Table of Contents

A word from the authors

1: Venice

2: Sutton Coldfield

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Thank you from the authors!

Clovenhoof – The Isolation Chronicles 

Episode 1: Bog Roll Battles

Heide Goody & Iain Grant

Pigeon Park Press

‘Clovenhoof: The Isolation Chronicles’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2020

The moral right of the authors has been asserted.  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Published by Pigeon Park Press

www.pigeonparkpress.com

info@pigeonparkpress.com

A word from the authors

Coronavirus is no joking matter but Jeremy Clovenhoof just can’t help himself.

All author profits from this edition of the book will go to The Trussel Trust, a charity that supports 1,200 UK food banks and provides emergency food and support to people locked in poverty.

1: Venice

Nerys and Jeremy Clovenhoof strode out together across St Mark’s Square. His little hoofs clip-clopped on the white stone (with an occasional tap-dancer clippety-clop thrown in because he was in a good mood). The early spring morning was cool, but the sun was up and warm on their faces.

Nerys gazed around at the tall white buildings lining the square, the arcades with cafes, restaurants and the kind of shops they could only pretend to shop in. The rounded self-indulgent domes of St Mark’s Basilica at the far end made it look like a cloud that had come into land to refuel.

“I didn’t expect Venice to be like this,” she said.

Clovenhoof nodded. “It’s the smell, isn’t it?” He wafted the faint sewer stink towards his nostrils. “I mean it’s fine now, but in high summer it’s something quite remarkable.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said.

“Oh, I’m just saying it adds to the whole atmosphere,” agreed the horned devil. “The stink, the gaudy religious imagery, the sound of café owners rubbing their hands with glee as tourists wander by.”

“No, not that either,” said Nerys. “I didn’t expect the place to be so empty.”

Clovenhoof stuck out his bottom lip and considered the square. True, there were barely any tourists around and more than half of the businesses were shut. He shrugged.

“Italians, lazy, What can I say? Now, when I was here last time, it was a different story. Market stalls, traders, wandering minstrels.”

“Stop it,” said Nerys.

“What?”

She came to a halt and pulled him round to face her. “You do this bloody everywhere.”

“Do what?”

She pulled a silly face. “Ooh, this has changed,” she whined in a silly voice. “When I was here in fourteen-oh-bollocks it was wall-to-wall knights in shining armour. And everyone had the plague. Ooh, you don’t see a decent plague these days.”

“Who’s that meant be an impression of?”

“You, numpty. Everywhere we go, all you talk about is what it was like last time you were there. Rome, you kept going on about how hilarious it was seeing all those Christians fed to the lions. Florence, you gabbed on and on about the sexual antics of the Medici family. And what was it you said in Pompeii when we saw that petrified ash man?”

“That I’d met him before,” said Clovenhoof.

“See?”

“But I had. One leg longer than the other. Probably couldn’t run away from the ash cloud.”

“But it’s boring.”

“Volcanic ash clouds are many things but they’re not boring.”

Nerys punched him. “It’s tedious. If I knew this holiday would be three weeks of revisiting Satan’s old haunts, I’d have thought twice about accepting.”

“Can’t knock a free holiday,” said Clovenhoof. “And it’s not my fault I’ve had a busied and varied career.”

“There must be somewhere you’ve never visited in your former existence,” she said as they wandered on. “Next time, let’s go somewhere you’ve never been.”

Clovenhoof thought about it. “Wigan,” he said eventually.

“Okay, maybe not there.” Nerys looped her arm in his. Occasionally, they seemed to forget they were only a pretend married couple.

“I’d have thought you’d be glad to have a person of my wisdom and experience with you,” said Clovenhoof.

“Not particularly.”

“Who else would be able to give you the lowdown on St Mark’s Basilica, even the lowdown on the ‘great’ man himself?”

“What? St Mark?”

“Spoiler alert: he was a tosser. You see the winged lion thing up there? That’s his symbol. When he died, he insisted on riding round the Celestial City on one, scaring the locals and lording it over everyone else.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing you’d do,” said Nerys.

“Except I’d do it with style. With me around, everything’s done in style and – with literally thousands of years of travel experience under my belt – I can speak any language like a native. Let’s see what this excitable local wants.” He nodded towards the Venetian police officer scuttling towards them.

“I still don’t think you can speak Italian,” said Nerys. “You just put on a silly accent.”

“You can’t spend fifteen centuries torturing Italian nobles without picking something up apart from the basic ‘please, no more anal spiders, signor!’” He wheeled to the approaching carabinieri officer. “Yo. What’s happening, dude?” he said in his best Italian.

The little man waved his hands vigorously. “You cannot be here. You need to go.”

“But we only just arrived,” said Clovenhoof. “We’re doing the grand tour.”

“No, it is closed. All closed. You must leave.”

“Is this a bribery thing?” said Clovenhoof. “If you’re trying to make me an offer I can’t refuse, you’re tangling with the wrong pony.”

“Don’t antagonise him, Jeremy,” said Nerys.

“No, it is closed. It is all closed,” insisted the policeman. “You and your girlfriend—”

“Actually, she’s my wife,” said Clovenhoof.

The policeman gave him a shrewd look, as if to insinuate that a woman like Nerys was out of Clovenhoof’s league. Clovenhoof could have taken offence at this. Sure, Nerys might superficially appear to be a decade or two younger than him, but Jeremy Clovenhoof was middle-aged sex god from skin to core. Whereas Nerys Thomas’s superficial beauty relied upon a constant and expensive maintenance regime, a bit like painting the Forth Bridge.

“Okay, technically my wife,” Clovenhoof conceded. “I mean definitely, actually my wife. There was a ceremony and everything but only because I was going to be deported otherwise. It was a spectacular affair. Fireworks, bird costumes, even a passing visit from the Prime Minister. Tina – that’s Nerys’s best friend and arch enemy – submitted the wedding photos to a magazine ‘Wedding of the Year’ competition as a cruel joke but – joke’s on her – we won and got this free European honeymoon.”

“Why are you doing all the talking?” said Nerys.

“Because I’m intrinsically fascinating,” said Clovenhoof.

“You and your girlfriend have to leave,” said the policeman. “The city is being locked down due to the virus. Very dangerous. All tourist sites are to be closed at once.”

“What did he say?” said Nerys.

“He said the city was under lockdown,” said Clovenhoof.

“Get on an aeroplane and go back to Britain,” said the policeman.

“But we’re not due to fly out for another week yet.”

“We have to leave?” said Nerys.

“Take my advice,” said the policeman. “Take your wife—” He looked past Clovenhoof to give her a long look up and down. “Sure, she’s no oil painting but she’s young and experienced, no? Take her, get the vaporetto from Ospedale to the airport as soon as you can and go back to your English home. They’re already starting to cancel flights.” He made a violent shooing motion.

Clovenhoof took Nerys’s hand and backed away. “Apparently, the holiday’s cancelled.”

“But what did he say?”

“That we need to try and get a plane home now.”

“No. That bit when he was giving me the once-over.”

“Oh, that. He was, um, comparing you to a work of art.”

“I bet he was,” she muttered as Clovenhoof steered her back towards their hotel.

2: Sutton Coldfield

Ben Kitchen carried the last of the crates up the stairs to his flat. The white chicken inside flapped and leapt at his ungainly handling of the bulky box. “Woah there, Bucephalus,” he said, bringing the crate down on the dining table to join the others.

“Bew-what-what?” asked Animal Ed, brushing muck from his hands.

“Bucephalus,” said Ben, grinning broadly. “He was Alexander the Great’s favourite horse.”

“Right,” said Ed. “These are chickens, you know?”

