Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Thank you from the authors!

Clovenhoof – The Isolation Chronicles 

Episode 2: Handwash Hysteria

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

1

“Happy birthday to me,” sang Clovenhoof as he worked the soap in between his fingers. “Happy birthday to me.” He rolled his hands over each other, massaging the grey suds into the back of his hands. “Happy birthday, dear Jerem-eeeeee! Happy birthday to me.”

He reached for the flute of Lambrini on his bathroom window sill. “Cheers, Jeremy old boy. Many happy returns!” He downed the drink and began to rinse off his hands. “Hey, Nerys!”

“What?” came Nerys’s voice from the next room.

“How many times did the Prime Minister say we should sing Happy Birthday while we wash our hands?”

“Twice. I think.”

“Fair enough. Seems excessive for first thing in the morning but if I must…” He topped up his glass from the bottle and reached for the soap again. “Happy birthday to me…”

2

Persephone Buttwater put a stack of books on the counter at Books ’n’ Bobs.

Ben left the hardback copy of Poultry Keeping for Profit and Pleasure he’d been repairing (it had a split spine from where Clovenhoof had smashed it across the face of a toilet roll thief) and slid down the counter to total up Persephone’s purchases.

“Yet more PG Wodehouse,” he noted.

“Can’t go wrong with a bit of Wodehouse,” the older woman replied.

Ben counted up the books. Nine of them in total.

“I will need some reading material if we’re going to self-isolate like the government suggests.”

“I wish there was just a firm and simple decision about it one way or the other,” said Ben. “Lockdown or don’t. The Chinese have done it, the Italians have done it, Spain’s done it.”

“Well, I’m over seventy so I’m going to get ahead of the game and self-isolate from tomorrow. Don’t want to catch that virus at my time of life.”

“I might as well be closed,” said Ben, gazing around his near empty shop. “We had a bit of a rush on yesterday. A man came in wanting two dozen books.”

“See? He’s planning on self-quarantining too,” said Persephone, putting the books one at a time into her large pink shopping trolley.

“I’m not so sure.” Ben pulled a face. “The man was particularly interested in any books with soft and absorbent pages.”

“Eh?”

“Toilet paper panic buying continues,” he said.

It took a moment to catch his drift, then Persephone pulled a disgusted face. “And I thought the Nazis were bad, simply burning books. What kind of monster wipes their backside on them?”

“Oh, I sold him some.”

“Selling literature as toilet paper.” She drew back horrified. Persephone, who only lived a few doors up from Ben, was a retired academic and had a delightfully healthy respect for the printed word.

“Do not fret,” said Ben. “I put some thought into it. Only carefully selected volumes are now in the Books ’n’ Bobs ‘soft and absorbent’ range. War and Peace for one.”

Persephone was aghast. “But it’s a classic!”

“Have you read it?” he asked.

She spluttered. “Well, not per se. But lots of people have.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Lots of people say they have. In fact, the number of copies of the book in existence versus the number of people who say they’ve read it versus the number of people who’ve actually read it, reveals we can probably sacrifice a few copies of Tolstoy to ease the toilet needs of the nation.”

“Oh, really, Ben…”

“Same goes for Brief History of Time.”

“I’ve read that one,” she said firmly.

“You were a scientist. Of course you have. I’ve even read it, and pretended to understand it. But I doubt most people ever got past the first chapter. Hawking is in the poo-poo bin. Moby Dick, Don Quixote, anything by Victor Hugo.”

“This sounds dangerously like anti-intellectualism,” said Persephone, which was the kind of thing that only an academic would say.

“It may be,” said Ben. “But if Moby Dick doesn’t turn up until chapter a hundred and thirty something of his own bloody story, then the author shouldn’t be surprised if his book becomes stand-in Andrex.”

“I think I ought to get these books home and safely out of your grasp,” said Persephone, half-playful, half-serious. “Get them thoroughly disinfected.”

“You’re going to disinfect your books?” he said.

She nodded gravely. “We have no idea how long this disease can survive on surfaces. I have my own preparations which I can apply to my purchases.”

Ben would have asked what the retired chemist’s own preparation might have been, but he was rather overcome with the thought that his book shop – all those books! All those pages! – could be harbouring millions upon millions of samples of the pandemic disease. He tried to imagine all the hands that had thumbed through his books in the past few weeks.

“How much?” asked Persephone.

“Pardon?”

She nodded at his till. “How much for the books?”

He dragged his attention back to the here and now. “Er, four quid.”

She passed him a ten pound note. “Put that in your till. I think you’ll need it.”

“Oh?”

“Tough times ahead for the small businessperson, mark my words,” she said as she wheeled her trolley to the door.

Ben didn’t like that thought. Things were tough enough on the high street already. The government had advised people to stay away from pubs and restaurants but not yet made it an official ruling. The Roast Office coffee shop up the road had been almost empty when Ben walked past that morning. And Mr Kim, who owned the barbecue restaurant opposite, had described his week’s takings in very gloomy tones. On top of that, geographically illiterate racists had abused the Korean in the street for bringing the ‘Chinese virus’ to Great Britain.

Ben had blithely (and perhaps blindly) assumed book shops would be unaffected. Everyone needed books, didn’t they? They were a basic necessity, surely? His personal funds were currently severely depleted. Not only had the money he’d set aside for chicken house been diverted to paying for Jeremy and Nerys’s emergency flights home, he’d recently forked out on for a new shop sign in bold, custom-cut plastic.

That reminded him. The Books bit of the sign looked a little wonky. He’d have to call up the sign fitters to adjust.

He was reaching for his phone when the door was loudly kicked open.

“Victory!” declared Clovenhoof loudly, arms held high.

“Er, what?” said Ben.

Clovenhoof waggled his hands. Ben recoiled from the stink. “I’ve solved this virus handwashing and face touching problem.”

“How?”

“Chicken shit!” said Clovenhoof, looking more pleased with himself than usual (which was usually very pleased indeed).

“You … what?” Ben supressed a little retch as he recognised the smell.

“It’s dead simple,” said Clovenhoof. “This morning, before I stepped out, I went round to visit your ladies in the back garden and rubbed chicken poop all over my hands.”

“For the love of reason, why?” cried Ben.

“It’s brilliant. If I touch anything when I’m out—” he ran his hand along the counter, leaving a brown smear “—then everyone will know to clean that spot before they touch it.”

Ben fought the urge to dash into his kitchenette for a cloth and cleaning spray. He didn’t want to prove Clovenhoof right.

“If I buy things in the shops—” he grabbed Ben’s half-mended poultry book “—then I know to wipe it down when I get home. And, with my new patented chicken shit fingers, if I’m ever tempted to touch my face, I’ll probably think twice before scratching myself with shitty fingers.”

“Not to mention no one will come within two metres of you, because of the smell!”

