Clovenhoof

by Heide Goody

  “Really? Can you remember the date of every exam you ever sat?”

  Ben shook his head.

  “No, you write down the year you did them,” said Nerys. “Jeremy’s file has a date against every single thing. Medical appointments I could understand, but there’s dates against family holidays from his childhood, and when his parents moved house. Actual dates.”

  “Yeah, but why would someone fake a thing like that?” asked Ben.

  “Absolutely no idea,” said Nerys.

  “He’s not Satan you know.”

  “No, of course he’s not,” said Nerys. “That’s crazy. I’m going to do a bit of digging though. He’s supposed to have some family living locally.”

  Ben nodded. He almost jumped out of his skin when she placed a gentle hand over his.

  “Nerys?” he said, alarmed.

  “I just have to say,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I never liked Herbert Dewsbury. He was a dreadful man. Rude, intolerant, always trying to tell people what to do.”

  She paused for a moment, wondering where she’d heard some of those words recently. Oh. Yes. Dave had used them about her. She sighed.

  “Doesn’t mean he deserved to die though,” said Ben.

  “No,” she agreed.

  Ben gently extricated his hand.

  “There’s something worthwhile, something good inside the most unlovable of people,” he said.

  “If you say so.”

  Back on C Wing, a small man with the rat face gave Ben a wink from the corner.

  “Psst, got that stuff you wanted.”

  Ben went over and a jiffy bag was thrust quickly at him. He passed a thin roll of notes to the man and walked casually away.

  Back in his cell, he opened the bag, and carefully unwrapped the tissue from six Roman legionnaires. He clutched them to his chest with a small sigh of pleasure.

  “What if I don’t want to go for a drive?” Clovenhoof complained.

  “Just come with me,” said Nerys. “There’ll be alcohol.”

  “I’m appalled that you think I can be persuaded by alcohol, particularly early in the morning! Do you really think I’m that shallow?”

  “Yes Jeremy, I do. Now come on.”

  Clovenhoof shrugged and climbed into the passenger seat. Nerys drove for ten minutes and pulled up outside a semi-detached house. It was an affluent-looking street in Ward End and the house had a well-stocked rose garden in front of it.

  “This was the house you lived in when you were a kid,” Nerys said. “Does it look at all familiar?”

  “No, not at all,” said Clovenhoof, winding down the window to look out.

  “Look!” she insisted. “Look at that window in the shape of a little circle. Are you sure you don’t remember it? If I’d lived in that house when I was a kid I’d have spent the whole time with my face at that cute little window. What about the roses?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you want to get out and smell them?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Smells are very good for triggering memories.”

  Clovenhoof gave her a withering look.

  “If you think I’m going to go and sniff those roses you’re out of your mind. I’ve never been here before. Ever.”

  Two old ladies stopped by the roses and inhaled deeply.

  “Roses are nice,” said Nerys, to herself more than anything. She put the car into gear and pulled away.

  She drove them to a pub with a beer garden out front.

  “This place looks nice, we can sit outside in the sun.”

  “As long as they have Lambrini.”

  They sat at a picnic table and Clovenhoof tried to keep the wasps from his Lambrini by batting them towards other people. Very soon, they had the beer garden almost to themselves. Nerys was deep in thought and sipped her drink, barely noticing.

  “You’re not wearing your Bermuda shorts,” said Nerys. “Nice hot day like this.”

  “I’m going for the ‘normal’ look,” said Clovenhoof.

  “Brown corduroy trousers?”

  “They’re normal, aren’t they?”

  “Beyond normal and out the other side, Jeremy.” She sipped her drink. “Things have been so strange lately. Ever since all the fuss about that idiot, Herbert Dewsbury, everything’s gone wrong,” she said.

  Clovenhoof put down his drink heavily.

  “Herbert Dewsbury?”

  “Yes, the corpse, the ex-tenant. You haven’t forgotten him too?”

  “Herbert Dewsbury?”

  “Yes!”

  “Herbert? Was that his name?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

  “I knew him.”

