Clovenhoof (16 page)

Clovenhoof grunted with confusion.

“It’s love and friendship that makes us happy,” she said.

“My friends are idiots.”

“And still you love them. That’s what makes them friends.”

“I don’t think that makes sense.”

“Have you ever heard of King Solomon?” said Evelyn.

“Solomon the baby-slicer. Once claimed to have trapped me in a brass vessel. Load of bollocks.”

“King Solomon,” she continued forcefully, “once asked some wise men to give him something that would provide comfort when the world seemed black, and also to keep his feet on the ground when pride and vanity threatened. The wise men went away and later returned with a ring for the king.”

“Yes?”

“On it were inscribed the words ‘
this too shall pass
.’”

Clovenhoof thought hard about this.

“Whatever it is,” said Evelyn. “Whatever this fug is hanging over you, remember that. Go find your friends.”

She locked the church door and headed off. At the end of the path, she turned and called back to him.

“Remember, Jeremy.
This too shall pass.
”

She gave him a wave and stepped backwards into the road.

That was when the speeding hearse hit her.

Ben and Nerys carried the bags full of cards downstairs just as Clovenhoof came in. Nerys bristled and prepared her cat’s arse face. She glanced at Ben, who was doing the same, but who looked unfortunately like a pantomime dame.

Clovenhoof wasn’t himself though. Instead of his wide-open arrogant gaze, Nerys thought he looked troubled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He looked between Nerys and Ben, opened his mouth wide as if he had lots to say and then closed it again.

“There was an accident,” he mumbled, and slipped inside his flat without another word.

Ben and Nerys stared at each other for a long moment.

“He didn’t even comment on my lipstick,” said Ben.

“It’s a subtle shade.” She checked her watch. “Come on. The law of averages says that one of these kisses will end up with Mr Right!”

Ben fingered his lips and felt queasy as he followed her out of the door.

Several days later, Clovenhoof was at the church carrying two bunches of flowers. He’d been forced to queue for a long time and the florist took some convincing that neither bunch was for a wife, girlfriend or that ‘special someone’. He reached the spot, just outside the church gate. There were already several bouquets tied to the nearest lamppost and others resting at its base.

He felt the need to say something. There were the words he could say, the words a stupid human being would say, but they weren’t the words for him.

“Yup,” he said. “See what happens?”

He laid down a bunch of flowers amongst some others.

“Should have followed the rules, read the instruction book.”

He kicked at air, his little hooves clicking on the pavement.

“Doesn’t stop you being right though, eh?”

He turned to leave with his remaining bunch but something made him turn back.

“And
he
was wrong, you know. You looked better in the dress.”

A much larger, beautifully arranged bouquet on the pavement caught his eye. He checked that nobody was looking and swapped the bouquets over, carrying his new prize back home.

Ben was sorting through the recently arrived post when Clovenhoof entered with a posh-looking if somewhat sombre bouquet of flowers.

“Nice flowers.”

“Thanks. I chose them myself.”

“Here’s your post. A parcel too.”

Clovenhoof flicked through a sheaf of official-looking envelopes. Quite a few of them seemed to have red writing. He’d burn those later.

“Hang on,” Clovenhoof said to Ben. “There’s something in here for you.”

He undid the parcel and handed Ben some small boxes.

Ben lifted the lid and examined the figures.

“Oh wow. Thank you.”

“I thought you could use them with your Macedonian Revolt soldiers.”

“What are these dogs with things on their backs?”

“They had braziers strapped to them, on top of a blanket, so that they could run under the enemies’ horses and singe their bellies.”

Ben looked appalled.

“They didn’t do that in the Macedonian Revolt!”

Clovenhoof gave him a sideways smile.

“Were you there?”

Ben shook his head in confusion.

“By the way, this doesn’t mean that I fancy you,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s just, you know...”

“Yeah I know. Thanks.”

“Are you taking those up to Nerys?”

Clovenhoof indicated some handwritten envelopes in pastel covers.

“Yeah, I thought I would,” said Ben. “It’s funny, I wondered if she might have sent some of these to herself. It’s the handwriting-”

“Best not ask. Would you take these up for her?” He handed Ben the flowers. “They’re just to say...”

“Yeah I know.”

Ben took the flowers and walked upstairs, impressed with Clovenhoof’s version of an apology. He’d even taken the trouble to include a small card in the arrangement for Nerys. She’d be pleased with a detail like that.

• Matters Arising
  
• Seraphim Rota
  
• The Throne
  
• Easter Bonnet Parade
  
• Clovenhoof
  
• Harps
  
• AOB
  

“Ah,” said Michael, looking St Joan of Arc up and down as she entered the boardroom.

He understood that many of the blessed had their own personal iconography. Heaven was a busy place and it was only understandable that individuals might want to dress in a way that made them instantly recognisable to the faithful. Looking round the table, he saw St Peter with his keys of office, the Archangel Gabriel in his pristine blue robes and St Paul with a book of his own writings plus his trademark pointy beard. Pope Pius XII had his little spectacles, even though he no longer needed them. Mother Teresa, even in Heaven where most people incarnated as the youngest and healthiest versions of themselves, kept her ‘pickled walnut in a tea-towel’ look. St Francis had his tonsure, brown robes and, depending on his mood, a full set of bloody stigmata.

These affectations and traits were all understandable, but Michael had an issue with anyone who turned up to a boardroom meeting wearing shining plate armour and wielding a massive broadsword.

There was a blonde woman in casual clothing with Joan. Michael recognised her at once.

“These seats taken?” said Joan. She plonked herself down with a harmonious clang of armour and patted the other seat with a gauntlet for the other woman to sit beside her.

The board members looked at them.