“Exactly,” said Clovenhoof. “Am I genius or what?”

“Oh, it’s ‘what’,” said Ben. “Definitely ‘what’.” He stared at the crap stain on the shop counter. “I can’t cope with this. It’s freaking me out.”

“And that’s the state of mind that will make you think twice about touching things,” said Clovenhoof.

“Please get out of my shop.”

“Fine,” Clovenhoof tutted. “And don’t forget, it’s drinks night at the Boldmere after work.”

“After work?” said Ben. “I think I’m the only one of us who still has a proper job.”

“In that case, first round’s on you,” said Clovenhoof, running a filthy finger across the full length of a book shelf as he left.

3

Clovenhoof, Ben and Nerys sat in the Boldmere Oak. They were spread across four tables, which wasn’t a problem because there was nobody else in the pub at all. If there had been they’d have probably stayed a safe distance from Clovenhoof’s hands. They still stank despite more energetic hand washing.

“I’m exhausted from all the hand washing,” said Clovenhoof. “So much to remember: wash your hands for twenty seconds, both of them, stay two metres apart, don’t touch your face.”

“Well, you’re failing at that one, aren’t you?” said Ben.

“I have mastered the art of not touching my face!” protested Clovenhoof. “Every time I feel the urge to touch my face, I touch my balls instead. It’s all a matter of self-control.”

“The evidence would suggest otherwise,” said Nerys.

“What do you mean?” said Clovenhoof.

“We’ll come to that,” said Nerys. “Let’s start with your hand gel. I got a whiff of it earlier; it has a very unusual scent.”

“Yeah, I was pretty pleased with that,” said Clovenhoof. “You know how everywhere is sold out? Well Animal Ed had some made up specially. I managed to score a litre of it.” He pulled the bottle from his pocket with a flourish.

“Apparently a lot of people have been trying to make their own hand sanitiser,” said Ben. “It seems so simple, because it’s just a mixture of strong alcohol and some sort of emollient or moisturiser.”

Nerys shuffled forward in her seat. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest Ed has found a way to use up the self-tanning lotion he was trying to flog all last summer. It’s been repurposed as an emollient in the world’s first self-tanning hand sanitiser.” She held up the little mirror from her handbag. “Take a look at your face.”

Clovenhoof stared. His face was dotted and streaked with a great many orangey-brown splotches. “Well I guess I must have touched my face once or twice,” he conceded. “Who knew I had a favourite nostril? I must try harder to give my left nostril a fair crack of the whip.” He pulled the hand sanitiser out of his pocket. “It’s quite thrilling when you think about it: you can kill germs and top up your tan. What’s not to like?”

Ben reached out to take the bottle. “It’s quite possible it’s not killing the germs,” he said. “Because it smells as if the alcohol part of Ed’s mixture is that aftershave which gave Lennox a rash. Remember?”

“I knew I’d smelled it before!” said Nerys. “I think Lennox still has some for wiping down the tables.”

“Hand gel is becoming a bit of a problem,” said Ben. “In fact, some of the UK’s alcohol manufacturers are switching their production lines to make hand sanitiser to meet the demand.”

Clovenhoof turned to him. “Say what?”

“You know. Instead of making booze they’ll be making hand sanitiser.”

“Oh my God!” Clovenhoof was stricken. “When do they plan to start this madness? How much is it going to impact the flow of my Lambrini?”

“Well I haven’t heard any mention of the Lambrini factory doing it—”

“—Not a risk I’m prepared to take.”

Nerys gave him a cold look. “I do hope you’re not thinking of stockpiling Lambrini, after we just spent a solid thirty minutes bitching about how awful people are who stockpile?”

4

Nerys entered Books ’n’ Bobs with takeaway menus in her hand.

Ben stood at his counter, his attention fixed on the three or four customers casually browsing his wares. He was not usually such a vigilant shopkeeper. His second hand book shop hardly had anything worth stealing, and the few valuable first editions he owned (mostly the memoirs of retired Edwardian military men, often with titles that were more than a little xenophobic) were safely locked away in glass cabinets behind the counter.

“I’ve come to ask what you want for dinner,” said Nerys.

“Hang on,” said Ben, putting up a hand to pause her before raising his voice to a middle-aged shopper. “Madame! I saw you!”

“Saw me what?” she said demanded.

“You touched the spines of those Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstalls.”

“I was just browsing.”

Ben pointed a dictatorial finger to the sign beside his counter.

YOU TOUCH IT, YOU BOUGHT IT!

DON’T SPREAD THE VIRUS!

“I’m wearing gloves,” said the woman and stuck out her tongue.

“I do not care if you’re wearing gloves,” he retorted indignantly. “What else have those gloves touched? A door handle? A bench? God help us, a petrol pump? You touch it, you bought it.”

The woman harrumphed, but took the books from the shelf anyway and added them to the small collection under her arm.

“Now, what’s this about dinner?” said Ben.

Nerys put the menus on the counter. “We’re having either Japanese takeaway or Turkish? Which do you prefer?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re quite different and maybe you have a preference.”

“I mean, why are we having takeaway?”

“Because Tina is.”

Ben frowned. “Yeah. That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Nerys tutted. “The government’s advising us all to stay away from public place. Pubs, clubs, et cetera. And the local restaurant trade is having a tough time.”

“Okay, I get that. And Tina?”

Nerys pulled a most distasteful face. “That shameless hussy is ordering takeaway every night and posting pictures on Instagram. I’ve never seen such a pitiful piece of attention-grabbing virtue signalling behaviour.”

“Right,” nodded Ben. “And we don’t approve of that kind of thing.”

“Unless it’s done with style and class.” She tapped the two menus.

“Style and class,” he said, seemingly unconvinced. “Are you paying?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling charitably.

“Oh. In that case—”

“—And in return, you can help me post leaflets through the doors of vulnerable locals who are self-isolating from the virus and might need someone to do their shopping.”

He sighed. “And will these altruistic acts also be posted to Instagram?”

“Naturally.”

“Because if it doesn’t go on social media it didn’t happen?” he suggested.

She grunted. “No. If it hasn’t been rubbed in Tina’s smug bitchy face it didn’t happen—”

“You touched your face!” Ben exclaimed.

“What?”

He shook his head and pointed past her at the purchaser of Fearnley-Whittingstall’s cook books.

“You touched your face with your gloves. Touched the books, touched your face. It’s a wonder you haven’t come down with the virus already.”

“Do you want me to buy the books or not?” said the woman, unperturbed.

“Cash or contactless?” he said.

She fished around in her purse, counted out coins and offered them to Ben. He pointed at a shallow dish with a pool of soapy disinfectant in the bottom.

“Really?”

Ben nodded, very solemnly.

The woman dropped the money into the water and took her purchases without a thank you.