“I know. Bucephalus, Marengo, Palomo and Copenhagen,” he said, pointing in turn. “I thought I’d name them after the most famous horses in military history.”

“But they’re chickens,” insisted Ed.

“I know that,” said Ben, “but since there aren’t any famous military chickens, I’ve had to do the next best thing.”

“You know you’re not meant to name animals, particularly if you’re going to eat them—”

“I’m not going to eat them.”

“—and if you do, you’re meant to give them chicken names like … Mrs Cluckington.” Ed gestured at Copenhagen. “That one looks like a Mrs Cluckington.”

“I’m not calling her Mrs Cluckington. And we’re not eating them. These fine specimens are going to aid our drive for self-sufficiency.”

“Oh, it’s the Good Life for you, is it?”

Ben pointed out of the window. “Everyone’s talking about the virus out there. China, Korea, Italy. I heard rumours that people are starting to panic buy the essentials. This—” He gestured to his tiny menagerie. “This is me getting ahead of the curve.” He directed Ed’s attention to the web browser on his laptop. “I’ve saved up my pennies for a hi-tech, hi-security luxury Premier Hen chicken hotel for these four ladies.”

Ed peered at the futuristic pod on the screen. “Self-cleaning, fox-proof and … how much?!” Ed literally coughed at the sight of the price tag.

This didn’t worry Ben unduly. Ed was a notoriously miserly man, an expert in the tight-fisted business deal. His opinion on what constituted expensive would be far adrift from the norm.

“I’ve plundered all my savings,” said Ben. “I consider this to be a real investment.”

Ed’s eyes flicked as he did a speedy calculation. “You could buy a dozen eggs every week for a decade for that price.”

“An investment for the future,” Ben assured him. “Now, we agreed twenty pounds a bird, yes?”

Ed stroked his chin. “Well, that was last week. A lot of grain has passed through these birds since then. Call it a hundred for the four of them.”

Ben scowled but didn’t have the stomach for haggling. Haggling was very much against his nature. He took the view that if God had wanted humans to haggle, He wouldn’t have invented price labels. Ben gave him the cash out of his wallet and waved goodbye.

“Drop by the Boldmere Oak later,” Ed called. “You can buy me a pint to celebrate.”

Ben shut the door and looked at his new purchases with pride.

“Some photos of you lovely ladies,” he said, “and then we’ll click next day delivery for your house, yes?”

Ben took out his phone and attempted to get an excellent and characterful photo of each of his new charges. He felt he was instinctively seeking a wholesome and healthy look for each of them, a sort of I’m here, committed to work and ready to pump out eggs for the common good. A chicken equivalent of the Nazi housewife ideal (but without the actual fascism).

“Oh, you’re definitely very photogenic, Mrs Cluckington,” he said, pleased with his last shot and then cursed himself. “I mean Copenhagen.”

He sent the pictures to Nerys, knowing she’d appreciate some pictures from home while on her extravagant continental holiday. He was so pleased with some of them, he wondered if he should set the chickens up with a social media account.

He turned to his laptop and, as he was adding the deluxe Premier Hen coop to his basket, his phone rang. It was Nerys.

He chuckled, thumbing the answer icon. “They’re really cute, aren’t they?”

“What?” snapped Nerys. There was the background echo of people across the line.

“You at a train station?” said Ben.

“Marco Polo airport. We need to get tickets home.”

“You’re not still in Italy, are you?” he said surprised. “Don’t you know there’s a pandemic there.”

“We do now!” she replied shrilly. “So we’re cutting things short and getting on any flight we can out of here.”

“Wow,” he said. “It was good of the airlines to let you swap your tickets.”

Nerys scoffed. “We’ve got to buy new ones and, as you can imagine, the sudden demand has pushed prices up. And it turns out we spent a lot more on souvenirs than we’d planned.”

“Those tickets cleaned you out, huh?”

“A lot more,” said Nerys with heavy finality.

“Oh. You need some funds?”

“We need some tickets!”

“And they cost how much?”

Nerys told him. Ben asked her to repeat it. Nerys told him again. He hadn’t misheard.

He thought about his bank balance. He looked at the beautiful Premier Hen on the screen that he could no longer afford.

“Where will Mrs Cluckington live?” he wailed.

3

There was an often-shared sentiment that, however nice holidays were, it was always nicer to get back home again. As the taxi pulled up outside four-hundred-and-something Chester Road, Nerys reflected on how untrue the sentiment was. A mere eighteen hours ago, she was strolling along the Grand Canal in Venice, admiring all the fine churches she could explore (she didn’t) and the fine bars she could frequent (she did). The cold, damp and sullen atmosphere of Sutton Coldfield did not compete at all.

As she stepped from the taxi to the kerb, she pretended she was stepping from a vaporetto waterbus onto the romantic pavements of Venice. One last time. Nerys’s imagination wasn’t up to the challenge and the moment made her feel more depressed than ever.

Ben was at the front door, Twinkle yapping around his feet.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, sweetheart. Yes, I have,” she called.

“Er, me—?”spluttered Ben, evidently relieved when the tiny Yorkshire terrier ran out to be scooped up in Nerys’s arms.

The driver dumped cases and parcels on the pavement.

“Oi, wazzock, you gonna help us with this or not?” Clovenhoof called over to Ben.

“I had hoped time in Europe might have improved your manners,” said Ben.

“Of course,” said Clovenhoof. “Now, you great wazzock, give us a hand with this, per favore.”

As Ben came out to assist, Nerys fussed over Twinkle, putting the lightest and most delicate parcels aside for herself, while pointing out the heaviest cases for Ben.

“That’ll be twenty-four quid,” said the driver.

Clovenhoof looked at Ben. When Ben looked back blankly, Clovenhoof gestured for his wallet. “We’ve only got euros, and barely any of those.”

Ben sighed heavily, drew the last three tenners from his wallet and gave them to the driver. The driver made to leave.

“Don’t I get any change?” asked Ben.

“Ain’t got none,” said the driver and drove off.

“I’m going to be broke at this rate,” said Ben.

Clovenhoof clapped him on the shoulder. “You know what I learned while I was away?”

“What?” sighed Ben.

“That, in life, you’ve got to take it easy and enjoy the simple everyday things: sunshine, the sounds of nature, the company of loved ones.”

“That’s what you learned on your luxury, all-inclusive, five-star cruise and tour around Europe?”

“Exactly,” said Clovenhoof. He patted the man’s cheek and carried the smallest items of luggage inside.

Nerys and Twinkle, and a bag of delicate Murano glassware, made their way up the stairs. “Home sweet home, eh?” she muttered, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and the dusty carpet.

It took a break from the old place to realise it had its own deep-rooted smells: not exactly unpleasant, but an unmistakeable reminder she shared the building with two not-particularly-houseproud men. She had, of course, taken Jeremy Clovenhoof’s unique personal fug with her on holiday. As the winners of a wedding magazine holiday, they had inevitably been booked into double rooms in every city. Nerys had been privy to the individual stinks of Clovenhoof’s hoof cheese, his three-day-old underpants, his old man BO, his morning breath and his post-dinner farting (and post-lunch, post-breakfast, post-everything farting). Plus the whimsical and invasive smells of clothes that had either never seen the inside of washing machine, or had spent the last decade mouldering at the back of a drawer, or in the back rooms of the grimier sort of charity shop. It was quite a nasal cacophony.

And now, here, it was mixed with Ben’s own, less offensive, but nonetheless unwarranted man smells. The mildew of his socks, the accumulated dustiness of the T-shirts that he’d seemed to have owned since the age of twelve and which still fitted him, the glues and thinners of his weird hobbies and—

Nerys sniffed. “What is that?”

