Clovenhoof (39 page)

“Please!” she said. “I’m not a monster, am I? I mean I know I have my faults, but you like me, don’t you? Maybe you even love me? I always thought-”

“Nerys, for God’s sake!” he said angrily, shaking off her hand. “How can you not know what you’re like? You make outrageous, bigoted judgements about everyone, but you really can’t see your own flaws?”

She had never heard him raise his voice like that before. He was so forceful, so... manly.

“Well let’s start with this,” he said. “You have zero patience. You can’t even wait and ask a question like this at the right time. You’re completely intolerant of other people, and you’re downright rude to them if they don’t interest you. The way that you chase men is so calculating it makes me queasy and you never dress appropriately.” He waved his hands at her, up and down. “You always look as though you’re off to pull a man at a nightclub. Or worse.”

Nerys pulled Molly’s cardigan around her more tightly but Dave, on a roll, hadn’t finished.

“You know what I think?” he said. “You act like a spoilt kid. Maybe daddy didn’t buy you a pony or whatever, but at your age you should get over it and grow up.”

Dave pushed past her and Nerys made no move to stop Dave as he strode forward through the office. He turned at the door.

“I’m going away for the weekend,” he said, the anger waning. “See you Monday.”

She moved forward and watched in silence as Dave climbed into the car waiting outside. Blenda was at the wheel. There were exchanged words. Blenda turned to look at Nerys with something like pity in her eyes and then put the car into gear and drove away.

Clovenhoof stood at the counter in the bookshop and flicked through the file that he’d taken from Denise. There were more photographs, showing him as a young man, and even as a child. He stared closely at the image of a skinny boy blowing out candles on a cake. A woman with backcombed hair and a batwing sweater stood to the side, clapping. This was his mother, apparently. He couldn’t summon up even the slightest glimmer of recognition. His parents’ whereabouts was not clear from the file. It indicated that as a young man, Jeremy had behaved so badly, during one of his
episodes
that they had moved away.

There was a paternal aunt living in Streetly. She lived alone, and took the Irish form of the family name, Clabhanhaugh, because she preferred it. Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows at the hint of a more distant lineage. How could the name Clovenhoof really be anything other than a reference to his hooves? It certainly didn’t sound Irish. He checked again and saw a pair of skewed shoes below his trouser hems. Feet or hooves? Feet or hooves? He gave a deep sigh.

As he raised his eyes, he noticed a pair of Ben’s miniature soldiers on a shelf below the counter. He put them both in front of him and pushed them together, hunkering down so that they were at eye level.

“Hello,” he said, in a strangled falsetto. “My name is Jeremy Clovenhoof, and I am terribly normal. I have shoes and cushions and house insurance. Can I please come into your nice shop and buy some kitchen accessories with pictures of cockerels on them?”

“Of course,” said the other figure, in a deeper voice. “I have a great many kitchen accessories. Don’t mind me asking, but do you have Irish blood?”

“How very perceptive of you!” said the screechy one. “Yes, it seems I do,” then added, “Begorrah!” as an afterthought.

Clovenhoof was shocked to see the pimpled customer from hours ago emerge from behind a bookshelf. He’d thought that the shop was empty.

“Do you have
A Troubled Background
?” asked the man.

Clovenhoof sighed.

“Is that another book? Haven’t you realised by now that I really don’t have the faintest idea?”

“No,” said the man, letting himself out of the front door. “It’s not a book.”

Nerys drove home, incredulous that Dave had taken up with Clovenhoof’s ex. Who could be more desperate, Dave or Blenda? She laughed bitterly at her own mean-mindedness.

She entered her flat. Molly was sitting in front of the television. Nerys shouted a greeting and went to investigate the contents of the fridge.

“I’m doing the fish while it’s still in date,” she called. “Nice day for something light anyway, I’ve got some strawberries for afterwards.” She closed the fridge. “Strange how I’m looking forward to strawberries more than I’ve looked forward to
anything
all day.”

Nerys gave a deep sigh as she put the kettle on.

“You know that job gets me down sometimes,” she said to her aunt. “It’s like I’m trapped. I don’t know how to do anything else, and I can’t afford to take time to re-train. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’d do. Maybe it’s not the job so much as, oh I don’t know. Everything.”