Nerys watched her go. “You don’t think you’re overdoing this sanitation thing a bit too much?”

“Or is everyone else not taking it seriously enough?” he said.

“Staring at the customers. Accusing them of spreading disease. You’re already watching them on CCTV—” She pointed at the camera feeds on his computer screen. They weren’t monitoring the shop: they were views of the four chickens in his back garden. “You’re watching your chickens twenty-four seven?” she said.

He nodded and leaned across the counter. “Egg thieves,” he whispered, nodding deeply as though he had said the wisest thing in the world.

5

There were usually lots of people walking up and down the Chester Road, but it was so quiet Clovenhoof sat on a low wall waiting for a good ten minutes before he saw his ideal mark. His plan depended upon getting the right wheels. If the fine alcohol producing companies of this world were about to switch their production lines to making hand sanitiser, he needed to stockpile his favourite tipple; and in vast quantities too.

A woman in her seventies walked past, dragging a capacious pink shopping trolley.

“Can I take your trolley?” he asked.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I had a note through my door about that. I thought it was someone from your house?”

“You did?”

Clovenhoof had tucked away several bottles of booze the previous night. Had he leafleted the street with Can you lend me your trolley? leaflets in some sort of drunken fugue state? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Yes. It’s a great idea,” she said. “And very noble too. How will I pay you?”

This was getting better and better. Not only was she willing to hand over her trolley, she would give him money for it. Maybe this was going to be a good day after all. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I’ll give you twenty up front. If it’s any more then we can sort it out later.”

Clovenhoof nodded and wordlessly took the note she offered.

“List’s in the trolley,” said the woman as she went back the way she’d come. “I’m three doors down from you.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You’re um … thingy. Stupid name. Precipitation? Polygamy?”

“Persephone,” she said.

“That’s the one,” he said. “What list?”

“In the trolley.”

He inspected the trolley as he wheeled it back home. There was a shopping list inside, which must have been the list she was talking about. He shrugged. A few items of fake shopping would be a good disguise for a trolley full of Lambrini.

Clovenhoof visited every shop he could think of within walking distance that might have Lambrini. He bought as much as he was able to fit into the shopping trolley on his multiple trips. Each sortie was accompanied by an additional item from the list, so he had something sticking out of the top to explain to Nerys. By the end of the day he had actually bought all of the items on the woman’s list. He bundled them into a bag and took them round to her. He put them on the doorstep and rang the bell. As he was walking away she opened the door, saw the shopping and beamed at him. “You’re an angel, you know that don’t you?”

“You’re the first person to actually notice that in quite a while,” said Clovenhoof.

Clovenhoof took the trolley home with him; the woman seemed happy with that. It was a sweet deal, although he still wasn’t entirely sure what the deal was.

He gazed at the numerous boxes of Lambrini currently scattered around his lounge. He would have to find a way to hide it, or Nerys was certain to give him a load of trouble.

6

Clovenhoof heard Nerys announce herself at his door in her own unique style. She banged on Clovenhoof’s door, went across to rattle Ben’s door and then bellowed at the pair of them. “I’m in a bad mood. Bring me good company and alcohol. One out of two will do.”

Clovenhoof swept open the door and invited both Nerys and Ben inside. “Ben, I trust you bought the alcohol, given that I will be providing excellent company as always?”

“As it happens, I’ve been having a clear out to see what’s left from the Christmas stash,” said Ben. “If things are getting tight in the supermarket, we need to make best use of what we have at the back of the cupboard. I brought a selection.”

“I can’t believe we left anything undrunk at Christmas,” said Nerys. “What have you got?”

Ben rustled in a carrier bag and brought out some bottles. “There’s a quarter bottle of advocaat, some sweet sherry from that trifle competition which got out of hand, and some peach schnapps.”

Nerys grabbed the advocaat, Clovenhoof grabbed the peach schnapps; Ben stared with some disappointment at the sweet sherry.

Clovenhoof held up a finger. “Let me get some glasses, it’s not time for anarchy quite yet, although I’m quite looking forward to that part of the coming apocalypse. When it comes to the looting and the running naked through the streets I’ll be—”

“—you’ll be well practised,” said Nerys. “It’s not like those aren’t things you literally do all the time.”

“So why are you in a bad mood, Nerys?” asked Ben.

“It’s Tina,” said Nerys. “She’s got all competitive again.”

“We all know what that means,” shouted Clovenhoof from the kitchen.

“Do we?” said Nerys.

“It means Tina is doing better than you at whatever your current competition is,” said Clovenhoof. When he came back through with the glasses he could see from her face that he was right.

“Her social media feed is full of her doing shopping and chores for the vulnerable and isolated.”

“What about the pictures of you supporting the local restaurant trade by buying takeaway?” said Ben.

“Unfortunately,” moped Nerys, “images of Jeremy seeing how many California rolls he can get in his mouth do not make for many likes.”

“People are Philistines,” said Clovenhoof.

“Now, Tina’s all over the internet with her good works,” said Nerys. “She’s obviously just trying to get a mention in their wills, or something.”

“So have you been doing the same thing?” asked Clovenhoof.

“Yes, but obviously I did it for the right reasons. I kept it just to the neighbours in this block. I met Persephone three doors down—”

“I think you’ll find her name’s Polygamy,” said Clovenhoof.

“Persephone said she got my leaflet and then do you know what?”

Clovenhoof shook his head, even though he had some possible insight into the answer.

“She phoned back and said thank you for doing the shopping! You can see what’s happened! Tina’s stealing my customers. It has to be her!”

“Is that the only possible explanation?” said Clovenhoof. “I mean, maybe she’s senile or something?”

“No, she’s definitely not,” said Ben. “She used to be a chemistry lecturer at the university. She’s got tons of letters after her name.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’d say if I was senile,” said Clovenhoof.

“That’s not how senility—” started Ben.

“—He means stop being a dick,” said Nerys. “Now let’s get back to how I’m going to outdo Tina, shall we?”

Clovenhoof’s attention started to wander as an intriguing idea popped into his head. “Chemistry lecturer, you say?”

7

By the end of the week, Ben had, he felt, perfected his shop’s cleanliness and sanitation procedures. He stood by the door and when a customer entered, made them wait on the entrance mat (now helpfully marked with the words WAIT HERE. QUARANTINE ZONE) until he could take their temperature.

He had bought the infrared digital thermometer on-line. It had been expensive – there had been a bit of a run on them in the past few weeks and prices had gone up – but he felt it was worth it. The gun-shaped device allowed him to take temperatures contactlessly and he had already decided that, once this whole pandemic was over, he could use it as a pretend phaser as part of a Star Trek cosplay outfit.

“Stoop a bit,” Ben said to a tall man. The man, confused, obliged and Ben played the scanner over his temple. “Thirty-seven point two degrees.”

