Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

“Morning, Nerys.”

  “I’ve got a client for you.”

  Clovenhoof smiled and did a victory tap dance while Nerys made good her escape into the back room. Clovenhoof slid over to Dave’s desk and shook him firmly by the hand.

  “You’d be Jeremy Clovenhoof,” said Dave.

  “And you’re the famous Dave.”

  “Famous?”

  “Nerys talks about you all the time.”

  “Does she?”

  “And she rarely talks about her conquests except in purely anatomical terms.”

  “Oh, er,” said Dave, blushing. “I’m not... We’ve not...”

  “Haven’t you? You must be something special then.”

  “Yes. I suppose,” said Dave doubtfully.

  Clovenhoof and Dave spent a fruitful half hour together. Clovenhoof did not have a CV but Dave was able to cobble one together on his computer. Clovenhoof provided Ben with the same date of birth and birthplace that appeared on his passport. Having never been born and coming into existence before the creation of time and space made telling the truth impossible. It was the only lie he told.

  He had no qualifications. The angelic host had never really gone in for bits of paper. However, he did have many titles: His Satanic Majesty, Prince of this World, The Author of Evil, Morningstar, Light Bringer, The Angel of the Bottomless Pit. All good titles but Dave was not interested, persisting with the belief they were band names from Clovenhoof’s brief dalliance with rock music.

  What Clovenhoof did possess was experience. He had that in bucketsful.

  “I’ve always held positions of authority. My last job but one was as the Big Guy’s right hand man.”

  “Was it a big organisation?”

  “Global.”

  “What kind of company was it?”

  “We were in the construction business to start off with. We were the construction company for a while. Our first job was huge. Brought it in a day under schedule. Declared it a day of rest and put our feet up. Then there was a change of direction which I didn’t like.”

  “Yes?”

  “It shifted to housing, civic planning, legislation. Soft, squishy people-centred stuff.”

  “You’re not a people person?”

  “Not really. I don’t really see why the clients should tell us what to do. We went from being a wholly private affair to a messy co-operative. Most of my colleagues who had been there from day one were downgraded to glorified couriers and messengers. I fought against the change tooth and nail.”

  “You don’t like change?”

  “If it ain’t broke... Anyway, that was when I was kicked out. I went into freefall for a long time. But I picked up my new role soon enough. It was smaller but at least I was my own boss.”

  “You don’t like working for others?”

  “Who does?”

  “Er, quite. And what kind of business was that?”

  “We worked with ex-offenders.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, those who’d stepped over the line out in the big wide world. We were in the business of re-education and personal refinement.”

  “So rehabilitation?”

  “Well, rehabilitation’s a nice idea, but society rarely forgives you once your card is marked.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “I led the organisation through some challenging times.”

  Michael had created a much larger oval table in the demilitarised zone, with chairs surrounding it and a side table holding drinks. The Heavenly contingent arrived first, seating themselves neatly at the table and smiling at each other. The delegates from Hell were all late. They arrived piecemeal, and each tried to make an outlandish entrance. Michael drummed his fingers on the table as yet another demon materialised on the top of the table and ran around, trampling papers and kicking over a glass.

  Mulciber hissed and leaped up from his seat as the liquid spread across the table top.

  “Is that holy water?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied, mopping up the spillage with his handkerchief, “but there’s blood over there for the demons.”

  “Blood?” squealed Saint Francis, his googly eyes wobbling all over the place. “Is that human blood?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Michael, “but it was donated. No humans died.”

  “That’s okay then,” said Saint Francis, “as long as it’s not from a lovely little animal.”

  Azazel groaned and stuck his claws into his own face in exasperation.

  “Wabbits are my favourwites,” said St Francis although no one was listening.

  Satan had arrived and was looking at his demonic colleagues.

  “Hey. C’mon now guys, don’t get over-excited. Yes, Berith, I know they’re angels, but they’ve seen bottoms before. Probably. Anyway, put it away and sit down. Michael, can you do something about that?”

  Satan pointed down the table.

  “Oh no, stop it!” Michael jumped up and moved to where Saint Peter was trying to exorcise the demon Azazel. They were pulled apart and sat down, scowling at each other.

  Satan and Michael turned in unison as they heard a munching, cracking sound. Berith had speared a white dove with his pitchfork and was enjoying a tasty snack.

  St Francis murmured the name of his beloved pet and fainted across the table.

  Michael raised his voice, as he fanned Francis with a sheaf of papers.

  “We’ve got lots to talk about today. Maybe we should first of all have a few ground rules about refreshments. Drinks are over there, please help yourselves. We can sort out some canapés for later, but until then, er, please don’t eat anything that you didn’t bring yourself.”

  There was some giggling from the back where Berith had taken a bite from his own arm in response to this.

  “We’ll run through introductions, briefly. From Heaven, we have Peter, Herbert, Joan, Francis and myself of course. From Hell, we have Mulciber, Berith, Azazel, and Satan.” He glanced at his notes. “We’ll kick off with a brainstorming exercise. I’ll write on the flipchart all of your thoughts on the biggest problems that Hell has right now. We’ll refine the list later and decide how to tackle them, but for now let’s get the ideas down.”