Nerys put the knife down among the chopped carrots and examined her hands.

“I just don’t have any idea what I want out of life anymore,” she said. “Did you ever feel like that?”

She glanced over at Molly through the open doorway. Molly sat serene as ever.

“I’d love to know what you were like when you were my age,” said Nerys. “Did you ever make a fool of yourself or get confused by life? I just can’t imagine it. You always seem so content with the simple things. You watch some TV, you fuss Twinkle and play cards with the same old friends. How do you do it?”

Nerys realised her eyes were welling up and she passed a hand across her face in sadness and frustration.

“Molly, I... I probably never told you how much I think of you. Daft old pudding, but you’re always there, always the same.”

Nerys grabbed a piece of kitchen roll to wipe away tears and blow her nose.

“You know I love you, don’t you?” she called.

She sniffed loudly, fanned her face and looked up into the light to still the flood of tears.

Eventually, she frowned, realising that this had been a rather one-sided outpouring of emotion.

“Did you hear what I said? I said I love you.”

There was not reply.

“Molly?”

Nerys went over to the chair in the living room and peered at Molly. Her eyes were closed.

“Oh,” said Nerys and then laughed at herself. “Thank God,” she said, gently shaking her shoulder. “For a moment there you had me worried!”

Molly’s head fell forward and she keeled over sideways against the winged back of the chair. As Nerys grabbed Molly’s arms to steady her, she realised that they were cold, lifeless.

“Molly.”

Something moved in the corner of her eye. Nerys opened her mouth to scream and then saw it was Twinkle, looking up at her, still sitting in his mistress’s lap.

Ben took his lunch tray and found a table by himself. The food in prison was really pretty good, and he looked forward to mealtimes. He’d noticed that there were tables he should definitely avoid. The tables against the back wall were favoured by some bald and tattooed gentlemen and he’d seen the way that they all turned and stared if you sat there. One new inmate had failed to notice, and had been given a soup shampoo before being propelled across the room. Ben had also seen small transactions taking place under the tables on that side of the room. A small man with a face like a rat seemed to be involved in most of those.

Ben noticed a wad of dried out gum on the leg of his table. He picked at it between mouthfuls and eventually dislodged it. He put it into his pocket with a small smile of satisfaction.

Clovenhoof answered the door with a spatula in his hand. He was cooking meatballs, in an attempt to be more normal. He really wasn’t sure that they’d be as good as crispy pancakes, but he was prepared to give it a go.

Nerys stood on the landing, looking at some point in the middle distance. He waved a hand in front of her face to make her refocus.

“Molly’s dead,” she whispered.

Clovenhoof wondered what he was supposed to say. He decided that his best course of action was to say nothing. He guided Nerys to the sofa and sat her down. He’d had a phone installed when his flat was redecorated. As he picked up the receiver, he wondered if it was inappropriate to feel a small thrill at being able to dial 999 for his first call.

Ben surveyed the careful arrangement of cigarette filters, dried up gum and balls of scrunched-up fluff. They covered the surface of the table. He adjusted a couple then fetched the dice from his pocket.

“Well, here’s a familiar face!” said a voice.

Ben looked up.

Cell doors were opened for part of the evening, so that prisoners could socialise. Ben pretty much ignored this and carried on much the same as when the door was closed. He hadn’t even realised someone was there. In the doorway was indeed a familiar face.

“Hello,” said Ben cautiously and then realised who it was.

The bank robber, the one who had forced his way into his flat and bound his burned hands with duct tape.

“Trey,” said Ben, remembering.

“Daniels,” said Trey and advanced into the room. “You and your stupid friends landed me in here.”

“Definitely my friend. Not me,” said Ben.

“I did all the hard work, got away with the money, then somehow, and I still don’t understand it properly, you lot dropped me right in it.”

Ben shrank back into his chair as Trey moved forward.

“I find it pleasing that you’re in here. We can chat.”

Ben was terrified by the prospect of a chat. Part of him just wanted the physical violence to be over with.

“Murder you’re in for, isn’t it?”

Ben nodded.

