Clovenhoof (13 page)

“Would you say that he should have some credit for coming into a church?” Betty asked, her pen poised.

“Certainly not,” said Doris. “It’s not as though he’s shown it any respect, is it? What a place to have an outburst like that.”

“Do you think he did that on purpose? I think he’s just a bit
troubled
.”

Nerys shoved Clovenhoof out of the door and out into the porch.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, simmering with fury. “Even of you. I know you’re selfish. I know you don’t care about anyone else but yourself, but somehow, I would never have believed that you could stoop this low.”

“What?”

“To follow us into a funeral, that’s
pretty
creepy in itself. But everyone knows that of all the places where you show a little bit of decorum, a little bit of respect, a funeral’s the place.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“But you! You don’t just make a little bit of a nuisance of yourself, you practically ruin the whole service! What on earth were you doing?”

“I...”

“No, don’t tell me. The only possible thing I can say to people is that you’re a simpleton who doesn’t
know
what he’s doing. Just get out of here. I don’t want to look at your face for another moment.”

Nerys went back inside and Clovenhoof stood looking at the door, wondering what had just happened. It had started to rain.

Michael re-appeared with an umbrella in his hand.

“A lady vicar, I see,” he said.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Strange idea. Brolly?”

“What?”

Michael offered him the shade of his umbrella.

“It rains on the just and unjust alike.”

“Sod off,” said Clovenhoof.

“I suppose it’s nice for the ladies to be involved,” continued Michael thoughtfully, “but still, it just doesn’t look right, does it?”

“Yeah,” said Clovenhoof through gritted teeth, “only men should wear dresses. Everyone knows that.”

He walked off, unable to tolerate Michael anymore.

“Won’t be a problem for much longer anyway,” Michael called, and disappeared.

Clovenhoof, getting slowly soaked to the skin, didn’t stop to wonder what he meant. He trudged through the melting slush at the church gate. He just wanted to get back home. He hated Michael. He had always hated Michael. Had he
really
agreed to work with him?

Satan met Michael, for the first time in millennia, in the demilitarized zone between Heaven and Hell. Strictly speaking it didn’t exist, had never existed, but Satan had insisted that if he was going to have this chat with some representative of Heaven then it would be on neutral ground, so Heaven had made sure that it would exist, for a little while at least.

A figure approached Satan through the wispy nothingness. Satan groaned when he saw who it was.

“If I’d known they were going to send you I don’t think I’d have bothered.”

The Archangel Michael smiled at his oldest adversary.

“I’m unarmed. This is a meeting between professionals, remember? Purely business. Surely you’re not going to sulk about our last meeting are you?”

“Why would I sulk about you sticking me with a spear and doing a victory dance on my back?”

“Angels don’t dance,” said Michael smoothly. “Shall we sit?”

“Where?” Satan asked. He looked round to see that a sleek mahogany table had appeared with a pair of chairs.

“Show-off,” he mumbled, and sat down.

Michael had a pad of paper and a fountain pen. He started to make notes, glowing golden ink flowing onto the crisp parchment.

“Shall we set an agenda?” said Michael.

“I didn’t think you had a gender,” said Satan but the pun was lost on Michael.

“I think we should chat about the high level things today,” the angel said. “And if you decide that you’d like to go ahead with some of these suggestions, then we’ll involve a few more people. What do you think?”

“Yes, high level,” agreed Satan, not particularly sure what Michael meant.

Michael made a brief list and showed it to Satan.

Describe how a carefully chosen management team can increase productivity and enable delegation.

“Delegation,” said Satan. “That’s telling people to do stuff?”

“Yes.”

“I can do that.”

2. Describe the framework used by Heaven for performance management.

“Performance management?”

“That’s how we measure how well people are performing their role and guide them towards improvements.”

“Like ‘don’t jab him like that, jab him like
this
.’ That sort of thing?”

“Sort of.”

3. Create a Vision and Mission Statement for Hell.

“A lot of people have visions of Hell,” said Satan.

“Yes, it means something different in this sense.”

“Oh.”

4. Propose members of a board to implement suggested changes.

“I see,” said Satan.

“What do you think?” asked Michael.

“Just one thing missing,” Satan said, and indicated that Michael should pass him the pad.

He wet his finger in his mouth and smeared the ink all down the right hand side in a wavy line.

“Better,” he said, and nodded in approval as he passed it back to Michael.

Michael rolled his eyes and restored his smile.

“Good,” he said, “let’s get started then. I’m going to walk you through some of the basics. Maybe I’ll start with a couple of diagrams, showing how a well-organised management structure will allow you to allocate work to people who are best able to deal with it, while still leaving you ultimately responsible.”

He took up his pen again and started to draw a pyramid with arrows going up and down. He glanced briefly at Satan who was leaning towards him, and shifted position so that his arm was spread protectively round his work.

A few hours later, the table was covered with diagrams, notes and lists. Satan’s head was full of new concepts. Some of them sounded insane. Some sounded pointless. But some of them sounded as if they might even work.

“So, we need a team,” Michael said, “a group of representatives from Heaven and Hell. They will form a project board to steer this transition.”