There was a fresh and definitely earthy smell. She stepped closer to Ben’s flat door and sniffed again. “Ben,” she called down the stairs, “why does your flat smell like a farmyard?”

“Well,” he puffed as he lugged up the cases, “that might be because Bucephalus, Marengo, Palomo and Mrs Clucking— Damn it! And Copenhagen, are having to stay in my flat because I had to buy you two plane tickets.”

“Bucephalus?” said Clovenhoof. “As in Alexander the Great’s horse?”

“Indeed,” said Ben.

“Why is Alexander the Great’s horse in your flat?” asked Nerys.

“It’s not a horse. It’s a chicken,” said Ben.

“That makes no sense.”

“Don’t care,” said Ben, close to collapse under the weight of luggage. “Tell me where to put these. My arms have gone to sleep.”

Several cases went in Clovenhoof’s flat. The rest had to be carted up a final flight of stairs to Nerys’s.

“Careful,” said Nerys as Ben thoughtlessly dropped cases onto the sofa. “There’s breakables in there. Presents.”

“Anything for me?” asked Ben.

Nerys looked to Clovenhoof. “Some people are so greedy. Me, me, me…”

“I just spent several thousand pounds buying you emergency plane tickets.”

“And you don’t stop reminding us,” commented Clovenhoof.

“Here,” said Nerys, unzipping a suitcase. She pulled out a pair of high-heeled leather shoes.

“Are they for me?” said Ben.

“Of course not. They’re for me,” she said. She removed clothes and belts and two handbags. “Laura Biagiotti, Gianfranco Ferré. Mine, mine, mine. Ah. Here’s the presents.” She pulled out a somewhat gaudy picture of Jesus Christ in a gaudier gold frame.

“A picture of Jesus. For me.” She could hear Ben pretending to be grateful.

“No, silly. That’s for Reverend Zack. I spent hours debating which one to get.”

“Literally,” agreed Clovenhoof.

“But I think that one’s got a smouldering look in his eyes,” nodded Nerys. “Like he’s in a boy band. You know?”

“Hot and smouldering Jesus,” said Ben. “I’m sure Reverend Zack will be delighted.”

She plucked out a long bottle of violently yellow liquid.

“Limoncello,” said Ben, reaching for it. “I always thought it tasted like washing up liquid, but I suppose it’s alcohol.”

“Yoinks! That’s mine,” said Clovenhoof, snatching it. “Part of my research into making lemon-flavoured Lambrini.”

Out came three more bottles in quick succession. “Truffle oil. Truffle oil. Wine, obviously.” None were for Ben. Nerys dug deeper and pulled out a large salami sausage, half of which had been savagely crushed and burned.

“What happened to that?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Clovenhoof muttered as an aside to Ben.

Nerys took out a fancy-dress centurion’s outfit, complete with sword.

“For me?” hazarded Ben.

“No,” she said and coughed. “That’s for … personal, recreational use. I know a local fireman who would look good in it. Ah-ha! Venetian masquerade masks!” She took out a crinkly carrier bag and from it a tiny pink and silver mask.

“Bit small for me,” said Ben.

“Silly! That’s for Twinkle. He’s going to love wearing at our next party. This is for you.”

She presented him with a long, slim package, and he received it with gratitude. The gratitude faded somewhat as he unwrapped the mask within. It had a long tapering beak and inset eyepieces of dark glass. Ben stared at it a long while.

“It’s a plague doctor’s mask,” he said eventually.

“An authentic plague doctor’s mask,” beamed Nerys.

Ben turned it over. “Authentic? I mean it can’t be. It would have to be hundreds of years old.”

“An authentic design,” said Nerys, with a withering look for the man’s pedantry. “Look. It’s real leather.”

Ben continued to turn it over, then shrugged. “In these weird times, perhaps it’s apt.”

“Apt,” tutted Nerys. “Apt he says. That’s gratitude for you.”

4

Ben left the bar of the Boldmere Oak with three drinks, having paid for four (Animal Ed had been lying in wait for him, apparently for days). He put a Pinot Grigio in front of Nerys, a Lambrini in front of Clovenhoof and sat down with his own pint of cider and black.

“Don’t you two have any money on you?” he muttered.

“Of course, we do but it’s all euros,” said Clovenhoof. “You know, you’ve changed since we went away. When did you become all about the money?”

“Ever since you caused me to be several hundred quid in the red,” said Ben, moodily.

“I’m sorting that out,” said Nerys, fiddling with her phone. “I’m going to speak to the magazine and get them to refund us.”

Clovenhoof sipped his Lambrini, making disturbingly sexual moans as he relished its flavour. “You know what, they had nothing like this over there,” he said with feeling.

“No, they did not,” said Nerys wincing at the taste of her cheap plonk. “Eating and drinking is actually something to be savoured over there. Three-hour lunches. Long evenings drinking wine whilst overlooking the Med.”

“There was this one place—” began Clovenhoof.

“Are you going to go on about the ice cream shop in Sorrento?” said Nerys.

“—An ice cream shop in Sorrento,” said Clovenhoof. “They had a million and one flavours of ice cream.”

“Did they?” said Ben, uninterested.

“Lemon and mango and apple and rose and chocolate and coffee—”

“So a lot of flavours of ice cream.”

“They had rice flavoured ice cream and black forest gateau flavoured ice cream—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Would you believe me if I told you they had spaghetti flavoured ice cream?”

“Well, since you’ve mentioned it, yes.”

“Yes, but would you normally believe it?”

“Would I normally believe there’s spaghetti ice cream?” said Ben. “Like I’m just walking along the street and thinking to myself ‘I bet there’s such a thing as spaghetti flavoured ice cream’? Of course I wouldn’t. That would be mad.”

“Well, there is!” crowed Clovenhoof and slapped him hard on the back. “It’s opened my mind to the world of culinary possibilities.”

“Foreign travel broadens the mind,” said Ben.

“Broadens the waistline more like,” sniffed Nerys. “Never before have I known a man to treat ‘all you can eat’ as an instruction.”

“Hey, if I didn’t eat it, someone else will,” said Clovenhoof.

“Ah, there’s the British mentality,” said Nerys.

“I heard rumours people are starting to stockpile food in case the virus comes over here,” said Ben.

“I don’t think I’ve worked through all of my Brexit stockpile from last year yet,” said Clovenhoof.

“Year old custard and out of date baked beans?” said Ben.

“There’s a thought,” said Clovenhoof, awestruck. “Custard flavoured Lambrini!”

Nerys pulled a face. “Ugh, God, I don’t know how I put up with you for all that time abroad. Right, I’m giving the magazine a call.” She stood up to take the phone call elsewhere.

“Custard flavoured Lambrini, baked bean flavoured Lambrini. I could cut up the mashed end of that salami and make sausage flavoured Lambrini.”

“What did happen to that?” whispered Ben. “It looked like it had been run over by a lorry.”

Clovenhoof looked round cautiously to see if Nerys was within earshot.

“We were away for over two weeks together,” he whispered conspiratorially. “On paper, we’re man and wife. We were booked into double rooms. We had good times, the alcohol flowed and one night in the Hotel Palatino, I thought I’d just snuggle up to her and…” He glanced around again and Ben saw a fearful glint in his eyes. “I mean she’s not exactly my ideal woman – far too high maintenance, and I do prefer my ladies to have a few more miles on the clock – but I’m not a fussy man. And I don’t think she can afford to be fussy either.”

“And?” said Ben, who really didn’t want to know what happened next but really, really did.

