Handwash Hysteria (Clovenhoof: The Isolation Chronicles Book 2)

by Heide Goody

  As Clovenhoof strolled the supermarket aisles, he noticed signs on many of the shelves that declared a new limit for customers. People were now only permitted to buy two of any item. He frowned and consulted Persephone’s list. She wanted six bananas, but surely that wouldn’t be a problem? He loaded up the basket.

  When he got to the till, the operator pointed at the bananas. “You can only have two of a single item,” he said.

  “Two bananas?” said Clovenhoof.

  “Yeah, new policy.”

  “These aren’t even for me, I’m shopping for a vulnerable person.”

  The young man sighed. “It’s just the policy.”

  “There are five bananas in the pre-packed bags, what if I’d bought a bag?” said Clovenhoof.

  “That would be fine. In fact you could have two bags.”

  “If I can have ten bananas when they’re bagged up, why can’t I buy these six?”

  “It’s the policy. Do you want to swap?”

  “Yes I do,” said Clovenhoof “And while we are at it, can we talk about boxes of Lambrini? Can I buy two of those?”

  Clovenhoof was beside himself with glee as he walked home. While the new supermarket policy was in its infancy, the store had been confused enough to let him buy two warehouse boxes of Lambrini, just so he’d shut up and go away. He wheeled his prize back home, wondering where he could put the new boxes, as he had already exceeded his flat’s capacity. He decided to store them in Persephone’s shed, as he could easily get to them there. He dropped the bag of shopping on her doorstep after removing the extra four bananas.

  “Who wants a banana?” shouted Clovenhoof to Ben and Nerys. “Not a euphemism!”

  “What?” Nerys came downstairs as Ben emerged from his flat. “Jesus fucking Christ Ben! Take off that hideous mask!”

  “It’s for your protection as well as mine,” said Ben from behind his bright green ogre mask.

  Clovenhoof held up the bananas, a two fingered salute to each of them. “Spare bananas. I know you two eat them, so consider it a gift from me to you.”

  Nerys glared at him as she took her bananas. “I can’t help thinking there’s something the matter with them. Ben, I want to see you eat one first.” She pushed past Clovenhoof, went into his lounge and plonked herself on a chair.

  Ben followed her in. “They look okay to me, but I normally have my banana at eleven in the morning. It’s weird to eat one at three in the afternoon.”

  Nerys gave him a withering look. “There’s only one weird thing about what you just said, now get it down you.”

  “Also, I’m wearing a mask.”

  “Eat it, Kitchen!”

  Ben peeled the banana and ate it while Clovenhoof egged him on with as many blow job mimes and sound effects as he could come up with.

  “Mmph, it’s a perfectly normal banana.” Ben nodded with approval, his cheeks bulging like a hamster.

  “Jeremy, have you moved your furniture around?” said Nerys. “There’s something different, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “The elephant stool? Cool isn’t it?”

  “No, the layout or something.”

  “I probably just shifted it while I was cleaning,” said Clovenhoof.

  Ben and Nerys both stared at him. “Cleaning?”

  “It happens sometimes.”

  “No, your idea of cleaning is to set fire to the house so it needs rebuilding,” said Nerys. “So I don’t know why, but you’re lying. There is something funny about your furniture. I even feel as though this sofa is higher than normal. My feet don’t touch the ground.”

  Nerys crouched to look at the base of the sofa. It had a little fabric fringe, and when she lifted it she revealed a row of Lambrini bottles, lying side by side underneath.

  “What on earth is this?” She stood and poked him in the chest with a sharp fingernail. “You’ve been panic buying Lambrini, haven’t you?”

  “I was just making sure their business is well supported; in case they need to switch to hand sanitiser production. I thought it was a pretty noble endeavour, if I’m honest.” Clovenhoof concentrated on looking sincere and noble, while hoping Nerys didn’t check underneath all the other furniture.

  “Well, I’m disappointed in you Jeremy. What if a vulnerable person needed some?”