  “You did? And you’ve only just remembered?”

  His brow furrowed.

  “I didn’t know his first name. Herbert. Scheming, weasely Herbert.”

  “That’s him.”

  “The question I can’t answer is what on earth that means.”

  “Oh look, now that’s strange,” said Nerys. “Those two old ladies were at your parents’ old house. That must be five miles away, and here they are again.”

  She indicated the pair of women in thick coats over by the roadside. Clovenhoof stared at the two biddies who were intensely studying the bus stop timetable.

  “I’ve seen them before,” he said quietly.

  “Maybe you’ve got stalkers,” Nerys said and giggled into her glass. “No more drink for me. I’m driving.”

  Clovenhoof shook his head.

  “I assumed they were...”

  “What?”

  “Part of my illness. But you can see them too?”

  “Course I can. I’m not the one with – what was it? - dissociative pseudomania.”

  “I’m starting to get an idea of what they might really be.”

  “Not stalkers?” said Nerys.

  “The duplicitous twins. The tarot reader said there would be a pair of women who were not what they seem. I think I know exactly what they are.”

  He stood up.

  “Jeremy?”

  “Hey, you,” he called to one of the women. “You know your coat’s a cotton and wool mix, don’t you?”

  The two women exchanged a glance and then the one that Clovenhoof had shouted at took off her coat and flung it to the floor as though it had burned her.

  Clovenhoof grinned at Nerys. “Gotta love that crazy Leviticus; neither shall a garment mingled of linen and woollen come upon thee.”

  He sprinted forwards, kicking off his shoes, vaulted the beer garden fence and punched the coatless woman in the face. The old woman flew backwards, hitting her head hard on the floor.

  “What have you done?” yelled Nerys and then gasped as the old dear sprang to her feet in a single fluid movement that was straight out of a Jackie Chan movie.

  “Angels!” growled Clovenhoof. “Twatting cockless bastards! I knew it!”

  “Oh, my goodness,” warbled the other biddy. “It’s one of them young hooligans, Doris. Probably on drugs or-”

  Clovenhoof silenced her with a fist to the chops. He followed it up with another punch and a swift hoof kick to the stomach. Yes! He had hooves! Of course he did!

  “You must have been loving all this,” he bellowed as he continued to beat her. “You made me think I was human!”

  He drove the last word home with a vicious sidekick to the woman, sending her reeling into the road. The old dear turned around, dazed, and saw that she had dropped her collapsible brolly. She bent to pick it up and was immediately struck by a passing articulated lorry.

  Nerys screamed loudly, but this was instantly reduced to a low mewling sound as she realised that all that remained in the road was a coat, woollen stockings, a pair of stout shoes and a sprinkling of golden light, like tinsel.

  Nerys sat at the picnic table, hugging herself and moaning softly. A hundred yards down the road, an ashen-faced haulier stood outside the open door of his cab, his whol
e body trembling. He was staring at the clothes lying limply in the middle of road and shaking his head numbly.

  Clovenhoof dragged the remaining old woman by the collar of her cardigan over to the picnic table. Nerys whimpered as the woman was pushed down onto the seat.

  “Lucky this place is quiet at the moment,” growled Clovenhoof. “Angels popping up would raise a few eyebrows.”

  “Killing old ladies, you mean-”

  Clovenhoof broke her nose with his fist. She clutched at it painfully.

  “You can stop that right now,” he said. “Show us your real form.”

  There was a brief pop, a miasma of yellow light, and the old lady was replaced by a beautiful youth in a white gown. He took his hands away from his face to reveal his nose was fully restored.

  Clovenhoof broke it again. The youth pulled a sulky face.

  “You really shouldn’t have disincorporated Parvuil, you know,” he said. “There’ll be no end of trouble.”

  “Trouble! TROUBLE! The only trouble worth worrying about is the trouble I’m about to cause. Now listen to me you snivelling wretch – what’s your name?”

  “Doris. Vretil, I mean. But you can call me Doris if you want, I quite like it.”