“She jumped straight out of bed, grabbed the salami, waggled it in my face and then put it in the trouser press by the door. ‘Next time you try that, it will be your salami in the trouser press.’”

“Wow. I mean, ouch,” said Ben.

Clovenhoof scrunched up his eyes as though returning from a fevered hallucination. “I don’t think I’ll be able to smell cooking pork products again without wincing.”

Nerys stormed back to the table. “Can you believe it?” she said.

“Is this about spaghetti flavoured ice cream?” said Ben.

“The wedding magazine says they’re not obligated to give us any kind of refund because we never paid for the holiday in the first place,” she fumed.

“That sort of makes sense,” reasoned Ben. “Even a full refund on a holiday that costs nothing is nothing.”

“This is your money we’re trying to get back,” she said.

“Did you take out travel insurance?” Ben suggested.

Nerys clicked her beringed fingers. “I did! Just to cover loss of any personal items. Tina told me that all Italians are pickpockets so I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“Claim on your travel insurance then. Get me my money back. Otherwise my hens will have absolutely nowhere to live.”

5

“Don’t panic!” said the radio announcer.

Clovenhoof was not really paying attention to the interview on the morning radio while he tinkered in the kitchen, inventing new Lambrini flavours. He’d been tweeting the company with suggestions since his revelation in the pub the previous night and he couldn’t wait for sprout flavoured Lambrini to make its market debut.

The comment made him start listening. The phrase Don’t panic was right up there with Don’t press that button. Some suggestions stimulated an irresistible urge to do the exact opposite of what was intended. It seemed the interviewee was a new recruit to the local council, responding to the news of the spreading virus, which had been in the news for weeks. There had been several vacancies in the council after Tessa Bloom’s sudden departure. This one was clearly wet behind the ears, with no clue how his thoughtless platitudes were likely to be received. They were talking about the availability of goods in the shop. Ben had mentioned the recent rush to stockpile necessities. If this clueless bureaucrat was suggesting that people shouldn’t panic, Clovenhoof knew people all around him were quietly preparing to panic.

He decided to go down to the shops and take a look for himself, and at the same time cast an eye around for more Lambrini flavourings. He caught the bus to the big supermarket, mainly because they didn’t operate the same narrow-minded concept of shadowing his every move with a security guard as the local smaller shops did.

He went to the tills to see what people were buying. He tried to put himself into the position of a normal person who had been told not to panic about supplies. What might he rush out and purchase? His own inclination was of course to buy a huge freezer and fill it up with trashy snacks, and then to lay in multiple crates of delicious Lambrini. But what if he was human? If he genuinely wanted to get the best food value out of a modest stash he would probably rely on the deadly dull lentil, or some such worthy but horrendous staple. Would he find lots of people coming through the tills with dried lentils? He loitered and stared, trying not to make it too obvious he was silently judging people based on what they were buying. It was after all one of his favourite hobbies. There were health food fanatics, with their vegan rissoles and their kale smoothies; there were people with kids who ate different food to the adults. Clovenhoof was confused by the latter. He heartily approved of potato-based products shaped into faces, for example, but he thought they were good for the whole family, not just the kids. Right now, there was one thing in common with a good many of the trolleys that were coming through. They featured a strangely high proportion of toilet paper. For an instant he wondered whether everybody else used it differently to him, and maybe this was normal. But no, it was not normal. They weren’t even buying the little packs, there was one man who was carrying a basket with a pack of spring onions in it who also had a jumbo pack of toilet tucked roll under an arm. Clovenhoof went over to look at the toilet paper aisle and saw it was almost bare. A store employee wheeled a large pallet truck along the aisle, piled high with new stock. People were grabbing the contents before he’d even made it to the shelf.

Clovenhoof pulled out his phone with a frown. He must have missed some of the key symptoms of this virus. A few searches confirmed that explosive diarrhoea was not a well-documented symptom, but perhaps these people had access to some new information. He snapped a picture of the empty shelf. Clovenhoof went back to the tills and found the man with the spring onions.

“Let me guess: there’s a mummy cosplay event?”

“What?”

“It’s a wedding you’re all invited to, with a wind machine and a photographer who wants to add ‘wacky’ to his portfolio?” Clovenhoof mimed the air quotes.

“What are you on ab—”

“I know! I know! You’re training a puppy? I’ve seen it on telly, they have to run away with the end of the roll and you laugh, so they know they’ve been a good dog.”

“Are you after the toilet paper? It’s mine. Back off,” growled the man.

“Why is everyone buying so much?” asked Clovenhoof.

“It’s the virus, isn’t it?” said the man.

“What have you heard?” asked Clovenhoof. “Is it really bad in the, you know, bumhole-leakage department?” He gave a graphic mime, in case there was any doubt what he was asking.

“No idea. We might get shortages though, or have to stay at home.”

“Shortages, huh? I guess we might,” said Clovenhoof, with a nod to the toilet paper frenzy that was kicking off all around them. “So I guess you’ll be all right if you have to stay at home. You’ve got enough toilet paper for a good few weeks, and you’ve got some spring onions as well, in case you get hungry.”

“You taking the piss?” The man scowled at him.

“No not really,” said Clovenhoof. “Well, maybe I am. Have you got loads of food at home then?”

“No, I like to get my things fresh.”

Clovenhoof gestured at the toilet roll. “So this … you’re just … what?”

“Just being careful. See how it’s running out? The smart money’s stocking up.”

Clovenhoof nodded. “Can I get a selfie with the smartest man I’ve seen today?”

“No, weirdo. I need to get home.”

Clovenhoof snapped a quick picture of him anyway and went off to browse for Lambrini additives. He had developed a new technique: stand in front of the spices and spin himself around with his eyes closed, then reach forward to see what he grabbed first. He would do the same with the jam. It was another reason for him travelling further afield, since last week’s jam accident had resulted in (another) ban from his usual supermarket, although he had spent an enjoyable hour afterwards playing “guess the flavour” on the jam splats that covered his body. He felt that he had the last laugh, finding a new and interesting way to shoplift.

6

One by one, crate by crate, Ben carried his chickens downstairs and into the garden at the rear of four-hundred-and-something Chester Road. He might not be able to afford the Premier Hen chicken coop he’d wanted, but there was no way the birds could stay in his flat forever.

“We’ll just have to construct you something temporary until I have the funds for the perfect home for pampered hens,” he told them.

He opened the crates and let the hens have a peck and scratch around the small square lawn. The fences were sturdy, the side walls secure, but even in a secure back garden, chickens needed some shelter from the elements.

In any ordinary garden he might have looked for materials to construct a shelter in the shed, or even considered temporarily housing them in the shed itself. However, every shed that had been erected in the garden over the last seven years had been burned down, often in unusual circumstances. Each set of circumstances was unique, but they all had a common factor: one Mr Jeremy Clovenhoof. Leaf-blowers, scented candles, indoor fireworks (that were definitely not indoor fireworks) had all played a part in the destruction of one shed or another. In fact, if Ben recalled correctly, Clovenhoof had deliberately set the most recent shed ablaze because it was “Acting all high and mighty.”

Bucephalus, Marengo and Palomo scratched and pecked around among the rectangular patches of bare earth that marked the ruins of the most recent shed. Meanwhile Mrs Cluckington sat atop her crate and watched Ben trying to construct a hen home out of not much at all. Despite much searching the only building supplies the garden yielded were a single damp plank of wood and four old breeze blocks. Ben arranged them as best he could.

Clovenhoof leaned out his first-floor kitchen window. “What’s that?”

“It’s my chicken shelter.”

“It’s a bridge,” Clovenhoof pointed out, correctly.

“It’s still a shelter,” Ben argued. “They can stand under it in the event of rain.”

