Clovenhoof (5 page)

“Ow. Get lost!”

“I need to open up and you... you’ve smashed the roof in.”

Clovenhoof rolled over and looked up.

Oh, yeah.

Clovenhoof had never heard of the conga before, but he’d got the hang of it quickly with help from his new friends from the Boldmere Oak. They were all going off to the Moo Moo Club, whatever that was. He’d laughed and cavorted so energetically that he’d somehow spun away from the others and formed a conga line of one, high-kicking and butt-waggling for goodness knows how long before he had realised he was alone.

He’d wandered on, very drunk and slightly unsure of his bearings. He headed through Sutton town centre, wondering if he could find his way back to Dan and Quentin and their warm fire when he saw a large tree artificially tethered on the paved floor.

It stood next to a little wooden shack with a sign on the top. His vision was swimming in and out, but he was impressed to see that it said “Satan’s Grotto”.

Maybe Michael had arranged this. It was very basic accommodation, but it clearly demonstrated that he was to be accorded some respect. There was even a roped-off section, patently for queues of humans to come and bow down before him. That was a nice touch.

“Well, goodnight world,” he declared loudly. “I’ve been wonderful.”

As he turned to address the dark street, his wobbly gaze moved up the tree.

“No!” he yelled, shaking his fist at the image on the top. “You little prick! You couldn’t resist, could you? It’s my place, and you just had to spoil it with a stupid angel!”

He shook the tree, hoping to dislodge it, but the angel held fast.

“I thought that you didn’t wear your wings anymore? Haven’t styles changed since your last apparition, huh?”

He stamped around and bellowed and swore. As he took another swipe at the tree a thought crossed his mind, and he began to giggle.

“Gonna help you out, Mikey,” he said as he started to shin up the tree. “Gonna pull your wings off. Gonna tidy you up. Haven’t got an Armani suit for you, but I can help you with those messy wings.”

The tree swayed violently as Clovenhoof clambered upwards and the needles dug into his legs and arms, but he was focussed on the angel. Its serene and benevolent face made him more and more furious as he drew closer, swinging from side to side as the tree grew thinner towards the top.

“Hell, you’re a smug one,” he sneered. “Look at you. Well I think we’ll see how well you fly down from there without your wings, shall we?”

He looked down at the ground as he reached for the angel and saw how far away it was.

His stomach lurched and he tried to grab back hold of the tree, but missed, and clawed into space.

“Ohh!”

Yes, thought Clovenhoof, reacquainting himself with the bruising pain in his back that had troubled him throughout his sleep.

“It’s not funny,” said his assailant. “We open in five minutes.”

“It’s my grotto!” said Clovenhoof, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “I can smash the roof if I want to!”

The white-bearded man in red spluttered.

“Your grotto? This is Santa’s grotto, and I’m Santa.”

“Santa? Don’t make me laugh. This is mine.”

“It’s for kids you know, not disgusting dossers.”

Clovenhoof let the red buffoon manhandle him out of the door. It was easier than trying to do it under his own steam.

“Santa’s not even real,” said Clovenhoof. “Satan’s grotto makes so much more sense.”

“Look, pal. I don’t want to hear you talking like that round little kiddies. You’ll frighten them with talk like that.”

“I mean look at these,” said Clovenhoof and waved a hand at the cavorting fibreglass models on the fake lawn around the grotto. “My little devils.”

“Elves.”

“Same difference.”

“Look. There’s no such thing as Satan and you need to shut your filthy mouth.”

“No such thing! Are you serious?”

“Are you some religious nut?”

Clovenhoof gave the nonsensical question some thought.

“Possibly. I’ll prove it. Look at what’s written on the top of this place, just read the sign.”

They both stepped away from the shack to read the lettering above.

“Santa’s Grotto. There.” Santa turned to Clovenhoof and smiled grimly. Clovenhoof kicked the ground with his hooves and sighed.

“Typical bloody humans, they can’t even spell a simple sign properly.”

He saw the angel lying on the ground nearby. He hadn’t even finished the job of pulling the wings off the stupid thing. He picked it up.

“Go on Michael, if you value your wings you need to tell me now.”

He held the angel to his ear.

“I’m listening. You can whisper your heartfelt apology if you like.”

