Clovenhoof (28 page)

“On your cue, remember,” he said.

“Moo,” said Thor dutifully.

Little Peroni Picken, with a towel on her head, strode to centre stage.

“Where are my sons?” she declared with the slow and deliberate pronunciation of the conscientious child actor.

“Here we are,” chorused Kenzie Kelly and Herbie Gates.

“I want my share of your money,” said Kenzie.

“But I’m not dead yet,” said Peroni.

“But I want it!”

Peroni counted out invisible coins and shook her head.

“Now spend that wisely,” she said.

Kenzie trotted over to the side of the stage where he contrived to demonstrate through energetic mime the travails of a young man who did not spend his wealth wisely. Mercedes Jones appeared, slapped Kenzie about a bit and told him to look after Araminta Dowling, who was a pig.

“Can I have some of your seeds?” Kenzie asked the pig. “I’m sooo hungry.”

“No. Oink, oink.”

“This is rubbish!” declared Kenzie, jumping to his feet. “I’ve lost all my money. I’ll go back home and maybe my father will employ me as a servant.”

Kenzie trudged the many miles back to centre stage.

“Is that you, son?” said Peroni.

“Yes. I’ve lost all my money. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so glad to see you. Servants! Bring him a robe and sandals.”

Spartacus Wilson and Pixie Kaur wrapped a tablecloth around Kenzie’s shoulders and stuck imaginary sandals on his feet.

“Slaughter a fatted calf in honour of his return,” declared Peroni.

Thor Lexworth-Hall shuffled forward and said, “Moo.”

“Hang on!” said Herbie Gates. “Why does he get all this good stuff when I’ve been a good son all along?”

“Because I can buy his love. I don’t need to buy yours,” said Peroni. “Besides, I can do what I like, so there!”

And at this declaration, Spartacus drew his cardboard sword and swung it down at Thor’s neck. Thor convulsed his arms, squeezing the plastic bottles and sent two red jets of tomato sauce arcing over the stage and into the front rows. There were shrieks and gasps and not much in the way of camera clicking.

Thor rolled onto his side, dead. Spartacus plucked the cow mask from his face.

“Our bloody sacrifice is made,” he said. “Hoorah!”

The parents and younger siblings in the audience stared. There was a long silent pause, punctuated only by the plaintive cry of a frightened toddler.

Clovenhoof decided to get the applause rolling and clapped loudly.

No one joined in but he kept going undeterred.

Clovenhoof stood on the pavement just outside the school grounds and looked through the glass doors to reception, watching Nerys in conversation with Mrs Well-Dunn and the head teacher. The conversation went on for a very long time and there was some head shaking, some arm waving and even some poking.

Clovenhoof shifted from hoof to hoof and watched and waited with interest. At last, Nerys emerged, red-cheeked, walked out of the gates, past Clovenhoof and along the road without a word.

“Hey,” said Clovenhoof, following close behind.

Nerys strode on, ignoring him.

“What did they say?” he called.

Still no response.

“Do they want me back on Monday?”

He trotted to catch up.

“Admit it,” he said. “They liked it, didn’t they?”

Nerys stopped stock still, then turned slowly and, as Clovenhoof came within range, punched him in the side of the head. He sat down clumsily on the wet pavement.

“Ow,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

“You vile colossal fuckwitted bastard!” she screeched. “How could you do that?”

“It was quite easy really. He just had ketchup bottles under his arms.”

Nerys made a wordless shriek.

“It wasn’t real blood,” he protested.

“You’ve no idea what you’ve done, have you? You were meant to be in a warehouse position.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t fancy that.”

Nerys towered over him and pointed a finger in his face.

“We told the school the person we were sending was a qualified teaching assistant. We told them they’d been checked for criminal records. You’ve broken the law.
I’ve
broken the law. The parents could sue the school if they wanted to.”

“Look,” said Clovenhoof with placatory hand gestures, “that ketchup will come right out. They just need to put their clothes on a hot wash cycle.”

Nerys kicked him viciously in the shin.

“You don’t understand,” she hissed. “I hate you. I never want to see you again.”

“An overreaction, surely?” he suggested but he was alone and talking to himself.