“Hmmm, never would have thought you’d got the balls to be honest. Well I only hope you killed that friend of yours, the clown who lumbered me with all of that stolen cash.”

“No it wasn’t him,” said Ben. “And you did point a gun at him and tell him to give you the cash.”

Trey raised his eyebrows.

“Attitude? Interesting.” He glanced over to the door where two large knuckle-draggers awaited his instructions. He seemed as though he was about to say something then he turned back to Ben.

“What are you doing with all of that rubbish?” He indicated the tables. “You haven’t really been here long enough to be properly out of your tree.”

“These are Romans,” said Ben, indicating the filter tips, “and these are Gauls.”

The Gauls were represented by gum, and fluff balls.

“Right,” said Trey slowly. “But what are you
doing
?”

“I’m re-enacting the siege of Alesia,” said Ben. “There are eighty thousand Gauls holed-up in the city, here.” He indicated a rough circle, drawn with cigarette ash on the table’s top. “And there are fifty thousand Roman soldiers deployed here, here and here in the hills surrounding the town.”

“So what happens next?” asked Trey, moving closer.

“Well, one of the sides must make a move. Both armies are short of food. If you were the Gauls, what would you do?”

“I don’t want to be the Gauls, I want to be the Romans,” said Trey, pulling up Jason’s chair.

“Okay, well decide what you’re going to do, and then we’ll use the dice to determine how successful you are. By the way, this circle is a defensive ditch with spikes in the bottom.”

“Cool.”

Nerys looked around Saint Michael’s church to see all of Molly’s friends from the hairdressers and the endless whist games. How many people would be there if it were her own funeral? Nerys shivered, knowing that she’d be lucky to fill a single pew.

She sat next to her mother, who was dressed in the style that Nerys had long ago dubbed
Cruella
. She had added a vintage pillbox hat with a veil to her skirt suit and towering heels. She topped it off with a cloak, trimmed at the collar with rabbit fur. A cloak. Nerys shook her head.

“Aren’t you warm in the cloak?” she asked.

“Darling, it may cloud over as we leave.”

Nerys knew her mom had only worn it so that she could swish it around in a stylish and dramatic way.

“So many
old
people, look at them.”

“Mom! What did you expect? Molly was old. You’re old, for that matter.”

“Yes, but you won’t catch me dressing in horrible synthetics. Or elasticated waistbands. Mind you, Molly always was the plain one. I suppose it’s only to be expected. And did you see that strange-looking man at the back? His shoes don’t seem to fit him. I think he might be in the wrong place, you know.”

“Mom, keep your voice down. Someone’s going to hear you.”

“Well why would I care about that? I didn’t get where I am today by being a shrinking violet! You could do with being a bit more focussed, yourself, Nerys. You’d have a man by now if you did. Try being more like your sister.”

Nerys hissed her breath out, in an effort to maintain her calm.

“Why didn’t Catherine come today, anyway?” she asked.

“She’s hosting a charity fashion show with some of the other players’ wives. She couldn’t possibly take time out at the moment. I can get you a ticket if you like. You look as if you could do with some new things yourself. Although most of the things are in smaller sizes.”

Nerys had forgotten the power that her mother had to target her insecurities like a heat-seeking missile. She never failed to feel the tears pricking her eyes within ten minutes of her company. To cry in public would be the ultimate humiliation, so Nerys folded her hands into her lap and concentrated on the service. The new vicar ran through a brief history of Molly’s life, some of which surprised Nerys.

“What is that strange man doing?” hissed her mom. “Look, he keeps staring up at that tapestry in the back there.”

“He’s a neighbour. Now, shush.” Nerys said, trying to hear the vicar. “I didn’t know Aunt Molly used to be a keen tennis player.”

“Says who?”

“The vicar. Listen.”

Afterwards, the congregation went outside for the committal. Nerys watched Molly’s coffin lowered into the ground, and tried to ignore her mother’s comments about her job, her hemline and everything else that she was getting wrong.

“There’s that man again. He keeps hanging around. He’s a bit creepy, if you ask me.”

“You’re right mom,” said Nerys, “I’ll go and get rid of him, shall I?”