Clovenhoof (42 page)

Herbert Dewsbury continued to scream as he got to his feet in Pitspawn’s room.

“This isn’t Heaven!” he screeched. “Where am I?”

He spun around and saw three people staring at him.

“Erdington,” said the fat, balding one.

He recognised the other man instantly.

“Satan!” he yelled, pointing. “Clovenhoof! Whatever!”

“See?” said Clovenhoof, giving the woman a smug look. “I
am
Satan.”

“Nerys?” said Herbert.

“Herbert,” said Nerys.

Herbert’s nostrils flared. He had no idea what was going on but he didn’t like it one jot, not one iota.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “You’re all going to be in such a lot of trouble for this!”

Clovenhoof rolled his eyes.

“Everyone’s so worried about all the trouble I’m supposed to be in. What about you, Herbert?”

“What do you mean?” snapped Herbert.

“You haven’t got your pal Peter to protect you now, and you’re at my mercy. I’m going to get some answers out of you. Seems to me that you’re in more trouble than I am, right now.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong. I am a paragon of virtue.”

“Really?” He pointed casually. “By the way, I’m not sure whether you noticed, but you’re missing a hand as well.”

Herbert looked down at the stump of his right hand, the sealed stub of flesh at his wrist, and began to scream once more.

• Matters Arising
  
• The Throne
  
• Disbanding of Guardian Angel Scheme
  
• Clovenhoof
  
• Doctrinal Diligence Ministry
  
• Shanty towns
  
• Leasing of extra-celestial property
  
• AOB
  

“Item one, the Throne,” said Joan of Arc.

“Ah, yes,” said St Francis. “We’ve put it off long enough.”

Michael made a noise in his throat.

“I seem to recall that I’m the chair of these meetings.”

“But it’s on the agenda,” said St Francis.

“But St Peter is not here,” said Michael, indicating the empty chair. “It would be a fruitless discussion without his input. We’ll move onto the second item in his absence: the disbanding of the Guardian Angel scheme.”

“Do we have to get rid of the Guardian Angels?” said Pius XII.

Michael shrugged.

“Demand is far outstripping supply.”

“I did warn you,” said Joan.

“There are a hundred million angels in the Heavens,” said Pius.

“And over two billion faithful on Earth,” said Michael. “That’s one angel for every seventy people on Earth.”

“And less than one angel for every hundred people in Heaven,” added Joan.

Michael nodded in sad agreement.

“Long gone are the days when every one of the faithful could be assigned two Recording Angels, one for the good they do, one for the evil.”

“And yet,” said Joan of Arc, “you’ve got two angels following this Jeremy Clovenhoof character.”

“Oh, yes,” grinned Michael. “I was going to share this later but it’s too good, too funny, to hold back on.”

Michael opened the leather wallet on the table in front of him and produced a series of photographs.

At that moment, there was the slamming of a door and St Peter strode into the boardroom.

“You’ve not seen him, have you?” he said.

“Who?” said Pius.

“Herbert.”

“Your servile little friend?”

“Yes! I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Well, he’s got to be somewhere.”

“But he’s gone. Gone!”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” said Michael. “Now, take a look at these.”

St Peter threw himself irritably into his chair.

“What is it?”

“Clovenhoof,” said Michael simply as he dealt the photos out like cards to the board members. “We’ve beaten him.”

Joan picked a couple up. One was a picture of the Clovenhoof man trudging along a dinky nowhere shopping parade. The other one showed the same man half-asleep behind the counter of a grubby shop, his head propped up by his hand.

“He thinks he’s human,” said Michael, savouring the words.

St Peter gripped a photo tightly, creasing it.

“Really? Are you sure?”

St Francis tittered.

“That howwible howwible man? Human?”

“He’s wearing shoes!” said Gabriel.

“I wonder what the theological implications are?” said Pius.

“Who cares?” said Michael. “He’s wearing shoes. He has no toes and he’s trying to wear shoes! It’s priceless.”