  “Oh please,” said Clovenhoof.

  “What happened to the old lady?” whispered Nerys faintly. Clovenhoof ignored her.

  “I want some answers out of you,” Clovenhoof demanded. ”What on earth is going on here?”

  “We’re Recording Angels.”

  Vretil indicated the notebook tucked into a fold of his gown.

  Clovenhoof grabbed the notebook and flicked through the pages, looking at some of the entries.

  Head-butted shop assistant

  Drunken behaviour (again)

  Stole money from bank (query – did Michael authorise this?)

  Unsuitable role model for children (see pictures from school assembly)

  Clovenhoof tossed it aside.

  “But why was I put into Herbert’s old flat? Is he behind all of this?”

  “Herbert’s just a lackey,” said Vretil, “but so am I. I’m just a Recording Angel. I was supposed to tell them what you were doing.” He glanced at the discarded notebook on the grass. “We weren’t doing any harm. We were only following orders.”

  “That is what I hate about you lot,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s what I’ve always hated.”

  He stood up and grabbed a heavy cast-iron parasol base. He brought it crashing down onto Vretil’s head and sent him the same way as Parvuil.

  Ben sat in front of a table, with three policemen on the other side, staring at him. He recognised PC Pearson, but he hadn’t seen the other two before. One had a shock of white hair that stood up from his head like a brush, and the other one had terribly bloodshot eyes. He was the one asking most of the questions. Ben was getting fed up of his questions, because most of them were repeats. He’d seen them write down answers in their notebooks, but he’d ask the same question again, in a slightly different way, as if Ben would be dumb enough to answer differently.

  “So, tell me again about the night Mr Dewsbury met his death. I’m interested in the weapon, and how you came to have it upon your person.”

  “I told you already,” said Ben, “it was a replica sword, part of my Seleucid weaponry collection.”

  “A replica sword, not a real one?”

  Ben sighed. “It’s a replica of a sword that would have been used by a Seleucid soldier. It’s a real sword though.”

  “Sharp then?”

  “Yes, sharp. Really, really sharp, as it turns out.” Ben shuddered at the memory.

  “One might consider it an offensive weapon then?”

  Ben shrugged. “I bought it from a specialist website. I’m fairly sure it was legal.”

  “Mr Kitchen,” said the detective, “we’ll see what the jury says about that. It’s certainly an unusual thing to possess, and even more unusual to be handling it when receiving visitors.”

  “I wasn’t receiving visitors, he just came to the door when I was cleaning it.”

  “Well, I think we’ve got a pattern of unusual behaviour here. For instance, you still haven’t adequately explained why you have a woman’s head in your wardrobe.”

  “Yes I did,” said Ben. “It was a spare part for a doll.”

  “A sex doll?” asked the detective, leaning forward.

  “Yes,” said Ben, going red, “but I never actually slept with her.”

  “And you no longer have this doll in your possession?”

  “No. I threw her, I mean it, away.”

  “Apart from the spare head, which you chose to keep in the wardrobe,” said the detective, nodding to the other two, as if this proved he was right about everything. “You see I’m wondering whether you like to keep souvenirs. You’ve obviously kept Mr Dewsbury’s hand for instance.”

  “No,” said Ben, “I told you that dropped off when I tried to get rid of the body.”

  “Ah yes, when you tried to carry it off for burial. Interesting that. You know you don’t look that strong.”

  “Sorry?” said Ben.

  “To carry a body on your own. Did you have help from someone?”

  “No, of course not!” said Ben. “Who would help me with a job like that?”

  “Who indeed? Who indeed?” The detective with the bloodshot eyes was trying to annoy him, Ben was certain. Trying to get him to blurt out something stupid in a temper.

  “So my last question is about this sword of yours,” said the detective. “What did you do with it after the death of Mr Dewsbury?”

  “I gave it away. I couldn’t bear to have it around.”

  “You gave it away. And who did you give it to?”

  “Some guy I met in a pub. I don’t know his name.”

  The detective sat back in his chair and looked at Ben for a long moment before speaking.

