Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “Are we allowed to punch children?” he asked.

  “Sadly not,” said Lennox.

  “What if no one’s looking?”

  “Seven thirty, mate.”

  Clovenhoof dug deep in his pockets for change but only came up with three pound twelve and a red crayon.

  “Can I owe you? I get paid on Friday.”

  “Dunno, mate. ‘Neither a borrower or a lender be.’ Shakespeare said that.”

  “‘What a piece of work is man.’ He said that too.”

  Lennox gave him a shrewd and penetrating look.

  “Friday, yeah?”

  “Friday,” said Clovenhoof and made off with the drinks to where Ben waited.

  “Thanks,” said Ben, slurping deeply. “So here’s to your first day at work.”

  “Yeah. Might be my last.”

  “Work proving a little harder than you expected?”

  “It’s not the work. It’s the...” He held his tongue, remembering that, officially, he was working at a machine parts warehouse. “It’s another employee. I’m having problems with a colleague.”

  “Have you fallen out with your boss?”

  “No. He’s meant to be doing what I tell him.”

  “You’re being bullied by an underling.”

  “Well, no. No. It’s not like that. It’s... yes, it’s exactly that. I’m being bullied.”

  Ben chuckled and tried to hide it with a gulp of cider and black but just made a noise like a drowning hippo.

  “It’s not funny,” said Clovenhoof.

  “It’s not,” said Ben, wiping purple juice from his chops. “I just can’t see you being the victim.”

  “This guy’s a little shit.”

  “Jeremy. First of all, you’ve got to rise above it.”

  “Rise above it?”

  “Yes. Whatever jibes, whatever insults he’s flinging at you, ignore them.”

  “But he’s so irritating and I’ve spent all afternoon thinking up snappy comebacks.”

  “Fear leads to hate. Hate leads to anger. Anger leads to suffering.”

  “What a load of twaddle.”

  “I know this from experience, Jeremy. I had a neighbour I fell out with. A really bitter old sod. I let him get under my skin and...”

  “And?”

  “And it didn’t end well.”

  Ben sighed deeply.

  “I got my itemised credit card bill through today,” he said.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Sex dolls.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Someone used my card to buy a latex sex doll. Two thousand pounds it cost!”

  “Wow. It must have been pretty top notch.”

  “It was. I mean, I assume it was. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  “And then this bastard used my card number to pay for some supermarket groceries, stereo equipment and clothes. All on line. What is a bolo tie anyway?”

  “No idea,” said Clovenhoof, glad he’d opted for an alternative outfit that evening.

  He hadn’t lied to Ben. He had spent the whole afternoon thinking of witty insults to use on Spartacus. It seemed a shame not to use them but Clovenhoof chose to follow Ben’s advice for the time being. Besides, having been given the name Spartacus, the boy deserved at least a little sympathy.

  After registration, Clovenhoof and his little drama group went into one of the school’s two small halls, the other year two students going into the second hall behind a partition screen.

  “Right, sit down you lot,” he said.

  Four of the children sat down in front of Clovenhoof.

  Two girls, Pixie and Mercedes, were too busy comparing scrunchies to listen, Kenzie Kelly was running around pretending to be a fighter jet and making ‘budda budda’ gun noises and Spartacus Wilson was diligently and forcibly trying to break into the PE cupboard.

  “Girls, sit down,” said Clovenhoof. “Kenzie, stop strafing the chairs and land over here. Spartacus, come sit down.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” called Spartacus.

  “Yes, I am,” said Clovenhoof.

  “You can’t tell me what to do. It’s a free country.”

  “Since when?”

  But the girls were seated now and Kenzie was taxiing to the terminal so Clovenhoof decided to ignore Spartacus for the time being.

  “Right, let’s see what our assembly is on.”

  He looked at the notes and book Mrs Well-Dunn had given him.

  “Ah, the parable of the prodigal son.”

  “What’s that?” said Mercedes Jones.

  “It’s a story Jesus told,” said Araminta Dowling.

  “Is it a true story?” asked Herbie Gates.

  “What do you think?” said Clovenhoof. “The guy who told it was an illiterate carpenter and was making it up as he went along and the bloke who wrote it down didn’t even write it down until fifty years after Jesus died, had never met Jesus and didn’t know anyone who had. Chances of it being true...”

  Clovenhoof made a seesaw motion with his hand.

  “Still,” he said. “At least it’s short, morally bonkers and features the mindless killing of farm animals.”

  “Killing?” said Spartacus who was trying to pick the PE cupboard lock with a pencil.

  “Absolutely.”

  Spartacus drifted over.

  “Can I do the killing?”

  Clovenhoof scoffed.

  “I decide who gets which part.”

  “Yeah, but can I do the killing?”

  Clovenhoof looked at the boy.

  “Please,” said Spartacus.

  Clovenhoof felt a sudden and unexpected frisson of power.

  “Well, that would depend,” he said.

