Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “Of course,” said the other figure, in a deeper voice. “I have a great many kitchen accessories. Don’t mind me asking, but do you have Irish blood?”

  “How very perceptive of you!” said the screechy one. “Yes, it seems I do,” then added, “Begorrah!” as an afterthought.

  Clovenhoof was shocked to see the pimpled customer from hours ago emerge from behind a bookshelf. He’d thought that the shop was empty.

  “Do you have A Troubled Background?” asked the man.

  Clovenhoof sighed.

  “Is that another book? Haven’t you realised by now that I really don’t have the faintest idea?”

  “No,” said the man, letting himself out of the front door. “It’s not a book.”

  Nerys drove home, incredulous that Dave had taken up with Clovenhoof’s ex. Who could be more desperate, Dave or Blenda? She laughed bitterly at her own mean-mindedness.

  She entered her flat. Molly was sitting in front of the television. Nerys shouted a greeting and went to investigate the contents of the fridge.

  “I’m doing the fish while it’s still in date,” she called. “Nice day for something light anyway, I’ve got some strawberries for afterwards.” She closed the fridge. “Strange how I’m looking forward to strawberries more than I’ve looked forward to anything all day.”

  Nerys gave a deep sigh as she put the kettle on.

  “You know that job gets me down sometimes,” she said to her aunt. “It’s like I’m trapped. I don’t know how to do anything else, and I can’t afford to take time to re-train. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’d do. Maybe it’s not the job so much as, oh I don’t know. Everything.”

  Nerys put the knife down among the chopped carrots and examined her hands.

  “I just don’t have any idea what I want out of life anymore,” she said. “Did you ever feel like that?”

  She glanced over at Molly through the open doorway. Molly sat serene as ever.

  “I’d love to know what you were like when you were my age,” said Nerys. “Did you ever make a fool of yourself or get confused by life? I just can’t imagine it. You always seem so content with the simple things. You watch some TV, you fuss Twinkle and play cards with the same old friends. How do you do it?”

  Nerys realised her eyes were welling up and she passed a hand across her face in sadness and frustration.

  “Molly, I... I probably never told you how much I think of you. Daft old pudding, but you’re always there, always the same.”

  Nerys grabbed a piece of kitchen roll to wipe away tears and blow her nose.

  “You know I love you, don’t you?” she called.

  She sniffed loudly, fanned her face and looked up into the light to still the flood of tears.

  Eventually, she frowned, realising that this had been a rather one-sided outpouring of emotion.

  “Did you hear what I said? I said I love you.”

  There was not reply.

  “Molly?”

  Nerys went over to the chair in the living room and peered at Molly. Her eyes were closed.

  “Oh,” said Nerys and then laughed at herself. “Thank God,” she said, gently shaking her shoulder. “For a moment there you had me worried!”

  Molly’s head fell forward and she keeled over sideways against the winged back of the chair. As Nerys grabbed Molly’s arms to steady her, she realised that they were cold, lifeless.

  “Molly.”

  Something moved in the corner of her eye. Nerys opened her mouth to scream and then saw it was Twinkle, looking up at her, still sitting in his mistress’s lap.

  Ben took his lunch tray and found a table by himself. The food in prison was really pretty good, and he looked forward to mealtimes. He’d noticed that there were tables he should definitely avoid. The tables against the back wall were favoured by some bald and tattooed gentlemen and he’d seen the way that they all turned and stared if you sat there. One new inmate had failed to notice, and had been given a soup shampoo before being propelled across the room. Ben had also seen small transactions taking place under the tables on that side of the room. A small man with a face like a rat seemed to be involved in most of those.

  Ben noticed a wad of dried out gum on the leg of his table. He picked at it between mouthfuls and eventually dislodged it. He put it into his pocket with a small smile of satisfaction.

  Clovenhoof answered the door with a spatula in his hand. He was cooking meatballs, in an attempt to be more normal. He really wasn’t sure that they’d be as good as crispy pancakes, but he was prepared to give it a go.

  Nerys stood on the landing, looking at some point in the middle distance. He waved a hand in front of her face to make her refocus.

  “Molly’s dead,” she whispered.

  Clovenhoof wondered what he was supposed to say. He decided that his best course of action was to say nothing. He guided Nerys to the sofa and sat her down. He’d had a phone installed when his flat was redecorated. As he picked up the receiver, he wondered if it was inappropriate to feel a small thrill at being able to dial 999 for his first call.

  Ben surveyed the careful arrangement of cigarette filters, dried up gum and balls of scrunched-up fluff. They covered the surface of the table. He adjusted a couple then fetched the dice from his pocket.

  “Well, here’s a familiar face!” said a voice.

  Ben looked up.

  Cell doors were opened for part of the evening, so that prisoners could socialise. Ben pretty much ignored this and carried on much the same as when the door was closed. He hadn’t even realised someone was there. In the doorway was indeed a familiar face.

  “Hello,” said Ben cautiously and then realised who it was.

  The bank robber, the one who had forced his way into his flat and bound his burned hands with duct tape.

  “Trey,” said Ben, remembering.

  “Daniels,” said Trey and advanced into the room. “You and your stupid friends landed me in here.”