“What does that mean?” said the man.

“It’s a bit elevated, but you’re allowed in.”

The man, continuing to be confused, went to browse the shelves while Ben sprayed and wiped down the door handle.

“Er, what’s going on here?” The man was prodding Ben’s book protection system.

“What does it look like?” said Ben.

“It looks like you’ve wrapped all the shelves up in cling film.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve done. Germ barrier. Protects the books, protects you.”

“But—” said the man, scratching his nose.

“Face!” shouted Ben.

“What?”

“You touched your face.”

“Did I? I’m sure I only—”

“Face!”

The man was startled. “Do you have to do that?”

Ben nodded with conviction. “I read an article that suggested we should use nudge psychology.”

“And that means shouting at people?”

“It means if we shout at people who are touching their faces then eventually everyone will join in, and we’ll all learn not to touch our faces.”

The man didn’t look like he agreed with the perfectly sound principle but did not argue. “How am I meant to browse the books if the whole shelf is wrapped in clingfilm?”

“You only need your eyes to browse,” Ben pointed out.

“But maybe I want to look closer?”

“With your eyes?”

“I mean, what if wanted to flick through that copy of, um, The Lord of the Rings there?”

“Do you not know what the story of The Lord of the Rings is?” said Ben.

“Roughly,” the man admitted. “I’ve seen the movies.”

“Eleven hours of cinema will give you a better overview than an unhygienic thumbing of the pages, won’t it?”

“What about books I don’t know the story of?”

Ben gestured to himself proudly. “And that’s why I’m here to help. Your friendly, neighbourhood bookseller.”

“So this one?” he said, pointing.

“Er, Dune? A young man goes into the desert with his family. They’re trying to find some spice. He takes some drugs. Then there’s some giant worms. It’s a classic.”

“This one?”

“1984? It’s the Eighties. This government employee is disillusioned with his job. Then management step in. There’s some animal therapy and that makes him happy.”

“Really?” said the man, scratching his chin.

“Face!” Ben yelled.

8

“Polygamy!” Clovenhoof called through the letterbox. “I need to talk to you!”

“I’m isolating,” came a woman’s voice from within.

“That’s fine, we can talk through the door. It’s Jeremy here. I fetched your shopping.”

“Ah, thank you. Have you got my change?”

“There wasn’t any. Listen, I heard you were a chemistry boffin.”

“Were? Still am, young man,” she said from the other side of the door.

“Great,” he said. “You must know about making hand sanitizer, yeah?”

“Yes, it’s a straightforward thing to do if you have suitable ingredients. I believe there are guidelines available from the World Health Organisation.”

“So, what do you need?” asked Clovenhoof.

“Sorry?”

“I mean, you’re stuck at home, so you might as well. I’m hearing all sorts of horror stories that have been caused by the shortages.”

“It is troublesome, I admit.”

“And there’s a very strong possibility the makers of the nation’s favourite tipple—”

“Tea?”

“—Lambrini! There’s a very real danger they might switch over to hand sanitiser production and deprive the poor and needy – including my good self – of the sweetest, fizziest goodness ever produced on this earth.”

“You want to make hand sanitiser so Lambrini won’t be tempted to do so?”

“Well, anything sounds ridiculous when you say it in that tone of voice. You’ve got to help me do this. It’s how you can give back to the community, Polygamy!”

She gave a small grunt. “I suppose you’re right. Let me make a list and you can come back later today so we can make a plan. And it’s Persephone.”

“What is?”

“My name.”

“Are you sure?”

An hour later, Clovenhoof hunkered down on Persephone’s doorstep after knocking.

“Ah, there you are,” came her voice. “Now, there’s a problem with some of the key ingredients. Supplies. I suspect that you’re not the only person trying something like this.”

“How do you know this?” Clovenhoof asked.

“I looked online,” said Persephone.

“I thought older people couldn’t work the internet? Isn’t that why you need help with the shopping?”

“You cheeky sod! I need help with the shopping because there are no slots for grocery deliveries. I am perfectly capable of using the internet, thank you. Now, I’ve checked around and we’re going to have a problem getting hold of the raw alcohol.”

“Raw alcohol,” said Clovenhoof thoughtfully. “Now, I know you’re the chemist and I’m sure you know your stuff, but that’s a thing you can make, surely?”

There was an exasperated huff from inside the house. “Again, with the cheek, Jeremy! Of course it’s possible to distil alcohol, but it is very much inadvisable in a domestic setting.”

“I guess it’s mainly inadvisable to people who don’t know what they’re doing,” said Clovenhoof. “Whereas you would do it properly; and you’d probably be praised and admired for tackling a problem in a creative way.”

“You make a persuasive argument,” said Persephone. “I have a shed in the garden. I suppose that could work well for creating denatured alcohol.”

“Denatured. Talk me through what that means, exactly.”

“It’s where you put additives into the alcohol so that people won’t drink it. We wouldn’t want that would we?”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” said Clovenhoof. He didn’t want to be part of anything that involved rendering alcohol undrinkable. It went against his core values. “I mean it’s extra stuff to buy, right? We can always de-nature it if we need to afterwards.”

“I’ll set about ordering some equipment then,” said Persephone. “The shed is going to need some tidying. That can be your part of the deal.”

“Sure thing,” said Clovenhoof, who loved a mooch in someone else’s shed as much as the next person.

9

Clovenhoof had enormous fun in Persephone’s shed. It turned out she was quite the magpie.

She was serious about the social distancing, so she wouldn’t let him inside the house; but she would drop him a cup of tea on top of the dustbin while he worked. Every time she made an appearance he held up or pointed at some cool thing and asked if she was planning to get rid of it. Every time she gave an offhand shrug, and he gleefully hotfooted it back to his flat with the treasure. So far he had scored a pair of dusty binoculars, a plant pot on long spindly legs that currently featured a dead fern, and a stool shaped like an elephant. He had just discovered a children’s playhouse made from chunky pieces of plastic which slotted together. He wasn’t sure why an old woman would ever need a playhouse.

“Do you need this?” he shouted to her.

Behind the kitchen window, Persephone cupped a hand to her ear.

He shouted again, louder. She shook her head and did a complicated mime that may have meant it had been used by some grandchildren who had since grown or, possibly, that it had been conjured out of the ground by magic gnomes. Clovenhoof put it to one side, sure Ben would gladly take it to use as a coop for his stupid chickens.

Clovenhoof created so much space in the large shed there was definitely room for whatever equipment was needed for an alcohol still, along with a couple of deckchairs. He set them out in a convivial arrangement and made little cardboard labels: one saying Jeremy’s chair and the other Persephone’s chair. At some point they might be able to sit in them at the same time and chat; but for now it meant he could assure her that only one of the chairs was smeared with his potentially virus-ridden detritus.