  Clovenhoof had orchestrated great plans and co-ordinated many minions in the pursuit of a single goal before. And getting demons to work together was like trying to herd cats. However, getting six year olds to do the right thing at the right time was like trying to herd neutrons in a nuclear reactor. They simply had too much energy. Before the morning was out, he had composed several angry letters to parents in his head on the subject of sugary cereal and snacks and why they should be replaced with a diet of gruel.

  Meanwhile, from the other side of the partition, came the sound of the school choir, an alarmingly and annoyingly melodious sound. No random whoops, screams or bursts of automatic gunfire from them.

  “No, Spartacus. The prodigal son’s father did not have an AK47.”

  “Why not?”

  “They weren’t invented then.”

  “How do you know? You said historical records of the time were sketchy at best.”

  “I did.”

  As he battled on with his eight prima donna actors, the choir progressed through a beautiful repertoire of songs, culminating in a four-part harmony rendition of Jesus wants me for a Sunbeam.

  Part of the partition was pushed aside and Mrs Well-Dunn stepped through. Clovenhoof noticed with some pride that the teacher was surprised to see the students vaguely doing what they were supposed to be doing and not eating each other alive.

  “How’s it going, Mr C?”

  “Not bad,” he conceded. “We’ve taken a few liberties with the script you gave me but we’ve got the general gist of it.”

  “Very good. What are you doing on the floor, Thor?”

  Thor Lexworth-Hall, an unfortunately rotund boy, looked up.

  “I’m the fatted calf, miss.”

  “How silly of me not to realise.” She turned to Clovenhoof. “I am so sorry for leaving you to it but I just wanted to see the new choirmaster at work. Oh, here he is.”

  A man stepped through the partition and smiled brightly.

  “This is Mr Michaels,” said Mrs Well-Dunn.

  “We’ve met,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Oh?”

  “We go way back,” said Michael. “It’s amazing how we keep bumping into each other.”

 
“Amazing,” said Clovenhoof.

  Michael strode beside Clovenhoof as he trotted home.

  “You’re spying on me again,” Clovenhoof stated flatly.

  “Not at all. I’ve recently become quite involved with the local church and community. I like the vicar they brought in to replace that unfortunate woman. He has many admirable qualities.”

  “Balls.”

  “And those. My appearance at the church school is purely a coincidence.”

  “Heaven’s omniscience makes that assertion nonsensical,” snapped Clovenhoof. “Your words, I recall.”

  “Have it your way,” said Michael, inspecting his perfect fingernails. “Even if my presence at the school was not wholly coincidental, you couldn’t be surprised. I mean, Jeremy, children?”

  Clovenhoof gave him a sideways look.

  “What about them?”

  “Surely, some things are off-limits, even to you.”

  “You assume that I have wicked intentions.”

  “It is in your job description, dear chap.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Clovenhoof, feeling a small but righteous anger rise up inside him. “Was it me who told Jephthat to sacrifice his own daughter to the Lord?”

  “Oh, yes. Rake up the Old Testament. That’s just cheap.”

  “Was it?” Clovenhoof demanded.

  “Actually, it was Jephthat’s daughter who insisted he do it.”

  “Right. So, was it me who ordered that all the Samarian children have their brains bashed out against rocks?”

  “Look, Hosea was writing in tumultuous times and there’s a lot of allegory in his work.”

  “Did I personally wander through Egypt killing the firstborn child in every family?”

  “You cannot judge past events through a modern moral framework!” said Michael hotly.

  Clovenhoof smiled and was silent for a while as they walked.

  “I can’t believe you actually said that,” he said quietly.

  “If you intend the children at that school no harm then what are you doing there?” asked Michael.

  “I’m only doing this job for the money.”

  “You need money?”

  “You know I do.”

  Michael reached into his jacket and produced an impossibly fat sheaf of banknotes.

  “How much?” he said.

  “Do I need?”

  “To keep you away from my school.”

  “Your school?”

  “It has my name above the door.”

  Clovenhoof spat.

  “Put it away.”

  “Ah,” said the angel sagely, squirreling the money away into some other dimension. “You want the satisfaction of knowing the money in your pocket has been earned by the sweat of honest toil.”

  “I want the satisfaction of rearranging your face, Mickey-boy. I’m a citizen of the world now and you don’t tell me what to do. You’re not the boss of me.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Oh, and Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mum.”

  “I don’t have a mother.”

  “She’s so stupid that when I told her Christmas was around the corner, she went and looked.”

  “Ah. A joke.”

  “Your mum’s so fat that the local buses say, ‘occupancy seventy-five people or your mum.’”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Your mum’s so fat that when she walked past the TV I missed three episodes.”

  “Oh, is there no end to these side-splitting put-downs?”

  “Your mum’s so stupid that when she heard someone say πr2 she said, ‘No, they’re not. They’re round.’”

  “Okay. You can stop now, Jeremy.”

  “Your mum’s so stupid she got run over by a parked car.”

  “Please stop.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve got another twenty-seven of these.”

  Clovenhoof got through a further thirteen before Michael vanished.

  Nerys plonked herself on the edge of Dave’s desk and took a crisp from the open packet by his keyboard.

  “What did you do with Jeremy Clovenhoof?” she asked.

  “Your friend?”

  “I don’t like that word.”