“As long as the rain isn’t blowing in at an angle,” said Clovenhoof.

“Perhaps.”

“And they’d have to agree to stand in a line under it.”

“I suppose,” Ben glowered.

“Apart from that, it’s perfect.”

Ben could hear the dripping sarcasm. “I’ll make them something,” Ben shouted up to him. “You’ll see. I’m undeterred.”

“Some sort of turd,” Clovenhoof agreed.

Ben ran around to the front of the house and came back with the council wheelie bin for recycling cardboard, plastic and glass. He took out a dozen Lambrini bottles, and the cardboard he’d put in there over the last fortnight.

“I could use those bottles actually,” Clovenhoof called down. “I’m going to rebottle some of my new Lambrini flavours.”

Ben ignored him while he tried to construct a meaningful chicken house from old fruit trays, a ripped packing box, and several cereal packets.

“It’ll never work,” Clovenhoof shouted encouragingly.

“Pessimist!”

“Realist!” Clovenhoof guffawed as the whole thing collapsed. “You know what they say about people who live in cardboard houses?”

“What?” snarled Ben.

“Nothing. Cos no one’s stupid enough to build a cardboard house.”

Ben kicked the wheelie bin in frustration and it tipped over. Marengo flapped into the air in surprise.

Mrs Cluckington approached, curious, scratched about a bit, then stepped inside.

“Hmmm,” mused Ben. Well, a plastic wheelie would definitely keep the rain off them. And at night, with the lid/door closed and held in place by a breeze block, it would keep them safe from predators. “I’ll just go get you ladies some hay for bedding,” he said.

7

Clovenhoof gathered Ben and Nerys in his flat that evening for a tasting session. They stood waiting with a glass each while he poured each sample into a numbered jar in the kitchen.

“I have some new flavours for you to try,” he said, bringing out the tray of jars and placing it on the table, “but we’ll do a blind test so you can guess what they are.”

“Is that code for ‘you would refuse to drink it if I told you what’s in it, so I’m pretending it’s a game’?” asked Nerys.

“What would you refuse to drink if I put it in a Lambrini?” asked Clovenhoof.

Nerys thought for a moment. “Smoked haddock. In fact any kind of smoked fish. In fact, any kind of fish. Or meat.”

Clovenhoof nodded, took one of the jars off the table and put it on the floor, out of the way. “Right you are. Let’s go then!”

Nerys peered under the table at the banished jar, shaking her head. “Hit me up with number one. Have we seen all the pictures on social media of toilet paper hoarding?”

Clovenhoof poured them each a sample of a bright orange liquid. “I’m pleased with this one. Yes, I went down to the big supermarket at Jockey Road and everyone was going nuts, buying the big packets.”

“Selfish bastards,” said Nerys, taking a sip. “Oh. Weird. It sort of tastes a bit familiar. But not bad.”

“I took some pictures,” said Clovenhoof, holding up his phone and showing Ben and Nerys the bare aisle and the scowling man with his spring onions and jumbo pack of toilet roll.

“I’m sure I recognise him,” said Nerys, leaning forward. “He looks like somebody I dated a couple of years ago.”

“Is it carrot and coriander?” asked Ben.

“No, I think his name was Neil,” said Nerys.

“You’re very close, Ben,” said Clovenhoof. “Keep going.”

“Definitely coriander, with a sweetness that’s come from, oh I don’t know, peaches? Apricots?”

“Ben wins the first round! He has correctly identified coriander and apricot jam. What do we think of the taste?”

“It’s actually not terrible,” said Ben, smacking his lips and taking another sip.

Nerys was busy on her phone, looking for a number. She pressed the screen with a grunt of recognition and waited for the call to connect. “Neil? Neil. Why were you buying so much toilet paper today?” She paused and glanced at Clovenhoof and Ben. “Never mind how I know, I’m betting you still live alone, am I right?” Clovenhoof was dying to hear the other side of the conversation: Nerys looked even angrier at the response. “I don’t care if you think you might be onto a sure thing. What if you’re preventing some little old lady from getting what she needs at the shops? You’re such a bell end. Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

Nerys hung up and took a sip of the drink as if nothing had happened. “This one is all right. I hope you wrote down exactly what you added, you might have a winner.”

“Let’s move on to number two then,” said Clovenhoof, scribbling some notes. He poured them another sample.

“I’ve worked out some numbers,” said Ben.

“What numbers?” Said Nerys.

“Toilet paper usage,” said Ben, “based on a careful person not overusing. So, for example, if we assume three sheets a day is enough, then we can estimate that—”

“—Just wait a second,” said Nerys. “If you’re a man and you can just give your trouser salami a little shake, then maybe that’s possible. Women have an altogether different anatomy. Are you aware of that, Ben?”

“I, er, don’t make this about me,” said Ben, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“Well you just made it about you,” said Nerys. “You made it about someone who has a penis and is prepared to wipe their arse according to a spreadsheet. It’s you.”

“Can we get back to the tasting?” asked Clovenhoof. “If you want some bog roll, just say. I brought back a couple of jumbo packs.”

“You did what?” Nerys roared. “You’re part of the problem, you know that?”

“I’m joking,” lied Clovenhoof. “Look, if you crack on with the tasting, I promise to make it my mission to solve the toilet paper crisis tomorrow.”

“You would do that to help people in distress?” Nerys asked.

“Turn a fast buck, more like,” said Ben, grimacing as he sipped his drink.

“I can multi-task,” said Clovenhoof, with a wide smile. “Enjoying that one Ben?”

“It’s pungent,” said Ben, “and not in a good way. I can’t even begin to guess what it is. Any ideas Nerys?”

Nerys sniffed her glass. “This is going to sound weird, but it reminds me of walking past Nando’s.”

“It’s peri-peri?” asked Ben.

“Oh well done,” said Clovenhoof with a nod. He was impressed they’d got that one.

“What even is peri-peri?” Asked Ben. “I mean, what is it made from?”

“Look at the jar in the kitchen if you want,” said Clovenhoof. “So now you just need to guess what the other half of the flavour sensation is.”

It took a solid thirty minutes of intensive bickering before they alighted on the answer, which turned out to be fig.

“I guess my main takeaway from this exercise has been that fig is not a very strong flavour,” said Nerys.

“I think we can all be grateful for that,” said Ben. He eyed Clovenhoof. “I’m almost afraid to tackle this last one.”

“No need for alarm my friends,” said Clovenhoof. He poured an oddly murky mixture into their glasses.

“I’m going to wait till you’ve had a sip Ben,” said Nerys. “This has got all of the hallmarks of something that’s going to press my vomit trigger.”

“I know what you mean,” said Ben. “It’s got that undeniable whiff of discarded takeaway containers. But there’s something else, something altogether more … composty.”

Ben and Nerys stared at each other for a long moment. Inevitably, Ben cracked first and took a sip. He made a long, exaggerated retching sound, followed by a coughing fit. Finally he composed himself and ran his tongue around his lips. His face told a story of someone whose senses were confused. He took another sniff, and then another very small sip.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but there’s something quite moreish about it.” He sipped again. “It goes very much against my better judgement, but if you filtered out all of the bits then it would be a bit like a cross between really strong ginger beer and mustard.”

“Not selling it,” said Nerys. “I don’t think I want to try it.”

“No pressure,” said Clovenhoof, “but toilet paper crisis rescue plan hinges on your decision here, Nerys.”

She gave him a look of pure venom and took a sip. “That!” she said with a look of disgust, “That is like snogging a tramp! A tramp who has eaten leftover curry! With a severe case of halitosis to begin with!”

