Clovenhoof (12 page)

The audience roared their approval as Clovenhoof plunged like a Stukka dive-bomber into the band’s final number,
Lord of the Wilderness
.

The audience stamped along and punched the air. If the band had leapt from the stage at that point and began to march on parliament, say, or Rome, or the gates of heaven, the audience would have followed them. Devil Preacher had two thousand converts, free-thinkers who had been released from their chains and blindfolds and were now ready to put all creation to rights.

Clovenhoof – Narrator? Singer? It was all one - leaned down to the audience and cried for their allegiance.

All the while the guitar and the keyboard wrapped around one another in a chain of progressing chords that could have no end.

‘Hail to the Beast!’
Dun. Dun. Dun.

“Oh,” said the handsome young man three seats along from Betty. “This will never do.”

The man was, unlike the jumping, thumping mob around him, dressed in a respectable and cleanly pressed suit. He seemed to be enjoying proceedings almost as little as Doris.

The man reached into his pocket and produced a phone. He didn’t seem to press any buttons but it was ringing anyway.

“What service do I require?” said the man. “Police. Definitely the police.”

‘Hail to the Beast!’
Dun. Dun. Dun.

The audience were moving as one, as if hypnotised. It was as though the whole world was being bent to the will of the band, well, Clovenhoof’s will. It is said that willpower could move mountains and it seemed to Ben (who would happily admit he wasn’t feeling entirely
compos mentis
at the time) that the very walls of the symphony hall were bending in to meet them. And a quiet part of Ben’s brain pointed out that the symphony hall’s walls, floor and ceiling were made of two-metre thick concrete and this kind of behaviour couldn’t have been part of the architect’s original plans.

But the walls were not just bending but stretching up to lift the ceiling to impossible heights.

‘Hail to the Beast!’
Dun. Dun. Dun.

The concert hall was transforming into a palace, a fortress, a battleship carrying Clovenhoof’s army of dark warriors towards that ultimate battle which could only end in victory. And, as if to signal that victory, Ben’s keyboard began to emit an ululating siren call and a strange, dispassionate voice said something like “Charlie Whiskey Foxtrot. We’re moving in.”

Clovenhoof had his guitar raised as if to shoot down the sky and Ben saw that his band mate, his neighbour, wasn’t just some bloke with too much money and bad manners but was a red-skinned demon with horns and goat legs and hooves – hooves! – and, worst of all,
always had been
.

And then someone cut the power and the house lights came up and the doors opened and dozens of men in helmets and hi-vis tabards came running in.

The demon turned to Ben, a crestfallen look on his face.

“Spoilsports,” he said.

Ben took a deep breath.

“Jeremy,” he said. “I think I’m having a real bad trip.”

“Me too, Kitchen,” said Satan.

Betty and Doris walked away from Symphony Hall, gingerly probing their ears.

“That seemed to go rather well,” said Betty.

“You’re right. Absolute Hell,” grumbled Doris. “Have your ears gone funny?”

“What?”

They walked on.

“You’d never catch Daniel O’Donnell
flaunting
himself like that,” said Doris after much thought.

“The young people seemed to enjoy it though. I liked the part with the policemen. Very entertaining. I always like to see a man in uniform.”

“They were all a bit young to be real policemen if you ask me. I’m not sure it’s done my rheumatics any good.” Doris grunted as she put weight onto her hip in order to illustrate this.

“Still, it’s an evening out, isn’t it?” said Betty.

Doris peered up and down Broad Street, stepping back with a grimace as a girl of around eighteen staggered out of a pub and vomited onto the pavement in front of them.

“That’s all very well,” said Doris, “but where on earth are we going to get a nice cup of tea at this time of night?”

Nerys woke slowly, battling her way up through the layers of sleep, trying to piece together the memories of the night before and separating them from the bizarre dreams she had had. Her brain and her mouth were lined with the dry cotton wool of last night’s alcohol.

