Clovenhoof (35 page)

“I held a rather unsuccessful dinner party the other week.”

She looked at him and blinked (or was it winked?).

“And you’re going to get a big surprise soon.”

“How soon?”

“Very soon.”

“What kind of surprise?”

She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Death, of course.”

Clovenhoof left
Skin Deep
with a spring in his step. The sun was out, Britain’s brief summer now running into four consecutive days, he had killed two birds with one stone, cancelling the tattoo appointment and finding professional help in a single action and, furthermore, he had a big surprise and a death to look forward to, two things he was generally in favour of.

He trotted down Jockey Road onto the Chester Road and into the flats. The builders were making busy noises in flat 2a but he decided not to disturb them. He was sure they’d let him know when their work was done. He put his key in the lock to 2b but the door would only open a few inches.

“Hang on!” squealed a panicked voice from within.

“Ben?”

“Just a minute!”

“You’ve put the security chain on.”

“Yes, just hang on!”

There was a plastic rustling sound and the hiss of aerosol.

“Why? Are you doing something sordid in there?”

“What?”

“Are you wearing women’s clothing?”

“Yes! Yes! Go away. Come back later.”

“Not a chance,” grinned Clovenhoof, stepped back and barged the door. The security chain popped from its housing and he stumbled in.

Ben knelt in the short hallway between the door and the kitchen with the blue and brass trunk open next to him. Inside the base of the trunk, nestling in the folds of a large transparent plastic sheet was a dead body. It was definitely dead and clearly had been for a very long time. The flesh that remained on the corpse was brown, oozing and almost completely rotted away. The putrid juices had soaked through the body’s clothing and much of it lay pooled in the base of the trunk.

Ben stared at Clovenhoof.

Clovenhoof stared at the body.

Well, it was a big surprise. And it was death. How brilliant.

“Surprise!” he shouted, wishing he had some party poppers or streamers to mark the occasion.

Ben burst into tears.

Clovenhoof shut the door, made tea for both of them, and tried to ignore Ben until he stopped crying. However, he unavoidably picked up some details that Ben wailed out between sobs.

Clovenhoof thrust a hot mug into Ben’s hands and looked down at the stinking remains.

“So this is Mr Dewsbury?”

“Yes,” sniffed Ben.

“The previous occupant of my flat?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s been in this chest for the past...”

“Year. Nearly two.”

“And you’ve not shown him to me before?”

Clovenhoof was incredulous. A gruesome treat like this, hidden away. It was like keeping all the chocolate biscuits at the back of the cupboard and only offering visitors custard creams.

“He had awful taste in ornaments,” said Clovenhoof.

Ben sipped the tea, winced at its heat and sobbed again.

“He was a horrible, annoying man. I used to dread bumping into him.”

“Why?”

“He always had something to complain about. Totally OCD. Everything had to be just right, just so. You could never do anything right in his eyes.”

“He’s not your dad though, is he?”

Ben sniffed.

“Is he?” said Clovenhoof.

“No. But... he ran this poxy little campaign.
Keep Boldmere Beautiful
. He’d print up these leaflets and spend every weekend stuffing them through letterboxes. He’d badger the council to plant flowers or put in new litter bins. He protested against the building of Housing Association flats on Gate Lane. He’d patrol up and down the high street, checking tax discs, shouting at teenagers and accusing them of lowering the tone of the area. It was all just an excuse to be nosy, to get involved with other people’s business.”

“Sounds like an arse.”

Ben gave a bitter mirthless laugh.

“You have no idea. He didn’t like my shop.”

“Why not?”

“It was a
second hand
bookshop for one thing. And he didn’t like the name
Books ‘n’ Bobs
. He didn’t like the use of
‘n’
in signage. God, you ought to have seen what he was like with greengrocers who misused apostrophes. He was a punctuation fascist.”

“I can see why you killed him.”

“I didn’t mean to! It just looks...”

Ben shook his head and wiped away fresh tears.

“He came up to see me one evening. I let him in. I didn’t want to argue on the landing. I was polishing my Seleucid armour. I had my sword out.”

“That’s not a euphemism, is it?”