Satan was still trying to understand some of the language.

“What does it mean when you steer a transition?” he asked.

“The group will give you advice about how to do things.”

“Oh. That sounds good. I’ll still be in charge?”

“Of course. So, let’s get some names down. I’ll put Peter from our side, as he came up with this idea.”

“God, I bet he’ll bring that simpering sidekick of his along. Well, I’ll have Mulciber then. Chief Architect and all that. And Azazel, he’s probably the most level-headed of the chief demons.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Uh, right. Good. I’ll choose Saint Francis next, he can keep an eye on expenses, and Joan of Arc. She has a lot of get-up-and-go.”

“I’ll have Raum and Baal,” said Satan.

“A cat demon and a bird demon? Is that wise?” said Michael, pen poised.

“Hmmm, OK. How about Leviathan?”

“He’s over three hundred miles long. Not ideal to get round a board room table.”

Satan pushed back from the table, exasperated. “Well what about Ceto? Another female would be good, surely?”

“Well, I agree with that, but someone with a legion of monstrous children is going to have issues with childcare, no?”

“Look. I’m not complaining about your trippy visionaries and suck-up arse-lickers.”

“Fine. Fine. But I will draw the line at any demons who vomit bile or belch flame.”

“That’s just picky.”

The bickering continued for a long time but it was a constructive form of bickering.

Ben was painting tiny soldiers in his kitchen when Clovenhoof entered. His tongue was sticking out the corner of his mouth, a sure sign of intense concentration.

Clovenhoof peeled off his sodden trousers and draped them over a radiator. He rearranged his underpants and slumped into a chair and scowled at Ben’s delicate brushwork.

“People are sort of tricky, aren’t they?” said Clovenhoof.

Ben shrugged as he switched brushes.

“Well I can never figure them out.”

Clovenhoof picked up an unpainted soldier and pouted glumly at it.

“Simple misunderstanding, and all of a sudden everyone’s up in arms.”

Ben nodded.

“Is that why you like these so much?” Clovenhoof asked.

“Yeah.” Ben replied. “They look how I want them to look, they go where I want them to go, and they stay there if I turn my back. People never do that.”

“Interesting,” said Clovenhoof. “Can I have a go?”

Ben handed him a small brush and a pot of paint.

“Work in layers. Save the detail until last. See with this one, he’s infantry so you can do most of his clothes with a wash of this paint here. I mixed it myself – I call it
Dirty Linen
. Then you can add the brown leather detail when it’s dry.”

Clovenhoof worked carefully, making sure he kept the paint exactly where it should be.

“You know, I used to have something a bit like this once. A world at my mercy, where I could control exactly what happened.”

Ben peered at his painting and nodded in approval.

“Yeah it looks like you’ve done this before. You’ve got the attention to detail. Listen, I’ve got an afternoon shift at the shop, so I’ll need to go out in a minute.”

“OK,” said Clovenhoof, picking up the next infantryman and washing out his brush.

“So...”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Clovenhoof. “Off you go.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Well what I should have said is, you need to go home.”

“I’m not wearing any trousers.”

“You can’t stay here.”

Clovenhoof looked up in disappointment.

“Oh. Can’t I? Well can I take some with me?”

“Sure. And your trousers.”

Clovenhoof found it so absorbing that he forgot to get out of his wet clothes or put fresh trousers on. He sat all afternoon, giving the soldiers small individual touches like moustaches and acne.

The last soldier he painted was all in white. He worked hard to give him just the right expression of smarmy benevolence.

He arranged them all on his table when he was done.

The white soldier was at one end and the others were all at the other.

“Herbert,” he said to his pet mould, which had a ringside seat on the mantelpiece, “I feel I should say a few words. The occasion demands gravitas, as I’m about to replay my historic battle with Michael, but this time with the numbers on
my
side.”

He turned to the amassed lead infantry.

“Now, my fine men,” he commanded, “I want you to advance, on my order, and annihilate that little prick. I want you to smash him into so many tiny pieces that they won’t even find his stupid smile afterwards.”

He went to the other end and faced the white soldier.

“Say goodbye, Michael.”

He stood erect, stopping only to blow his nose, which had started to run. He paused to find the right words.

“Die Michael, die!” he screamed. “Go, soldiers! Rip him to shreds!”

Nobody moved and he hesitated.

He knew it was called gaming, but he assumed it would work better than this.

“Go on!” he urged.

Still nothing.

“Aaargh!” he yelled in frustration, and swept the soldiers to the floor with his arm.

“Useless bloody cowards!”

He would have to punish them for their inaction, of course.

He picked up the first two from the floor and examined their faces. He was unable to detect the fear and respect that he knew he needed in his minions.

“I need to make an example of these men, Herbert.”

He fetched the emergency toolbox from the fuse cupboard and extracted a hand drill. He pinned the first soldier to the table with the end and leaned on it heavily.

“Now do you wish you’d done as I commanded?”

He disembowelled the soldier and his companion, leaving the twisted remains at the feet of Mini-Michael.

“Who’s next? Are you going to advance on the enemy or do I have to hunt you
all
down, you cowards?”