  “We’ve got your first appearance at the Crown Court this afternoon. You know, I think you might go to prison for a very long time, the way this is shaping up.”

  Ben nodded solemnly and tried to look unhappy at the prospect.

  “I told you, I’ve had a brainwave. You need to drive us,” said Clovenhoof.

  “I don’t think I can’t drive,” said Nerys faintly, her mind a billion miles away as she looked back at the beer garden and tried to process what had just happened there. “You drive.”

  “Excuse me,” said Clovenhoof irritably and pointed at his feet. “Hooves and pedals don’t go.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

  As Clovenhoof directed her to Pitspawn’s house, he chattered excitedly.

  “I need to speak to Michael or Peter. I know they’re behind this.”

  “Behind what?” said Nerys. It was an automatic question. It felt good to be driving, to be talking without thinking. It was better than doing nothing, better than actually thinking.

  “I don’t know,” said Clovenhoof. “They’re up to something but I’ve got no way to get hold of them at the moment.”

  “Do we have any alcohol?”

  “What?”

  “I need alcohol.”

  “Focus, Nerys. Turn right here. I do know someone who’ll have answers.”

  “Who?”

  “We need Pitspawn.”

  “Pitspawn has the answers?”

  “No, but he can get hold of someone who does. Park here. Here.”

  As Nerys pulled up, Clovenhoof jumped out and hammered loudly on a house door. A woman with her grey hair tied back in a bun opened the door.

  “Excuse me, Mrs Pitspawn,” said Clovenhoof and barged past her.

  The woman turned and called up the stairs.

  “Darren! Your friend’s here. Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise. “And a young lady as well!”

  The woman beamed at Nerys. Nerys, despite her scrambled brains, managed a polite smile of greeting and followed Clovenhoof up the stairs at a trot and into dark attic bedroom which, from the look
(and the smell of it) should have belonged to a teen metal-fan with no girlfriend but which apparently belonged to a forty-something with male pattern baldness and a fondness for unhealthy foods.

  “Pitspawn!” said Clovenhoof breathlessly. “I need your help.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh yeah, this is Nerys.”

  Pitspawn looked at Nerys, wide-eyed and fearful.

  “He’s terribly shy with girls, but he’s a lovely lad,” said the woman, Pitspawn’s mom, coming up the stairs.

  She entered the room and placed a hand on Nerys’s shoulder.

  “Well go on, Darren, say hello to the lovely young lady. You know any girl that gets to know you would realise how adorable you are!” She turned to Nerys. “He’s very attentive. Kind generous nature-”

  “Mom, please!” said Pitspawn, almost bent over with mortal embarrassment. “Can you leave us alone?”

  Pitspawn’s mom retreated reluctantly down the stairs, giving Nerys a little wave.

  “Very attentive,” she whispered to Nerys with a conspiratorial wink.

  “I need a resurrection spell,” said Clovenhoof to Pitspawn.

  “What?”

  “Resurrection spell. Now.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Look, I know it’s in your book, you said it was last time.” Clovenhoof hopped with anxiety. “Let’s have a look, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

  “You really want to perform a resurrection.”

  “Yes. I said.”

  “It’s not that easy to do. You need the body of the person.” Pitspawn looked towards the staircase. “You didn’t bring a body with you, did you?”

  “No, the body’s in the mortuary,” said Clovenhoof, “but I bet the spell will work if we have some small part of it.”

  “Oh, please, no!” Nerys muttered. “I’ve had enough weird shit for one day.”

  “What part did you have in mind?” asked Pitspawn.

  Clovenhoof went over to the wall and took down a sword.

  “Ben gave you this, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Pitspawn. “I always wondered why he didn’t want it any more. It’s a lovely piece.”

  “This is the reason,” said Clovenhoof, pointing to a brown smear near to the end, “it’s the weapon that killed Herbert Dewsbury. This is his blood.”

  “No. Fucking. Way,” said Pitspawn, a sudden and huge grin on his face. “You serious? This blade killed someone?”