Clovenhoof (20 page)

The queue moved forward, leaving only one person between Clovenhoof and the cashier.

“As I said to you before, heaven’s coffers are not limitless.”

“And as I said to you before, bollocks. I need money.”

“Then earn some.”

“Earn some?” hissed Clovenhoof. “I thought I had earned it. Thousands of years doing the shittiest job in creation.”

“That wasn’t work. That was you stewing in your own rebellious juices.”

“As part of the Other Guy’s effing ineffable plan!”

“I told you not to overspend.”

“Shut up, you sanctimonious cock. Just give me some money. Magic some up. Make it appear. By the time I get to this counter, I want a hundred million quid in my bank account.”

Michael placed a loving hand on his shoulder.

“Tantrums will get you nowhere, Clovenhoof.”

Clovenhoof pulled away and, as the customer in front moved off, wheeled on the cashier.

“Okay, love, show me the money.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the cashier.

“My money. I want my money now.”

“You have an account?”

“Here.” Clovenhoof took out his wallet and frisbee’d a succession of bank and credit cards through the divide and onto her side of the counter.

“Just give me all the money.”

The cashier picked up the cards slowly, fixing Clovenhoof with the strangest look.

“This joker said I had to earn my money but, you know, sod it, I’ll just take it. I’d kill for it if I had to, I put a card in the post office, but no one has to die, do they? Not really.”

“No,” said the cashier.

Without actually moving anywhere, she seemed to be trying to back away from him.

“I don’t want anyone to die,” said Clovenhoof. “I don’t like mess.”

The cashier gathered all the cards together.

“Yes. No. I’m not sure what it is you want, sir.”

“Look, we’re wasting time. My friend, Ben, is waiting on me. He’s in some pain, you know.”

Clovenhoof tapped the large bulge in his jacket pocket where the cream was. This seemed to crystallise the cashier’s attention.

“You want money,” she said.

“Please don’t pander to him,” said Michael. “If you just give it to him, he’ll never learn.”

“Ignore him,” said Clovenhoof. “Open up that till and just give me everything you’ve got. While we’re still alive, eh?”

“Of course,” said the cashier, her hands trembling.

When the knock came at Ben’s door, he almost jumped from his seat.

This was it, he thought. His fears had been realised.

The lie he had told Clovenhoof about being unable to manage his door keys was a simple ruse, an excuse to stay at home and prepare for this moment. Nervously, he got up and opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the two men at the door. “It’s not for sale.”

“What isn’t?” said the dark-haired man with the scar on his cheek.

“The trunk. In fact, none of it’s for sale. It’s all a horrible mistake.”

The man frowned and then turned to his stubble-cheeked companion. This second man, shifting unhappily from foot to foot, had a black eye, a split lip and the look of a rabbit that had finally been caught by the greyhound.

“Is this him?” asked the scarred man.

“No,” said the terrified rabbit of a man.

Scar looked at the door. Ben saw that his flat number had inexplicably become 2a.

“Oh, you’re after Jeremy,” he said and then nodded in further realisation. The bailiffs, of course. “It’s about the money, right?”

“Quite. Is this Jeremy in?”

“No, but he’ll be back in a bit.”

“Good,” said Scar and walked into the flat, pushing Ben before him. “Roger,” he said. “Get the door.”

The cashier put the bundles of cash from her register into a small canvas coin sack.

Clovenhoof grinned smugly at Michael.

“I knew you’d see sense.”

“I’ve not done anything,” said Michael. He looked around. “Actually, I’m not sure what’s going on here...”

A bank employee in a suit hovered like a wobbly mannequin in a doorway. The customers in the queue behind them had mysteriously melted away. One was crouched behind a glass partition filming Clovenhoof with his mobile phone.

Clovenhoof took the sack from the cashier’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you. Must dash,” he said. “Who knows what state poor Ben is in.”

He stepped out onto the street with a doubtful Michael in tow.

“You know,” said Michael, “to the untrained eye, what just happened in there looked an awful lot like... Ah.”

The ‘ah’ was directed towards the flashing blue lights approaching from the distance.

“I think we need to run now,” said Michael.

“Really?” said Clovenhoof.

“Yes. I don’t think my get out of jail free card is going to help you this time.”