“Jeremy! This isn’t easy.”

“Sorry.”

Ben sighed.

“We talked. We argued. No, he argued. I tried to ignore him. I turned.” Ben looked at his curled fingers, seeing an imaginary sword in his grip. “I turned quickly. Maybe my hands were sweaty. Maybe there was polish on the handle.”

He looked up at Clovenhoof.

“I didn’t mean to kill him.”

Clovenhoof looked at the body. There was a gore-soaked rip in Mr Dewsbury’s jumper, just below the neck.

“Where’s the sword now?” said Clovenhoof, looking over at the shield and helmet on the living room wall.

“I got rid of it. I had to. I just gave it away.”

Clovenhoof nodded.

“What are you going to do?” said Ben.

“Do?”

Clovenhoof bent down and poked Mr Dewsbury’s cheek with his fingertip. His finger went straight through the flesh, knuckle-deep into his mouth. He stood up and inspected the glistening liquid coating his finger.

“Are you going to call the police?” said Ben.

“Do you want me to?”

Ben seemed to give this some serious thought but eventually said, “I just want it all to go away.”

“You want to get rid of it?”

“God, yes.”

“Shame,” said Clovenhoof wistfully. “Okay.”

Ben sniffed noisily and wiped his nose.

“Okay?”

Clovenhoof nodded.

“Okay. I’ll help you get rid of it.”

“Why would you do that?”

Clovenhoof shrugged.

“Dunno. You’re my friend, I guess.”

Ben gave him a long appraising look.

“You’re not the devil. You do know that.”

Clovenhoof opened his mouth to answer but there was a sharp rap at the door. Clovenhoof and Ben looked at each other.

Clovenhoof nodded at the trunk. Ben swung the lid up and over to close it. The lid came down on Mr Dewsbury’s wrist, neatly severing his hand, which dropped onto the carpet. Clovenhoof picked it up, spun round on the spot, opened the bread bin and stuffed the hand inside.

Ben grabbed one of the cans of air freshener he’d been using and began to spray the room.

The knock at the door came again, louder and more insistent.

“Hang on!” called Ben.

“There in a minute!” cried Clovenhoof, adding, “We’re not wearing women’s clothing!”

Ben pushed the trunk against the wall and threw the aerosol in the bin.

Clovenhoof wiped the liquid remains of Mr Dewsbury on his Hawaiian shirt and went to open the door.

Blenda stood there, a business card in her hand.

“I don’t care if you are wearing women’s – My God! What’s that stench?”

Clovenhoof jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Ben’s got a dicky tummy.”

Ben, in the kitchen, pointed to his stomach and pulled a sad face. The sad face didn’t require much effort.

Clovenhoof pointed to his brown-smeared shirt.

“And he’s backed up the toilet. I’ve had to get” – he made complicated hand gestures – “physical. You know?”

Blenda grimaced and stepped back.

“I just came by to give you this.” She handed him the card, making sure their fingers didn’t touch. “Denise is a person-centred therapist. Your first appointment is on Friday.”

“Actually,” said Clovenhoof smugly, “I’ve already sought my own professional help.”

“What from Shelly Greenaway and her tarot cards?”

“Mistress Verthandi, you mean. Hang on, how did you know?”

“Shelly Greenaway, a woman without a proper skincare routine.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“A woman so lacking in common sense that she waited until her ex battered seven bells out of her and blinded her in one eye before deciding he might not be her ideal man.”

“I thought she was very helpful.”

Blenda flicked the card in Clovenhoof’s hand.

“Get proper help. Friday. If I hear you haven’t made your appointment, I’m calling the authorities.”

“Authorities?” warbled Ben from the kitchen.

Blenda gave Clovenhoof a firm poke in the chest to make her point and then regarded the smear on her fingertip. She shuddered and went downstairs.

Clovenhoof closed the door and turned to Ben.

“She’s going to call the authorities,” said Ben.

“Don’t worry,” said Clovenhoof, wandering over to the window, card in hand. “It’ll be fine.”

He looked down at the street to see Blenda climbing into the passenger seat of a car. He couldn’t make out anything of the driver apart from his unfortunate haircut.