“I’m calling it a success, then,” said Clovenhoof. He scribbled notes onto his pad.

“Are you going to tell us what it’s made from, then?” asked Ben.

“Garam masala and piccalilli,” said Clovenhoof.

Nerys pulled a face

“You not drinking yours?” Ben asked Nerys. He reached for her glass.

She pulled it sharply away. “Back off. I am prepared to lower my standards when it comes to alcohol.”

8

Nursing a garam masala and piccalilli Lambrini hangover, Nerys sipped her morning coffee and phoned the local company which had sold her the travel insurance.

“Get Out of Here travel agents,” said the woman in a sing-song voice.

“I need to make a claim on the travel insurance I bought through you,” said Nerys.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the woman. She asked Nerys for the details of her policy. “And what do you wish to make a claim for?”

“I had to stop my holiday early and book a flight home,” said Nerys. “I need to claim for that flight home.”

“Oh, I see. And why did you end your holiday early? Weren’t you enjoying it?”

“No. I was in Italy and there was an outbreak of the virus and we had to leave.”

“You got the virus?” said the woman, aghast. “That is awful. Well, your policy does cover medical matters, including repatriation due to injury or illness.”

“No, I didn’t get the virus,” said Nerys.

“Oh, phew. Well, that’s good news. So, everything’s fine then?”

“Yes, I am fine.”

“Thank goodness. And is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Nerys mentally stumbled. “No. Wait. I need you to help me with the claim.”

“But I thought you didn’t get ill.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you cut your holiday short anyway.”

“I did.”

“It sounds like, to all intensive purposes, you chose to cut your holiday short voluntary.”

“Intents and purposes,” said Nerys, automatically correcting the woman.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. What I am saying is that I was forced, literally forced by the Italian authorities to buy another plane ticket to fly home to escape the virus.”

“Forced you, did they?” said the travel agent. “Actually forced you?”

“We had no choice,” said Nerys. She was sticking to her guns on this one, convinced that she was definitely being the reasonable one.

“Well,” said the woman with a deep sigh, “I will have to check this out with the insurance company and see if your policy covers you for this. But I’m going to go out on a whim here and say I don’t like your chance.”

“Limb.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s ‘go out on a limb.’”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said the woman. “Call back after the weekend and I’ll have an answer for you.”

9

Clovenhoof set about implementing his plan for addressing the toilet paper crisis. He picked up the phone and called his old girlfriend Maude. Whilst they were no longer together, he was confident that she still had a soft spot for him.

“What do you want Jeremy?” said Maud with a sigh. “My life has been so much calmer since I stopped spending time with you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” said Clovenhoof.

“I thought you were a married man now.”

“I am. Can’t say I’ve noticed the difference yet. I’ve got a business proposition to put to you. You’re going to love it. You know the knitting thing that you do?”

“Knitting thing?”

“It is knitting isn’t it? When you make things out of wool?”

“That would be knitting. Or crochet.”

“Hey, I’m an open-minded guy. Either is fine. How many friends do you have who do knitting and crochet?”

“Quite a few if I include the people who go to Knit and Natter.”

“That’s a group, right?” said Clovenhoof. “Isn’t there a group for crochet as well?”

“The crochet people come to the same group, there just isn’t a catchy name that you can make from crochet.”

“They’re just not trying hard enough! There must be all sorts of possibilities. What about Crochet Away?”

“Well, there is a group called the Happy Hookers, but they’re over towards Lichfield, and I always secretly suspected that they might be swingers or something.”

“Cool. Road trip then?”

“Jeremy, where are you going with all of this?”

“The country is in crisis, and I need a band of volunteers to address it.”

“Interesting. What are these volunteers going to do?” asked Maude.

“They are going to knit toilet paper for the people of Sutton Coldfield.”

Clovenhoof listened to the extended silence coming down the telephone line. Maude was undoubtedly stuck for words to describe his brilliance. “Can you get them all to meet tonight at the Boldmere Oak? I’ll explain the plan.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Maude her voice weak with what might have been admiration.

10

Clovenhoof entered Ben’s flat. “You coming over to the Boldmere Oak today to see my— What the hell are you watching, Kitchen?”

On Ben’s computer screen, hens pecked about on the lawn around the open lid of their wheelie bin home.

“It’s my chickens,” said Ben. “Look, Marengo is searching for worms.”

“I can see it’s your chickens,” said Clovenhoof. “I meant, what are they doing on your computer? Have you started filming them? Are you putting illicit chicken videos on the internet? Is that some of elaborate chicken-based snuff movie?”

“It’s footage from my security cameras,” Ben explained patiently. “I’m studying them so I can better understand their behaviour.” He lifted up a heavy hardback book entitled Poultry Keeping for Profit and Pleasure that was open on the surface.

Clovenhoof shook his head. “Can’t afford a proper house for them but you can afford security cameras.”

“It’s the old ones from my shop. I’ve got four of them set up, three outside their house and one inside. Battery operated and web-enabled. That way I can look out for any foxes or, dare I say, egg thieves.”

“Are egg thieves a thing?”

“Maybe.”

Clovenhoof leaned over and flicked from camera to camera. “This is quite good.”

“They’re really good cameras. Only problem with them at the shop was they’re accessed through an unsecured website, so if anyone wanted to see what was on them, they could.”

“Were you worried about book voyeurs getting off watching your empty book shop.”

“I was concerned that maybe a gang of book thieves might be studying the footage to plan a heist.”

“Book thieves?” said Clovenhoof. “Like egg thieves?”

“Hey, I don’t know what people like to steal.”

“Laptops, credit cards, the vital organs of the unwary. Aren’t you worried this footage is going to be studied by international egg thieves?”

Ben grunted cynically, but flicked to another window to check on the number of viewers watching the footage anyway. “Don’t see anyone logging on to watch MyCamera\Ben\MyBirds, no.”

“Ben slashes my birds,” sneered Clovenhoof. “Now that is some niche porn. Come on. It’s pub time.”

“What’s happening at the pub?”

“A toilet roll revolution, my man.”

11

Clovenhoof was impressed to see his septuagenarian ex-girlfriend Maude had rounded up about twenty volunteers. Nerys had also come along, as well as Ben.

Lennox hummed a tune behind the bar as he polished glasses, delighted to see so many customers in a week when people had been mostly stopping at home.

Clovenhoof stood and addressed the crowd. “I’m delighted to see so many people prepared to help in the current crisis. My friend Ben has run the numbers, and they have been adjusted by Nerys here. The conclusion was that an ideal arrangement for reusable toilet paper would be a neat pile of ten re-useable wipes, something like this.” He held up a paper template. It was slightly smaller than a sheet of toilet paper and triangular. “You’ll see that we’ve taken the radical decision to reshape the classic arse-wiping design. This is thought to be more ergonomic.”

A hand shot up. “What type of yarn are you suggesting we use?”

“That would be a question for our knitting and crochet consultant, Maude.” Clovenhoof swept a hand across, inviting Maude to stand.

She rose to her feet, clinking. Her outfit today was constructed from an old shower curtain, with hoops still attached.

“Natural fibres are our friend,” said Maude. “I recommend a smooth, lightweight cotton, as most woollen fabrics can’t take a hot wash, and they are likely to be too scratchy for people’s, erm, tastes.”

“Thanks Maude. We will circulate a knitting pattern, though of course many of you won’t need that, as I’m told this is fairly straightforward.”

“Are we seriously suggesting that we wipe our bums with a knitted triangle, then wash it and use it again?” asked a younger woman at the back.

“Yes,” said Clovenhoof. “A simple solution that will not be prone to supply problems.”

“Except people won’t like the idea of keeping poo-smeared triangles in their houses,” said the woman.