Clovenhoof looked at the money in his hand. The sirens grew louder.

“Surely, they don’t think...” he said, but Michael was already ten yards away and accelerating.

Nerys came downstairs to find the two badly dressed bailiffs on the first floor landing, arguing over their clipboard.

“Yeah, but it was this door,” insisted the taller one, Knuckle-dragger.

“It was flat
2a
,” said the one that she’d christened Buddha, whose belly not only hung over the edge of his belt but actually poked out from under his T-shirt, as though it were trying to make a bid for freedom.

“Excuse me,” said Nerys haughtily, not willing to physically squeeze past the obese apes.

They shuffled slowly aside and she went up to Clovenhoof’s flat door. The roguishly handsome young man had yet to come back up for his cup of tea and she had begun to worry what Clovenhoof had done with him. She raised her hand to knock, saw that Clovenhoof’s door was now labelled 2b and turned to look at Ben’s door which Knuckle-dragger had decided to knock at.

The door opened. The scar-faced man’s eyes flicked between the two bailiffs.

“Who are you?”

“Mr Clovenhoof?” said Knuckle-dragger.

“He’s not here. Piss off.”

Knuckle-dragger gave a cynical chuckle and just walked in, brushing the man aside.

“Mr Clovenhoof, you owe us some money,” said the bailiff to Scar.

“I think there’s been some mistake,” said Nerys and followed them in.

“Bloody right. Any money he’s got is mine,” said Scar.

“I really do think you should listen to me,” said Nerys, managing to manoeuvre round Buddha and then stopped.

Ben was sitting on his sofa, his hands and feet bound before him with silver duct tape. Sitting next to him was a bruised man with a rodent face.

“Kinky,” said a bailiff.

“What is going on here?” said Nerys.

Scar pulled a pistol from the waistband of his trousers.

“We’re waiting for my money,” he said. “Now, shut the door, Nerys. There’s a love.”

Clovenhoof and Michael cut a corner across St Michael’s churchyard, dodging between tombstones and looking up through the trees to see if they could see the helicopter that was circling noisily above.

“We’re not going to make it,” said Clovenhoof.

“More speed, less chat,” panted Michael. He leaped a wall and sprinted on towards the Chester Road.

The sound of sirens seemed to be coming at them from all angles. Somewhere behind them was the sound of squealing tyres. Clovenhoof didn’t dare look round and focused on keeping up with his angelic partner in crime.

Michael cut straight across the Chester Road, causing cars to brake suddenly in both directions. Clovenhoof clattered over the bonnet of a Vauxhall Astra, leaving a nice hoof-shaped dent in the bodywork, ran up the path to the flats and slammed his key into the door with astonishing accuracy.

“Upstairs! Upstairs!” he hissed, pushing Michael in ahead of him.

Together, stumbling over one another, they got to the first floor.

“Not my flat,” said Clovenhoof. “If they’ve seen my face...”

Michael hammered on Ben’s door, which was opened almost instantly by Nerys.

“Jeremy-”

“Out of the way,” said Clovenhoof, bundling Michael inside.

Clovenhoof slammed the door behind him and bent over, wheezing with exhaustion.

“That was a close one,” he said once he had regained his breath and straightened up.

He looked at the people in Ben’s flat. Nerys, Ben and Roger sat in a miserable row on the sofa. Ben was wrapped up in silver tape. The two bailiffs were sitting on either side of the dining table with their hands on their heads. They didn’t look particularly happy either.

There was only person in the flat he didn’t recognise and he was holding a gun.

“Are you a bailiff too?” said Clovenhoof.

The man pointed his pistol at the bag in Clovenhoof’s hand.

“Is that my money?” he snarled.

“I think it’s technically the bank’s,” said Clovenhoof.

“We’re not sure,” agreed Michael.

“Toss it here,” said the gunman.

Clovenhoof groaned.

“What is it with me? The moment I get some cash, someone wants to take it from me.”

“Now!”

Clovenhoof threw the bag to him and, at that moment, there was a rumble on the stairs, a crash and half a dozen armed police officers spilled into the flat, shouting and waving guns.

Ben shrieked. Nerys yelled. Several people swore. A dining chair gave way beneath a huge backside. A shot was fired and answered with several more. Hands were raised. People fell down. And Clovenhoof found himself looking straight down the black barrel of a large gun.