10

Ben opened his flat door and was immediately greeted with a yelp of alarm and large piece of plastic in the face.

“What the hell, Jeremy!” he shouted.

“Satan’s balls!” exclaimed Clovenhoof, staggering back on the landing and clutching his chest. “Is that you, Ben?”

“Course it is!”

“Then what’s…?” He waved a perplexed and disgusted finger at Ben’s face.

“Oh, this?” Ben lifted the whole-face plastic mask up onto his forehead. “It’s a great idea, isn’t it?”

“For giving me a heart attack?”

“For hygiene purposes. People are going out and getting face masks, even though they don’t work the way people think they do. I thought to myself, what’s the most important thing I can do to stop myself catching the virus?”

“Stay at home? Never see another human being again?”

“What I need to do is stop myself touching my face,” explained Ben. “If my whole face is covered with plastic then I won’t put my fingers to my face or try to rub my eye.”

“Okay,” said Clovenhoof, getting his breath back. “But what the hell is that mask meant to be?”

Ben took the mask off and looked at it. “I think it’s meant to be Shrek.”

“Shrek after the devastating crystal meth addiction and disfiguring car accident maybe!”

Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. Animal Ed had boxes of them. He was selling them as social distancing aids.”

“I bet!”

“We’ve all got to support local businesses at this delicate time,” Ben admonished him.

“Speaking of which,” said Clovenhoof, “one: Nerys says we have to have takeaway again tonight and post about it on Instagram; and two: I’ve brought you this.” He held up the pieces of plastic.

Ben read the embossed name on the side. “A Little Tikes Country Cottage Playhouse?”

“It’s for your birds.”

“Ah! Ooh! That might just work! Thank you!”

“I’m all heart me,” said Clovenhoof. He felt around his chest. “While I’ve still got one.”

11

When Clovenhoof returned to Persephone’s shed the next day, there were some newly-arrived packages. They were all stashed in the empty corner with a little note telling him not to touch them. The note also said there was a shopping list attached. Clovenhoof found it remarkable that Persephone was able to easily order the contents of an illegal lab, but for basic food supplies she relied on him. He burned with curiosity to see whatever was inside the packages, but he set off to go and get her shopping instead. He retrieved the wheeled trolley before he went: with a bit of luck the local shops might have replenished their Lambrini supply.

As Clovenhoof strolled the supermarket aisles, he noticed signs on many of the shelves that declared a new limit for customers. People were now only permitted to buy two of any item. He frowned and consulted Persephone’s list. She wanted six bananas, but surely that wouldn’t be a problem? He loaded up the basket.

When he got to the till, the operator pointed at the bananas. “You can only have two of a single item,” he said.

“Two bananas?” said Clovenhoof.

“Yeah, new policy.”

“These aren’t even for me, I’m shopping for a vulnerable person.”

The young man sighed. “It’s just the policy.”

“There are five bananas in the pre-packed bags, what if I’d bought a bag?” said Clovenhoof.

“That would be fine. In fact you could have two bags.”

“If I can have ten bananas when they’re bagged up, why can’t I buy these six?”

“It’s the policy. Do you want to swap?”

“Yes I do,” said Clovenhoof “And while we are at it, can we talk about boxes of Lambrini? Can I buy two of those?”

Clovenhoof was beside himself with glee as he walked home. While the new supermarket policy was in its infancy, the store had been confused enough to let him buy two warehouse boxes of Lambrini, just so he’d shut up and go away. He wheeled his prize back home, wondering where he could put the new boxes, as he had already exceeded his flat’s capacity. He decided to store them in Persephone’s shed, as he could easily get to them there. He dropped the bag of shopping on her doorstep after removing the extra four bananas.

“Who wants a banana?” shouted Clovenhoof to Ben and Nerys. “Not a euphemism!”

“What?” Nerys came downstairs as Ben emerged from his flat. “Jesus fucking Christ Ben! Take off that hideous mask!”

“It’s for your protection as well as mine,” said Ben from behind his bright green ogre mask.

Clovenhoof held up the bananas, a two fingered salute to each of them. “Spare bananas. I know you two eat them, so consider it a gift from me to you.”

Nerys glared at him as she took her bananas. “I can’t help thinking there’s something the matter with them. Ben, I want to see you eat one first.” She pushed past Clovenhoof, went into his lounge and plonked herself on a chair.

Ben followed her in. “They look okay to me, but I normally have my banana at eleven in the morning. It’s weird to eat one at three in the afternoon.”

Nerys gave him a withering look. “There’s only one weird thing about what you just said, now get it down you.”

“Also, I’m wearing a mask.”

“Eat it, Kitchen!”

Ben peeled the banana and ate it while Clovenhoof egged him on with as many blow job mimes and sound effects as he could come up with.

“Mmph, it’s a perfectly normal banana.” Ben nodded with approval, his cheeks bulging like a hamster.

“Jeremy, have you moved your furniture around?” said Nerys. “There’s something different, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“The elephant stool? Cool isn’t it?”

“No, the layout or something.”

“I probably just shifted it while I was cleaning,” said Clovenhoof.

Ben and Nerys both stared at him. “Cleaning?”

“It happens sometimes.”

“No, your idea of cleaning is to set fire to the house so it needs rebuilding,” said Nerys. “So I don’t know why, but you’re lying. There is something funny about your furniture. I even feel as though this sofa is higher than normal. My feet don’t touch the ground.”

Nerys crouched to look at the base of the sofa. It had a little fabric fringe, and when she lifted it she revealed a row of Lambrini bottles, lying side by side underneath.

“What on earth is this?” She stood and poked him in the chest with a sharp fingernail. “You’ve been panic buying Lambrini, haven’t you?”

“I was just making sure their business is well supported; in case they need to switch to hand sanitiser production. I thought it was a pretty noble endeavour, if I’m honest.” Clovenhoof concentrated on looking sincere and noble, while hoping Nerys didn’t check underneath all the other furniture.

“Well, I’m disappointed in you Jeremy. What if a vulnerable person needed some?”

“Maybe he’s doing them a favour?” said Ben. “If they’re vulnerable, boozing is doing them no favours.”

“Not the point!” said Nerys, “and a little bit judgey too, Ben.”

“Well, it’s here now,” said Clovenhoof airily. “It means I won’t need to buy any for a couple of days, that’s all.”

Ben was poking at his seat cushion. Clovenhoof strolled past and pulled Ben’s mask away from his face, before letting the elastic snap it back.

“Ow! What was that for? It’s just there’s something lumpy in this seat. I was going to—”

“—I don’t believe it!” yelled Nerys, as her phone buzzed. “I got a text from Persephone. She’s had another shopping delivery! That bloody Tina!”

Clovenhoof rolled his eyes. “Tsk.”

