Clovenhoof (10 page)

Clovenhoof held up the album for Ben to see.

“Cannibal Corpse,” said Ben. “Yeah, that one was a gift from my mum. Hmmm. She tries.”

“And who’s this meant to be?” asked Clovenhoof, pointing at giant cat-faced being on Pantera’s
Metal Magic
.

“I think that’s meant to be Satan.”

“I thought so,” said Clovenhoof. “Don’t see the resemblance myself. I mean, it hasn’t even got any horns.”

There was a thumping at the door. Ben sidled past Clovenhoof to open it and revealed a thunder-faced Nerys.

“What the hell is that racket?” she demanded loudly.

“
Be My Slave
by Bitch.”

“What did you call me?”

Ben scuttled back to the turntable and killed the music.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That din is coming right through our floor. It’s setting Aunt Molly’s teeth on edge and is seriously interfering with my harp practice.”

“Is it going well?” asked Ben.

Nerys hesitated.

“Not exactly,” she said. “I think the shop might have strung it incorrectly. That’s the only reason I can think of.”

She looked down at Clovenhoof.

“What
are
you doing?”

He delivered her a wide, toothy grin.

“We’re starting a heavy metal band,” he declared.

“We’re what?” said Ben.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Is it?”

“We’re in a shitty grey nowhere town. Exactly the kind of place heavy metal springs from. Heavy metal is all about Satanic music for loners who play with themselves. I know everything there is to know about Satan. You know everything there is to know about playing with yourself. I need a creative outlet. You need to get out more. It’s perfect!”

“Right,” said Ben, taken aback. “What instruments will we play?”

Clovenhoof yanked the dust-covered keyboard out of the cupboard and held it up triumphantly.

“It’s years since I’ve played it,” said Ben. “It wheezes like an asthmatic and occasionally picks up CB radio signals.”

“Details!”

“Madness, Jeremy!” said Nerys. “Can you play any instrument at all?”

Clovenhoof blew out his lips and shrugged.

“How hard can it be?”

The first parcels arrived at flat 2a the following morning. There were seven of them and they were quite large.

Clovenhoof, who was still getting to grips with the plastic credit cards he had been given, was amazed by how quickly large and expensive items could be made to appear at your door by reading out a string of numbers over the phone and saying ‘yes’ to every question.

From Nerys’s flat above came faint tuneless twanging sounds, intermittently punctuated by vehement swearing. It sounded like an archery contest for Tourette’s sufferers. It added to the warm glow in Clovenhoof’s heart as he set about investigating his purchases. He had unwrapped a mixer desk, a four foot amplifier and was pulling the plastic sheeting from his silver-painted axe-shaped electric guitar when he abruptly realised he was not alone in his flat.

“Come out, Michael,” he said.

The archangel came in from the kitchen, carrying two glasses.

“I was just mixing a cocktail,” he said.

Clovenhoof looked at the pink frothy drink he was being offered. He wasn’t aware of having any pineapple juice or cherry liqueur in his poorly stocked kitchen, nor indeed any of the other ingredients of a Singapore Sling. He certainly didn’t have any bendy straws or cocktail umbrellas, not that such niggling reality-nuggets would mean anything to Michael.

“You spying on me again?” said Clovenhoof, begrudgingly accepting the drink.

“No, this is a social visit.”

“Yeah?” said Clovenhoof sceptically.

Michael smiled and walked around the flat, stepping over the strewn remains of the open parcels. He bent to pick up one of the many polystyrene packing chips.

“Non-biodegradable,” he said sadly. “What is all
this
, Jeremy?”

“I’m starting a band.”

“What kind of band?”

“The musical kind. I’m going to write the songs, sing, play lead guitar. I’ve got a friend who’ll play keyboards.”

“A friend? Well done, Jeremy.” Michael gave him a big, supportive smile. “I suppose you do need something to do with your... retirement. What kind of songs?”

“My songs.”

“Songs about what?”

“My experiences. What it means to be me.”

“Hmmm,” said Michael, continuing to pace. Clovenhoof noticed that wherever he trod, the carpet became instantly cleaner. He hoped he could entice the angel into doing a quick circuit of the hallway and the bathroom.