She remembered the concert and the roar of the crowd. She remembered the police coming in and the arguments backstage before she and some guys pegged it down Broad Street to the nearby clubs. She remembered the dancing and the drinking and some hilarious fumblings in the back of a black cab. That all seemed pretty straightforward but then there were these other images sprinkled through her recollections. A snarling devil’s face, the concert hall distorted into some brutalist cavern and, weirdest of all, a sensuous lover with too many arms and too many legs.

She rolled over, her hand touched naked flesh and she opened her eyes. She was in a hotel bedroom. Grey daylight filtered in through net curtains.

The man next to her rolled over and smiled.

“Morning gorgeous,” said Mark.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought...”

“What?”

She sat up. From what little she could remember, she was sure Graham had been the much more flirtatious one...

There was the sound of running water from the bathroom.

“Graham’s in the shower,” said Mark.

Ah, thought Nerys. That’s one mystery solved.

Chapter 4 – in which Clovenhoof doesn’t need anyone, meets a certified Genius and catches a life-threatening cold

Clovenhoof pressed himself into the shadow of a snow-covered privet hedge.

“Mommee, why’s that red man playing that funny game?”

Clovenhoof glared at the small child and shrank back into the hedge. A blob of snow fell onto his back. He hadn’t had time to grab a coat, and it quickly melted through his shirt, resulting in an uncomfortable cold trickle down into his underpants.

He
wasn’t
playing a game. He was following Nerys and her Aunt Molly. He wasn’t overly sure why.

It was partly out of boredom, partly out of curiosity.

He had spotted Nerys and Molly leaving the flats that morning and it was unusual to see Aunt Molly out at that kind of time. She had a routine of hairdresser appointments and shopping trips, but those were invariably in the afternoon. Clovenhoof had tried to close his ears to details of Molly’s delicate digestion which apparently made morning outings a dangerous prospect.

Clovenhoof felt compelled to follow and see where they were going. As he made it out onto the street, they were a couple of hundred yards away so he trotted after them. As they turned onto the much quieter Church Road he realised that he ran the risk of being spotted so used the technique that he’d seen on television, of scuttling from tree, to postbox, to gateway and pressing himself into each hiding position so that he remained unseen. He was close behind Nerys and Molly now, but he couldn’t quite make out their conversation.

“Look at him, mommy.”

Nerys glanced back over her shoulder when the child spoke, but didn’t notice Clovenhoof. The mother – thankfully – didn’t look back at all.

When they disappeared from sight, he walked on, trying to shake himself free of the snow. There had been quite a fall in the night, but it was already melting into a slushy beige mess. Ridiculous stuff. He remembered why they’d never bothered with it in hell.

Nerys and Molly were heading for St Michael’s Church. They joined a crowd of people who were already standing outside and moved to the front where there were some other women of Molly’s age. Clovenhoof stood at the back with the stragglers and tried to fit in, doing what they did. They stared at the floor, or looked up the road as if they were waiting for a bus.

But no, not a bus. As he was looking up the road, a large black car arrived and Clovenhoof spotted the coffin in the back.

He wondered if there was free food at funerals and putting his clammy undergarments out of his mind for the time being, he trailed in behind the other mourners.

He loitered at the back of the church and looked around to see if there was a buffet. The large pale tapestry of St Michael standing over the vanquished Satan hung above him.

“Ugh.”

The mourners started to sing the first hymn
All Things Bright and Beautiful
a high-pitched, saccharine bleating. Clovenhoof changed his mind about staying and thought he would sneak out before he threw up.

He turned and Michael was standing there, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“Spying on me again?” said Clovenhoof.

“My church, my people,” said Michael.

“Oh please. None of these people would recognise you with or without your frock on.” He looked up at the tapestry “Although they’ve really caught your smarmy arse smugness. And that’s not easy in tapestry.”

Michael brushed a speck from the lapel of his immaculate suit.

“Jeremy, I know that you’re trying to goad me but I want you to know that I am here to make sure your transition is as smooth as possible.”

Clovenhoof gave Michael a look of disbelieving contempt.

“My
transition
?”

