Clovenhoof (36 page)

They carried on, with the tenacious terrier dangling by his teeth from the sagging body and growling excitedly all the while.

They turned into Beech Road. A ten-minute walk to Short Heath Park, Ben told himself.

“There’s another,” said Clovenhoof, nodding across the road to where a shaggy-haired mongrel stood, watching them.

As if in response to the acknowledgement, the dog scampered across the road and sniffed at the body.

“Now, if we had a pack of ravenous dogs...” said Clovenhoof thoughtfully. “Chomp, chomp. This could be gone in seconds.”

Twinkle growled louder at the newcomer whilst retaining his dangling death-hold on the corpse.

“If we bury this thing in the park,” said Ben, “the local dogs are going to dig it up in seconds. Hang on...”

He looked forward to Clovenhoof.

“Where’s the spade, Jeremy?”

“I don’t have it.”

“But you had it before.”

“I told you to pick up the tools.”

“I’ve got the hammer!”

“But what about the spade?”

“It must be back in the alley.”

“Oh, look, a third.”

A grizzle-chopped dog had joined Twinkle and the other dog, and a whine indicated another close behind.

“This isn’t working,” said Ben. “About turn. Now.”

They hefted the load onto their other shoulders so that they could switch direction. As they did so, something fell from the wrapping onto the pavement. There was much growling and scuffling over this morsel, until one of the dogs broke free and raced away with the prize.

“What was that?” Ben said.

“No idea,” said Clovenhoof. “Let’s get back.”

They began walking back. The two dogs underneath the corpse circled one another, sniffing and whining and ducking in and out of Ben’s legs. At the corner of Beech Road, he tripped against one of them and stumbled. Twinkle growled. Ben, not able to see what was going on, heard a bark, the snap of teeth and a shrill yelp. After that it only got louder.

“On second thoughts, run,” said Ben.

Ben all but slammed the trunk lid shut on Mr Dewsbury and stormed into the kitchen to wash his hands.

“I can’t believe we weren’t arrested,” he muttered bitterly.

“I think it was a creditable first attempt,” said Clovenhoof, pouring himself a glass of Lambrini.

“First attempt?” Ben squeaked. “How many times are we going to do this?”

“If at first you don’t succeed...”

“Give up.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, Ben, but we just have to learn our lesson and move on. Next time, we’ll remember the shovel.”

“I am not doing that again!”

“Okay. Then we think of something different. If we can’t dispose of him all at once...”

“If I hear the word ‘hacksaw’ then I’m just going to turn myself in.”

“No, I’m thinking of something a bit more refined. An acid bath.”

“An acid bath!”

Ben wheeled on Clovenhoof to see that his eyes were closed, contemplating.

“Some chemical,” said Clovenhoof. “Something to strip flesh from bones.”

Ben looked at his hands, remembering the drain cleaner that had burned his hands four months before.

“Bleach?” said Ben.

“Not caustic enough.” Clovenhoof opened his eyes and smiled. “Hair relaxer.”

“What?”

“The stuff hairdressers use to straighten afro hair.”

“We’re going to perm him to death?”

“I was looking at a bottle the other day at Blenda’s. Sodium hydroxide. Caustic soda. It burns organic material. Eats it.”

“And then what do we do with the bones?”

“I’ve got an idea about that too.”

Clovenhoof sipped his Lambrini. Ben wasn’t sure he liked the look on his face.

“That’s it,” declared Nerys, standing up.

It was the third time she had declared that
that was it
in as many days but, although she had meant it the first and second times, she meant it most sincerely this time.
That
was definitely unequivocally undeniably
it
.

She could tolerate the odd smell. She lived with a dog and an elderly woman with an irritating cough and a taste for gassy food. Such things were to be expected. But the stink that was emanating from Ben’s flat had a vibrant and vile life of its own. It had invaded her home, inhabited her clothes and hair and made her skin crawl.

She took her indignation down to 2b and thumped on the door. It swung open.

“Come in,” called Clovenhoof.

