Clovenhoof (31 page)

Ben took the sugar-frosted glass, and sipped the Pink Leopard.

“It tastes pretty strong.”

Clovenhoof slapped him on the back, taking that as a compliment.

“So Ben,” said Blenda, “I heard all about Jeremy’s foolishness with your credit card.”

“It’s all forgotten about now,” he said magnanimously.

“Is it?” said Clovenhoof.

“No.”

“You’ve been a decent lad about the whole thing,” said Blenda, squeezed his shoulder and headed back to the kitchen.

Ben turned back to see a man leant against Clovenhoof’s bar wearing the kind of suit that probably cost more than a small car.

“I didn’t see you there,” said Ben.

The man smiled at him with such charm and warmth that Ben felt all strange and confused inside.

“I’ve seen you before somewhere, haven’t I?” ventured Ben.

“I’m Michael. I meet so many people.”

Clovenhoof sighed.

“Michael, this is Ben. Michael, you can be Ben’s date for the evening. You can decide between you which one of you is the man.”

“Now then, Jeremy, let’s not be unkind,” said Michael. “And, yes, I’ll have one of whatever you’re making.”

“Is it the cocktails? Can you smell them from wherever it is you hang out?”

Michael picked up
Cocktails: a Man’s Guide
by Richard Harris and flicked through it.

“Hmmm, very earthy. Hello, what’s this?”

A printed page from the internet fluttered to the floor.

It was headed
Mind-Bending Cocktails for Students on a Budget
. Michael tutted gently.

“I’m not so sure that some of these things are suitable for consumption.” He picked up a large container of what looked like pink hand-cleansing gel. “This came from a hospital didn’t it?”

The doorbell rang. Michael put down the bottle, which was now quite clearly a pink lychee liqueur not hand-gel.

Nerys entered with Dave slightly behind, pulling unhappily at the tight collar of a new shirt.

“Jeremy!” declared Nerys as though she hadn’t seen him in months and made mwah mwah noises at Clovenhoof’s cheeks.

“Ben!”

She approached Ben with similar intention, but he flinched awkwardly, snagging his lips on her long, angular earring.

She turned to Michael.

“Well hello, I think I met you here once before?”

“I’m Michael.”

He turned his perfect smile on. Clovenhoof stuck his fingers down his throat and made barfing noises, which he quickly turned into a cough when Michael looked round.

“Well, I’m Nerys. I’m sure you’ve heard about me.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Oh, and this is Dave, everyone.”

“Hi,” said Dave with a little wave.

“He is not my boyfriend or anything,” said Nerys firmly.

“Nope,” agreed Dave dutifully.

“We’ve met,” said Clovenhoof. “Dave got me my first job.”

Nerys froze for a moment, the smile on her face transforming into a feral snarl at the memory and then saw Ben’s lip.

“Oh Ben, you’re bleeding! Go and clean yourself up.”

Blenda came in from the kitchen.

“Right, let’s try those cocktails then, chuck. Jeremy’s so excited to show you what he can do. Well I’m ready to be wowed with a Pink Leopard.”

“You can’t all have the same,” complained Clovenhoof, “that’s no fun. Let me check the book.”

As Clovenhoof launched into his cocktail-shaking routine Ben went into the kitchen to get some tissue for his lip.

He stopped and stared at the counter. Lined up in the orderly manner of an operating theatre was a puzzling array of tools. Ben could just about imagine that the mallet, the saw and the goggles might be used in the preparation of food. As he looked at the grind wheel, the foot pump and the ladyshave, he gulped and backpedalled. He almost tripped over the belt-sander as he did so. There was an elaborate stand behind the door, supporting a muslin bag of red jelly-like substance that dripped slowly into a bowl placed beneath. He grabbed a piece of kitchen roll for his lip and walked quietly out, trying not to look at anything else.

“So, Ben, are you a Blues fan?” asked Dave.

“What?”

“Villa perhaps.”

Ben’s mind lurched into familiar unhappy territory: football. Dave was a man and men talked about football and Ben knew nothing about football.

“Er, no,” he said.

“Not West Brom, surely?”

He wished he could say something knowledgeable and insightful about football, something that would make the conversation stop without revealing his ignorance. Perhaps there had been an important game earlier in the day. Was it even football season at the moment? He floundered and gave up.

“I’m sorry, I’m not into sport.”