12

Clovenhoof moved more of his Lambrini stash over to Persephone’s shed. It was a secure hiding place, away from Nerys’s prying eyes (and Ben’s sensitive butt cheeks). He discovered Persephone had set up some of her equipment. He’d been hoping for elaborate glassware, glooping sound effects and possibly some sinister smoke, but this was a slightly disappointing stainless-steel container, somewhat like a stockpot. There was another, larger container that looked like a plastic dustbin. It had a handwritten label on the side that read Mash, and contained an unappetising beige sludge. While Clovenhoof was investigating the contents, he discovered it was slightly warm. It turned out the plastic bin stood on top of a heated pad. Clovenhoof imagined reclining in his deckchair and warming his feet on the heated pad. Better still, he could put it underneath his bum! He realised he could indulge any fantasy he liked within the walls of this shed, because Persephone would not enter if she knew he was inside. He should really get some sort of sliding sign for the door to indicate if he was in or out, but for now he made do with tuneless whistling to make it clear that he was in residence.

He lifted the mash container and removed the heated pad. It was plugged into an extension lead, so it was an easy task to move it across to his deckchair. He settled it underneath himself, grabbed a Lambrini and reclined with a gasp of pure pleasure. The spreading warmth was like urinating into his pants, without the bother of wet clothes to clear up afterwards. He closed his eyes and settled in.

Life could not be sweeter. Here he was with that warm, just-pissed-myself feeling, knowing he was well on the way to providing a grateful nation with a much-needed batch of hand sanitiser and thus, simultaneously, averting the need for Lambrini to switch its production from this surely-much-more-vital golden alco-fizz. With such warm feelings (inside and out) a devil could sleep happy.

Clovenhoof woke up when his phone buzzed with a text. It was from Nerys.

I CALLED THE FOOD BANK BUT THEY WON’T ACCEPT ALCOHOL SO YOU CAN KEEP IT FOR NOW. I’LL BE WATCHING YOU.

There were several eyeball, pointy finger and devil emojis at the end.

Clovenhoof shuddered at the possibility of having to give away his precious stash. He stretched. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but he’d been so very comfy in the deck chair. He wandered back home, hoping Nerys hadn’t meant her comment literally. He was enjoying the fact he had a secret second shed (or possibly it should count as a first shed, given that none of the ones at home had ever lasted very long).

13

It was a very quiet day indeed in Books ’n’ Bobs. A handful of customers had come in during the morning. Very few had made it past the quarantine zone door mat. Three of them had taken one look at Ben in his protective ogre mask, thermometer gun in hand, and backed away hurriedly. One had actually screamed, thrown her purse at him and sobbed, “Take it! Take it all!”

The only one who had actually made it into the shop spent twenty minutes myopically browsing the shelves before coming to the counter. He squinted at the CCTV images on Ben’s computer screen.

“What’s that then?” he said.

“They’re my birds,” said Ben. “I’ve just built them a new house. It’s a nice house but quite secure. They can’t escape.”

“Er, right,” said the man, backing away without making a single purchase.

Things had been so quiet, Ben even had time to wait on hold for fifty minutes to get through to the sign company and tell them about his wonky shop sign. They promised to fix it, but couldn’t give a date when they’d have someone free to come over.

Shortly before closing time, Kenneth Kim, owner of the restaurant over the road came to the shop.

“Nah, I’m not coming in,” he said as Ben began to wave his thermometer at him. “I’ve just got to tell you, this ain’t working, Mr Kitchen.” He waved his hands towards Ben’s face.

“It provides perfect and complete barrier protection,” said Ben.

“You look like something that should be living under a bridge, mate. It’s scaring away your customers.”

“You think?”

Mr Kim shook his head. “Frankly, mate. It’s scaring away everyone’s customers. I had no one at lunchtime. And I blame that fifty percent on the virus and fifty percent on you. I’ve got no one booked in for tonight and only two people booked in for tomorrow.”

“But I’m trying to save lives,” said Ben. “I don’t want me or my customers to catch anything, either from each other or from improper handling of the books.”

“Books ain’t going to harm anyone, mate,” said Mr Kim. “Your ugly face might though. Give it a rest.”

Mr Kim went back over to Korean BBQ House, giving Ben a final glare before going in.

Ben felt affronted. Here he was making his best efforts to keep his business going while protecting the public at the same time, and what thanks did he get? None. Just an earful of abuse from local restauranteurs.

He grumped to himself all the way home and scowled at anyone who recoiled from his wonderful protective mask. Fine! he thought. They could hate him if they wanted but he was the one being morally responsible. He was sort of like Batman, a misunderstood force for good, feared but on the side of justice.

He found himself humming the old Batman TV theme. A few “Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-nas” did a lot to lift the spirits. He soon switched from ending each line with “Batman!” to “Kitchen!” He would have used his first name, but it just didn’t scan. As soon as he got home, he went round the back to feed his chickens. Bucephalus, Marengo, Palomo and Mrs Cluckington had already taken themselves to bed in their new playhouse home.

He automatically switched his limited song lyrics to “Chickens!” as he approached, even throwing in couple of hip-wiggling dance moves as he approached. He opened the playhouse door to go in and check on them. “Coming in, girls, ready or not!”

14

Distracted by the weird, off-key singing from a few gardens over, Clovenhoof almost missed the note pinned on Persephone’s shed door when he went round to check on their chemistry project. It was written on lavender note paper.

Come to the door tomorrow, I need to talk to you.

Clovenhoof did as instructed. Bright and early on Saturday morning, he walked round to Persephone’s front and shouted through the letterbox.

“Ah, there you are,” she said from the other side. “We’ve had a minor setback.”

“Oh no. What was that?”

“Somehow the heating pad got dislodged from underneath the mash. There was a frost and the yeast has died.”

Clovenhoof was very glad that the door was presenting a decent poker face on his behalf. “Oh. I don’t know what mash is, but it was important then?”

“Yes. It was the fermentation that would have provided the base alcohol we were going to distil.”

“Oh.” Clovenhoof briefly mourned the passing of potential alcohol. “Do we need to get some more then?”

“No need, I found an alternative.”

“Oh?”

Would you believe I had a whole shedload of Lambrini? Literally.”

“Oh?”

“No idea where it came from. I hate the muck, but it will serve our purposes very well. I’ve passed most of it through the process already.”

Clovenhoof was briefly speechless.

“Hello? Are you still there?” asked Persephone.

“Yes,” said Clovenhoof weakly. “So the Lambrini has been processed into … into what exactly?”

“Do you want the full lecture, or the edited highlights?” asked Persephone.

“The abridged dummies guide.”

She harrumphed in disappointment. “Well, some of it comes off as methanol. That’s toxic of course. I’ve made sure to bottle that up separately and label it. If anybody were to drink it they’d go blind, and it’s highly flammable as well, so take care. The rest is ethanol, which is the classic moonshine spirit.”