  “Acquaintance?”

  “Yes. What have you done with him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I passed him over to you. He was looking for a job.”

  “That’s right and I got him one.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Nothing. He’s got a job.”

  “Did he quit?”

  “No.”

  “Was he fired?”

  Dave glanced at his computer screen, a reflex action. He didn’t need to look.

  “No. It’s still his first week.”

  Nerys munched on the crisp fretfully and helped herself to another.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “What? He’s got a job. He’s been there every day this week. No complaints from the employer.”

  “Look. You don’t know him like I do. Jeremy Clovenhoof is the kind of guy who can’t commit to anything. His lifestyle comes with an automatic self-destruct.”

  “Maybe he’s happy. Maybe it’s his dream job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stocktaking at an engine parts warehouse.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dave. What kind of dream job is that?”

  “We all have different dreams, Nerys. They don’t have to be big ones.”

  “Do you dream of working in an engine parts warehouse, Dave?”

  “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Do you have dreams at all, Dave?”

  He shrugged.

  “A quiet life. A lie in on a Sunday morning. Finding myself a good woman I can trust.”

  Nerys took a third crisp. Clovenhoof. Happy. Productive. Some deep intuitive thought centre of her brain was sending out alarm signals.

  “I don’t buy it,” she said to herself. “It’s very fishy.”

  “Prawn Cocktail,” said Dave, tilting the crisp packet to check.

  “Shut up, Dave.”

  Nerys decided to do the only sensible thing. She followed Clovenhoof to work the following morning.

  She wore a high-collared coat and, grateful for the May drizzle, carried an umbrella to hide behind. She tailed him onto the Boldmere Road where he popped into a corner shop and emerged two minutes later with two large bottles in a carrier bag. He whistled a merry tune – most suspicious, Nerys concluded – as he continued down the shop-lined street, into a side road and through the gates of a primary school.

  “This is not good,” she said.

  She dithered for five minutes and then went in. She showed her work badge to the receptionist.

  “Hi,” she said, “I’m from the Helping Hand Job Agency. I believe we’ve got one of our people working here.”

  “Mr Clovenhoof,” nodded the receptionist.

  Nerys was expecting to hear the name but it was still a surprise.

  “Checking up on him are you?” said the receptionist.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a character, isn’t he?”

  “Isn’t he just.”

  “The year twos are about to do their assembly. You’re welcome to go and watch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  The receptionist gave her a visitor’s badge and buzzed her through. She went into a hall already half-filled with parents and younger children. Nerys took a seat in the back row and tried her best to not look like an interloper.

  Two old women were seated next to her. Nerys was intrigued to see that they had notebooks and pens.

  “Looking forward to it?” she asked the one closest to her.

  “Hello dear,” said the old lady, and nudged her companion. “Doris, say hello to the young lady.” Doris inclined her head and smiled. “Yes, we’re both very excited about the show.”

  “How old are the children?” Nerys asked.


  “Oh, they’re fairly small ones,” said the old woman, motioning up and down with a hand to indicate a child somewhere between eighteen inches and four feet tall.

  “You’re making notes?” Nerys said.

  “Oh yes, dear. We record the good things and the bad things that we see.”

  “Right,” said Nerys, hoping that these primary school theatre critics would not have anything sensationally bad to record. “What have you got so far?”

  “Well,” said the old woman, “I think that’s a nice set, well laid out, with good lighting and plenty of access.”

  Doris rolled her eyes. “It’s a couple of blocks on the hall floor, Betty.”

  Betty pressed on. “There are clearly plenty of supportive parents here. You can feel the good will in the air. Very positive atmosphere. A lovely nurturing environment.”

  “Hmph,” said Doris. “All the more reason to keep our young chap well away!”

  Nerys laughed to hear them joking about a cherished grandson.

  Betty produced a camera from her enormous handbag and switched it on. She held it at arm’s length, trying to focus on the tiny screen.

  “Can you see the button that puts it back to normal dear?” Betty asked.

  Nerys glanced at the display and recognised the interior of the Boldmere Oak as the last photo, with a picture of a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She pressed a button and the camera obliged.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thank you dear! We’re all ready to go Doris.”

  “I think they’re coming Betty, look!” Doris stood up and clapped with excitement.

  Betty sprang to her feet and started snapping pictures.

  “There he is, Doris, look!”

  “Which one?” asked Nerys. “Which one is yours?”

  “That one there, at the front, that’s our Jeremy,” said Betty, still concentrating on the camera.

  “Oh, that’s a coincidence,” said Nerys. “What’re the chances of a child having the same name as his, er, teacher?”

  “I don’t know dear,” said Betty. “Look Doris, he’s smiling. I told you, he’s enjoying himself.”

  “Of course he’s smiling. He’s up to something, you mark my words,” said Doris.

  Clovenhoof helped shepherd the two classes of years twos into the hall to accompanying coos and waves and the flash of cameras from the audience. Once both classes were sitting down in front of the low stage, Mrs Well-Dunn came to the front and made some opening remarks which were generally ignored while parents checked the pictures and videos they had already taken and jostled for position to take more.