hand and made for the door. Roger followed him, pleading, then ran off into the back of the house. Clovenhoof opened the door, stepped out in the evening air and suddenly felt a pain in the centre of his back.
“Ow!” he declared loudly and spun round, ripping the knife from Roger’s hand and leaving the blade embedded in his spine.
Roger froze, wide-eyed.
“That really hurt!” said Clovenhoof irritably, put the bags down for a second and awkwardly reached behind him to pull the knife out. He grunted as it came free. Clovenhoof looked at the bloody blade and then tossed it into the front garden.
“I’m going to be bleeding all night now,” snapped Clovenhoof, picked up his winnings and strode off.
Roger made no attempt to follow him.
It was only a short walk home, made longer and more annoying by the tickly stream of blood that ran down his back into his underpants. It was one of his favourite shirts too and probably beyond saving, blood being such an awkward stain.
He slammed the door of his flat, threw the bags of money onto his sofa and stripped off his bloody clothes. He inspected the wound in the bathroom mirror. The five-inch gash had already closed up, leaving a dark, purplish scar.
There was a loud knock at the door. Clovenhoof put on a quilted dressing gown and answered it.
Ben and Nerys stood side by side on the landing, arms crossed, glaring at him. Clovenhoof looked at them for several seconds.
“I can do this for hours, I practise all the time against Herbert. You’ve no idea how good he is,” he declared.
“What?”
“Ben blinked! It’s a game, right?”
He looked at Ben’s plastic gloves lined with medicated cream.
“Are you about to investigate a cow’s rear end? I saw this programme and-”
“You’re SuttonSeller666,” said Ben.
“Oh, have you bid on something?” smiled Clovenhoof.
“You’ve put our belongings on eBay.”
“Not all of them.”
“How could you do that?” said Nerys.
“There’s step by step instructions.”
“But our things!” said Ben.
“I was going to split the money with you.”
“My aunt!” said Nerys.
Clovenhoof rolled his eyes.
“Fine. Have a go at a man for trying to raise a little cash.”
He stepped back into his flat and pick up the canvas satchel of collected envelopes.
“I’ve been doing your filthy work all afternoon and as you can see,” – he waved his hand over the two gym bags – “I’ve been very busy.”
“What’s in there?”
Nerys opened one of the bags and looked at the loose notes inside.
“You robbed a post office?”
“I got that fair and square.”
Ben tried to get a better look.
“Is that...?”
“A lot of money,” nodded Nerys.
“See?” said Clovenhoof. “I’d say that congratulations are in order. So what do you say?”
“Thank you,” said Nerys.
“Eh?”
She put the money away and picked up the two gym bags.
“Tina is going to be so jealous when she sees this.”
“No, you don’t understand...,” said Clovenhoof.
“What about the eBay thing?” said Ben. “Aren’t we still angry?”
Nerys hefted the bags in her hands, clearly enjoying their weight in her hands.
“Hi-jinks. A joke. Jeremy hasn’t actually sold any of our things.”
“He wanted to sell your aunt. Your dog too.”
“If only someone would buy them,” said Nerys with a trill of laughter. “It was all for a good cause, wasn’t it?”
“Wait,” said Clovenhoof, “that money is mine.”
“And I won’t forget your efforts to help those less fortunate than yourself.”
She danced out of the flat. Clovenhoof watched the money go and wondered why he hadn’t stopped her.
“So,” said Ben, “you’ll take those auction listings down?”
“S’pose so,” said Clovenhoof moodily.
“Good. Have you sorted out your finances with the bank yet?”
Clovenhoof gave his sofa a sulky little kick.
“I’ll go see them tomorrow.”
“Good. Then you can do me a favour. I need you to pick up my prescription for hand cream at the chemist tomorrow. I can’t even manage my own door keys with these gloves on.”
“If I must.”
“You must.”
“You want my advice?” said Clovenhoof.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t have washed your hands with drain cleaner.”
The following morning was a Saturday which annoyed Nerys as she wanted to take the bundles of cash she had collected to work and rub them, metaphorically and actually, in Tina’s smug fake-tan face. She would have phoned her up but couldn’t think of any believable pretext for the c
all. By noon, she was sufficiently irritated by her inability to gloat that she called Tina anyway and to hell with any kind of pretext.