“I recommend a bucket with a lid,” said Maude. “It’s how we used to handle nappies when they were washable. This is exactly the same thing.”

“We will be selling these from a street stall the day after tomorrow,” said Clovenhoof. “All profits to be divided amongst us.”

“Divided how?” asked someone.

“Fifty percent to me, and fifty percent divided among every knitter or crocheter who produces at least ten triangles by that time. The amount will be pro-rated according to the number of pieces you produce. Ben is in charge of the bean-counting, and he will take a five percent commission. Nerys will help with sales and she will be paid on an hourly basis for her time.”

“Fifty percent is a lot for you considering you’re not actually doing anything,” said a woman on the next table.

“What can I say? I’m a businessman.”

12

“Get Out of Here travel agents.”

“It’s Nerys Thomas here. I’m phoning up about my travel insurance.”

“Hello,” said the woman. “Are you looking to buy travel insurance?”

Nerys stood by the window of the second floor, staring critically at a man carrying a family-sized bag of sixteen toilet rolls down the Chester Road.

“No,” she said patiently. “I phoned last week to claim on my insurance as I was forced to cut my holiday short and I had to fork out for an emergency flight home.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said the woman brightly. “Well, there is some positive news.”

“I can claim back the cost of the flights?”

“No.”

“What?”

“You can’t claim back the cost of your flights. I have checked the policy with head office and since you voluntarily cut your holiday short and didn’t actually have any illness then there’s nothing to claim for.”

Nerys angrily repositioned the photo of Aunt Molly on the window sill.

“How can that be so? The insurance is there to protect me if some unexpectedly expensive occurs. Something unexpectedly expensive did occur. There was a pandemic. Have you seen the news? I was forced to buy plane tickets.”

“And did you take out insurance pacifically to cover pandemics.”

“Specifically.”

“Pardon?”

“The word is specifically and no, of course I didn’t. Who would take out specific pandemic insurance?”

“People who would want to avoid buying plane tickets to escape a pandemic. Now, your regular insurance simply doesn’t cover you for such unexpected events. It’s one of them force majeure things, an act of God.”

“Act of God, is it? I’ve got a neighbour who used to work with the Big Man and I don’t think he’d take too kindly to you randomly blaming things on God. My holiday was interrupted by something out of my control, ergo you need to cover my costs.”

“Okay,” said the woman haughtily. “First of all, my name’s not Ergo, it’s Karen. Secondly, I have made it very clear that neither we nor the insurance underwriters are liable. You didn’t take out pacific insurance—”

“Specific.”

“—and therefore you don’t get a pay-out. Frankly, you’re taking a very selfish attitude. These are tough times for travel agents you know. There’s all this over-exaggeration about the virus, which is basically just flu as far as I can work out, and that’s hitting our profits. My first quarter bonus is very much in danger. So, stop whining about the changes to your holiday that you made and stop trying to make me out to be your escaped goat.”

Nerys stood in silent fury. “Scapegoat,” she said.

“What?”

“The phrase is treating someone as a scapegoat. What’s an escaped goat?”

“It’s just a vigorous peach.”

“A what now? Do you, by any chance, mean a figure of speech?”

“I really do not know what you’re on about, madam.”

Nerys was about to angrily end the call when she remembered something. “You said you had good news for me.”

“I did,” said Karen the travel agent. “I was going to offer you a discount holiday as compensation. We’ve got fifty percent off on all our European holidays right now.”

Nerys ended the call.

13

Clovenhoof set up an impromptu market stall in the big supermarket’s car park. There was, of course, an actual market in the town centre, but that required the sort of red tape and payment of fees that Clovenhoof decided would not form part of his current emergency business model. He would no doubt be held up as a role model for his agile approach. His market stall was largely formed of plastic boxes full of stock, with a display created from a pair of microphone stands that he’d sneaked out of the Boldmere Oak while Lennox wasn’t looking. Between the stands he had strung up a row of crocheted toilet paper triangles. The knitters and the crocheters had, apparently, moved from one triangle to another without snipping the yarn, so it was very easy to make a display like a little washing line.

“Oh, take a look at these gorgeous crafts!” said a woman walking past with a baby buggy. “I’ve been looking for some bunting to decorate Camilla’s bedroom. This is perfect.”

“This is toilet paper. It’s reusable so you don’t need to panic-buy the paper stuff in the shops,” said Nerys standing behind the stall in an apron with pockets for the cash.

The woman gave a nervous laugh. “Seriously? I mean it looks like bunting. I could use it as bunting if I wanted, surely?”

“That goes completely against what we are—”

“—not a problem,” interrupted Clovenhoof. “Fifteen quid a set. Choose your colour. It’s all handcrafted locally.”

The woman handed over the cash, chose her favourite colour and went away happy.

“I can’t believe you’ve sold it as bunting,” said Nerys. “How is this solving the toilet paper crisis?”

“Think of it this way,” said Clovenhoof. “When the money starts rolling in, the knitters will knit faster, don’t you think?”

“You could be right, I suppose.” Nerys pocketed the cash and smiled at the passers-by.

The next people who stopped were a couple. “Is this a charity thing?” they asked.

“We are supported by community volunteers,” said Clovenhoof, neatly evading the question. “We are addressing the current crisis by making available this reusable toilet paper. You’ll see that we have reinvented the shape, which was well overdue, I’m sure you’ll agree. I don’t know when toilet paper was invented, but it was definitely due an upgrade. So, what you would do is this.” Clovenhoof squatted and pulled a triangle out of a nearby box and placed it on his open palm. “It’s shaped to maximise the wiping potential when you have a stubborn dangler. You’ll be familiar with the different styles of poo, yes? What everybody wants is a clean break, but it’s not always possible; and so much depends on what you’ve eaten the day before. So you might be faced with the loose and splatty, or the watery shart if you’ve got a really bad belly. But let’s say it’s not quite that bad and you’ve just got a dangle, yeah? When you get one of those pesky hangers on, this clever design means you can get right in there and gather it up with one hygienic swipe.” He mimed the action, straightened and held out the triangle. “In your mind’s eye, picture it now. Voila! What was hanging off your arse is now neatly gathered in your hand.”

Nerys kicked his ankle and nodded at the couple who were frozen in place, their faces aghast. “I think you should shut up now.”

“Now is not the time to be squeamish. Have they got any toilet roll in stock?” He waved an arm towards the supermarket.

“Actually, they were just putting some out as we left,” said the woman, recovering slightly.

“Well, let’s say the worst came to the worst and they ran out,” said Clovenhoof. “Wouldn’t you rather have options?”

“Do you know what, I would.” The man pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

“Ten quid for a set,” said Clovenhoof. “Nerys, would you like to help the gentleman?”

Nerys’s attention was elsewhere, though. She was staring daggers at the supermarket entrance. Clovenhoof followed her gaze and saw that several people were staggering out with enormous amounts of toilet paper.

Nerys ran across the car park. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screeched.

Clovenhoof hastily completed the transaction. “Do you see how it’s stressing people out? You have made the right decision here. Tell your friends.”

Clovenhoof watched as Nerys hectored a young man who pushed a trolley filled with toilet roll.

Nerys was incensed. “Is this all for you?” she yelled. “Did nobody inside tell you that you’re a selfish pig? You need to leave some for others.”

“Sweetheart, they’re flat out in there,” said a passing older man. “They’ve just told me this is even busier than Christmas, but they’re staffed up for a normal week. They can’t take on the likes of this young idiot.”

Nerys faced off against the toilet roll hoarder, grabbing the end of his trolley. “You’re not going anywhere with this!”