The angel was silent so Clovenhoof pulled off the wings and ground them under his feet with a chuckle.

“Yes officer, that’s him.”

Clovenhoof looked up and saw that Santa was pointing him out to a pair of policemen who gently ambled over.

“Didn’t we take him in yesterday?” said one and Clovenhoof felt a twinge of recognition of the man’s lithe frame and well-tended moustache.

“Yeah,” said the other. “Some nob turned up and got him out. Must have some influential friends.”

“He’s a very influential knob,” agreed Clovenhoof.

“It’s Jeremy, isn’t it?” said the moustache.

“Yes. It’s Constable 1623, isn’t it?”

“PC Pearson to you,” he said tucking an arm under Clovenhoof’s.

Clovenhoof allowed himself to be led away. Santa leaned across as they went through the roped-off area.

“Something tells me,” he said with a smirk, “that you haven’t been a very good boy this year.”

Clovenhoof kicked him hard in the shin, and watched the queuing mothers put their hands over the children’s ears and hurry them away from the sound of Santa swearing loudly as he hopped on one foot and rubbed his leg.

They put him in the same cell again. He whiled away the hours sharpening his horns on the breeze block walls until Michael appeared, freshly pressed.

“Jeremy, there’s really only so many times I can get you out of trouble like this.”

“How many?”

“Do you think you might calm down and stop antagonising the good people of earth?”

“Good people? They’re idiots! There’s more respect for that buffoon in the red suit than there is for the real deal. How stupid would you have to be to encourage children to believe in a creepy old man who’s going to break into your house in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I heard you met Santa. Is that where you got your dolly?”

Michael smirked as he indicated the wingless angel still in Clovenhoof’s hand.

Clovenhoof looked down at it and swung it by the feet in frustration, smacking the head against the bench. It failed to smash in a satisfying manner, but bounced off, unharmed.

Michael shook his head in pity, enraging Clovenhoof even more. He started to jump on the doll.

“Come along, Jeremy. We need to get you home.”

Clovenhoof froze.

“Home?”

“Yes, come on.”

Clovenhoof was whisked out of the police station, giving PC Pearson a cheery salute of farewell as he passed, and into a waiting taxi.

“Why do we need a taxi if I’m going home?”

Michael smiled but said nothing.

A few minutes later, they pulled up outside a large pre-war house. Clovenhoof recognised it and groaned.

“Oh no.”

“You’ll love it.”

“No, no, no. Why have you brought me back here? This isn’t home. I want to go HOME!”

“This is your home now. We’ve taken care of all the formalities for you, so you can move straight into flat 2a.”

“A flat. Are you kidding? A flat! You might as well tell me that you’ve bought me my own ditch. What good is a flat to me?”

“You’ll be comfortable in there. I’ve checked it all out and you’ve got everything that you need in there. Come on.”

They went inside and stood at the door to flat 2a.

“Here’s your key. Shall we go inside?” asked Michael.

“Don’t want to.”

Clovenhoof scuffed his hooves and pushed out his bottom lip. There was a clattering of high heels on the stairs above them.

“On second thoughts,” he said. “Let’s not get held up talking to that ridiculous woman from upstairs.”

Clovenhoof opened the door with some speed and they were both inside the flat with the door closed.

“See? It’s already furnished,” Michael beamed. “It’s perfect.”

“How is it perfect?”

“It just is and the fact that you already met the neighbours is a bonus, too. I’m sure you’ll soon make it yours.”

“Make it mine?”

“Yes, you know, add some homely touches, a few of your favourite things.”

Clovenhoof stared at Michael.

“What utter bullshit. Are you serious? So maybe if I get some cushions this place will be indistinguishable from my most decadent chambers? I don’t think so.”

“Well I’m not going to stand here and argue with you, we’ve given you everything you need.”

Clovenhoof growled.

“What I need is-”

But Michael had vanished and Clovenhoof was alone.

“Tit,” hissed Clovenhoof.

He stalked around the flat, grimacing at the domestic prissiness of it all. There were pictures on the walls of kittens, six of them, arranged in a perfect two by three grid. They were posed in flowerpots and wellington boots, all competing in their efforts to be cute and twee. Clovenhoof hated them.