“Hi Tina,” she said. “Yes, everything’s fine. I know it’s Saturday. I was just wondering how your fundraising is going because I’ve...” She paused as Tina cut across her. “Oh,” said Nerys eventually in a much less buoyant tone. “That’s... that’s wonderful. That’s amazing. Me?” She thought about the bags under her bed. “I’m doing my best. I know, only a few days left to go. Yes. It is all for a good cause. No, that was it. Just catching up with you. See you Monday.”
She killed the call and hurled her phone onto a chair.
“Cheating bitch!” she snarled.
There was a knock at the door.
“‘Corporate donation’!” she spat as she crossed the lounge. “‘Greasing a few wheels’? She’s been greasing more than wheels, that tramp. Everyone knows what she did at the regional managers’ away weekend. You don’t get carpet burns like that doing the Macarena.”
She twisted the latch savagely and wrenched the door open, prepared to give both barrels to whoever it was, but checked herself rapidly when she saw the dark-haired man who stood on her landing.
It wasn’t the look in his green eyes that stopped her, that dangerous, self-assured, knowing glint. It wasn’t the fine shape of his handsome chin or the faint, roguish scar on his cheek. It wasn’t his perfect hair. It wasn’t even the classy lines of his dark suit and the suggestion of the physique beneath.
It was the blue and white charity envelope in his hand.
“Are you Nerys Thomas?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Have you been distributing these in the local area?”
“I have,” she smiled.
Her mind was already racing ahead. Here was a man, moved by her philanthropic nature, seeking her out to thank her for her selfless efforts. Perhaps a drink out? Dinner? A passionate tumble between the sheets?
“One of your people came to my house yesterday,” he said.
“Did he? He didn’t mention you.”
“Mention me?”
“Mention meeting someone like you,” she said.
Clovenhoof hadn’t made any note of this near-perfect specimen in the notebook she had given him. She would have to chastise him later.
“I wasn’t in at the time,” he said. “My... brother, Roger, gave him a donation.”
“Oh, I see. Would you like to come in?”
The man leaned against the doorjamb.
“I was hoping to speak to the man who came to my house.”
“Of course. But come in for a cup of tea first. Or coffee. Is it too early for a glass of wine?”
“Where can I find the person who came to my house?”
“Is there a problem?”
“I think he might have accidentally picked up something that belongs to me.”
“He took something from you?”
The man gave a disarming smile.
“Accidentally, I’m sure. Where can I find him?”
“Flat 2a. Downstairs.”
He nodded.
“You’ve been a great help.”
He turned to go.
“What about that cup of tea?” said Nerys.
“Another time, Nerys,” he said.
Clovenhoof tried to put a brave face on the new day.
His eBay efforts had been stymied before they’d even been given chance. Sure, he still had his own possessions up for auction but he had reluctantly taken down the items that weren’t technically his. eBay had also removed several listings for him and sent him a stern message regarding inappropriate postings. He thought something ridiculous had to come to pass when one was barred from selling animals, old ladies and contract killings over the internet.
That, plus the money he had let Nerys take from him, had set him back at square one. He had no income, no resources to fall back on and no brilliant money-making schemes in the pipeline. He was going to have to throw himself on the bank’s mercy and beg for more money.
On the way to the bank, he went into the post office and put a card in the window. It was his Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap advert with his phone number on the bottom. If the internet was going to block his attempts at making a quid or two, he could at least rely on traditional local advertising. He watched the assistant put the card in next to a much-faded Keep Boldmere Beautiful poster. It was similar to the ones that he used at home as toilet paper. He felt inspired by the notion and upturned a nearby wheelie bin. It made Boldmere much more beautiful, he decided.
He popped into the chemist, collected Ben’s large tube of emollient cream and then stepped into the bank where he joined the small queue for the one cashier they had put on that morning.
“I recall a time when you would have pushed to the front of a queue like this,” said a voice at his shoulder. “Actually, stabbed and garrotted your way to the front.”
Clovenhoof turned.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
The Archangel Michael smiled.
“Pleased to see me? I’m touched.”
“The one time I’ve needed you and you’ve been conspicuous by your absence.”
