Clovenhoof (41 page)

“Lucky this place is quiet at the moment,” growled Clovenhoof. “Angels popping up would raise a few eyebrows.”

“Killing old ladies, you mean-”

Clovenhoof broke her nose with his fist. She clutched at it painfully.

“You can stop that right now,” he said. “Show us your real form.”

There was a brief pop, a miasma of yellow light, and the old lady was replaced by a beautiful youth in a white gown. He took his hands away from his face to reveal his nose was fully restored.

Clovenhoof broke it again. The youth pulled a sulky face.

“You really shouldn’t have disincorporated Parvuil, you know,” he said. “There’ll be no end of trouble.”

“Trouble! TROUBLE! The only trouble worth worrying about is the trouble I’m about to cause. Now listen to me you snivelling wretch – what’s your name?”

“Doris. Vretil, I mean. But you can call me Doris if you want, I quite like it.”

“Oh please,” said Clovenhoof.

“What happened to the old lady?” whispered Nerys faintly. Clovenhoof ignored her.

“I want some answers out of you,” Clovenhoof demanded. ”What on earth is going on here?”

“We’re Recording Angels.”

Vretil indicated the notebook tucked into a fold of his gown.

Clovenhoof grabbed the notebook and flicked through the pages, looking at some of the entries.

Head-butted shop assistant

Drunken behaviour (again)

Stole money from bank (query – did Michael authorise this?)

Unsuitable role model for children (see pictures from school assembly)

Clovenhoof tossed it aside.

“But why was I put into Herbert’s old flat? Is he behind all of this?”

“Herbert’s just a lackey,” said Vretil, “but so am I. I’m just a Recording Angel. I was supposed to tell them what you were doing.” He glanced at the discarded notebook on the grass. “We weren’t doing any harm. We were only following orders.”

“That is what I hate about you lot,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s what I’ve always hated.”

He stood up and grabbed a heavy cast-iron parasol base. He brought it crashing down onto Vretil’s head and sent him the same way as Parvuil.

Ben sat in front of a table, with three policemen on the other side, staring at him. He recognised PC Pearson, but he hadn’t seen the other two before. One had a shock of white hair that stood up from his head like a brush, and the other one had terribly bloodshot eyes. He was the one asking most of the questions. Ben was getting fed up of his questions, because most of them were repeats. He’d seen them write down answers in their notebooks, but he’d ask the same question again, in a slightly different way, as if Ben would be dumb enough to answer differently.

“So, tell me again about the night Mr Dewsbury met his death. I’m interested in the weapon, and how you came to have it upon your person.”

“I told you already,” said Ben, “it was a replica sword, part of my Seleucid weaponry collection.”

“A replica sword, not a real one?”

Ben sighed. “It’s a replica of a sword that would have been used by a Seleucid soldier. It’s a real sword though.”

“Sharp then?”

“Yes, sharp. Really, really sharp, as it turns out.” Ben shuddered at the memory.

“One might consider it an offensive weapon then?”

Ben shrugged. “I bought it from a specialist website. I’m fairly sure it was legal.”

“Mr Kitchen,” said the detective, “we’ll see what the jury says about that. It’s certainly an unusual thing to possess, and even more unusual to be handling it when receiving visitors.”

“I wasn’t receiving visitors, he just came to the door when I was cleaning it.”

“Well, I think we’ve got a pattern of unusual behaviour here. For instance, you still haven’t adequately explained why you have a woman’s head in your wardrobe.”

“Yes I did,” said Ben. “It was a spare part for a doll.”

“A
sex
doll?” asked the detective, leaning forward.

“Yes,” said Ben, going red, “but I never actually slept with her.”

“And you no longer have this doll in your possession?”

“No. I threw her, I mean it, away.”

“Apart from the spare head, which you chose to keep in the wardrobe,” said the detective, nodding to the other two, as if this proved he was right about everything. “You see I’m wondering whether you like to keep souvenirs. You’ve obviously kept Mr Dewsbury’s hand for instance.”

“No,” said Ben, “I told you that dropped off when I tried to get rid of the body.”

“Ah yes, when you tried to carry it off for burial. Interesting that. You know you don’t look that strong.”

“Sorry?” said Ben.

“To carry a body on your own. Did you have help from someone?”