“Moonshine made from Lambrini,” mused Clovenhoof, head whirling with the possibilities. “Interesting. What happens next?”

“Well, as per the original plan, it will be mixed with the emollient and bottled up. I’ll get to that tomorrow. I’ve only got enough emollient for about half of the spirit, though.”

Clovenhoof beamed at her through the door. “Then don’t worry, I shall take care of the other half!”

“Good, it would be as well to split it up a little bit in case any fumes escape. Nobody wants accidental combustion, do they?”

“No,” said Clovenhoof sincerely. “We don’t want to set any more sheds on fire.”

“You make a habit of it, do you?” she laughed.

“Slip of the tongue. I’ll get right onto the splitting up of things,” said Clovenhoof.

He jogged over to the shed with much excitement. “Oh, Lambrini moonshine! I have never wanted anything so much. Come to papa, you gorgeous creation!”

He crossed to the workbench where there was a row of large bottles. Some were labelled ethanol and some were labelled methanol.

Which one was which? He couldn’t remember. One was drinkable and the other one would make him blind. Wouldn’t be the first time. He took a tentative sniff of an ethanol bottle. Was that a wispy memory of the rhubarb special Lambrini he’d scored a box of? He swigged it down and gasped at the punch it delivered. He put the bottle down, still not sure which one this was. In the interests of science he opened a methanol bottle. This one had less of a smell, but the fumes made his eyes water. A swig confirmed it was possibly stronger. Possibly.

He went to fetch Persephone’s pink shopping trolley, feeling the afterglow like a living thing from his throat down to the pit of his stomach. He smacked his lips in anticipation. Which one had rocked his world? There was one that contained the ghost of his favourite drink, and the other that spoke of pain and death: both delightful in their own way. He took another hefty slurp of each as he loaded up the trolley.

He counted the bottles, to be sure he was taking half of what was there. Then counted them again as they blurred in and out, making it difficult. There were eight in all, so half of that was … several. He bumped the bottles into the capacious trolley, making sure he could access the one on top. Then he spotted something amazing hanging out of a box of supplies. A length of silicon tubing! He slipped it into the top of the bottle and put the other end in his mouth. What a setup! He staggered along with his new invention, the Boozepusher™, which also served as a useful way of not falling over. He wondered which of the bottles he was currently slurping from, deciding it didn’t matter as drinking it through a straw made it go down much easier.

This was way too good to waste, so rather than going straight home, he walked up and down the pavement a few times, surprised at the number of angry motorists who had to swerve out of his way, tooting angrily at him. As his vision swam in and out he passed somewhere that he recognised. It might have been his own address.

“Swome heet swome,” he burbled happily.

He took a long slurp from the tubing and sat down on the low wall outside the garden. It was such a low wall he almost missed and fell straight over it. Almost. He rolled along the ground, giggling at the idea he was so drunk he couldn’t even sit down. Then he slept.

15

Nerys knocked on Ben’s door on her way downstairs. He answered the door; or at least something with Ben’s body and a face straight out of a nightmare did.

“So, it is you!” she said.

“What’s me?” said Ben.

“Live Feed Playhouse Sex Goblin.”

“I’m … what?”

Nerys produced her phone and found a news webpage. “I was applying for a new job when I came across this. Here.”

Under a headline of PLAYHOUSE SEX GOBLIN GOES VIRAL was a video clip. Ben immediately recognised it from the CCTV cameras he’d put in the back garden to keep an eye on his precious birds. It was footage from the previous night. Ben watched himself enter the garden, dancing and jiggling to the Batman theme, giving it a bit of liberating bum wiggle as he capered towards the plastic Wendy house.

On-screen, the ogre-faced Ben loudly declared, “Coming in, girls, ready or not!” before entering the tiny building.

“Okay,” he said. “I can see how that looks a little bit weird.”

“A little bit?” She was smiling now. “You filmed yourself being a creepy-ass weirdo then decided to post it on the internet.”

“No, you misunderstand,” he said. “It’s part of the MyCamera app. Your feed is made available through an unsecured web server. So anyone can watch it if they want.”

“And it seems that the Sex Goblin’s ‘MyBirds’ channel is getting a lot of traffic right now,” said Nerys.

Ben pulled out his own phone to check. “There are seven thousand people logged in right now…”

“You see?”

“Seven thousand people worldwide, watching my chickens…”

“It’s not normal, is it?”

“They’re celebrities,” he added, a note of wonder in his voice.

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re taking the right message from this, Ben,” she said. “People think you’re a creepy pervert.”

“With celebrity chickens,” he said.

Nerys sighed. “I can’t stay here and argue with you. I’ve got a lunch date.”

“Supporting local businesses again?” Ben shook his head. “You and Tina are going to eat yourselves into an early grave before either of you will give in.”

“Actually, Tina and I have called a temporary truce,” said Nerys, pleased with herself. “We’re going to meet for lunch, draw a line under this thing, and continue our good community works as a partnership rather than as competitors.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Believe what you like, Sex Goblin,” she said and went downstairs.

As she stepped outside the house, she spotted a pink shopping trolley on the pavement. She frowned, remembering. Hadn’t Persephone mentioned using a pink shopping trolley? She’d also said something in her text about hanging onto it. Tina had been the one who had taken possession of it, so why was it here?

Nerys opened it up to take a look. There were several large bottles of clear liquid, which made Nerys raise her eyebrows with surprise. There was also a scrunched-up shopping list in the bottom, signed Persephone. Now she was certain that she had evidence of Tina’s duplicity. Well, she knew where she’d find Tina, so she might as well confront her with this. They might be lunching together to bury the hatchet, but there was no problem in getting in a few victory blows beforehand.

Nerys wheeled the trolley smartly behind her as she walked to the high street.

They had agreed to meet at Korean BBQ House. Nerys had some reservations about Korean barbecue, a restaurant that gave you ingredients and a heat source, then basically left you to get on with cooking it yourself. Who was adding the value here?

Still, Tina had picked and was adamant. There was no way Nerys was going to eat in while Tina swanned round being a loyal supporter of every local business.

Nerys found the Korean barbecue restaurant was deserted. The pictures on the website were of a crowded interior, everyone sharing a happy communal eating experience. Reality was slightly more dismal.

Tina was already there, sipping a sparkling water. “Nerys! So nice to see that outfit. Again.”

“Tina, darling! You must tell me who treats your crows’ feet!”

“Ah, you ladies know each other,” said the owner.

“Oh, we do,” said Tina darkly. “Old work colleagues.”

“Old friends,” said Nerys.

“One of us older than the other.”

“Four months,” said Nerys, sitting down.

There was an elaborate extraction system with a hood over every table. It made a subdued whooshing sound. The owner leaned over and ignited the hot plate sitting between them.