“I know this man,” Evelyn said to Joan.

“Who is he?” asked Joan.

“I don’t know. He made a fuss at funeral. He once asked me to exorcise him. A troubled individual. He...” She stopped. “He was the last person I spoke to before I died.”

“Who is he?” Joan asked the general board.

The saints and angels along the table didn’t respond, too busy clucking over this apparent success and making jokes. Even Mother Teresa had cracked a small, wrinkly smile and left her quill and parchment untouched while she looked at the photographs.

Joan stood with a clatter of armour.

“Excuse me,” she said loudly. “Who is this man? Who is Clovenhoof?”

They stopped and looked at her.

Pius put a hand over his mouth to stop a smirk of laughter.

“Can’t you see?” said Michael.

“It’s some bloke,” said Joan.

“No, it isn’t. We put a glamour over him but...” He looked at her. “You’ve met him, Joan. He invited us into his domain and then we turfed him out.”

She peered at it closely.

Michael waved a hand, making an invisible change.

“Satan?” said Joan, her voice little more than whisper.

“That’s right,” grinned Michael.

Joan shook her head.

“This is wrong.”

“It is wrong the Adversary has been defeated?” said Gabriel.

“He was
always
defeated,” said Joan. “Even before he rebelled, he had lost.” Her face was filled with an expression of faint horror. “You’ve all done something terrible here. You’ve let the devil loose on Earth.”

“But woe to the Earth,” quoted St Paul, “because the devil had gone down to you.”

“Thank you, Paul,” said Joan.

“The Earth was always under the devil’s sway,” said Michael.

“Figuratively speaking perhaps but that didn’t mean people had to have him as a next door neighbour.”

“His new home was chosen with care,” said St Peter. “Where
is
Herbert?”

“And what of Hell?” said Joan.

“What of it?” said Michael.

“Who is running Hell? Who is in charge?”

“The same people who were always running it, Joan.” Michael spread his arms wide. “Since the beginning of time. Us.”

“Did you have some burning desire to reclaim Hell?”

“There’s a lot of... real estate down there,” said Michael, giving her a meaningful look.

Joan stared at him, long and hard.

“Is it me?” she said. “Or has anyone else sensed that Heaven has been a little less crowded of late?”

“Just effective management,” said St Peter.

“And the shanty towns?”

“They are recent phenomena. A feature of the transitional process.”

“Transition,” she repeated softly.

“
Keep Heaven Holy
is designed to ensure that the moral rectitude demanded of the faithful on Earth is similarly demanded of all Heaven’s inhabitants, present and future,” read Evelyn from a
Keep Heaven Holy
leaflet.

“Everyone’s position in Heaven is under constant appraisal,” said Michael. “Nobody here gets points for length of service.”

“You’re changing the entry criteria for Heaven,” said Joan.

“Changed,” said Michael.

“No,” said Peter, disagreeing gently. “Not changed at all. We’re merely enforcing it properly now as it was always meant to be enforced. We are doing a review of every individual in the Celestial City and grading them against fixed criteria. If they come up wanting...”

Michael had a long list in his hand.

“No one who has been emasculated by crushing or cutting shall enter the Kingdom of Heaven,” he read.

“There were a couple of people surprised by that one,” said St Peter.

“Then there’s the dietary laws,” said Michael. “We can start on the less obvious stuff: ostriches, lizards, bats.”

“But the coming of Christ presented a new covenant, a new law,” protested Evelyn.

St Paul shrugged.

“For I tell you,” he quoted, “until Heaven and Earth disappear not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished.”

“We can move onto those who have eaten shellfish,” said St Peter. “Oh, and imagine if we invoke the law involving eating dairy and meat together. All those cheeseburgers! There won’t be a single American left in Heaven.”

There were intrigued and hopeful noises made by a number of those present.

“This is insane!” said Joan.

“Really?” said Michael.

“Does He approve?” said Joan.

“We are the board. We run things.”