After a time, he picked himself up, brushed at the wet seat of his trousers and trudged down to the high street and the
Books ‘n’ Bobs
bookshop. In the empty shop, Ben was sorting through a box of new stock.

“Hey,” said Clovenhoof.

“And to you,” said Ben. “Look, I’m quite busy.”

“I see.”

“Room clearance after some ninety year old lady died up at the Willows. Got a box of first edition Barbara Cartlands.”

“Really?”

“She was a keen glider pilot, you know.”

“Is that how she died?”

Ben looked at Clovenhoof.

“I mean, ninety. That’s a hell of an age to-”

Aren’t you meant to be at work?” said Ben.

“Meh,” said Clovenhoof, shrugging.

“What happened?”

“I’ve lost my job. Nerys shouted at me too.”

“Did you deserve it?”

Clovenhoof scratched his beard as he thought.

“No. Not really. I just think I’ve had a run of bad luck. The job. Money worries. A less than successful meal out at the Karma Lounge with Blenda.”

“Karma Lounge,” said Ben with a frown. “Where have I seen that recently?”

“It’s only just down the high street.”

“No,” he said and pulled a printed sheet from under the counter. “Here...”

“What’s that?” said Clovenhoof and then saw the credit company logo on the top of the sheet.

Ben traced his finger down the list of payments.

“You went there last Friday,” said Ben, “but my card was declined.”

“What do you mean?” said Clovenhoof in exaggerated tones of innocence.

Ben looked at him squarely and at the shoelace with cow skull clasp around Clovenhoof’s neck.

“Is that a bolo tie?” said Ben.

Clovenhoof fiddled with it but it failed to vanish.

“I can explain,” he said. “There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I took your credit card.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I had run out of money.”

“And?”

“And?”

“And what?”

“That’s it. It was either steal money from you or get a job.”

“Four thousand pounds.”

“Money isn’t real, Ben.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“It’s a consensual illusion.”

“I trusted you.”

“I know. But you have to know I’ve never lied to you except when it was really necessary or convenient.”

“I thought you were my...”

“What?”

Ben wiped his eyes with his sleeve and turned away.

“Get out,” he said quietly.

“You want me to go?”

Ben went into the back room and shut the door.

“Right,” said Clovenhoof to the empty shop. “That was a bit rude, wasn’t it?”

He sauntered out of the shop, stopping only to flick through a book of Degas paintings and earmark the pages with the nudes on.

At the Boldmere Oak, Lennox refused to serve him.

“You owe me from earlier in the week,” said the barman.

“Yeah, but I got fired.”

“No money, no drink,” said Lennox, not unkindly.

“Bugger.”

“Here,” said Blenda, stepping in with a twenty pound note.

Lennox gave her a look that suggested, again not unkindly, that she was being a fool but took the money anyway.

“You’re a darling,” said Clovenhoof.

“Come sit down,” she told him. “I think you might need to tell me everything.”

“Okay.”

They sat down in a corner and Clovenhoof told her exactly why Nerys and Ben were angry with him. She had to ask a few questions to clarify the more obscure points but she let him tell his whole story without comment and judgement.

“And that’s what happened,” he said.

Blenda nodded.

“I like you, Jeremy.”

“I like me too.”

“You’re funny. You’re unpredictable. You make the world a more interesting place.”

“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t make you a good man, does it?”

“No.”

Blenda sipped at her wine and looked briefly into its golden depths.

“Do you know what men want from women?” she asked. “Really, really want from them?”

“Constant sexual gratification?”

“Absolution.”

“Absolution?”

“Men want someone to hold them, tell them everything’s going to be all right and, ultimately, they want someone to forgive them.”

“For what?”

“Everything, Jeremy. Everything.”

“Okay,” said Clovenhoof. “Good.”

“But I’m not the one who has to forgive you.”

“I don’t want forgiveness.”

A look passed across Blenda’s face that Clovenhoof hadn’t seen before.

“I can cope with you being a bastard but don’t be a twat as well. The way I see it, you owe some sincere apologies to your friends and you owe one of them a ton of cash too.”

“That’s tough because I haven’t got a job at the moment.”