“No, of course not!” said Ben. “Who would help me with a job like that?”

“Who indeed? Who indeed?” The detective with the bloodshot eyes was trying to annoy him, Ben was certain. Trying to get him to blurt out something stupid in a temper.

“So my last question is about this sword of yours,” said the detective. “What did you do with it after the death of Mr Dewsbury?”

“I gave it away. I couldn’t bear to have it around.”

“You gave it away. And who did you give it to?”

“Some guy I met in a pub. I don’t know his name.”

The detective sat back in his chair and looked at Ben for a long moment before speaking.

“We’ve got your first appearance at the Crown Court this afternoon. You know, I think you might go to prison for a very long time, the way this is shaping up.”

Ben nodded solemnly and tried to look unhappy at the prospect.

“I told you, I’ve had a brainwave. You need to drive us,” said Clovenhoof.

“I don’t think I can’t drive,” said Nerys faintly, her mind a billion miles away as she looked back at the beer garden and tried to process what had just happened there. “You drive.”

“Excuse me,” said Clovenhoof irritably and pointed at his feet. “Hooves and pedals don’t go.”

“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

As Clovenhoof directed her to Pitspawn’s house, he chattered excitedly.

“I need to speak to Michael or Peter. I know they’re behind this.”

“Behind what?” said Nerys. It was an automatic question. It felt good to be driving, to be talking without thinking. It was better than doing nothing, better than actually thinking.

“I don’t know,” said Clovenhoof. “They’re up to something but I’ve got no way to get hold of them at the moment.”

“Do we have any alcohol?”

“What?”

“I need alcohol.”

“Focus, Nerys. Turn right here. I do know
someone
who’ll have answers.”

“Who?”

“We need Pitspawn.”

“Pitspawn has the answers?”

“No, but he can get hold of someone who does. Park here. Here.”

As Nerys pulled up, Clovenhoof jumped out and hammered loudly on a house door. A woman with her grey hair tied back in a bun opened the door.

“Excuse me, Mrs Pitspawn,” said Clovenhoof and barged past her.

The woman turned and called up the stairs.

“Darren! Your friend’s here. Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise. “And a young lady as well!”

The woman beamed at Nerys. Nerys, despite her scrambled brains, managed a polite smile of greeting and followed Clovenhoof up the stairs at a trot and into dark attic bedroom which, from the look (and the smell of it) should have belonged to a teen metal-fan with no girlfriend but which apparently belonged to a forty-something with male pattern baldness and a fondness for unhealthy foods.

“Pitspawn!” said Clovenhoof breathlessly. “I need your help.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh yeah, this is Nerys.”

Pitspawn looked at Nerys, wide-eyed and fearful.

“He’s terribly shy with girls, but he’s a lovely lad,” said the woman, Pitspawn’s mom, coming up the stairs.

She entered the room and placed a hand on Nerys’s shoulder.

“Well go on, Darren, say hello to the lovely young lady. You know any girl that gets to know you would realise how adorable you are!” She turned to Nerys. “He’s very attentive. Kind generous nature-”

“Mom, please!” said Pitspawn, almost bent over with mortal embarrassment. “Can you leave us alone?”

Pitspawn’s mom retreated reluctantly down the stairs, giving Nerys a little wave.

“
Very
attentive,” she whispered to Nerys with a conspiratorial wink.

“I need a resurrection spell,” said Clovenhoof to Pitspawn.

“What?”

“Resurrection spell. Now.”

“Are you serious?”

“Look, I know it’s in your book, you said it was last time.” Clovenhoof hopped with anxiety. “Let’s have a look, I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“You really want to perform a resurrection.”

“Yes. I said.”

“It’s not that easy to do. You need the body of the person.” Pitspawn looked towards the staircase. “You didn’t bring a body with you, did you?”

“No, the body’s in the mortuary,” said Clovenhoof, “but I bet the spell will work if we have some small part of it.”

“Oh, please, no!” Nerys muttered. “I’ve had enough weird shit for one day.”

“What part did you have in mind?” asked Pitspawn.

Clovenhoof went over to the wall and took down a sword.

“Ben gave you this, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Pitspawn. “I always wondered why he didn’t want it any more. It’s a lovely piece.”