She pressed a scented tissue to her nose and ventured inside. Clovenhoof was at the kitchen table, a wad of printed sheets spread out in front of him.

“Where’s Ben?” she said.

“Out. Shopping errand. Got a cold?”

She held her nose all the tighter.

“How can you stand it?”

“Stand what?”

“The smell.”

“What smell?”

She glared at him.

“You know,” said Clovenhoof, tapping a pen against his teeth, “olfactory hallucinations are one of the first signs of schizophrenia. I read that.”

“I thought Ben was going to get this sorted.”

“He is. That’s what the shopping errand’s for.”

“What? More air fresheners? You need to get the plumbers in.”

Clovenhoof shrugged and returned his attention to the sheets in front of him.

“What are you doing?” asked Nerys, irritated that her righteous anger wasn’t getting any results.

“Something my therapist gave me to do. They’re like questions about your personality. Sort of fun. Do you want some? I have spares. It could help you discover who you really are.”

“I know who I am,” she snapped. “I’m the woman who’s living above a flat that stinks worse than a Parisian sewer.”

Clovenhoof gave the matter some thought.

“Do you think having a therapist makes me seem more mysterious and interesting?” he asked. “Am I an enigma to you?”

“No. You’re a mad idiot, Jeremy.”

“An enigmatic mad idiot?”

She gave a whole-body shudder of annoyance.

“If you clowns aren’t going to sort this smell out then I am.”

“Okay,” he said happily and, when it was apparent that this was as much as she was going to get from him, she turned on her heel, marched out of 2b and across to the open door of 2a.

Following the fire, the renovators had removed and disposed of all the living room furniture, ripped up the carpets and repaired the walls. It looked clean and bright and, beneath the all-encompassing pong, carried a scent of fresh paint and promises. It was better than Clovenhoof deserved.

“Helloo,” called Nerys softly, stepping inside.

There was the quiet whisper of a radio from the kitchen. She went through to find two strapping builders in paint-spattered gear tiling behind the sink and fixing doors on the cupboard units.

“Hi, there,” she said.

The one at the sink turned round and gave her a cheery smile.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “You all right?”

“I wondered if you’d be able to help me,” she said.

“How so?”

“You must have noticed that smell coming from 2b.”

“Haven’t we just?” said the builder and his mate, with his head and shoulders inside a cupboard, grunted in agreement.

“I wondered if you’d be able to come and have a look at it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Have a look. Poke around.”

“You need a plumber,” he said.

“That’s what I told them,” she said.

“And you were right.”

He picked up a cloth and wiped tiling grout from his hands.

He might have been thinning on top and he might have been unshaven but his stubble gave him a rugged air and even his nascent baldness had a certain devil-may-care aspect to it. And he wore a belt to keep his trousers up. Such an uncommon quality in tradesmen.

“But if you could come and have a look...” Nerys suggested.

He grimaced politely.

“We’ve got a job to finish here.”

“I understand,” she said, “but I would be very grateful if you could have a peek, or even a poke.”

“We’re on contract,” he said. “We can’t do cash in hand.”

In an action she had practised in front of a mirror, she bowed her head slightly, tilted it to the side and looked up at him demurely.

“I would be
very
grateful.”

The builder frowned.

“Pardon?”

She leant her body against the doorframe, raising a leg to caress the doorjamb.

“Are you sure,” she said archly, “I can’t tempt you to a quick poke?”

The bloke in the cupboard abruptly developed an uncontrollable cough.

The builder’s expression squirmed from confusion to embarrassment to something that looked like pity and eventually settled on something stony-faced and unfriendly.

“Listen,” he said. “I don’t know who you are but you’re bang out of order.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a deadline and I don’t appreciate being propositioned by strange women who dress ten years too young and wear too much lippy.”

“Who said I was proposi-”

“You’ve made a fool of yourself and embarrassed my mate.” The coughing accelerated into a higher gear and Nerys realised it wasn’t actually coughing. The builder kicked his mate to silence him.

Nerys felt a hot flush of shame.