“Oh, right?” said Dave in a voice which was not condemning but politely interested in the curious notion that there were people who didn’t like sport. Ben felt like a freak and felt the subsequent need to defend himself.

“I was put off it at school. I never liked PE.”

“Shame. Exercise is a good thing.”

Ben scoffed mentally. There wasn’t much exercise in being stuffed in goal and used as a moving target by the taller, less clumsy boys.

“I think sports are elitist, a substitute for war,” he said.

“Oh, I’ve always loved football,” said Blenda.

Dave smiled at her, clearly relieved to be in the company of a normal human being.

“It’s not even a sport though,” said Ben. “The richest teams buy the best players. It’s just a matter of who has the biggest bank balance.”

“Oh,” said Blenda in gentle disagreement. “There’s nothing as good for the soul as a live match, I always say.”

Dave beamed in approval at this.

“The roar of the crowd,” he said.

“The team spirit,” agreed Blenda.

The mindless conformity, thought Ben and sloped off towards the cocktail table. Clovenhoof gave him something called a Stinking Zombie. He downed it in one.

Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows.

“Can I get you another?”

“Whatever.”

“Maybe you’d like something from my other, ah, reference work?”

Ben nodded and Clovenhoof eagerly scanned
Mind-Bending Cocktails for Students on a Budget
.

Ben couldn’t keep up with the speed that Clovenhoof assembled the drink, but he sipped appreciatively.

“Interesting. Reminds me a bit of something else. Maybe that flavouring they put in cough mixture.”

Clovenhoof grinned and pushed the bottle of linctus out of sight.

“Who else needs a top-up?”

Clovenhoof equipped Nerys with a Between the Sheets, which got him a nudge in the ribs. He made a Bosom Caresser for Blenda, which he delivered with a lewd wink. He made a Golden Daisy for Michael, which he handed over with an exaggerated moue of the lips.

“Jeremy, I’m surprised you haven’t thrown away that filthy mess yet.” Michael said, indicating the impressive bloom of mould that was thriving on Clovenhoof’s mantelpiece.

“Herbert? Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t get rid of Herbert.”

Michael touched the edge of the mould, which had mounted the rim of the cocktail glass and was reaching outward in plate-like layers. It seemed to be making a bid for freedom. Light-headed, Ben reckoned that given a month or two it would be out of the flat and making off down in the road in a stolen car.

“Honestly,” said Michael, turning to Ben. “Such a childish thing to do.”

“Hmmm?” said Ben.

“Herbert Dewsbury was the previous tenant of this flat, wasn’t he?”

Ben blinked.

“You knew him?”

Michael nodded.

“I’ve worked with him. You knew him well?”

Ben blanched.

“Uh, he kept himself to himself. Didn’t see all that much of him.”

“Really? Come on. He wasn’t exactly a quiet man. I think some people found his personality grating.”

“I...”

“Maybe that’s what got him killed in the end.”

Ben whimpered in fright.

“Killed? No, I think he went away to...”

“No, no,” said Michael with a terrifying finality. “Killed. Murdered.”

Ben reached out behind him for a bottle, any bottle...

8:30pm

Nerys watched Michael over the rim of her glass as she sipped.

“Dave, I’m not sure who he is exactly, but I think Michael might be someone.”

“Well obviously he’s someone,” said Dave with a knitted brow.

“I mean,” said Nerys in the tone of a woman whose previously paper-thin patience could now only be measured in microns, “that he’s not just anyone, but
someone
. Someone of importance. You can tell.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So no more blathering on about football, for pity’s sake.”

“Right. What can I talk about then?”

Nerys counted on her fingers. “Travel, current events, weather, hobbies. But don’t bring up hobbies if Ben’s listening, obviously.”

“Right, right.” He looked at the empty glass in his hand. “Well I think I’d better mention to Jeremy about my food allergies.”

“Oh, don’t bother the man.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dave went into the kitchen, brushing up against Blenda in the doorway.

“If you’re looking for sanctuary, I’m not sure this is the place,” said Blenda.

“No, no. It’s not like that. I just need to talk to Jeremy.”

He entered the kitchen and took in the sight of Clovenhoof wielding a cleaver on a bloodied carcase. He held the cleaver high above his head and brought it down onto the board with a cry of “Hi – YA!”