  “Definitely my friend. Not me,” said Ben.

  “I did all the hard work, got away with the money, then somehow, and I still don’t understand it properly, you lot dropped me right in it.”

  Ben shrank back into his chair as Trey moved forward.

  “I find it pleasing that you’re in here. We can chat.”

  Ben was terrified by the prospect of a chat. Part of him just wanted the physical violence to be over with.

  “Murder you’re in for, isn’t it?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Hmmm, never would have thought you’d got the balls to be honest. Well I only hope you killed that friend of yours, the clown who lumbered me with all of that stolen cash.”

  “No it wasn’t him,” said Ben. “And you did point a gun at him and tell him to give you the cash.”

  Trey raised his eyebrows.

  “Attitude? Interesting.” He glanced over to the door where two large knuckle-draggers awaited his instructions. He seemed as though he was about to say something then he turned back to Ben.

  “What are you doing with all of that rubbish?” He indicated the tables. “You haven’t really been here long enough to be properly out of your tree.”

  “These are Romans,” said Ben, indicating the filter tips, “and these are Gauls.”

  The Gauls were represented by gum, and fluff balls.

  “Right,” said Trey slowly. “But what are you doing?”

  “I’m re-enacting the siege of Alesia,” said Ben. “There are eighty thousand Gauls holed-up in the city, here.” He indicated a rough circle, drawn with cigarette ash on the table’s top. “And there are fifty thousand Roman soldiers deployed here, here and here in the hills surrounding the town.”

  “So what happens next?” asked Trey, moving closer.

  “Well, one of the sides must make a move. Both armies are short of food. If you were the Gauls, what would you do?”

  “I don’t want to be the Gauls, I want to be the Romans,” said Trey, pulling up Jason’s c
hair.

  “Okay, well decide what you’re going to do, and then we’ll use the dice to determine how successful you are. By the way, this circle is a defensive ditch with spikes in the bottom.”

  “Cool.”

  Nerys looked around Saint Michael’s church to see all of Molly’s friends from the hairdressers and the endless whist games. How many people would be there if it were her own funeral? Nerys shivered, knowing that she’d be lucky to fill a single pew.

  She sat next to her mother, who was dressed in the style that Nerys had long ago dubbed Cruella. She had added a vintage pillbox hat with a veil to her skirt suit and towering heels. She topped it off with a cloak, trimmed at the collar with rabbit fur. A cloak. Nerys shook her head.

  “Aren’t you warm in the cloak?” she asked.

  “Darling, it may cloud over as we leave.”

  Nerys knew her mom had only worn it so that she could swish it around in a stylish and dramatic way.

  “So many old people, look at them.”

  “Mom! What did you expect? Molly was old. You’re old, for that matter.”

  “Yes, but you won’t catch me dressing in horrible synthetics. Or elasticated waistbands. Mind you, Molly always was the plain one. I suppose it’s only to be expected. And did you see that strange-looking man at the back? His shoes don’t seem to fit him. I think he might be in the wrong place, you know.”

  “Mom, keep your voice down. Someone’s going to hear you.”

  “Well why would I care about that? I didn’t get where I am today by being a shrinking violet! You could do with being a bit more focussed, yourself, Nerys. You’d have a man by now if you did. Try being more like your sister.”

  Nerys hissed her breath out, in an effort to maintain her calm.

  “Why didn’t Catherine come today, anyway?” she asked.

  “She’s hosting a charity fashion show with some of the other players’ wives. She couldn’t possibly take time out at the moment. I can get you a ticket if you like. You look as if you could do with some new things yourself. Although most of the things are in smaller sizes.”

  Nerys had forgotten the power that her mother had to target her insecurities like a heat-seeking missile. She never failed to feel the tears pricking her eyes within ten minutes of her company. To cry in public would be the ultimate humiliation, so Nerys folded her hands into her lap and concentrated on the service. The new vicar ran through a brief history of Molly’s life, some of which surprised Nerys.

  “What is that strange man doing?” hissed her mom. “Look, he keeps staring up at that tapestry in the back there.”

  “He’s a neighbour. Now, shush.” Nerys said, trying to hear the vicar. “I didn’t know Aunt Molly used to be a keen tennis player.”

  “Says who?”

  “The vicar. Listen.”

  Afterwards, the congregation went outside for the committal. Nerys watched Molly’s coffin lowered into the ground, and tried to ignore her mother’s comments about her job, her hemline and everything else that she was getting wrong.

  “There’s that man again. He keeps hanging around. He’s a bit creepy, if you ask me.”

  “You’re right mom,” said Nerys, “I’ll go and get rid of him, shall I?”

  Her mother looked mildly startled, but was soon distracted by Molly’s hairdresser admiring her hat.

  Nerys put her hand on Clovenhoof’s arm.

  “Jeremy, I need to get out of here. Now.”

  “Okay,” said Clovenhoof. “Who’s that woman you were with? She looks a bit like you, is she your sister?”

  “Urgh! Come on.”

  At the house, Nerys stopped abruptly in the downstairs hallway.

  “What’s up?” said Clovenhoof.

  “I really don’t want to go into my flat just now,” she said.