“You know what would happen if you tried to tell people who you really are?” said Michael.

“Strait-jacket. Padded room. A syringe full of anti-psychotics, I know,” said Clovenhoof, adding silently to himself, either that or offer me a recording contract.

“And I imagine this musical equipment is quite costly,” said Michael.

“No idea,” said Clovenhoof honestly.

“Your remuneration package is meant to be a modest one. Heaven’s coffers are not limitless, you know.”

“Bollocks.”

Michael gave Clovenhoof a long, evaluative look, up and down. In the silence, Nerys’s battle with the harp appeared to be reaching some sort of conclusion, possibly mutually assured destruction.

Michael grunted lightly and smiled.

“I wish you every success, Jeremy.”

“Well, I can’t do any worse than her,” said Clovenhoof, pointing upwards at the flat above.

“I may have had a hand in that,” said Michael coyly.

“Oh, yes?”

“No mortal’s going to play the harp on my watch. It
is
the preserve of angels.”

He sipped the straw into his mouth and slurped deeply on his cocktail before giving a warm sigh.

“I always think it tastes like a piece of heaven.”

“Not my cup of tea,” said Clovenhoof and put his Singapore Sling down on the mantelpiece, untouched.

In the end, Clovenhoof reasoned, the whole project boiled down to writing the songs and performing them. Writing the songs was just matter of finding the words and composing the music. Performance merely entailed practice, finding a venue and, of course, developing the right sort of stage look. Broken down, it seemed terribly, terribly simple.

Clovenhoof had ordered himself a series of ‘teach yourself guitar’ books with accompanying CDs. He started at Book One, had mastered the chords of G, C and D within the hour and was playing a selection of Status Quo’s greatest hits by tea-time. Whilst waiting for his Findus Crispy Pancakes to cook, he phoned Birmingham Symphony Hall and left a message on the answer phone asking if he could book the place for a concert that weekend or, failing that, the weekend following.

After dinner, he sat down with glass of Lambrini and tried to pen some songs. By midnight, he had written a dozen possible verses for a song tentatively titled
Fools in Paradise
but which by morning had morphed into the shout- and rage-filled
Swallow My Fruit, Bitch
.

Clovenhoof quickly moved through Books Two and Three of ‘teach yourself guitar’ and tried his hand at fingerpicking as well as chords. He scribbled down the notation for the songs he had written so far, now including
Soiled Angel
and
Night of the Morningstar
and took them down the high street to Ben’s shop so that Ben could begin practising the keyboard parts. Ben stared at the ink-stained manuscripts, speechless. Clovenhoof took this as a good sign.

On the way, back he stopped in at a charity shop, where he bought a black leather jacket and some tight jeans, and then took a walk through Short Heath Park where he composed in his head a soaring power ballad entitled
Drowning in a Lake of Fire
.

At home, he tried on his new clothes and contemplated himself in the mirror. He decided that it wasn’t quite enough and ordered some bondage gear over the phone. He then phoned Symphony Hall again and spoke to a polite but obviously dim-witted woman who, firstly, had no knowledge of his previous answer phone message and, secondly, seemed unable to grasp that he wanted to book the
venue
, not mere tickets.

Clovenhoof and Ben held their first joint practice on Saturday morning. Clovenhoof had cleared all the furniture from his lounge to make room for amps, mikes, mixers, wires and an audience (should one magically appear). Ben plugged an audio lead into his keyboard. It produced an uneven droning sound, like a sleeping beehive.

“Are you ready?” said Clovenhoof, hefting his axe.

“Are you?” replied Ben.

Clovenhoof grinned and performed a fast-fingered lick that ran all the way down the fretboard.

“When did you say you first picked up a guitar?” said Ben.

“I don’t know. What day of the week is it? Right, let’s do
Spineless Disciples
.”

They didn’t have a drummer and neither knew how to count them in but by some happy accident they both stumbled into the first verse at roughly the same time. Clovenhoof thrashed through the chord changes D minor to G augmented seventh to E minor, leaned into the mic and let loose.

“Three times the cock did crow!

Christ denier! Christ denier!

A bunch of cocks all in a row!

Cowards and liars! Pants on fire!”