“Quiet today?” she said to him.

“It is most unfortunate,” said the owner. “The government has told everyone to avoid restaurants and pubs, but they have not told us to close.”

“Why is that unfortunate? We’re here, aren’t we?” Nerys said.

“Oh, yes,” he said with fake cheer. “But we are operating at a loss, even with just me working like today. If the government would force us to close then I could at least make a claim on the insurance.”

Nerys tutted at the injustice of it all. Her recent experiences of trying to claim on her travel insurance for her ruined holiday had sullied her opinions of the whole insurance sector.

The owner left them to look through the menus.

“Italy was lovely, by the way,” said Nerys.

“Glad to hear it,” said Tina.

“We can’t thank you enough for entering us for that newlyweds competition.”

Tina gave a brittle smile. “And how is life as the new Mrs Clovenhoof?”

“I’m keeping my maiden name,” said Nerys. “We live our own lives.”

“Sad and alone.”

“Better than jumping into a different man’s bed every night.”

Tina shook her head like she had no idea who Nerys was talking about. “What’s a sex goblin?”

“Oh, you saw that on the internet too?”

“I mean over there,” said Tina and pointed out the window. Across the road, someone had spray-painted across the windows and door of Books ’n’ Bobs the words PISS OFF SEX GOBLIN PERVE.

“Oh, dear,” said Nerys and got out her phone. She took a photo and sent it to Ben.

“Why do people engage in such wanton vandalism?” sighed Tina. “They should focus on noble charitable endeavours like you and I.”

Nerys lowered her menu. “I know your game. You’ve been stealing my vulnerable people!”

“Sorry? I’ve been what?” Tina asked, with her brightest smile.

“Your shopping for the vulnerable.”

“I don’t like to talk about my charity work,” said Tina, fanning herself.

“I know you’re empire-building or something,” said Nerys. “You stole one off my patch.”

“Your patch? Do you live among the poor and vulnerable? I know the Chester Road is run down, but I didn’t realise you were in the slums now.”

“Persephone!”

“Bless you,” said Tina and giggled.

“You stole her from me.”

“Oh Nerys, are there some fumes from the barbecue addling your brain or something? I would definitely remember if I’d been shopping for someone called that.”

The owner returned. Tina reeled off a list of orders. Nerys had no appetite and made no contribution. The owner backed away to fetch their food.

“If someone from your ‘patch’ did come to me—” began Tina, but was interrupted by a bang at the window.

Ben, still wearing his stupid troll mask was up against the window. He ran over to his graffiti-struck shop.

“Jesus crap!” said Tina. “What’s that?”

“That’s the sex goblin,” said Nerys. “Sorry, you were just about to lie about stealing my vulnerable people.”

Tina slowly tore herself away from the sight of sex goblin Ben trying the rub off spray paint with his jumper sleeve.

“I was saying,” she said, trying to remember what she was saying, “if someone did come to me it’s probably because you just don’t hit it off with some people. You don’t have my people skills.”

“Is that so?” sneered Nerys. “Well, you should know I’m taking my doing good deeds to the next level?”

“What next level?”

“Professional.” Nerys let the word hang between them. “I’ve just applied for and accepted a job as Customer Satisfaction Manager for Dukoko.”

“The supermarket delivery people?”

“The very same. Meanwhile you’re resorting to stealing my vulnerable clients.”

“Still no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

“What about this then?” said Nerys, whisking the trolley into their eyeline.

“I did wonder what you were doing with that,” said Tina. “I thought it was some sort of ironic bag lady look you were trying to pull off. I was convinced.”

“No, this belongs to Persephone and you’ve been using it to buy her gin, or whatever this is. Admit it, Tina, you’re so desperate to be popular that you’re sucking up to people who literally can’t even avoid you. It’s the ultimate captive audience.”

Tina lifted the lid of the trolley and peered inside. “This isn’t gin.”

“Whatever, then!”

“I’m not sure what it is, but it doesn’t look like something that’s come from a shop.”

Nerys glared at her and checked more carefully. She had a point, but Nerys was not about to admit that. She lifted a bottle and unscrewed the top. “Smells like alcohol of some sort.”

Tina unravelled a length of tubing and held it up. “What’s this?”

“A straw?”

“So it’s for drinking then?”

“We’ll never know unless you take a sip.”

“Take a sip?”

“Haven’t you got the guts?” Nerys asked.

“This stuff might rot even my guts.”

“Coward.”

Tina threw back her head in laughter and then snapped her face into a vicious scowl. “I challenge you to sip it first.”

“But I challenged you.”

“You’re the one slinging accusations around. Maybe you need something to make you more mellow.”

Nerys sighed. If it was an alcohol-related challenge she was always up for it. She would deal with Tina once they had dealt with this small distraction. She slurped from the end of the tube. A powerful dose of chemical wrongness coursed across her tongue. It was like drinking the smell of a hospital.

She spat it out in disgust.

Both of them watched, mesmerised, as the stream of spat alcohol hit the burner under the hotplate and ignited into a subtle blue flame.

“Wow,” said Tina.

The flame rapidly spread across the table and caught the end of the tubing.

“Was there quite a lot of that stuff left in there?” Tina wondered.

“Move away!” said Nerys.

They stood back from the table in unison. As one, they dragged the trolley to a safe distance

“No! Look!” Tina pointed down at the floor. A blue flame raced across the tiles, towards the trolley, along an invisible path of fumes or liquid. They backed off and collided with the owner who was bringing a tray of raw meats and vegetables.

“Fire!” yelled Nerys. She pushed him to the door, hustling him out onto the pavement and away to one side.

“What are you—?” he yelled. An explosion ripped through the restaurant with a blinding flash, drowning his protests.

The window blew out. Something pink and wheeled flew across the street like a rocket. Ben whirled at the sound. The fiery shopping trolley barely missed him, shooting over his head and into the shop sign above. The word Books swung loose on one of its fixings, pivoted and dropped, clonking Ben soundly on the head and knocking him onto his backside.

Her ears ringing, Nerys sat up and picked pieces of the plate glass window off her dress.

A tall man came rushing over to assist them. “Everyone okay?”

Tina blinked at the owner. “I guess you can make that insurance claim now,” she said woozily.

Across the street, Ben was up on his feet, putting hands to his shattered mask to check for wounds.

“Face!” the tall man yelled.

 Episode 3 of the Isolation Chronicles can be found here:

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0881ZSTGF

US: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0881ZSTGF

Thank you from the authors!

Many thanks to you, the reader for taking the time to read this book.

We'd be incredibly grateful if you could leave a review. Reviews mean so much to authors, and it helps other readers to find our work as well.

We're writing lots of new material, so if you'd like to be kept up to date, sign up to our newsletter here: www.pigeonparkpress.com