There was also a footstool.

“I haven’t even got any feet!” yelled Clovenhoof. “You dumb-ass, angelic twat! What am I going to do with a footstool?”

He picked it up and swung it at the offensive kitten pictures, shattering glass and breaking a leg off the footstool. He used it as a club to beat the fragmented remains of the pictures.

A lampshade with a tasselled fringe caught his eye. His urge to destroy that was even stronger than his kitten-rage. He put it on the floor and lifted the end of the settee. He kicked the lamp underneath and slammed the settee down onto it. There was a small amount of resistance, so he slammed it down again and again until the base was pulverised ceramic and the shade was flattened. Then he climbed up on top of the settee and jumped up and down, roaring to be sure that nothing remained of the hideous lamp. The settee itself was covered with a cheery throw decorated with large abstract poppies. Clovenhoof clasped it above his head and charged around the room twirling the heavy fabric around and around, bellowing obscenities and shattering candlesticks, vases and various china ornaments in his wake.

There was a hesitant knock on the door. Clovenhoof crunched across the debris to see who was there. He opened it to find Ben, the cider-and-black-drinking bookshop man, there.

He was wearing a faded Saxon t-shirt and a concerned expression.

“Oh, it’s you,” Ben said. “I thought it might be a ghost. Are you our new neighbour then?”

“A ghost? Why on earth would you think-”

“I meant rats. Yeah, I thought maybe it was rats,” said Ben. “It’s always a worry if rats get in a building. They breed pretty quickly.”

Clovenhoof stared at the babbling idiot.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked and then added, “I could do with a Lambrini myself.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, it’s a bit early for me. But, er, do pop over for a cup of tea if you like. You know, any time.”

“Tea?”

“Anyway,” said Ben pointedly. “I can see that you’re in the middle of, um, redecorating.”

Clovenhoof idly kicked a glass vase at the wall opposite.

“Laters,” said Ben.

Clovenhoof shut the door and decided to explore the kitchen.

He knew about kitchens in the same way that he knew about coal mines or the insides of watches, he had never had the slightest inclination to find out what was involved, they just needed to be there for other people to deal with. He found that a kitchen contained a baffling array of equipment, all neatly arranged in compartmentalised drawers. Much of it seemed to be in the form of a jaunty cockerel. He wasn’t sure whether that was normal. He twisted a small cockerel-shaped plastic thing and it emitted a shrill ringing sound. He fixed that by clubbing it with a larger cockerel, which turned out to be breakable.

He turned switches to see what happened. He was staggered to find that some of them made small fires. Small but fierce. He turned on all four of the fires and admired them. Finally he’d found something in the flat that pleased him. He left them burning, and wandered back into the living room. He found hundreds of gaudy leaflets for something called
Keep Boldmere Beautiful
in a sideboard drawer and he had a half-formed idea that he could make the fires bigger by adding the leaflets and the poppy-covered throw.

The thin plastic box in the corner had escaped his demolition, and he wondered what it was for. He pressed switches to see if it would make more fire, but he jumped back in surprise when it lit up with a large picture of a lady’s bottom. Interesting. He stood further back to admire it. The lady smacked herself on the back of her jeans and then wheeled a metal basket away from him, smiling in a smug way. Perhaps she had stolen the metal basket and its contents.

Clovenhoof didn’t have long to puzzle over this before the next set of peculiar images was presented. A rodent of some sort was standing on its hindquarters and addressing him. It spoke with a foreign accent and then winked. Clovenhoof was no wildlife expert, but he thought that this was unusual behaviour.

He sat down on the remains of the settee in order to study more closely what the box was showing him.

Many hours later, he’d worked out that the box was a television, and that humans routinely coveted bigger and better ones. He’d worked out that the content was a mixture of information, entertainment and numerous attempts to get humans to buy things with their money.

The sun went down and the parade of programmes rolled on. He watched humans forced to compete for money and prizes by smarmy-grinned game show hosts. He watched other humans spending money on houses and interior renovations in order to climb up some invisible thing called a property ladder. He watched a fascinating documentary about a community of people forced to live in a grimy place called Albert Square where they spent their days insulting each other, scheming against one another and moaning about how terrible life was. He enjoyed that one.