Clovenhoof (34 page)

“Well, we do have ten thousand years of musical history to showcase and a festival crowd of maybe ten billion.”

“You’re inviting everyone to this thing?” said Pius.

“Sure,” shrugged Joan. “This is Heaven. Everyone’s invited to the party.”

“I think we can sort out something more practical,” said St Peter. “A ticket system perhaps.”

Joan shook her head.

“There’s no privilege in Heaven. No elitism.”

“Neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, man nor woman, for you are all one in Christ Jesus,” quoted St Paul.

“Thank you,” said Joan.

“I can’t see where you’re going to hold this thing,” said St Peter.

“There are several pieces of parkland that are big enough.”

“Not my pwotected animal sanctuawy?” said St Francis fearfully.

“Just think of the mess,” said Herbert. “The litter. The noise.”

“The music,” said Joan.

“The shared experience,” said Evelyn.

“The creative buzz.”

“The meeting of different cultures and different peoples.”

“What’s this ‘clouds and harps’ zone?” said Pius, pointing hopefully to a spot on the plans.

“Exactly what it says, Eugene,” said Joan.

He smiled and nodded approvingly.

“I still cannot see a place in Heaven that could be given over to this venture,” said St Peter.

“Fine,” said Joan. “Then we’ll hold it outside.”

“What?”

“There’s a shanty town outside the ninth gate, I hear. We’ll hold the festival out there.”

“In Limbo?” said Michael.

“Tents and festivals go hand in hand,” said Joan.

St Peter frowned, horribly confused.

“But this is a festival for Heaven’s residents. And now you want to hold it
outside
Heaven? How will people attend?”

Joan gazed at St Peter levelly, the teenager in shining plate armour and the man who held the keys.

“Open the gates, Pete,” she said. “Just open the gates.”

Chapter 9 – in which Clovenhoof has his fortune read, goes into therapy and meets the previous tenant.

Clovenhoof stepped into
Boldmere Beauty
as Blenda prepared to shut up shop for the day. She looked round, pausing with a bottle of nail varnish in her hand.

“Oh, look. It’s the Great Satan,” she said and went back to her stacking.

“I’ve got news,” said Clovenhoof. “I thought I’d pop in and... Well, not seen you in a while.”

“Yes,” she said. “That will happen if you’ve been dumped.”

“Dumped?”

“Yes, Jeremy. It is still Jeremy, isn’t it? It’s not Beelzebub or Mephistopheles or something?”

“No, Jeremy’s fine,” he said, confused and eager to please. “Dumped?”

Blenda came down from her footstool and put her hands on her hips.

“I believe the exact words were, ‘You fucking bastard. I don’t want to see your face ever again.’”

Clovenhoof felt a lump of disappointment in his stomach.

“I thought you were just... you know.”

“Over-reacting?”

“Joking.”

Blenda shook her head.

“No, Jeremy. I wasn’t joking. What’s your news?”

“No, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

He gave an awkward grin.

“I thought we should get matching tattoos. You know, his and hers. ‘True Love... Forever.’”

“Really?” she said flatly.

“I made the appointment and everything.”

She came over. He thought for a moment it might be to hug him, to tell him that this was another one of her brilliant jokes but it was only to step past him and flip the ‘open’ sign on the door to ‘closed’.

“I need to change,” she said and went into the back room. Clovenhoof passed the time reading the ingredient lists on shampoos, hair relaxers and exfoliants. Some of the chemical names were quite beautiful, reminding him of the names of his underlings in the Old Place.

“Those are truly awful shorts,” said Blenda, reappearing, her white work tunic replaced by a scoop neck top.

Clovenhoof looked down at his yellow and blue Bermuda shorts.

“I thought they matched the shirt,” he said, pulling at the hem of his purple and green Hawaiian shirt.

“They distract the eye from the horror of the shirt,” said Blenda. “Like a clown at a train crash.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“I made an error of judgement with you,” she said. “There’s a fine line between kooky and...”

“Irritating?”

“Total psycho nut-job. You served up a dead person at a dinner party.”

“Only his blood.”

“What do you think would happen if I told Gordon Buford?”