  “Maybe he’s doing them a favour?” said Ben. “If they’re vulnerable, boozing is doing them no favours.”

  “Not the point!” said Nerys, “and a little bit judgey too, Ben.”

  “Well, it’s here now,” said Clovenhoof airily. “It means I won’t need to buy any for a couple of days, that’s all.”

  Ben was poking at his seat cushion. Clovenhoof strolled past and pulled Ben’s mask away from his face, before letting the elastic snap it back.

  “Ow! What was that for? It’s just there’s something lumpy in this seat. I was going to—”

  “—I don’t believe it!” yelled Nerys, as her phone buzzed. “I got a text from Persephone. She’s had another shopping delivery! That bloody Tina!”

  Clovenhoof rolled his eyes. “Tsk.”

  12

  Clovenhoof moved more of his Lambrini stash over to Persephone’s shed. It was a secure hiding place, away from Nerys’s prying eyes (and Ben’s sensitive butt cheeks). He discovered Persephone had set up some of her equipment. He’d been hoping for elaborate glassware, glooping sound effects and possibly some sinister smoke, but this was a slightly disappointing stainless-steel container, somewhat like a stockpot. There was another, larger container that looked like a plastic dustbin. It had a handwritten label on the side that read Mash, and contained an unappetising beige sludge. While Clovenhoof was investigating the contents, he discovered it was slightly warm. It turned out the plastic bin stood on top of a heated pad. Clovenhoof imagined reclining in his deckchair and warming his feet on the heated pad. Better still, he could put it underneath his bum! He realised he could indulge any fantasy he liked within the walls of this shed, because Persephone would not enter if she knew he was inside. He should really get some sort of sliding sign for the door to indicate if he was in or out, but for now he made do with tuneless whistling to make it clear that he was in residence.

  He lifted the mash container and removed the heated pad. It was plugged into an extension lead, so it was an easy task to move it across to his deckchair. He settled it underneath himself, grabbed a Lambrini and reclined with a gasp of pure pleasure. The spreading warmth was like urinating into his pants, without the bother of wet clothes to clear up afterwards. He closed his eyes and settled in.

  Life could not be sweeter. Here he was with that warm, just-pissed-myself feeling, knowing he was well on the way to providing a grateful nation with a much-needed batch of hand sanitiser and thus, simultaneously, averting the need for Lambrini to switch its production from this surely-much-more-vital golden alco-fizz. With such warm feelings (inside and out) a devil could sleep happy.

  Clovenhoof woke up when his phone buzzed with a text. It was from Nerys.

  I CALLED THE FOOD BANK BUT THEY WON’T ACCEPT ALCOHOL SO YOU CAN KEEP IT FOR NOW. I’LL BE WATCHING YOU.

  There were several eyeball, pointy finger and devil emojis at the end.

  Clovenhoof shuddered at the possibility of having to give away his precious stash. He stretched. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he’d been so very comfy in the deck chair. He wandered back home, hoping Nerys hadn’t meant her comment literally. He was enjoying the fact he had a secret second shed (or possibly it should count as a first shed, given that none of the ones at home had ever lasted very long).

  13

  It was a very quiet day indeed in Books ’n’ Bobs. A handful of customers had come in during the morning. Very few had made it past the quarantine zone door mat. Three of them had taken one look at Ben in his protective ogre mask, thermometer gun in hand, and backed away hurriedly. One had actually screamed, thrown her purse at him and sobbed, “Take it! Take it all!”

  The
only one who had actually made it into the shop spent twenty minutes myopically browsing the shelves before coming to the counter. He squinted at the CCTV images on Ben’s computer screen.

  “What’s that then?” he said.

  “They’re my birds,” said Ben. “I’ve just built them a new house. It’s a nice house but quite secure. They can’t escape.”

  “Er, right,” said the man, backing away without making a single purchase.