“Yes. Everyone wants to see you settled in, and living a nice normal life. We were a bit disappointed in your recent activities. Dabbling in... popular music could only be described as…” - Michael pulled the face he’d pull if he found he’d been flossing with a pubic hair - “Attention-seeking.”

“So, what’s the problem with attention-seeking?”

“It’s just not part of the deal, Jeremy. You’re to live a quiet life, here on earth and blend in, otherwise it just won’t work.”

“What deal? I made no deal!” Clovenhoof bellowed. “I never asked for any of this. Nobody bothers to check with me.”

“Your resettlement package has been very generous.”

“And if I don’t want your ‘resettlement package’?”

Michael’s smile (such a versatile expression) shifted from all-round geniality to loving condescension. His eyes flicked to the tapestry of his Biblical victory.

“Let’s not forget who the decision maker is here, Jeremy.”

“You’ve cheated me out of my position.”

“An angel? Cheat?”

“It’s just like the last time, that stupid war in heaven.” He flung a finger at the wall hanging. “You cheated me then too.”

“Jeremy, that’s ancient history. Move on.”

“You had two thirds of the angels and you gave me all the duffers.”

Michael tried to turn up his smile, but his face was already full.

“Everyone picked their own side, friend.”

“Yeah, but how was I ever going to win with Petuniel on my team?”

“I don’t think –“

“And I had the sun in my eyes!”

“Now you’re being petty.”

“You know it wasn’t fair!” howled Clovenhoof. “I bet you even think that maybe I was right all along, don’t you? DON’T YOU?”

“Of course not.”

“‘Don’t give humans free will!’ I said. Well, look around at what they’ve done with the place. Was I right, hmmm?”

“I am not about to question the divine plan.”

“I think that deep down inside you
know
I was right. But you never listened. You still never do. You had better angels than me and you stabbed me.” He was jumping up and down now, pointing at the tapestry.

“Fine, fine,” snapped Clovenhoof. “Do all that stuff, but then leave me with my own place. Hell’s a shithole but at least it was mine. It’s not as if you’d ever want to go there, you in your stupid fancy
suit
. I can’t believe you’ve thrown me out of there too and you’re still trying to make me miserable, here in this stupid place, in this stupid town, with these stupid people!”

Clovenhoof kicked a pew, and then realised as he looked up that Michael had gone. He turned around to see that the hymn had finished and a whole church full of horrified pensioners was staring at him.

Nerys was momentarily stunned to see him there, but she recovered quickly and barged towards him, almost colliding with the lady vicar, who was also heading his way.

“I know him,” said Nerys.

“So do I, I think,” said the vicar. “Is he...?” The vicar pointed to her head and made a cuckoo whistle.

“No, he’s a git. It’s a fine line. Go back to the service. I’ll deal with him.”

The vicar nodded, looking levelly at Clovenhoof before turning back to the congregation.

“Interesting,” said Doris, turning to Betty in a pew towards the back.

“She handled it well though,” said Betty, indicating the vicar. “She’s got
gravitas
. Unusual thing for a woman.”

“Don’t forget
we’re
women,” said Doris.

“True. Well I’m giving it a nine for solemnity,” said Betty, jotting in her notebook.

“A nine? Really? Look around you! Hardly anyone’s even crying. No wailing at all. That’s never a nine.”

“How about we give it an eight, but we have a new category for ‘entertainment value’? I think we could give it a nine for that.”

“Fair enough, although that organist lets them down on the music,” Doris said, jotting her own notes.

“The hymn-singing’s not bad though,” said Betty. “Not too many people are miming.”

“Hmmm, this one here could do with learning to mime, if she can’t be bothered to learn to sing in tune,” said Doris, getting a furious scowl from a woman nearby.

“He’s not afraid to speak his mind, is he?” said Betty, nodding towards Clovenhoof.

“Well, he’s got no idea of when to stay quiet, that’s the trouble,” said Doris. “Mind you, speaking of quiet, I still can’t hear properly after that concert of his we went to.”