“This is the reason,” said Clovenhoof, pointing to a brown smear near to the end, “it’s the weapon that killed Herbert Dewsbury. This is his blood.”

“No. Fucking. Way,” said Pitspawn, a sudden and huge grin on his face. “You serious? This blade killed someone?”

Clovenhoof nodded.

“Cool,” said Pitspawn.

“So you can do it?”

“The sword will have a lot of power if it’s the thing that killed him,” agreed Pitspawn. “Maybe we can do this.”

“Excellent!” said Clovenhoof. “Where’s the book? There’s no time to lose.”

“Uh, we might have a problem. Mom’s been really funny about me using her crystal animals.” He glanced at Nerys, coughed and looked at Clovenhoof. “I don’t suppose your friend would go and ask my mom for her crystal animals, would she?”

“Crystal animals,” said Nerys. “Makes perfect sense.”

Nerys left Pitspawn and Clovenhoof consulting the details in a book and beginning to chalk an outline of the wooden floorboards.

Pitspawn’s mom was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, making Nerys think that she’d been trying to listen in.

“Hello dear,” she beamed. “What do you think of Darren then?”

“He seems like an interesting character,” said Nerys. “I bet you’re very proud of him.”

“Oh yes, I am. He’ll make someone a wonderful husband one day. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been snapped up already. There’s not a thing he doesn’t know about computers, you know. Shall I write down his phone number so that you can call him if you ever get stuck?”

“Actually, he sent me to ask you for the crystal animals. Do you think we could borrow them please?”

This caused Pitspawn’s mom to frown, but then a thought occurred to her.

“Do you mean that he spoke to you?”

“Er, yes,” said Nerys.

“Actually spoke to you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Yes. I’ll get them for you right away. You make sure that he takes good care of them though, won’t you?”

Nerys went back up with the crystal animals to find that the pentagram the pair of them had were drawing was nearly complete, but that Pitspawn and Clovenhoof were arguing about some of the details.

“Look,” said Pitspawn, “the diagram in the book is very clear. This power rune is supposed to look like a little lean-to greenhouse.”

“I know what the book says,” said Clovenhoof, “but take it from me, it’s supposed to be symmetrical. Belphegor’s dog, Bargest has them all around his dog bowl.”

“What’s a dog got to do with this?” asked Pitspawn.

“He’s not just a dog, he’s the Hound of Resurrection. I think it’s Bargest that we’ll summon with this ritual.”

There was a small snort of derision from Nerys.

“So,” she said, feeling her old self returning, through the long tunnel madness and out into the tentative sanity beyond, “we’ve killed a pair of old ladies who turn out to be angels and we’re now using a crystal dolphin to summon a Hell hound? And that’s going to bring Herbert Dewsbury back to life.”

“Angels?” said Pitspawn.

“Long story,” said Clovenhoof.

“Good grief,” said Nerys. “I don’t know who’s more bonkers, you for coming up with this stuff, or me for playing along with it.”

“There, that’s better,” said Clovenhoof, ignoring her as he adjusted the rune. “Let’s begin.”

The joss sticks were lit, and Pitspawn began to intone the words from the page. Clovenhoof joined him in the capering, causing Nerys to get a brief fit of the giggles, until Clovenhoof commanded her to join in too. Reluctantly, Nerys joined the other two as they pranced around the pentagram, Pitspawn waggling the joss stick and droning the incantation.

“You are going to have to give me your therapist’s number,” she hissed to Clovenhoof.

“Dance,” said Clovenhoof deadpan. “And concentrate.”

Across the city, in the mortuary behind the coroner’s office in Newton Street, an attendant was distracted from his lunch by noises coming from the long bank of refrigerated units. He got up from his desk to take a look.

In the centre of Pitspawn’s room, something began to take shape amid the wisps of incense. Nerys blinked and wondered if she was imagining it but it was definitely there, indistinct but nonetheless real like a swarm of bees.

In Sutton Park, the soil in a flowerbed began to shift and move. This went entirely unnoticed by anyone.

Clovenhoof, Pitspawn and Nerys stopped their dance and stared at the centre of the pentagram, where the form of a man was now complete. It was also screaming.

In the mortuary, the attendant frantically dialled the Deputy Coroner’s number to report that the corpse drawer that was supposed to be holding the remains of Herbert Dewsbury was now unaccountably empty.