Clovenhoof (6 page)

And then he watched a movie double-bill of
Rosemary’s Baby
and
The Devil Rides Out
and he found his worldview transformed.

These films presented him with an entirely new concept. He expected humans to fear the devil. He liked to think of it as respect, he felt he was
owed
respect, but what he really expected was respect through fear. He expected that they would avoid him at all costs if they knew who he was. The idea that some humans – these ‘Satanists’ - would actively welcome him into their lives was fascinating. His mind buzzed with excitement.

Ben woke with a start at the loud thumping on the door. He checked his alarm and wondered what kind of emergency would make someone pound on his door in the middle of the night. There must be a fire or something. He answered the door wearing boxer shorts and t-shirt.

It was the new neighbour, Clovenhoof.

“Oh. Hi,” said Ben. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve come for a cup of tea.”

“It’s four in the morning!”

“You said any time was okay.”

“I know I said that, but most people wouldn’t, um.” He stopped and tried to think of the appropriate words but it was four in the morning and his brain was on strike. “Come in.”

Clovenhoof followed him inside.

“Tea then,” said Ben and went to fill the kettle.

“Are you a Satanist?” said Clovenhoof.

“What?”

“Your t-shirt. It’s got pentagrams on it.”

Ben put the kettle on

“No. It’s just a heavy metal thing. It’s a cool design that’s all.”

Clovenhoof looked at the round shield and beaten metal breastplate hanging from the wall above the mantelpiece.

“What’s that?”

“Seleucid armour.”

“What?”

“Replicas, of course. I’m a bit of an ancient history buff.”

Clovenhoof picked up a part-painted military miniature from the dining table.

“You also have a collection of petrified homunculi.”

“Isn’t that a kind of mushroom?” Ben was trying to find two clean mugs. He hadn’t had visitors in months.

“Are you their god?” asked Clovenhoof.

“No, they’re miniature scale models. I use them for war-gaming.”

“War gaming?”

“We enact battles from history using the miniatures. I’m in a club. It’s a fascinating insight into the thought processes and strategies of some of the great military leaders. There’s never a dull moment, honestly.”

“‘And whoever makes a false image will be punished and will be told by God to breathe life into it and will not be able to do so,’” Clovenhoof quoted.

“What are you on about?” Ben rubbed his eyes as he poured the tea.

“It’s from the Qur’an.”

“You’re a Muslim?”

“Let’s just say that you and I are going to get along well. Tell me more about Satanists.”

Ben brought the teas over.

“I don’t know all that much about them. One of the guys from our war-gaming club is a Satanist, but I don’t know what he does, exactly. It’s not my bag really.”

“Could I talk to him?” Clovenhoof asked. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Sure, let me give you his phone number.” Ben looked up the number on his phone and jotted it down on a piece of paper.

He hesitated as he handed it to Clovenhoof.

“You are going to wait until the morning, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t ring him now, for God’s sake.”

“‘For God’s sake!’” Clovenhoof roared with laughter and slapped Ben on the back. “All right, I’ll wait until the morning until I, er, do whatever you just said.”

“Just remember to call him Pitspawn.”

“Pitspawn?”

“Yeah.”

Clovenhoof handed the taxi driver the piece of paper.

“I want to go there.”

The taxi driver stared at the paper.

“This isn’t an address. It’s a phone number.”

“A phone is a communication machine, I know that,” Clovenhoof said, thinking of the films he’d watched, “so I need to go where the phone is.”

“So, you need to call them up, and find out where that is. Then I can take you.”

“Surely that’s your job,” Clovenhoof said, puzzled. “I mean it’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do right now, is it? Obviously you wish it could be Christmas every day,” he said, indicating the radio which was playing the song that he was already bored of, “but it’s not. Is it?”

“You haven’t got a phone?”

“No.”

The taxi driver sighed and phoned the number, shaking his head. He managed to elicit an address and drove Clovenhoof into a suburb called Erdington and pulled up outside a semi-detached house with a large holly wreath on the front door. Clovenhoof frowned, there were no pentagrams or candles visible, but the taxi driver was adamant that this was the right address.

Clovenhoof knocked at the door. A woman with a gentle face and a grey bun answered.

“Are you Pitspawn?” asked Clovenhoof.

