Handwash Hysteria (Clovenhoof: The Isolation Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

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  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

  [email protected]

  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 cas
e—”

  “—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.