Clovenhoof brought the cleaver up for the next blow. A string of blood droplets splattered up the wall.

Dave clutched the doorframe to steady himself.

“What, ah” – he coughed -”what meat is that?”

Clovenhoof looked up, registering Dave’s presence. He wiped the cleaver across his thigh, adding to a sinister, crusted stain.

“Hi, Dave. What’s up?”

“It’s just, I have some food allergies.”

“What?”

“Um allergies.”

“Like deadly ones?”

“Well, intolerances. I can’t eat dairy or it gives me uncontrollable wind.”

“Really? How interesting,” smiled Clovenhoof. “Well, I’ll be sure to point out anything that I think you shouldn’t eat.”

“Thanks.”

Clovenhoof picked a scab of dried blood off his apron and popped it in his mouth.

9:00pm

Blenda ushered everyone to their places. Nerys wasn’t overly impressed by the seating plan. There were certain rules of seating etiquette even with a dinner party of six. But she sat where she was told and commended herself on her tolerance and tact.

Blenda gently pried the absinthe from Ben’s fingers. There was something seriously wrong with the man, as though the cocktails hadn’t just gone to his head but also his brain, his spine and his limbs.

“We’ve got some wine now, chuck,” said Blenda reassuringly.

“Wine?” said Ben. “Wine’s good.”

When everyone was seated, Clovenhoof came in.

“Ladies and gentlemen and Michael,” he announced in his loudest voice. “I present to you the first course. We will shortly be dining on gamberetti reclining in a warm love apple emulsion, surprised by insalata mista.”

Clovenhoof took a deep bow. There were murmurs of interest. And, from the kitchen, Clovenhoof and Blenda produced their starters.

“Enjoy!” bellowed Clovenhoof, bowed once again for luck and took his own seat.

Nerys prodded her starter with a fork as Clovenhoof poured the wine.

“This looks just like prawn cocktail,” she said.

“Indeed!” boomed Clovenhoof, whose voice, having slipped into circus ringmaster mode, seemed unable to change back. “But it’s of such superlative quality. I have
sourced
those prawns!”

Nerys smiled and speared one with her fork.

“I boiled them myself as well,” continued Clovenhoof plucking one from his glass with his fingers. “It’s most fascinating. As you drop them alive into the boiling water, they turn from a translucent grey colour to a beautiful pinky colour. They also fold in half, as you see here. It’s such a strong reflex that some of them pop straight out of the pan with the force of it. Not always dead by then either. And fear” – he fixed every person on the table with a roving eye – “is a powerful seasoning.”

He jiggled the prawn next to his face.

“
No, please don’t kill me, Mr Clovenhoof
,” he squeaked in a tiny high voice.

Clovenhoof looked at the prawn and addressed it sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, Mr Prawn, but I need to make a tasty starter for my friends.”

“Please. Kill the others. They’re fatter than me.”

“Oh, I shall, Mr Prawn. But I need lots of you.”

“No! Please, Mr Clovenhoof. Noooooo.”

The squeaky voice faded as Clovenhoof lowered the prawn down in the glass where it died a second death with an imaginary splash.

Nerys’s fork had halted halfway to her mouth.

“Well, you get the idea,” said Clovenhoof. “Tuck in.”

Nerys selected a piece of lettuce and ate that instead. She looked across at Ben and noticed that he was unfazed by the grisly prawn murders. He did however seem to be having problems getting them onto his fork. Were his hands shaking? He tried a couple of times and then covered up one eye with his free hand. He swayed gently as his fork finally connected with something and pulled out a piece of beetroot.

“Ooh, beetroot,” Ben said, as he gazed at the salad. “Gotta love beetroot, for making it through the digestive tract. It adds colour to your life today and tomorrow.”

He gave a chuckle of silent laughter at his own joke.

“Ben, don’t be so vulgar at the table,” said Nerys. “Such talk of bodily functions, it’s no wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I could have a girlfriend if I wanted,” he replied. “S’personal choice thing.”

“Really. Have you ever had a woman in your life?”

Ben stared at his starter and made another effort to snag a prawn.

“There was this one girl,” he said. “Rose.”

“Oh?” said Blenda encouragingly. “What was she like?”

“Beautiful. Brave. Smart.”

Ben’s fork chinked against something as he found another prawn. His wrist waggled drunkenly towards his mouth as his alcohol-clouded brain tried to plot a course.