“But has this been taken before the Throne? Has the Lord himself condoned this?”

“Well,” said Michael, putting on his best smile, “it’s not as simple as that.”

“The Thwone was on the agenda,” said St Francis. “St Peter is here now.”

“Shut it, Francis.”

Joan stepped away from the table.

“This cannot be allowed. I’m going to speak to Him.”

“There’s no point,” said St Peter.

“Why?” demanded Joan, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

There was a flare of golden light and an angel appeared in the room, staggered, straightened up and patted his chest as if to check it were whole and undamaged.

“Parvuil!” said Michael, shocked. “What are you doing here? Where’s Doris – I mean Vretil?”

The Recording Angel gave Michael a wild and unhappy look.

“There’s a problem, Archangel. A big problem.”

Chapter 11 – in which Clovenhoof extracts a confession, flicks a switch and kills a friend

In Pitspawn’s attic room, Herbert Dewsbury clutched at his right wrist and screamed. He was wearing the clothes he had died in, minus the blood and gore, although there was still a tear, the width of a sword blade, in the neck of his woolly jumper.

“Where is it?” he bawled. “What have you done with it?”

Herbert started to cast about the untidy room as though expecting to see his hand lying about somewhere.

Clovenhoof stroked his chin and then clicked his fingers.

“We chopped it off.”

“What?” squealed Herbert.

“Well, Ben did,” said Clovenhoof. “Shut the lid too quickly when my girlfriend came to the door. Ex-girlfriend now, I suppose.”

“She’s going out with Dave from the office,” said Nerys conversationally.

“Is she?”

“Going away for a long weekend away together.”

Clovenhoof frowned and stuck out his bottom lip.

“I wouldn’t have imagined those two together,” he said thoughtfully.

“That’s what
I
thought,” said Nerys, nodding in grim satisfaction at having her own opinions confirmed.

“You cut it off?” screamed Herbert.

“Yes, yes. Do keep up,” said Clovenhoof. “We put it in the breadbin and then when we tried to take the corpse to the park to bury it we... well, we lost it.”

“Lost it?” He howled in anguish. “I knew you were incompetent but...” He waved his stump at Clovenhoof. “It’s my hand!”

There was light tap at the door.

“Darren?” said Pitspawn’s mother, opening the door a crack. “You and your friends are making quite a bit of noise. I don’t want it to bring on one of my migraines. And I do need you to help with the cleaning. Pelmets today.”

Pitspawn, who had been sat dumbly on the floor ever since Herbert’s appearance mumbled, “Just resurrected someone, mum.”

Nerys leapt to the door, foot positioned to stop Pitspawn’s mum opening it any further.

“Hi, Mrs Pitspawn,” she said. “Sorry about the noise, it’s –“

“Call me Phyllis, dear.”

“Of course, Phyllis,” she said. “Pitsp- Darren and I were just trying out some, er, primal scream therapy. You know, getting in touch with the inner animal. He’s a very sensitive man, isn’t he? Very much in touch with his... inner self.”

“He was always a sensitive boy,” agreed Pitspawn’s mum.

Herbert opened his mouth, perhaps to call for help, perhaps to object to the codswallop Nerys was spouting. Clovenhoof kicked him violently, hoof connecting with knee with a pleasantly meaty thud. Herbert doubled up, howling in wordless pain.

“Good one, Darren,” said Nerys. She smiled at Pitspawn’s mum. “We’re really connecting, you know. But we’ll try to keep the noise down, Phyllis.”

“Oh, okay,” said the little woman and backed away. “But we do have the pelmets to dust before lunch.”

Nerys closed the door.

“That should buy us a little time.”

“What’s a pelmet?” said Clovenhoof.

Nerys gestured with her hands in an attempt to mime a pelmet.

“It’s like a mini skirt for a curtain rail.”

“And do they need dusting?”

“Of course they do!” snapped Herbert. “I don’t suppose you’ve so much as run a feather duster over mine, have you?”