“You want Darren,” said the lady.

“No. Pitspawn.”

“Come in.”

Clovenhoof found himself steered into a room of lace doilies and side tables. He sat on an uncomfortable settee while the lady called up the stairs.

“Darren! Someone’s here to see you.”

She came back and sat opposite Clovenhoof with a smile. She picked up some knitting, and started to work on it. Clovenhoof stared at the design. It looked as though it was the front of a jumper, or maybe even one of those stylish tank top garments. It was mostly black, but had red and white pentagrams up the sides.

He looked up as someone entered the room. It was a man in his mid-forties, with an enormous paunch and a receding hairline. He wore a tank top that was the twin of the one that was under construction.

“Hail, stranger,” he said and gave a sharp wave of a heavily be-ringed hand in greeting.

“Hail... Pitspawn?” said Clovenhoof uncertainly.

“You’re Ben’s mate, right?”

“That’s me.”

The lady with the bun set down her knitting and stood up.

“Darren, show your friend upstairs and I’ll get you some squash.”

“Mom, I’ve told you, it’s not Darren, it’s Pitspawn! Can I have a straw, seeing as we’ve got a guest?”

She nodded and went to the kitchen. Pitspawn mumbled something that sounded like “silly bitch” and gave Clovenhoof a look that suggested that Clovenhoof surely understood how annoying the little woman must be.

“Ben rang and said that you might be in touch.”

“Yes,” said Clovenhoof. “I need a Satanist.”

Pitspawn nodded obligingly.

“I am a humble servant of the Great Adversary. Do you want to come up to my room and see some of the cool stuff I’ve got?”

“Sure.”

They climbed the stairs and entered a large back room in which someone had done their best to obliterate the blue floral wallpaper with posters, banners and flags. Skulls, goats’ heads, demonic faces and occult symbols figured largely. Statuettes and candles dotted the shelves and surfaces.

Clovenhoof picked up a demonic candlestick holder.

“That’s Shalbriri, demon of blindness. One of my favourites.” Pitspawn said. “Look at the detail, it’s genuine cast resin.”

“You do know that Shalbriri’s female?” Clovenhoof asked, turning the ugly, masculine demon in his hands.

“I think there might be some debate on that matter, actually,” said Pitspawn with a flick of his comb-over, “the man in the shop was pretty certain that Shalbriri’s male.”

“Take it from me,” said Clovenhoof with a wink, “she’s all woman.”

Pitspawn indicated that Clovenhoof should take a seat. There were two chairs that looked like a pair of ebony thrones. Clovenhoof discovered that they were actually typists chairs fitted with a kind of elaborate gothic chair-cosy. He wondered if these were also the handiwork of Pitspawn’s mother.

“So what do Satanists actually do?” Clovenhoof asked.

“We revere Satan, the vital force in our lives. We reject the white-light hypocrites and practise the occult arts.”

“It’s good that you’ve been practising,” agreed Clovenhoof, “because I need some of your occult arts.”

“I am a competent sorcerer,” said Pitspawn, “but a lot of people misunderstand what it is we do. What do you require?”

“Do you think that you could send someone to hell?”

Pitspawn stroked his chin and pondered for a moment.

“Send someone to hell? Physically, like?”

“Yes. Me, in fact.”

Pitspawn picked a book off his shelf and pored over it. Clovenhoof tried to see what it was called, but it had a thickly embroidered cover, featuring the pentagram motif once more. He wheeled his Satanic throne a little closer and read the page header.

“
Occult Rituals for Dummies
?” said Clovenhoof.

“Yeah, yeah, I think I could do that,” Pitspawn muttered, ignoring him. “I can do summonings. Maybe even resurrections. Sending someone
to
Hell is just the reverse, isn’t it? Why do you want to go there, exactly?”

“It’s a personal errand.”

“You know you can be an effective Satanist on earth.”

“Believe me when I say it’s where I belong. I need you to perform the ritual now, on me. Do you need anything special, like a goat to sacrifice?”

“No, no. Mother would never – I mean it’s not really necessary for a modern Satanist to indulge in that kind of thing.”

“Then what’s that?” said Clovenhoof, pointing to a short, stubby sword hanging point down on the wall above the single bed. “Not a sacrificial blade?”