“Sorry, I’m late,” said Joan. “I was showing Evelyn around. She’s a recent arrival. What’s that word, Evelyn? Newbie?”

“Newbie,” agreed Evelyn.

Joan gestured to the board.

“Evelyn, this is the board that runs the whole show. Everyone, this is the Reverend Evelyn Steed. Newbie.”

“Reverend?” said Pius.

“Women should remain silent in church,” quoted St Paul.

Michael coughed politely.

“Joan, nice though it is to meet Evelyn, we aren’t usually in the habit of bringing chums to these meetings.”

“What’s he doing here then?” said Joan pointing to the pink, jowly man lurking behind St Peter’s chair.

“Herbert is my amanuensis,” said St Peter. “Not my chum.”

Michael kept his gaze from Mother Teresa’s minute taking and her attempts to spell ‘amanuensis’.

“Well, Evelyn
is
my new chum,” said Joan, “and I think her experiences would provide some valuable insight into the problems Heaven is currently facing.”

“I thought you were here to talk about the Seraphim singing rota,” said Pius.

“That’s just a piece of the puzzle,” she said. “Do you know how many people have died since the beginning of time?”

There were shrugs and shared glances.

“No,” said Gabriel.

“Nor do I,” said Joan, “but a rough guess would put it at over one hundred billion. And how many of those people are in heaven?”

Michael spread his hands.

“Do tell.”

“No idea,” said Joan. “Let’s err on the small side and say ten percent. And how big is the Celestial City?”

“Oh, I know this one,” said Pius, putting a hand over his eyes to think.

“The city is laid out as a square,” quoted St Paul, “and its length is as great as the width and he measured the city with the rod: twelve thousand stadia; its length and width and height are equal.”

“Or fifteen hundred miles to a side in new money,” said Joan. “And how many angels are there?”

“One hundred million,” said St Francis, before St Paul could speak.

“Is there a point to these questions?” asked Pius.

“Can’t you see?” said Joan. “We have a major population problem on our hands.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” said Gabriel.

“Really? Heaven is of a finite size and has as finite number of angels but is accepting the newly dead every day.”

“It is quite busy out there,” said Evelyn.

“If you don’t like it you can leave,” said St Peter.

“All I’m saying is we need to look into it,” said Joan. “We need precise figures and a planned solution.”

“I quite agree,” said Michael.

“You do?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“This requires immediate investigation. The exact dimensions and capacity of the city need measuring and we need a thorough census of the population. This matter should be subject to a rigorous and
lengthy
study.”

St Peter caught his tone.

“If you’re going to do this thing, you must do it right.”

“If we could leave this with you, Joan,” suggested Michael.

“Certainly.”

“And Gabriel,” Michael continued, “could you ensure Joan is provided with enough data to work with?”

“Of course,” said the Archangel.

“Next item,” said Michael. “The Easter Bonnet Parade.”

St Francis gave a little clap of his hands in excitement.

“A highlight of our cultural year,” said Pope Pius XII.

“Is it?” said Joan.

“Pardon?”

“Isn’t it – and I don’t mean to be rude here – isn’t it just a bunch of people in hats?”

“No,” said Pius. “It has a far deeper meaning than just hats. It’s about connecting to the true meaning of Easter.”

“Through the medium of hats?” said Joan.

“And then there’s the wabbits,” said St Francis. “I love the wabbits.”

“The Easter Bunny? Symbol of some ancient Teutonic goddess? Is that the true meaning of Easter?”

St Paul, clearly lacking some precise scriptural quote to express his feelings, gave a grunt of support for Joan’s words.

“You don’t like the Easter Parade?” said Gabriel.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” said Joan, “but perhaps we could try to be bit more progressive. Evelyn, here went to something called Greenbelt last year.”

“I got right up to the stage when Jars of Clay were playing,” said Evelyn.

“I also found these,” said Joan, producing a sheaf of large photographs from beneath her breastplate and spreading them on the table. “You have a pair of operatives at work in England, following this man.”

She stabbed her finger at a guitar-wielding figure leaping about on stage in front of a baying crowd.

“I believe you saw this Devil Preacher band play, Michael?”

“I, er, did,” said Michael.

“I had a listen to some of their music.”

“I thought I had destroyed every recording. It was blasphemous.”

“It was challenging, yes. Refreshing.” She smiled to herself. “They didn’t necessarily have nice things to say about you, Peter.”

“Is that so?” said St Peter haughtily.

“But I want to bring the kind of energy they embody to future cultural events we hold here.”

“You want some guitawists at the Easter Pawade?” said St Francis.

“I want us to hold a festival.”

“Oh, well,” said Michael happily. “You know we celebrate the feast days of hundreds of saints.”

“I mean a rock festival,” said Joan.

Michael saw frowns ripple up and down the boardroom table until Gabriel plucked up the courage to voice what they were all thinking.

“You want us to have a feast day for rocks?”

“No, Gabe,” said Joan. “I don’t.”

Chapter 5 – in which Clovenhoof makes a fortune, loses it all and helps the police with their enquiries

Clovenhoof enjoyed his weekly trip to the supermarket. There was a tangible sense of achievement in walking out with a trolley piled high with boxes of frozen ready meals, crinkling packets of crisps and biscuits and the melodious tinkle of two dozen bottles of alcoholic froth. He felt like a caveman coming home with a mammoth carcass. The fact that his glorious achievement required no real skill or effort did little to dampen the cosy joy it gave him. And the aspects of the supermarket shop that should have irritated him – the aisles filled with dead eyed humans grasping vainly for meaningless luxuries, the bickering families and wailing children denied every treat they reached out for – were in reality gentle reminders of the Old Place.