“And you’re going to stop me are you?” he mocked.

“Well, I might help her,” said the older man, grabbing the trolley.

“And me.”

“And me.”

Nerys grinned triumphantly as the hoarder released his trolley and backed away. There was now a small crowd supporting Nerys’s effort. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do next now that she had a trolley full of toilet paper. The security guard had walked over and gave her a questioning look.

“Where were you when these bastards were taking all the toilet roll?” she asked him.

“I don’t have the power to stop people buying what they want,” said the security guard. “The store hasn’t set a policy, though I know they’re talking about it.”

“You don’t need a policy to know what’s right!” said Nerys.

“What are you going to do with this lot?” asked a passer-by. “I’ll give you twenty quid for it.”

“This is not for sale!” She knew what needed to happen with this. “It’s going to the food bank.” She wheeled the trolley back into the supermarket and found the food bank donation basket. She unloaded all of the toilet paper into it and returned the trolley. She went back to join Clovenhoof who, against all the odds, had sold more of his bat shit crazy crochet.

A few minutes later, the security guard came running over. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but some bastard has nicked the toilet roll out of the food bank basket!”

Nerys knew that she had a quick temper, but what she felt now was a surge of utter rage. She could barely credit that another human being had done this. And yet she could see all around her the evidence that people were capable of selfishness beyond the norm.

“Right. I want you—” she poked the security guard in the chest “—to make sure twenty quid’s worth of toilet paper gets put back in that basket as soon as some is available. Give me your phone so I can enter my number. Call me when it’s done and I’ll come and make sure it’s safe.” Nerys pulled twenty pounds out of the apron pocket.

“Make sure it’s safe?” echoed the security guard.

“Hey that twenty quid’s our takings!” said Clovenhoof.

“I’m not sure this is entirely within company guidelines—” started the security guard.

“I don’t want to hear any more bellyaching. This is how it’s going to be. These are extraordinary times, and I am taking action. Do as I say.”

14

Ben had spent the whole night and much of the next day watching the chickens on his cameras. It was better than watching the news, which only seemed to detail the numbers of people falling ill around the world. In comparison, watching the goings on of four innocent and simple chickens was deeply therapeutic. They each had their own personalities.

Bucephalus was the bold, exploring chicken, the first to rise each morning, the first to find worms or seeds in the ground around their little house. Marengo was the playful one, a little joker of a hen, always sticking her nose in whatever the others were doing. Palomo was the loud one, the fiery one. And Mrs Cluckington, puffed up and feathery, she was the most overtly chicken-y of all his lovely ladies.

His girls had laid three eggs since the previous night and Ben was contemplating tearing himself away from the screen to go collect them when his phone rang.

“Yup?”

“Can you come and join us down at the big supermarket?”

“Nerys? I thought you were out selling Jeremy’s stupid toilet paper things.”

“We were, but now I’m setting up a sting operation.”

“What?”

“And I need more bodies.”

“Are you sure you need bodies like mine?” asked Ben.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have a weapon.”

“But I need to watch my hens.”

“There are more important things at stake, Ben! Get down here now!”

15

Clovenhoof was having a cracking day. They had sold all of the crocheted and knitted toilet paper. As a consequence he agreed to help Nerys guard the food banks toilet rolls. The security guard had called them just as they were putting the empty boxes back into Nerys’s car.

The food bank basket was now piled high with toilet roll. Nerys, Clovenhoof and Ben patrolled the area, pushing trolleys as they casually strolled up and down. Clovenhoof didn’t consider Ben was throwing himself into his undercover role sufficiently. He mooched up and down the aisles, not even pretending to put things in his trolley, instead hunching over the stupid Poultry Keeping for Profit and Pleasure book of his.

Nerys was perhaps drifting in the other direction: admiring and considering every item she found on the shelves like a shopping channel presenter, before either putting it back or placing it in the trolley among treasured favourites.

Clovenhoof, who knew a thing or three about covert operations, kept things loose and casual. As he travelled up and down by the tills with a perfect “Oh, where is that one item I came in for?” look in his face, he entertained himself by trying to guess who might make a move on the toilet roll. Would it be the shifty-looking guy with the goatee beard? Probably not, but Clovenhoof generally cast goatee beards as a criminal act all by themselves. As it happened, the person who made a grab for the toilet roll in the basket turned out to be a well-heeled woman who stalked along, head held high, and simply lifted a packet on the way past.

“Code Red! Code Red!” yelled Clovenhoof. “Eagle in the breadbasket! I repeat, eagle in the breadbasket!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” screeched Nerys, swooping across to grab the woman’s arm.

“Sorry? What are you doing? Get off me,” said the woman.

“I saw you steal that toilet roll from the food bank box.”

“What? Is there a problem? It’s all just free stuff, isn’t it?” The woman looked at Nerys with disdain and made to push her trolley out of the store. Clovenhoof swung into action and blocked off her exit with a bootlegger turn of his trolley.

“You’re going nowhere, doll face,” he said.

The security guard ambled over. Ben came alongside with his trolley

“I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong,” said the woman, deeply unconcerned.

Nerys pulled a pair of pink fluffy Ann Summers handcuffs from her pocket and swiftly fastened the woman’s arm with one link and clamped her to the food bank basket with the other.

“This is a citizen’s arrest. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say is just going to piss me off, sister, so don’t bother. I saw you take toilet roll out of the food bank.”

“This—” the woman waggled the handcuffs “—is assault. And, look, that box is for donated food and goods. It doesn’t pacifically say that we can’t help ourselves.”

“What did you say?” Nerys hissed.

“It doesn’t pacifically say—”

“Again.”

“Pacifically?”

Nerys’s face screwed up in utter disgust. “You’re going down,” she snarled and waved the security guard to take the woman away. “Throw the book at this bitch.”

Clovenhoof, who delighted in interpreting things literally when it suited his desires, grabbed the heavy poultry book from Ben.

“No!” yelled Ben, but it was too late. The woman shrieked as the hefty volume clonked her.

“You didn’t have to actually throw a book at me,” she moaned, holding her broken nose.

“Quite,” said Nerys archly. “It’s just a vigorous peach, isn’t it?”

 The End

Episode 2 of the Isolation Chronicles can be found here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B087HG734J

US: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B087HG734J

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There is lots more Clovenhoof material if you liked this one. Read on to see where it all started...

Clovenhoof by Heide Goody & Iain Grant

Charged with gross incompetence, Satan is fired from his job as Prince of Hell and exiled to that most terrible of places: English suburbia. Forced to live as a human under the name of Jeremy Clovenhoof, the dark lord not only has to contend with the fact that no one recognises him or gives him the credit he deserves but also has to put up with the bookish wargamer next door and the voracious man-eater upstairs.

Heaven, Hell and the city of Birmingham collide in a story that features murder, heavy metal, cannibalism, armed robbers, devious old ladies, Satanists who live with their mums, gentlemen of limited stature, dead vicars, petty archangels, flamethrowers, sex dolls, a blood-soaked school assembly and way too much alcohol.

Clovenhoof is outrageous and irreverent (and laugh out loud funny!) but it is also filled with huge warmth and humanity. Written by first-time collaborators Heide Goody and Iain Grant, Clovenhoof will have you rooting for the bad guy like never before.

F. Paul Wilson: "Clovenhoof is a delight. A funny, often hilarious romp with a dethroned Satan as he tries to adjust to modern suburbia. The breezy, ironic prose sets a perfect tone. If you need some laughs, here's the remedy."

US: http://www.amazon.com/Clovenhoof-ebook/dp/B008PYLULG/

UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Clovenhoof-ebook/dp/B008PYLULG/