“That’s more for the look of things,” said Pitspawn.

Clovenhoof peered at the brown flecks along the blade’s edge.

“So that’s rust, not blood?” said Clovenhoof.

“Absolutely. There are rules. Doing all that nasty stuff gets us a bad name. No, we mostly get our powers from words, symbols and crystals. We hone these rituals over a lifetime of careful study to ensure we’re in tune with the powers of Satan.”

“Oh, okay. So I guess if Satan ever walked the earth, then you’d be one of the first to know?”

Pitspawn laughed.

“If that momentous day ever comes, there will be a vibration through my very being, so deep and so resonant that I will not be able to rest until I seek out and serve my master. It is the day that I am primed and ready for. I am but a foot-soldier, preparing the way for that glorious time, whether it’s in my lifetime or not.”

Clovenhoof raised his eyebrows.

“Right. Well it’s good to know that you are so highly attuned to your master. In the meantime, can we get on and do the ritual?”

“Yes, OK. I will arrange the crystals. Move your chair to the middle of the rug.”

Clovenhoof moved into position. There was a knock at the door.

“Here’s your squash, Darren. And some crispy pancakes to share with your friend.”

“It’s Pitspawn, mom!”

“Darren, are those my crystal animals?”

Clovenhoof looked down to see that each point of the pentagram sported a different creature. A frog, a deer, a cat, an elephant and a dolphin. The cat had a jaunty smile painted on its face.

“Er, yes. I’ll put them back in a minute,” Pitspawn said.

“Darren, you know they’re collectables.”

“Yes mom. I’ll take good care of them. Now please leave! We’re in the middle of something important.”

As his mother left, Pitspawn rolled his eyes and fell upon the plate of food.

“Want some?” he spluttered around a mouthful. “Findus crispy pancakes.”

Clovenhoof took one of the baked semi-circles from the plate and tried it. He sniffed its golden exterior and then bit into it, releasing the fragrant cheesy savoury insides.

He moaned with pleasure and realised that this was the most perfect food that he’d yet encountered since arriving on Earth.

“These are brilliant,” he said, making sure he grabbed another before Pitspawn finished the lot. “Is your mother the only person who can make them?”

Pitspawn laughed, spitting crumbs.

“You know, you’ve got the weirdest sense of humour. I like you!”

“I like me too.”

Pitspawn put the plate to one side and stood over Clovenhoof, swaying gently.

He put the open book on the side, where he could see it, and picked up a smoking joss stick.

“I anoint the crystals to please the worshipful deities,” he intoned, and bobbed the joss stick around the crystal animals. He stopped to blow ash off the dolphin, glancing nervously at the doorway.

“A sacrifice of blood for His Satanic Majesty.”

He dipped his finger into the blackcurrant squash and smeared it lightly across Clovenhoof’s forehead.

Clovenhoof sighed as it ran down his face.

“Why don’t we just say that His Satanic Majesty is very pleased with you, and move on?” he suggested.

Pitspawn frowned but flipped the page.

“By the power of the sea at fullest surge. By the power of the wind across the highest peaks of the world, by the power of chaos that topples the mighty and challenges everything, I humbly summon the form of Belial, to guide this servant to the splendour of your palatial quarters, that he might seek a place at your feet.”

Pitspawn continued to baste the crystal animals with smoky touches, and capered as nimbly as a twenty stone man can caper around the seated Clovenhoof. His eyes were half-closed and he made a low, tuneless humming sound.

Clovenhoof waited for the buzz of hellish intervention. He braced himself for the whoosh of sudden displacement. The only sound he heard was a light tap on the door.

“Darren,” said his mother, with her head round the door, “I don’t want to interrupt, but I think we might need to get some thicker underlay for your carpet.”

“Mom, I’m busy!”

“All I can hear downstairs is you stamping around. I think it might be bringing on a migraine, so please stop it, will you love?”

Pitspawn kicked the door shut as his mother left and grunted with frustration.

“So, did it feel as though anything was happening?”

“Not a thing,” said Clovenhoof.

Pitspawn sighed heavily.

“Maybe I’m not the right person for this. Most of these rituals are supposed to summon things from hell, not send them there. You sort of want someone who works things from the other end.”