Blenda opened her purse and took from it a business card.

“Isn’t it lucky then that I know someone who’s hiring? Gordon Buford’s a friend of a friend. He initially wanted someone with beauty therapy experience.”

“Do I look like a beauty therapist?”

“There’s nothing to it. Besides, Gordon’s clients they’re... not likely to complain.”

She handed him in the business card. Clovenhoof read it.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. And Jeremy?”

“Yes?”

“Cock this job up and I will snap you like a twig.”

Gordon Buford was a round and sanguine man with a disconcertingly tactile nature. He kept up a cheery, one-sided and mostly content-free conversation as he physically guided Clovenhoof through a tour of his business.

“And here,” said Gordon, steering Clovenhoof through a set of double doors into a tiled room, “is where you’re going to help prepare our clients for the big day, assuming we decide to take you on. Manpreet.”

A tall, wide man in a plastic apron looked up from the gurney at which he was working.

“This is Jeremy,” said Gordon. “We’re considering him for the assistant position.”

“Here,” said Manpreet, drawing Jeremy up to the trolley with a huge arm. Clearly, the touching was some sort of company policy. “This is Mrs Fincher.”

Clovenhoof looked down at the pale, shrivelled corpse on the gurney.

“Until recently, a resident of the Willows Nursing Home,” said Manpreet.

“Ninety years old,” said Clovenhoof.

“Yes,” said Manpreet surprised. “Now you see this wound here.” He indicated a line of ruptured skin and bruising that ran down her face and onto her chest.

“Did she do that in the gliding accident?”

Manpreet frowned.

“No. When she had a heart attack and fell against a chest of drawers. Now, what we’re going to do is use our range of pastes and cosmetics to fill in the wound and blend in with the rest of her lovely face.”

“Right now?”

“Sure,” said Gordon. “You’ve seen a corpse and kept your lunch down. That’s good enough for me. Let’s see how the rest of the day goes.”

“Great,” said Clovenhoof.

He looked down at the corpse once more.

“Hello, Mrs Fincher.”

Clovenhoof took a bunch of flowers up to Nerys’s flat. He considered knocking but then decided against it; neither of them was quite ready for that. He left them leaning against the door. The attached message was short and to the point. He hoped she noticed that they were expensive flowers and that he hadn’t stolen them from a roadside accident black spot.

He returned to his flat, picked up an envelope containing half his week’s wages and went out into the corridor so he could post them through Ben’s door.

“What’s this?” said Michael, lounging against the wall.

“Just some money I owe someone,” said Clovenhoof.

“Wow. Settling debts. That’s...” He waved the air for inspiration. “Mature. Noble even.”

Clovenhoof shrugged.

“They’re my friends. I want them to forgive me.”

“Forgive?” said Michael as though he’d been burned.

“I want them to be my friends again.”

“That is not like you,” said Michael. It was more of an instruction than a statement.

“I thought you were big on penitence and forgiveness,” said Clovenhoof.

“Well, yes, in a general sense. Of course we are. I mean, I am. But you’re a special case.”

“How am I a special case?”

“You rejected Him.”

“Humans do it all the time.”

“Knowing full well that He exists and that He is love, you rejected Him. There can be no greater separation between two individuals than there is between Him and you.”

Clovenhoof stroked his beard.

“What about the prodigal son?”

“Please. Parables are open to so many interpretations. That’s part of their quaint charm.”

“There would be no greater celebration than the reconciliation between the father and his most wayward child.”

“Come now,” said Michael, loosening his shirt collar, which was suddenly too tight. “You cannot be forgiven unless you truly repent.”

“Maybe I do.”

“And you think you will be granted forgiveness?”

“The shepherd will sacrifice everything to rescue that one lost sheep.”

“I think you’re a bit more than a lost sheep,” said Michael, his strangled voice shooting up an octave.

“His mercy knows no bounds.”

“But you’re...” He glanced about to see in anyone was in earshot. “You’re the devil!”

“I am one of His creations.”

“An angel. You do not have man’s free will to sin or seek redemption.”

“Either I have free will and can seek redemption or I have none and was never responsible for my actions. You can’t have it both ways.”