  As Michael picked up the pen there was shouting from almost every person at the table. Francis had evidently recovered enough to make his voice heard clearly as all the others reached the end of their complaints.

  “-and wough, howwible demons all over the place.”

  Michael put the pen down and turned back to the table.

  “We need to be more orderly about this,” he said. “I think I’ll go round the table in turn and see who has items for the board. And I only want to hear suggestions from people who have first-hand experience. Mulciber, why don’t you start us off?”

  “It’s all about capacity,” Mulciber said. “We need to be able to process people faster.”

  Michael nodded and started to write.

  “Not just faster,” yelled Berith, “what about quality? I know that I can only get really high quality suffering if I spend time with a person. What’s going to happen to that if we’re all going faster?”

  “You sound a bit too much as though you enjoy it to me,” Joan remarked.

  “Of course I enjoy it you stupid girly,” Berith snarled. “Hang on, is she French? Angels is one thing but Frenchies... We’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

  Joan pulled her sword from its sheath.

  “I can draw a line for you if you like,” she said, a glint in her young eyes.

  “Well I think you’re all vewy howwid,” Francis said, standing. “And I think I’d wather not be a part of these discussions if you’re going to talk so unpleasantly.”

  “Hang on,” Berith whispered to Azazel. “Is he a Frenchie too?”

  “Italian,” replied Azazel.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Berith. “I like Italians. Delicious actually.”

  “Please!” Michael said. “Everyone’s here becau
se they have something to contribute. We need to respect each other a little bit more. I don’t want to hear any more name calling.”

  “Poof,” said someone at the back.

  Satan strode around the table.

  “Who said that?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Francis, deciding that he might stay after all, sat down and pointed a finger at Berith.

  Twice, they had to send out for more refreshments. There were arguments over whether Berith would be allowed snacks that were alive. They compromised on spiders, because Francis wasn’t all that keen on spiders.

  “Can’t you eat with your mouth closed?” Francis moaned.

  Berith opened his mouth wide, and lolled his tongue down over his chin, raising his eyebrows at Francis. He whipped it back in rapidly as a half-eaten spider made a bid for freedom.

  “We’re almost done now I think,” said Michael. “We’ve identified our key areas of focus, and we have a workable Vision and Mission Statement. Very important things to have, so that we never forget what we’re working towards. Let’s just get the wording right for those, so we can have some motivational posters made up. Satan, would you like to read them out for everyone, one last time?”

  Satan consulted his notes.

  “Vision. ‘To be the provider of choice for corrective torment and to offer “best-in-class” suffering for souls with challenged purity.’”

  He turned over the paper.

  “Mission. ‘Exploit synergies with other providers and expand into emerging markets.’”

  He looked around the table, and was met with faces that reflected a range of emotions that ranged from earnest approval through total bafflement to desperation to be out of there.

  “So,” Michael said, “if we just reach approval on these two, then I think we’re done for the day. Let’s have a show of hands.”

  There was a scramble of eager raised hands and then everyone sighed with relief and dispersed as rapidly as they could. Satan wandered around the table staring at the notes and plans and decided that he’d started something big. He wasn’t sure what it was, and whether it was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

  Dave finished typing on his computer and looked at Clovenhoof.

  “Well, that should be enough info. Let’s see what we’ve got for you.”

  Dave went to a filing cabinet, pulled out half a dozen sheets of paper, all headed with job titles and reference numbers.

  “I’ve got some posts we could slot you straight into.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, you’ve a lot of experience and many... fine qualities, but without qualifications, your options are limited.”

  “I understand.”

  “They all pay minimum wage.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “Er, no,” said Dave. “It’s the smallest amount anyone’s allowed to be paid. Most of these are sanitation and cleaning roles.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cleaning toilets mainly.”

  “What? Other people’s toilets? No, I don’t think so.”

  “What about this? Stock taking at a warehouse in Erdington.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll be working alone. Won’t have other people to contend with very much. Simple steady work.”

  “Stocktaking is counting stuff.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Angels, even ex-angels, were good with numbers. Numbers and lists. Salvation and damnation.

  “I can count,” said Clovenhoof. “What about these jobs?”

  He pulled at the papers already resting on Dave’s desk. He could see higher rates of pay and there was one with very reasonable hours. He craned his neck to have a look.

  “I’m afraid you’d not be suitable for these,” said Dave, drawing them away. “School jobs are a bit out of your league. For the time being. Why not give the warehouse job a try?”

  “Yes. It sounds thrilling,” smiled Clovenhoof.

  “Tina over there can sort you out with a start date. Tina!”

  “Thanks,” said Clovenhoof and took the sheet over to a familiar-looking woman sitting at her desk in a wheelchair.

  “Job reference number?” said Tina, without looking up.

  Clovenhoof looked at the paper. Angels (even ex-angels) were good with numbers. And Clovenhoof had an excellent memory.