Denise, the person-centred therapist, had offices above a bridal wear shop on College Road.

“Must be handy,” said Clovenhoof.

“How so?” asked Denise brightly.

“They send them off to get married. You counsel them through the divorce.”

Denise smiled and held it for three seconds, then made a little noise of interest and sat back in her chair.

“I thought I’d get a couch to lie on,” said Clovenhoof, patting the arms of his chunky armchair.

“And I’d have glasses and a beard and ask about your relationship with your mother?”

“Something like that.”

“There won’t be any Freudian analysis here, Jeremy. We’re here just to talk. Any answers are going to come from you, not me.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m here to listen, to show a genuine interest in your thoughts and feelings.”

“So you’re going to do nothing?”

“I hope to create an unthreatening environment in which you can express yourself and come to grips with the issues that you are facing.”

“What’s with the severed head then?”

He pointed at the stone carving on the window sill.

“The Buddha was a great spiritual thinker,” said Denise. “He uncovered important truths through mere thought and meditation.”

“Before or after they chopped off his head?”

“He was a man of peace. It’s a reminder that this is a safe place where you can say anything without fear of judgement.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows.

“So, if I were to say to you that I am Satan, the devil himself...?”

Denise smiled for three seconds again. She seemed to do that every time she looked like she wanted to say something.

“I would ask you to continue, perhaps ask you to explain why you think that or feel the need to tell me about it.”

“And you’d believe me?”

“I don’t have to believe you to value your opinion. If you make such an assertion and you’re being earnest and honest with me, then I’m not going to condemn you for it.”

“Fascinating,” said Clovenhoof, convinced that the woman was bonkers.

“So, tell me a little about yourself, Jeremy.”

Clovenhoof blew out his cheeks.

“What do you want to know? I’m Jeremy. Satan if you will. Two arms, two legs, two horns. What else is there?”

“What about your personality, your goals, your aspirations?”

He reached for something witty to say but found nothing. He shrugged.

“You must have interests,” said Denise. “What did you do last night, for example?”

“Ah, well...” said Clovenhoof.

They had paused for breath in the dark alleyway that ran behind the house, the body wrapped in several bin bags. It had sagged in unpleasant ways that made Ben feel queasy. It had been especially distressing when they’d had to unwrap it to add the hand from the bread bin, which they’d nearly forgotten.

“Ready?” said Clovenhoof.

Ben hoisted his end of the plastic-wrapped bundle. He couldn’t remember if he had the head or feet. He didn’t want to remember.

“What’s the hammer for?” he asked.

“To smash his teeth in before we bury him,” said Clovenhoof. “We don’t want the feds to be able to recognise him from his dental records.”

“You can do that bit,” said Ben.

“Ah, cheers, mate. Let’s go.”

They walked up the unpaved path between two houses to the main street.

Ben was frightened to step into the orange streetlight, to make himself visible to the world but Clovenhoof pulled him on.

“You shouldn’t be wearing those Bermuda shorts,” said Ben.

“Why not?”

“They’re very... distinctive. Couldn’t you have dressed a little darker?”

“You worry too much.”

“What happens if we’re stopped by the police?”

“We tell them it’s a carpet.”

“Why would we be carrying a carpet around at midnight?”

Clovenhoof was silent as he led them briskly up the road.

“Well, why?” said Ben.

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh, God,” whispered Ben.

“Come on it’s not far to the park.”

“It’s too far.”

Ben let himself be tugged along, floating in some horrible, sick nightmare world. If the police saw them he knew he would drop dead from the shock.

There was a tiny, scraping footstep behind him and he looked back.

“Twinkle.”

The Yorkshire terrier was trotting up behind him.

“Go home,” hissed Ben.

The tiny dog ducked through Ben’s legs, gave a jump and sank his tiny jaws into the underside of their grisly package.

“For Pete’s sake,” said Ben. “Get off.”

“Attracted by the smell,” said Clovenhoof. “Hey, we could bury this runty mutt at the same time.”

“What has Twinkle ever done to you?”

“It’s not so much what he’s done,” said Clovenhoof philosophically. “It’s more that he’s an offence against Mother Nature.”