  Things had been so quiet, Ben even had time to wait on hold for fifty minutes to get through to the sign company and tell them about his wonky shop sign. They promised to fix it, but couldn’t give a date when they’d have someone free to come over.

  Shortly before closing time, Kenneth Kim, owner of the restaurant over the road came to the shop.

  “Nah, I’m not coming in,” he said as Ben began to wave his thermometer at him. “I’ve just got to tell you, this ain’t working, Mr Kitchen.” He waved his hands towards Ben’s face.

  “It provides perfect and complete barrier protection,” said Ben.

  “You look like something that should be living under a bridge, mate. It’s scaring away your customers.”

  “You think?”

  Mr Kim shook his head. “Frankly, mate. It’s scaring away everyone’s customers. I had no one at lunchtime. And I blame that fifty percent on the virus and fifty percent on you. I’ve got no one booked in for tonight and only two people booked in for tomorrow.”

  “But I’m trying to save lives,” said Ben. “I don’t want me or my customers to catch anything, either from each other or from improper handling of the books.”

  “Books ain’t going to harm anyone, mate,” said Mr Kim. “Your ugly face might though. Give it a rest.”

  Mr Kim went back over to Korean BBQ House, giving Ben a final glare before going in.

  Ben felt affronted. Here he was making his best efforts to keep his business going while protecting the public at the same time, and what thanks did he get? None. Just an earful of abuse from local restauranteurs.

  He grumped to himself all the way home and scowled at anyone who recoiled from his wonderful protective mask. Fine! he thought. They could hate him if they wanted but he was the one being morally responsible. He was sort of like Batman, a misunderstood force for good, feared but on the side of justice.

  He found himself humming the old Batman TV theme. A few “Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-nas” did a lot to lift the spirits. He soon switched from ending each line with “Batman!” to “Kitchen!” He would have used his first name, but it just didn’t scan. As soon as he got home, he went round the back to feed his chickens. Bucephalus, Marengo, Palomo and Mrs Cluckington had already taken themselves to bed in their new playhouse home.

  He automatically switched his limited song lyrics to “Chickens!” as he approached, even throwing in couple of hip-wiggling dance moves as he approached. He opened the playhouse door to go in and check on them. “Coming in, girls, ready or not!”

  14

  Distracted by the weird, off-key singing from a few gardens over, Clovenhoof almost missed the note pinned on Persephone’s shed door when he went round to check on their chemistry project. It was written on lavender note paper.

  Come to the door tomorrow, I need to talk to you.

  Clovenhoof did as instructed. Bright and early on Saturday morning, he walked round to Persephone’s front and shouted through the letterbox.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said from the other side. “We’ve had a minor setback.”

  “Oh no. What was that?”

  “Somehow the heating pad got dislodged from underneath the mash. There was a frost and the yeast has died.”

  Clovenhoof was very glad that the door was presenting a decent poker face on his behalf. “Oh. I don’t know what mash is, but it was important then?”

  “Yes. It was the fermentation that would have provided the base alcohol we were going to distil.”

  “Oh.” Clovenhoof briefly mourned the passing of potential alcohol. “Do we need to get some more then?”

  “No need, I found an alternative.”

  “Oh?”

  Would you believe I had a whole shedload of Lambrini? Literally.”

  “Oh?”

  “No idea where it came from. I hate the muck, but it will serve our purposes very well. I’ve passed most of it through the process already.”

  Clovenhoof was briefly speechless.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” asked Persephone.

  “Yes,” said Clovenhoof weakly. “So the Lambrini has been processed into … into what exactly?”

  “Do you want the full lecture, or the edited highlights?” asked Persephone.

  “The abridged dummies guide.”

  She harrumphed in disappointment. “Well, some of it comes off as methanol. That’s toxic of course. I’ve made sure to bottle that up separately and label it. If anybody were to drink it they’d go blind, and it’s highly flammable as well, so take care. The rest is ethanol, which is the classic moonshine spirit.”

  “Moonshine made from Lambrini,” mused Clovenhoof, head whirling with the possibilities. “Interesting. What happens next?”