  Clovenhoof signed in at reception of St Michael’s C of E Primary School and they gave him a clip-on visitor’s badge with his name on and he felt instantly proud and nervous. This was it. A job. His first new job in millennia. Such a thing came with responsibility. He had to make the right impression.

  The security doors clicked open and a tiny blonde woman in a roll-neck top stepped through.

  “Mr Clovenhoof?”

  He stood, towering over her, and shook her hand politely.

  “I’m Mrs Well-Dunn. Carol. Do you want to come through?”

  He followed her into the school proper and along a corridor lined with display boards of children’s work. The appalling spelling and inaccurate drawings made him smile.

  “You’re standing in for my regular LSA who’s not at all well,” said Mrs Well-Dunn. “You’ll be with me and my year twos.”

  “Year two?”

  “Age six and seven.”

  “I imagine you’re brilliant with them,” said Clovenhoof, who had been reaching for something positive to say.

  “Thank you.”

  “Because you’re so short, you’d only have to bend down a little to be on their level.”

  She stopped and looked at him and then laughed.

  “You’ll need that sense of humour with this lot,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sure your students are darlings.”

  “Of course they are. But they are also children.”

  She led the way into a classroom. Thirty little figures in bright blue jumpers sat at low tables with colouring crayons in hand, chatting as they worked.

  And you’ll be working with Spartacus,” said Mrs Well-Dunn.

  Clovenhoof looked across the sea of ponytails and spiky haircuts to where a boy sat, slightly apart from the rest.

  “Spartacus?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Spartacus Wilson. He’s statemented.”

  “Is that a word?”

  “He’s clearly ADHD. There are obvious signs of ASD. His IEP also has him as mildly dyspraxic.”

  “He has stomach ache?”

  “But his statement is for his ODD.”

  “He’s odd?”

  The teacher smiled.

  “Oppositional Defiance Disorder, Mr Clovenhoof.”

  “Right...”

  “Go over and say hello while I take the register.”

  Clovenhoof wove his way through the tables and sat down next to the boy on one of the tiny classroom chairs.

  “Hello.”

  The boy ignored him completely and continued with his drawing.

  “I said hello, Spartacus,” said Clovenhoof.

  The boy didn’t look up but did the physical equivalent of a sigh.

  “I’m Mr Clovenhoof.”

  Spartacus turned his head slowly and looked at Clovenhoof as though he was a piece of Cubist artwork. He held Clovenhoof’s gaze for a long time and then, deciding that Cubism wasn’t to his tastes, went back to his colouring.

  Clovenhoof looked to Mrs Well-Dunn for help or guidance but she was busying logging onto a computer and handing out letters whilst simultaneously drinking a cup of coffee and explaining to the class that they would be putting on an assembly for the whole school later that week.

  Clovenhoof scooched his chair nearer to Spartacus and tried again.

  “What are you drawing there?”

  “Picture,” said Spartacus.

  Contact! thought Clovenhoof.

  “You’re using a lot of red and black. And are these eyes?”

  Spartacus shrugged.

  “What’s it meant to be?” asked Clovenhoof.
/>
  “Your mum,” said Spartacus without a pause.

  “You don’t know my mum.”

  “Everyone knows your mum.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your mum smells of cat food.”

  “I think you’re mistaken, young m-”

  “Your mum works in the kebab shop. She doesn’t sell any. She just eats them.”

  Clovenhoof tried to keep his voice low and even.

  “Now, listen h-”

  “Your mum gets bullied at bingo.”

  Clovenhoof clenched his fists.

  “If you don’t shut up now, I’ll...”

  “Getting on all right, Mr C?” called Mrs Well-Dunn from across the room.

  Clovenhoof tried to give her a reassuring smile but it was a broken and crooked thing.

  “Famously,” he said.

  Very quickly, Clovenhoof worked out what his job was meant to be. It was to be a buffer between the boy Spartacus and the rest of the world so that Mrs Well-Dunn could get on with her job of teaching the other students.

  While Mrs Well-Dunn did her best to improve the numeracy and literacy of the little Fabians, Kenzies, Chardonnays and Aramintas that made up her year two class, Clovenhoof did his best to corral the uncontainable spirit of the boy and verbally head him off at the pass whenever he decided that, like his namesake, he should rise up and lead a rebellion against his masters.

  By the end of the day, Cloven was wishing that Spartacus, again like his namesake, had been crucified and left to die on an Italian roadside.

  “Tomorrow,” said Mrs Well-Dunn to the class as they put on their coats to go home, “we’ll be breaking into groups to prepare for next week’s assembly. Some of us will be in the choir. The rest will be preparing our dramatic presentation of the one of the stories of Jesus. Mr Clovenhoof?”

  “Yes?” said Clovenhoof, looking up.

  “Could you lead the drama group to start off with while I have a quick chat with the new choirmaster?”

  “Of course.”

  Spartacus picked up his lunch box and homework bag.

  “Mr Clovenhoof?” said Spartacus.

  “Yes?”

  “Your mum’s so fat she appears on Google Earth.”

  And with that, he was gone for the day.

  Clovenhoof downed his first Lambrini at the bar of the Boldmere Oak while Lennox the barman poured his second.