  “You’ve got washing up to do?” said Clovenhoof.

  “It’s just so sad.”

  “Ah.”

  “Besides, my mom might find me.”

  “That was your mum? She doesn’t look old enough.”

  “Jeremy. Shut up about my mom looking young.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Let’s go to your flat. I hope you’ve got some drink.”

  “Depends how fussy you are,” said Clovenhoof, following her upstairs. “I’ve got lots of Lambrini.”

  “Fussy? God, no. I mean it’s not as if I’m an alcoholic or anything,” she stopped and looked at him, “I’m not an alcoholic am I?”

  “Well, if you’re an alcoholic, then I definitely would be too. And I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  “You’re right,” Nerys said, “we can stop any time we want.”

  “Except now.”

  “Hell yeah.”

  Clovenhoof unlocked the door to his flat. It still had the fresh air of a show apartment, apart from a dark red stain on the beige carpet.

  “What’s that?” said Nerys, touching the crusty stain with the tip of her shoe.

  “Meatball,” said Clovenhoof. “They roll.”

  Nerys flicked through the paperwork on the table while Clovenhoof fetched the glasses.

  “What’s this thing on the table?”

  “Another meatball stain,” he called. “They roll a long way. And bounce.”

  “I mean next to it.”

  “Oh, it’s my file. My life’s story.”

  “It’s what?”

  Clovenhoof came back through and they both drained a large glass of Lambrini. Clovenhoof smacked his lips and Nerys grimaced slightly. She held out her glass for a refill.

  “My therapist gave it to me,” he said, pouring. “Well, I sort of stole it. It seems that I’m so involved in my delusion that I forgot who I am. This file has my medical history. And also stuff about my family. My family that I have absolutely no memory of.”

  “Lucky you,” murmured Nerys as she picked up a photo.

  Ben walked between the tables in the recreation room, like a head gardener passing through his prize rose beds. He had a small but permanent smile on his face and his chest, small though it was, was puffed out in pride. He was overseeing the HMP Birmingham C Wing war-gaming tournament.

  “No, you can’t use guns,” he told a Yardie gangster from Derby.

  “Why not, man?”

  “Because they hadn’t been invented at the time, Jacob. Think about using landscape features, and sympathetic neighbours, remember you’ve got a weighting for each of those, if you look on the sheet I drew up for you.”

  Trey Daniels had made sure that they had plenty of plastic figures, proper dice and enthusiastic supporters. Ben was in demand for his experience and technical knowledge, and had gained a new level of respect as Trey’s friend.

  “Go Nero! Come on my son!” came the yell from a nearby table where a car thief was pitting his troops against those of a petty drug dealer.

  As Ben walked over to take a look, a warden came up to him.

  “You’ve got a visitor, Kitchen.”

  “I wasn’t expecting one.”

  “But she’s here now.”

  “It’s not my mum again, is it?”

  “Visitor, Kitchen. This way.”

  Ben, dragged away from his garden of budding flowers, was led reluctantly through to the visiting room, which was already filled with prisoners, their wives, girlfriends, extended family and generally shifting-looking friends.

  Ben plonked himself down in the seat.

  “This is a surprise,” he said.

  Nerys leant over and planted a sincere kiss on his cheek.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  She smiled for only an instant and ignored his question.

  “How are you?” she said. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”

  “Have you? I assumed you all hated me,” said Ben.

  “No, of course we don’t. Jeremy’s been tending your shop.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “No, he seems to be making a decent go at it.”

>   “Really?”

  “Well, the shop hasn’t burned down or anything so that must be a good sign.”

  “I suppose.”

  “How’s the food? And more importantly, have you been able to put up with the, ah, you know.”

  “The food’s fine. But I’m not sure I know what you mean. Put up with what?”

  “You know...”

  “No.”

  “Oh, do I have to spell it out?” said Nerys. “Being used as a sex toy by huge men.”

  “That hasn’t happened.”

  “Oh,” said Nerys, trying not to sound disappointed.

  “So, um, how are things with you, Nerys?”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” she said. She wasn’t going to mention Molly, not now. “Your flat’s still got all of the tape around the door. Mrs Astrakhan keeps going on about it all. Apparently it’s affecting her nerves.”

  “Tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  “I’m not sure getting personal messages from you would make her any happier.”

  “No. Sorry. How’s Clovenhoof? I feel bad about him too. He tried so hard to help me with, um, you know.”

  Nerys nodded.

  “He’s a very confused man at the moment.”

  “Confused or confusing?”

  “Both. He’s been trying to understand his background. He got a file from his therapist, supposed to be his background and history. The thing is,” Nerys looked into the corner, searching for the words, “the thing is, it seems kind of fake to me.”

  “What would make you say that?” asked Ben.

  “I see lots of CVs at work. Sometimes I have to check the details on them as well. I know how they look and feel. No end of times you’ll find that the dates people put are a little bit wrong. Not by much, but a bit out, because they can’t quite remember. What never happens is that people put accurate dates for everything, like the actual day of the week that something happened. That would only happen if someone was recording every single thing as it happened and they wrote down the date.”

  “Some people have excellent memories,” said Ben.