“I think-”

“I think,” said the builder, “you ought to go and rethink...” He waved his hand to indicate her entire body, her entire being.

Nerys backed away, her emotional state ping-ponging between anger and utter mortification.

“And for your information,” said the builder as she left, “I’m only interested in women who’ve got a bit of self-respect.”

Nerys all but ran out, across the landing and into Ben’s flat. She slammed the door behind her and put her back against it.

“Is that you, Ben?” called Clovenhoof.

Nerys shook her head, to herself not him, and walked silently into the kitchen.

“Is it time for Mr Dewsbury’s bath?” said Clovenhoof and then looked up.

“Oh,” he said. “Er. Mr Dewsbury is my pet name for my penis.”

Nerys realised she was breathing hard. The sound was loud in her ears.

“Do I wear too much make up?”

“I don’t know. Blenda seemed to think so.”

“She did?” she breathed.

“Tarty. That was the word she used. Slatternly too.”

“Oh.”

“But I like it,” he said casually. “I think it complements your...” – he waved his hand vaguely towards her – “tits?”

Nerys gasped.

“Do
you
think I have no self-respect?”

“Absolutely. That’s what I like about you.”

“I see.”

“Is that the kind of answer you were looking for?” asked Clovenhoof.

She had nothing she could say.

“Good,” said Clovenhoof, pleased to have been of help and returned to his forms as she stormed out.

Ben came in with a large cardboard box stacked high with small packages in his hands. He had a frown on his face.

“Problem at the wholesalers?” said Clovenhoof.

“No. I was on the landing and thought I could hear crying.”

Clovenhoof listened out and heard nothing.

“Sounded like Nerys,” said Ben.

“She was fine earlier,” said Clovenhoof. “She took some of the self-evaluation questionnaires my therapist gave me. Do
you
think having a therapist makes me seem mysterious and interesting?”

“No, it makes you seem mad.”

“You too, huh? Shall we crack on with the body disposal then?”

Ben nodded with grim reluctance.

With the door firmly locked (the security chain was still broken) they dragged the bin-bag-wrapped Mr Dewsbury into the bathroom and with a bit of tearing and yanking, managed to roll the corpse into the bath tub, leaving the gore-slimed bags in their hands.

“This is gross,” said Ben.

“All part of the cleansing process, dear boy.”

Mr Dewsbury was laid on his front, his head tilted backwards against the incline at the back of the bath.

“He looks uncomfortable,” said Ben.

“Wherever this man is, he’s not here now,” said Clovenhoof.

While Ben went to dispose of the bin bags, Clovenhoof fetched the packets of hair relaxer. He ripped the top off the first and sprinkled the white powder over Mr Dewsbury’s back. It fizzed on contact with liquid-sodden clothes.

“Nice,” he smiled and set to with the other packets.

“There’ll be bones left once the flesh is gone,” said Ben.

“All sorted.”

“How.”

“I phoned our friend, Pitspawn, and asked him if he’d be interested in a replica human skeleton for his Satanic attic.”

“But this is real.”

“You have model paints don’t you?”

“Yes, but...”

“I bet you can make a real bones look like fake ones.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“I have faith in you, Ben. Now hand us that next packet.”

Denise flicked through Clovenhoof’s filled out forms. He found himself clutching his knees and hoping for approval.

“Question: If you were an animal, what animal would you be?” she read. “Answer: A goat – I’m already half goat and quite like it.”

Clovenhoof smiled.

“It’s great. I can read a newspaper and then eat it.”

She read on.

“Question: Name a time when you were completely happy. Answer: 1493.” She looked up at him. “1493?”

“Spanish Inquisition,” said Clovenhoof. “Hilarious.”

“Right,” said Denise and smiled for three seconds but Clovenhoof could hear the weariness in her voice.

“Are you judging me?” he said.

“Who are you?” she replied.

“I’m Satan.”

“Where were you born?”

“I wasn’t.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m older than time itself.”

“If you’re Satan, why are you in Sutton Coldfield?”

“I was evicted.”

“Evicted?”

“I was made redundant.”