“I’ve been watching.”
“Watching me flounder, you bastard. Where’s my money?”
Michael gave him a look of mild incomprehension.
“You’ve spent it all, dear friend.”
“How can that be?”
The queue moved forward, leaving only one person between Clovenhoof and the cashier.
“As I said to you before, heaven’s coffers are not limitless.”
“And as I said to you before, bollocks. I need money.”
“Then earn some.”
“Earn some?” hissed Clovenhoof. “I thought I had earned it. Thousands of years doing the shittiest job in creation.”
“That wasn’t work. That was you stewing in your own rebellious juices.”
“As part of the Other Guy’s effing ineffable plan!”
“I told you not to overspend.”
“Shut up, you sanctimonious cock. Just give me some money. Magic some up. Make it appear. By the time I get to this counter, I want a hundred million quid in my bank account.”
Michael placed a loving hand on his shoulder.
“Tantrums will get you nowhere, Clovenhoof.”
Clovenhoof pulled away and, as the customer in front moved off, wheeled on the cashier.
“Okay, love, show me the money.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the cashier.
“My money. I want my money now.”
“You have an account?”
“Here.” Clovenhoof took out his wallet and frisbee’d a succession of bank and credit cards through the divide and onto her side of the counter.
“Just give me all the money.”
The cashier picked up the cards slowly, fixing Clovenhoof with the strangest look.
“This joker said I had to earn my money but, you know, sod it, I’ll just take it. I’d kill for it if I had to, I put a card in the post office, but no one has to die, do they? Not really.”
“No,” said the cashier.
Without actually moving anywhere, she seemed to be trying to back away from him.
“I don’t want anyone to die,” said Clovenhoof. “I don’t like mess.”
The cashier gathered all the cards together.
“Yes. No. I’m not sure what it is you want, sir.”
“Look, we’re wasting time. My friend, Ben, is waiting on me. He’s in some pain, you know.”
Clovenhoof tapped the large bulge in his jacket pocket where the cream was. This seemed to crystallise the cashier’s attention.
“You want money,” she said.
“Please don’t pander to him,” said Michael. “If you just give it to him, he’ll never learn.”
“Ignore him,” said Clovenhoof. “Open up that till and just give me everything you’ve got. While we’re sti
ll alive, eh?”
“Of course,” said the cashier, her hands trembling.
When the knock came at Ben’s door, he almost jumped from his seat.
This was it, he thought. His fears had been realised.
The lie he had told Clovenhoof about being unable to manage his door keys was a simple ruse, an excuse to stay at home and prepare for this moment. Nervously, he got up and opened the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the two men at the door. “It’s not for sale.”
“What isn’t?” said the dark-haired man with the scar on his cheek.
“The trunk. In fact, none of it’s for sale. It’s all a horrible mistake.”
The man frowned and then turned to his stubble-cheeked companion. This second man, shifting unhappily from foot to foot, had a black eye, a split lip and the look of a rabbit that had finally been caught by the greyhound.
“Is this him?” asked the scarred man.
“No,” said the terrified rabbit of a man.
Scar looked at the door. Ben saw that his flat number had inexplicably become 2a.
“Oh, you’re after Jeremy,” he said and then nodded in further realisation. The bailiffs, of course. “It’s about the money, right?”
“Quite. Is this Jeremy in?”
“No, but he’ll be back in a bit.”
“Good,” said Scar and walked into the flat, pushing Ben before him. “Roger,” he said. “Get the door.”
The cashier put the bundles of cash from her register into a small canvas coin sack.
Clovenhoof grinned smugly at Michael.
“I knew you’d see sense.”
“I’ve not done anything,” said Michael. He looked around. “Actually, I’m not sure what’s going on here...”
A bank employee in a suit hovered like a wobbly mannequin in a doorway. The customers in the queue behind them had mysteriously melted away. One was crouched behind a glass partition filming Clovenhoof with his mobile phone.
Clovenhoof took the sack from the cashier’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you. Must dash,” he said. “Who knows what state poor Ben is in.”
He stepped out onto the street with a doubtful Michael in tow.
“You know,” said Michael, “to the untrained eye, what just happened in there looked an awful lot like... Ah.”