“I can explain,” he said. “At least I think I can.”

It transpired that Clovenhoof didn’t need to explain anything. The situation was perfectly clear to the police officers on the scene as was explained to him at the station.

Trey Daniels, renowned armed robber, currently sought for a bank job in Lichfield had broken into a flat and taken its owner, Ben Kitchen, hostage in order to force Mr Kitchen’s friend and neighbour, Jeremy Clovenhoof, to carry out another bank robbery in the local area. Mr Daniels, possibly aided by known accomplice Roger Cotton, had tortured Mr Kitchen by chemically burning his hands just to show he wasn’t messing about. Mr Clovenhoof, who had made no attempt to hide his identity whilst in the bank, had also been caught on video telling the cashier that he was worried about his friend’s well-being and needed to get back to help him. Mr Daniels, who had received a superficial gunshot wound to the arm, denied all involvement but was unwilling to give the police an alternative version of events. Where Miss Thomas and the Brothers Coddington (one of whom had taken a painful but not life-threatening bullet in the stomach during the police raid) fitted into the story was unclear but the investigating officers were certain they could weave it into their chosen narrative.

Clovenhoof and Michael were released without charge in the early hours of the morning. They might have been there longer if the moustachioed PC Pearson hadn’t come into the interview room, laughed at them and then sworn on his life that the pair of them were genuinely harmless fools.

Michael and Clovenhoof walked back to the flat together. Clovenhoof felt as if he’d been wearing his clothes for a week. Michael looked as if he’d just stepped out of an Italian boutique.

“I did not like that one little bit,” said Michael.

“I don’t think you’re meant to like being locked up,” said Clovenhoof.

“The cell was draughty. And as for the catering...”

“You could have just waved your magic wand,” said Clovenhoof. “Made it all go away.”

Michael shook his head.

“Ripples and repercussions. I’d rather this one went away all by itself.”

The star-strewn black of night was slowly giving way to a grey spring dawn.

“Here,” said Michael and passed Clovenhoof a roll of banknotes held by an elastic band.

“What’s this?”

“The last money I’m ever going to give you. I’ve cleared your bank debts but after this, that’s it, no more financial assistance.”

“Aw, Michael,” said Clovenhoof, stuffing the money in his pocket. “You do care.”

“Just stay out of trouble.”

“Aye, aye,” said Clovenhoof and gave him a ridiculous salute. “I’ll be a good boy from now on. You’ll see.”

“We’ll see,” agreed Michael and was suddenly not there – not anywhere – anymore.

Clovenhoof let himself into the flats, went upstairs, looked at the plywood board put up to cover Ben’s broken door, and went into his own flat.

There was a message on the answer phone. Clovenhoof pressed play.

“I’ve seen your advert in the post office window,” said a muffled, female voice. “I need a job doing. Her name’s Tina. She needs taking down a peg or two. Nothing permanent. Do you do kneecappings? Whatever, just something that’ll mean she can’t attend a charity gala next month.”

Clovenhoof grinned, went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink and then returned with paper and pen to replay the message and jot down the details.

Chapter 6 – in which Clovenhoof looks for love, gets his hooves buffed and hits the dating scene

“Glack, glack, glack.”

Nerys cleared her throat and tried again.

“Glack, glack, glack.”

There! She was certain she’d got it now.

She shuffled round to the position indicated in the diagram and shifted the torch in her hand.

The duvet was thrown back.

“What are you doing?” said Trevor. Or was it Stephen? She couldn’t remember.

“Deep throat technique,” said Nerys. “It’ll knock your socks off. I just need to relax the muscles at the back of my throat.”

“Is that, is that…” his gaze took in the torch and the book “Is that a
sex manual
?”

He grabbed the book.

“‘
Make him your love slave; one hundred ways to excite a man in bed.’”

“I told you, I’m a great believer in self-improvement.”

Stephen (or was it Trevor?) hurled it to the floor.

“Hey! That’s a library book!” said Nerys.

“When you said self-improvement, I thought you meant Open University or meditation, shit like that. Not coming to bed with an instruction manual, for God’s sake. What’s the matter with you?”