Clovenhoof (25 page)

“Dating are we?”

The waiter presented Clovenhoof with the credit card.

“I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.”

Clovenhoof looked at it.

“Declined?”

“It has been cancelled by the credit company.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have an alternative means of payment?”

“Er.”

He looked to Blenda. She was already reaching for her purse.

“Financially solvent, are you?”

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” he said.

“Smooth, Jeremy. Real smooth.”

Clovenhoof stomped into Ben’s flat and slammed the door behind him.

“That was a short date,” said Ben.

Clovenhoof made a noise in his throat.

“A bit of trouble with the bill.”

“Huh!” said Ben, sat at the dining table, savagely flicking through a book on the Second Punic Wars. “Tell me about it!”

“Yeah?” said Clovenhoof, taken aback by his unusually fiery tone.

Ben closed the large hardback with a thunderous snap.

“I got my credit card bill today.”

“Oh,” said Clovenhoof.

“And I’ve discovered I’ve been a victim of credit card fraud.”

“I see. I mean, really?”

“Really. It was after I bought those Seleucidian infantry models. Some bastard must have cloned my card or something. Four thousand pounds they’ve spent on that card.”

“Do they know who did it?” said Clovenhoof.

“Not yet.”

“Thank God.” He paused. “I mean thank God because you look like you’re ready to commit murder and I don’t think prison would suit you.”

These words seemed to have a peculiar effect on Ben, who paled a little and looked over to the blue and brass trunk by the wall.

“I didn’t think this kind of thing would get you so riled up,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s only money, isn’t it?”

“Only money? Do you think I like working in
Bits ‘n’ Books
five days a week?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yes, I do. But I don’t do it for free. I do it to be paid. I work for my money. I have a bloody work ethic. I earn every penny that goes into my pocket and that money is mine. I do not work to support thieves and spongers. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Not all of us have trust funds and investments to live off or whatever it is you have.”

“Yeah, about that...”

He rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated unpleasant thoughts.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“Could I get a job in your shop?”

“What?”

“Maybe I need to get a work ethic too. Maybe I need a bit more purpose in my life. Maybe something to do with my days.”

“Are you strapped for cash?”

“Yes, I am.”

Ben shook his head.

“There’s enough turmoil in my life thanks.”

“Oh, come on.”

Ben returned to his book.

“Ask Nerys. She works in recruitment after all. I’m sure she could find something for you.”

“No way.”

“Oh, come on,” said Clovenhoof, following her through Sutton’s pedestrianised high street.

“I’m not even going to entertain it,” she said, her substantial heels clicking rapidly over the brick paving.

“Why not? Don’t you need clients on your books?”

“Clients, yes,” she said, stopping outside the
Helping Hand
Job Agency’s door. “Qualified, hard-working...
presentable
clients.”

Clovenhoof’s mouth fell open.

“I
am
presentable. Look at me.”

“I am. You’re wearing a bolo tie with a silver cow skull clasp, a granddad shirt and chinos.”

“I’m creating a look here.”

“The word you’re grasping for is ‘spectacle.’”

She pushed the door open. He followed her inside.

“Are you going to follow me all day?” she said.

“Yes, I am.”

She shook her head.

“Dave!”

A tall fellow with an unfortunate haircut and face like an eager puppy stood up at his desk.

“Morning, Nerys.”

“I’ve got a client for you.”

Clovenhoof smiled and did a victory tap dance while Nerys made good her escape into the back room. Clovenhoof slid over to Dave’s desk and shook him firmly by the hand.

“You’d be Jeremy Clovenhoof,” said Dave.

“And you’re the famous Dave.”

“Famous?”

“Nerys talks about you all the time.”

“Does she?”

“And she rarely talks about her conquests except in purely anatomical terms.”

“Oh, er,” said Dave, blushing. “I’m not... We’ve not...”

“Haven’t you? You must be something special then.”

“Yes. I suppose,” said Dave doubtfully.

Clovenhoof and Dave spent a fruitful half hour together. Clovenhoof did not have a CV but Dave was able to cobble one together on his computer. Clovenhoof provided Ben with the same date of birth and birthplace that appeared on his passport. Having never been born and coming into existence before the creation of time and space made telling the truth impossible. It was the only lie he told.

He had no qualifications. The angelic host had never really gone in for bits of paper. However, he did have many titles: His Satanic Majesty, Prince of this World, The Author of Evil, Morningstar, Light Bringer, The Angel of the Bottomless Pit. All good titles but Dave was not interested, persisting with the belief they were band names from Clovenhoof’s brief dalliance with rock music.

What Clovenhoof did possess was experience. He had that in bucketsful.

“I’ve always held positions of authority. My last job but one was as the Big Guy’s right hand man.”

“Was it a big organisation?”

“Global.”

“What kind of company was it?”

“We were in the construction business to start off with. We were
the
construction company for a while. Our first job was huge. Brought it in a day under schedule. Declared it a day of rest and put our feet up. Then there was a change of direction which I didn’t like.”

“Yes?”

“It shifted to housing, civic planning, legislation. Soft, squishy people-centred stuff.”

“You’re not a people person?”

“Not really. I don’t really see why the clients should tell
us
what to do. We went from being a wholly private affair to a messy co-operative. Most of my colleagues who had been there from day one were downgraded to glorified couriers and messengers. I fought against the change tooth and nail.”

“You don’t like change?”

“If it ain’t broke... Anyway, that was when I was kicked out. I went into freefall for a long time. But I picked up my new role soon enough. It was smaller but at least I was my own boss.”