“He might commend me for taking my work home with me?”

“He would fire you. He would call the police. I could call the police. Without sounding horribly like an American, I could sue you. Out.”

Clovenhoof obediently stepped out onto the pavement. Blenda followed and locked up. The summer sun was a fat orange ball settling over the rooftops.

“I told you that if you cocked up that job I got you, I would snap you like a twig.”

“I remember,” said Clovenhoof.

“Go get professional help,” she said. “Get your head examined. You are not Satan. You are a man. Sometimes wonderful. Sometimes strange. Sometimes a total psycho nut-job. Sort yourself out or I
will
snap you like a twig. Got it?”

“Got it,” he nodded.

“You live that way,” she said, pointing down the street and walked off in the opposite direction.

Ben leaped into action at the sound of Clovenhoof’s footsteps on the stairs. All the windows in the flat were wide open and he had four electric fans positioned around the kitchen and living area on full blast. He ran round, closing windows and turning the fans down to medium. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Nonetheless, he left the twelve electric air fresheners plugged in and turned up to maximum, not that they were making much impact on the smell that permeated the sun-baked flat. The stink seemed to take the most violent notes of an open sewer, of spoiled food, of animal musk and released them as a Greatest Hits compilation.

Nothing would get rid of it and, much to his mounting horror and paranoia, his temporary flatmate didn’t seem to notice it at all.

“Hi honey, I’m home!” called Clovenhoof.

Ben, having shut the last window in the bathroom, came out into the living room.

He wafted a hand in front of his nose.

“Sorry about the smell,” he said with the kind of blokiness he had never actually felt and shut the bathroom door behind him. “I’d give it a few minutes if I were you, eh?”

Clovenhoof looked at him and shrugged.

“Do you think my shirt and shorts combo looks like a clown at a train crash?”

It was Ben’s turn to shrug.

“Which one’s the clown, which one’s the train crash?”

“Not sure. Not gone to work again today?”

“How can I?” said Ben giving a cheery but false grin. “Got my favourite lodger to look after, haven’t I? Thought I’d cook us up a nice spicy curry tonight. Extra strong.”

“I prefer crispy pancakes,” said Clovenhoof.

Ben made a noise in his throat.

“Any news on your flat?”

“I know they’ve stripped out the kitchen but there’s some rebuilding work and painting still to do. I’ll ask them tomorrow. They’d gone home by the time I got back.”

“Do you think Nerys has scared them away?”

“I heard that,” she said, walking in.

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“Haven’t you heard of locking your own door?”

Ben looked at Clovenhoof.

“It’s not my door,” said Clovenhoof.

“We were just discussing dinner plans,” said Ben. “Perhaps we should all go out.”

“I’ve come to tell you that your flat stinks,” said Nerys. “It’s putting Aunt Molly off her toad in the hole.”

“It’s Ben. He’s done a smelly shit,” said Clovenhoof. “Secretly, I think he’s quite proud.”

“I’m not talking to you. I still haven’t forgiven you for turning me into a cannibal.”

“You’re not a cannibal.”

“I ate human flesh.”

“Blood.”

“Semantics.”

“You’re only a bit cannibal.”

“You can’t be
a bit
cannibal. You have defiled me. My body is a temple, you know.”

“What? People have to take their shoes off before they’re allowed inside?”

“I think,” said Ben, cutting across them very loudly, “there might be a problem with the drains.”

“Then get them looked at, Ben. Ask those builders downstairs to help.”

Ben shivered at the thought of tradesmen coming into his home and poking around.

“I’ll get it sorted.”

“See that you do,” she snapped. “It smells like you’re living in an abattoir.”

“I quite like it,” said Clovenhoof.

The one-eyed woman in the
Skin Deep
tattoo parlour just off Birmingham Road sat at her small counter and played cards by herself under the bright glow of a circular magnifying lamp. She nodded at Clovenhoof as he entered. Tattoo templates hung on framed sheets on the walls. Clovenhoof had noticed with some pleasure that his likeness featured on more than a couple of them, although most of them were rather unflattering.

The woman leaned to one side and peered at a battered appointments book.