Clovenhoof launched into his solo with more enthusiasm than accuracy, ran a crazy tremolo-picking journey across the strings whilst Ben’s antique keyboard swept around him with haunting and occasionally intentionally discordant chord changes. They rampaged through two more verses and then finished at roughly the same time.

Clovenhoof looked to Ben. Ben struggled to find the words.

“That was...”

“What?”

“That was actually quite good. You can sing.”

Clovenhoof grinned but, for once, it was not a devilish smirk but the smile of someone whose chest was swelling with deserved pride.

“They do say I have all the best tunes,” he said. “What was that weird chanting sound during verse two?”

“A local taxi cab company,” said Ben, gesturing to his keyboard. “I did warn you.”

“And that violent thumping sound?”

“No, that wasn’t me.”

The thumping sound came again as if on cue. It was the front door and, behind it, Nerys. She was holding a piece of broken wood in her hands with a series of catgut wires hanging from it. She was gripping it so tightly Clovenhoof could see the painted veneer cracking beneath her fingertips.

“How’s the harp-playing going?” asked Clovenhoof.

Nerys growled.

“Whoever invented the harp was a sadist and a twat.”

“You’re not wrong. I could introduce you to him.”

“Of course,” she went on, pushing past him into the flat, “I would have had more success if I didn’t have to listen to the crap booming out of this place.”

“We were just agreeing on how good it was.”

“Rubbish,” she said, “You were – ugh! What’s that?”

She pointed at Clovenhoof’s Singapore Sling, which had stood untouched on the mantelpiece for several days now. A fine green mould had grown across its surface and was gamely climbing up the cocktail umbrella.

“It’s a cocktail,” said Clovenhoof.

“I meant the green fuzz growing in it.”

“I’m thinking of calling it Herbert.”

“Herbert?” said Ben.

“I need a pet,” said Clovenhoof. Herbert was the name of one of the most obsequious and oily of the recently deceased he had met. It struck him as fitting.

“Anyway,” said Nerys, “the timing was awful. You” – she pointed at Ben – “got completely lost and started playing Greensleeves at one point.”

“I panicked,” said Ben.

“And you, Jeremy, couldn’t keep time between your voice and your guitar.”

“I disagree.”

“Yeah?” Nerys picked up a discarded fork from the floor, brushed Findus Crispy Pancake crumbs from its tines and held it up like a baton. “Well, let’s take it from the top.”

She counted them in, slowed Ben as he stumbled headlong into the middle section, brought them back together during verse three and drew a crescendo from them at the song’s climax.

There was a long silence once it was over.

“That
was
better,” said Ben quietly.

“Yes, it was,” Clovenhoof agreed.

“Shall we have a go at another?” said Nerys happily.

Clovenhoof passed out fresh sheet music.

“This is great,” he said with genuine joy. “Finally, a chance to express myself. A chance to create something of lasting value. Art.”

Nerys looked at the music and raised her baton.

“Okay.
Virgin Whore
. From the top.”

At their next practice, Nerys came armed with a pair of maracas and some news.

“I’ve got us our first gig,” she said.

“Us?”

She waved her maracas in his face as evidence of her intrinsic role in the band.

“The Boldmere Oak, this Wednesday,” she said. “It’s open mic night.”

“Well,” said Clovenhoof loftily, “I’ve been in negotiations with the Symphony Hall.”

“Perhaps best to start small.”

“What’s this stuff?” said Ben, digging into the wrappings of a recently arrived parcel.

“Clothing accessories,” said Clovenhoof. “Part of our image.”

He took out a studded black harness of straps and laid it experimentally against his leather jacket.

“I thought it’d look a bit more hardcore. What do you reckon?”

Nerys had found a red and black leather basque and admired it at arm’s length.

“What do you think?” said Clovenhoof.

Nerys realised that the others were looking at her.

“I couldn’t possibly wear this,” she said in a deeply unconvincing tone. “I’d look like a
complete
slut.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Clovenhoof, equally unconvincingly.

“I mean, I would if I
had
to,” she said, hopefully. “You know, for
art’s
sake.”

“For art’s sake, of course.”

“What’s this?” said Ben, holding up a contraption of straps, buckles and a large sausage of moulded black latex.