“You don’t like working for others?”

“Who does?”

“Er, quite. And what kind of business was that?”

“We worked with ex-offenders.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, those who’d stepped over the line out in the big wide world. We were in the business of re-education and personal refinement.”

“So rehabilitation?”

“Well, rehabilitation’s a nice idea, but society rarely forgives you once your card is marked.”

“Fascinating.”

“I led the organisation through some challenging times.”

Michael had created a much larger oval table in the demilitarised zone, with chairs surrounding it and a side table holding drinks. The Heavenly contingent arrived first, seating themselves neatly at the table and smiling at each other. The delegates from Hell were all late. They arrived piecemeal, and each tried to make an outlandish entrance. Michael drummed his fingers on the table as yet another demon materialised on the top of the table and ran around, trampling papers and kicking over a glass.

Mulciber hissed and leaped up from his seat as the liquid spread across the table top.

“Is that holy water?”

“Yes,” Michael replied, mopping up the spillage with his handkerchief, “but there’s blood over there for the demons.”

“Blood?” squealed Saint Francis, his googly eyes wobbling all over the place. “Is that human blood?”

“Yes, it is,” said Michael, “but it was donated. No humans died.”

“That’s okay then,” said Saint Francis, “as long as it’s not from a lovely little animal.”

Azazel groaned and stuck his claws into his own face in exasperation.

“Wabbits are my favourwites,” said St Francis although no one was listening.

Satan had arrived and was looking at his demonic colleagues.

“Hey. C’mon now guys, don’t get over-excited. Yes, Berith, I know they’re angels, but they’ve seen bottoms before. Probably. Anyway, put it away and sit down. Michael, can you do something about that?”

Satan pointed down the table.

“Oh no, stop it!” Michael jumped up and moved to where Saint Peter was trying to exorcise the demon Azazel. They were pulled apart and sat down, scowling at each other.

Satan and Michael turned in unison as they heard a munching, cracking sound. Berith had speared a white dove with his pitchfork and was enjoying a tasty snack.

St Francis murmured the name of his beloved pet and fainted across the table.

Michael raised his voice, as he fanned Francis with a sheaf of papers.

“We’ve got lots to talk about today. Maybe we should first of all have a few ground rules about refreshments. Drinks are over there, please help yourselves. We can sort out some canapés for later, but until then, er, please don’t eat anything that you didn’t bring yourself.”

There was some giggling from the back where Berith had taken a bite from his own arm in response to this.

“We’ll run through introductions, briefly. From Heaven, we have Peter, Herbert, Joan, Francis and myself of course. From Hell, we have Mulciber, Berith, Azazel, and Satan.” He glanced at his notes. “We’ll kick off with a brainstorming exercise. I’ll write on the flipchart all of your thoughts on the biggest problems that Hell has right now. We’ll refine the list later and decide how to tackle them, but for now let’s get the ideas down.”

As Michael picked up the pen there was shouting from almost every person at the table. Francis had evidently recovered enough to make his voice heard clearly as all the others reached the end of their complaints.

“-and wough, howwible demons all over the place.”

Michael put the pen down and turned back to the table.

“We need to be more orderly about this,” he said. “I think I’ll go round the table in turn and see who has items for the board. And I only want to hear suggestions from people who have first-hand experience. Mulciber, why don’t you start us off?”

“It’s all about capacity,” Mulciber said. “We need to be able to process people faster.”

Michael nodded and started to write.

“Not just faster,” yelled Berith, “what about quality? I know that I can only get really high quality suffering if I spend time with a person. What’s going to happen to that if we’re all going faster?”

“You sound a bit too much as though you enjoy it to me,” Joan remarked.

“Of course I enjoy it you stupid girly,” Berith snarled. “Hang on, is she French? Angels is one thing but Frenchies... We’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

Joan pulled her sword from its sheath.

“I can draw a line for you if you like,” she said, a glint in her young eyes.

“Well I think you’re all vewy howwid,” Francis said, standing. “And I think I’d wather not be a part of these discussions if you’re going to talk so unpleasantly.”

“Hang on,” Berith whispered to Azazel. “Is he a Frenchie too?”

“Italian,” replied Azazel.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Berith. “I like Italians. Delicious actually.”

“Please!” Michael said. “Everyone’s here because they have something to contribute. We need to respect each other a little bit more. I don’t want to hear any more name calling.”

“Poof,” said someone at the back.

Satan strode around the table.

“Who said that?”

There was silence for a moment, and then Francis, deciding that he might stay after all, sat down and pointed a finger at Berith.

Twice, they had to send out for more refreshments. There were arguments over whether Berith would be allowed snacks that were alive. They compromised on spiders, because Francis wasn’t all that keen on spiders.

“Can’t you eat with your mouth closed?” Francis moaned.

Berith opened his mouth wide, and lolled his tongue down over his chin, raising his eyebrows at Francis. He whipped it back in rapidly as a half-eaten spider made a bid for freedom.

“We’re almost done now I think,” said Michael. “We’ve identified our key areas of focus, and we have a workable Vision and Mission Statement. Very important things to have, so that we never forget what we’re working towards. Let’s just get the wording right for those, so we can have some motivational posters made up. Satan, would you like to read them out for everyone, one last time?”

Satan consulted his notes.

“Vision. ‘To be the provider of choice for corrective torment and to offer “best-in-class” suffering for souls with challenged purity.’”

He turned over the paper.

“Mission. ‘Exploit synergies with other providers and expand into emerging markets.’”