“Mr Clovenhoof,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re late.”

“We had an eleven o’clock booking.”

“But I expected you sooner. She’s not coming, is she?”

“No.”

“And you’ve come to cancel.”

“Yes.”

“Because who wants ‘True Love Forever’ on their arm when their true love has left them?”

“Who says I wanted it on my arm?”

She fixed him with her one good eye and took in his mischievous expression.

“I don’t do short hand, Mr Clovenhoof,” she said and he grinned.

She returned to her cards.

“Well,” he said, “I can see you’re rushed off your feet...”

He turned to go and a poster by the door caught his eye.

Tarot Readings

Questions Answered.

Problems Resolved.

Readings by Mistress Verthandi

(Tuesdays and Thursdays)

He laughed.

“What?” said the woman without looking up.

“She told me to seek help, get myself sorted out.”

“There are worse kinds of help.”

“Wednesday today.”

“If only I weren’t rushed off my feet.”

She gathered the cards together in front of her and kicked a seat back for him to sit down.

“You’re Mistress Verthandi?”

“On Tuesdays and Thursdays. Names are impermanent things. Ten quid for the basic reading. More if you have specific questions.”

He sat down.

“Ever had a tarot reading before?” she asked.

“Nope.”

She began to deal the cards out, face down, in an unobvious pattern on the counter between them.

“You ever see that James Bond film with the voodoo stuff?”

“I like James Bond movies.”

“Good for you. Me and Jane Seymour use the same deck. This is the Celtic Cross spread. Standard stuff. I turn over the cards and they help us find answers to your personal questions.”

“And does it work?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you believe in this stuff?”

She tapped her black eyepatch.

“Do you want me to tell you I traded this eye for the gift of second sight?”

“Did you?”

“Fact is, Mr Clovenhoof, it doesn’t actually matter what
I
believe. You can say it’s magic. You can say it’s subconscious influences or the synchronicity of Jungian archetypes. You can say it’s the work of the devil if you wish.”

“Doubt that.”

“It works. It helps people. Let’s see.” She turned over the first card. “Two of cups. Reversed. That indicates an instability in your relationships. We knew that anyway.” She turned over another. “Here. The Knight of Swords. Again reversed. This represents the thing that opposes you. A skilful warrior. Guardian of the gateway. Interesting.” She flipped over another card. “This one’s interesting. The Ace of Coins. Two-faced. Man and woman in one. The duplicitous twins. Two people – two women or maybe not - in your life who are not what they seem.”

“Who?”

“I couldn’t say. Ah, but here. Look. The Fool.”

Clovenhoof gazed at the picture, a young man with a pack over one shoulder and a rose in his hand.

“The fool is me?” he suggested.

“The fool is one who departs in search of answers. The sun behind him is divine wisdom, the thing that he seeks.”

“He’s going to walk off a cliff,” Clovenhoof pointed out.

“He plays a dangerous game. This is a journey of the heart, not the mind. But he holds the rose, a precious thing of heavenly beauty in his hand. Maybe he doesn’t appreciate what he already possesses.”

“Interesting, What else?”

She turned over another card.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

She turned over further cards, a sixth, seventh and eighth. She gazed at them for a long time.

“What do they say?” asked Clovenhoof.

“Hmmm.” She looked at the cards some more and turned over others.

“Problem?” said Clovenhoof.

“Depends.”

There was a strange expression on her face. Looking at her, he saw a woman who was probably younger than Blenda but to whom time and fate had been less kind. Her face was heavily lined, her long grey hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. If she’d met her, Blenda might also have said something about the lack of a proper health and beauty regime or words to that effect.

“Depends on what?” said Clovenhoof.

“What kind of reading you were after. Whether you wanted some reassuring ‘if you love her set her free’ platitudes or some brutal honesty.”

“Oh, I’m all for brutal honesty.”

“You are surrounded by death, Mr Clovenhoof.”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded.

“I was perhaps expecting a stronger reaction from you.”

“I work as an assistant mortician.”

“I can see that, or something very much like it, here.” She stabbed at a card. “But here” – and her hand waved across the entire spread – “death again.”