  “Well, as per the original plan, it will be mixed with the emollient and bottled up. I’ll get to that tomorrow. I’ve only got enough emollient for about half of the spirit, though.”

  Clovenhoof beamed at her through the door. “Then don’t worry, I shall take care of the other half!”

  “Good, it would be as well to split it up a little bit in case any fumes escape. Nobody wants accidental combustion, do they?”

  “No,” said Clovenhoof sincerely. “We don’t want to set any more sheds on fire.”

  “You make a habit of it, do you?” she laughed.

  “Slip of the tongue. I’ll get right onto the splitting up of things,” said Clovenhoof.

  He jogged over to the shed with much excitement. “Oh, Lambrini moonshine! I have never wanted anything so much. Come to papa, you gorgeous creation!”

  He crossed to the workbench where there was a row of large bottles. Some were labelled ethanol and some were labelled methanol.

  Which one was which? He couldn’t remember. One was drinkable and the other one would make him blind. Wouldn’t be the first time. He took a tentative sniff of an ethanol bottle. Was that a wispy memory of the rhubarb special Lambrini he’d scored a box of? He swigged it down and gasped at the punch it delivered. He put the bottle down, still not sure which one this was. In the interests of science he opened a methanol bottle. This one had less of a smell, but the fumes made his eyes water. A swig confirmed it was possibly stronger. Possibly.

  He went to fetch Persephone’s pink shopping trolley, feeling the afterglow like a living thing from his throat down to the pit of his stomach. He smacked his lips in anticipation. Which one had rocked his world? There was one that contained the ghost of his favourite drink, and the other that spoke of pain and death: both delightful in their own way. He took another hefty slurp of each as he loaded up the trolley.

  He counted the bottles, to be sure he was taking half of what was there. Then counted them again as they blurred in and out, making it difficult. There were eight in all, so half of that was … several. He bumped the bottles into the capacious trolley, making sure he could access the one on top. Then he spotted something amazing hanging out of a box of supplies. A length of silicon tubing! He slipped it into the top of the bottle and put the other end in his mouth. What a setup! He staggered along with his new invention, the Boozepusher™, which also served as a useful way of not falling over. He wondered which of the bottles he was currently slurping from, deciding it didn’t matter as drinking it through a straw made it go down much easier.

  This was way too good to waste, so rather than going straight home, he walked up and down the pavement a few times, surprised at the number of angry motorists who had to swerve out of his way, tooting angrily at him. As his vision swam in and out he passed somewhere that he re
cognised. It might have been his own address.

  “Swome heet swome,” he burbled happily.

  He took a long slurp from the tubing and sat down on the low wall outside the garden. It was such a low wall he almost missed and fell straight over it. Almost. He rolled along the ground, giggling at the idea he was so drunk he couldn’t even sit down. Then he slept.

  15

  Nerys knocked on Ben’s door on her way downstairs. He answered the door; or at least something with Ben’s body and a face straight out of a nightmare did.

  “So, it is you!” she said.

  “What’s me?” said Ben.

  “Live Feed Playhouse Sex Goblin.”

  “I’m … what?”

  Nerys produced her phone and found a news webpage. “I was applying for a new job when I came across this. Here.”

  Under a headline of PLAYHOUSE SEX GOBLIN GOES VIRAL was a video clip. Ben immediately recognised it from the CCTV cameras he’d put in the back garden to keep an eye on his precious birds. It was footage from the previous night. Ben watched himself enter the garden, dancing and jiggling to the Batman theme, giving it a bit of liberating bum wiggle as he capered towards the plastic Wendy house.

  On-screen, the ogre-faced Ben loudly declared, “Coming in, girls, ready or not!” before entering the tiny building.

  “Okay,” he said. “I can see how that looks a little bit weird.”

  “A little bit?” She was smiling now. “You filmed yourself being a creepy-ass weirdo then decided to post it on the internet.”