Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (7 page)

Dregs,
I noticed, was staying close to Hobbes. I couldn’t blame him. I was keeping
pretty close myself.

‘Get
off my land!’ Henry shouted. ‘I’ll have the law on you!’

‘I
am the law, sir,’ said Hobbes with what passed for a pleasant smile as he
showed his ID. ‘I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions. I take it that
you are Mr Henry Bishop?’

Henry
glowered. ‘That I am. Now, get on with it. I haven’t got all day.’

‘Firstly,
do you have a valid certificate for that shotgun?’

‘What?
Of course I do.’

‘May
I see it, sir?’

‘I’m
not sure where it is. Somewhere inside, I expect. It may take some time.’

‘We’re
not in a hurry,’ said Hobbes, his smile broadening. ‘I can help you find it.’

Henry
scratched his bald head, frowning in thought for a moment. ‘I’ll get it myself,’
he said, spitting, slouching away, and closing the front door behind him.

‘I
don’t think he’s pleased to see us,’ Hobbes remarked as we waited in the shade
of a worm-eaten, old apple tree.

Henry’s
furious shouting penetrated the door, though I couldn’t make out any words. He
reappeared, thrusting a plastic wallet into Hobbes’s great paw.

Hobbes,
opening it, nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. That appears to be all in order, except
for the date. This expired two years ago. You shouldn’t try to amend it with a
biro, it doesn’t work.’

‘Well,
I forgot,’ said Henry, spitting again. ‘It happens. I’ll renew it tomorrow. I
never use it anyway.’

‘Very
good, sir,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I’d better take the shotgun for the time being. I’m
sure you don’t mind and it will stop you from inadvertently breaking the law
any further.’

‘Very
well.’ He handed it to Hobbes.

‘And
I’d better take the others.’

‘What
others?’

‘The
ones in your cabinet. I really ought to check that, too. Do you mind if I take
a look inside?’

‘Yes,’
growled Henry, his ruddy complexion darkening like an impending storm, ‘I
bloody well do mind.’

‘I’m
sorry to hear that, sir,’ said Hobbes, shrugging, pushing open the front door,
stepping into the house.

With
another spit and a curse, Henry followed.

Dregs
and I looked at each other, agreeing to keep out. Henry Bishop was a nasty
piece of work and both of us were happy to keep our acquaintance with him to
the minimum. Mopping the sweat from my forehead with a handkerchief, I lounged
against the tree, contemplating lunchtime, thinking of the pleasant little pubs
that weren’t far away, hoping Hobbes would decide to stop at one or other, relishing
the prospect of a nice, cold lager and a bite to eat.

The
sudden commotion inside the house made Dregs bark and retreat and made me
quake. The front door jerked open. Henry ran through with a terrified howl. He
hadn’t gone more than a couple of steps when Hobbes burst out, catching him within
a couple of loping strides, seizing his collar and swinging him off his feet.
Henry’s legs kept moving, his eyes bulging like a rabbit’s, as Hobbes twisted
him round and dropped him. He fell to his knees but Hobbes lifted him by the
lapels on his jacket, shaking him like a duster.

‘I’m
not going to do anything to you now,’ said Hobbes, speaking slowly and at
terrifying volume, his face showing a rage I’d never seen before, ‘but if it
comes to my attention that you ever do anything like that again, I will
dismember you. Is that clear?’

The
front of Henry’s trousers darkened and he moaned as a wet patch spread down his
leg. I felt some sympathy for him, no matter what he’d done, because Hobbes was
at his terrifying best and, even as an innocent bystander, the collateral fear
almost overwhelmed me, making my legs shake. God alone knew what Henry was feeling.

‘Is
that clear, sir?’

A
squeak emerged from Henry’s bloodless lips. His flour-white face looked as if
he’d suffered an extreme vampire attack. ‘Yes. Yes. It’s clear. I won’t do it
again, I swear I won’t.’

Hobbes,
increasing the ferocity of his glare to force twelve, released the hapless man,
who, dropping to the ground, lay in a quivering foetal position, sucking his
thumb like a baby.

‘You’d
better not sir, because I mean what I say.’

I,
for one, didn’t doubt it. Hobbes, turning his back on the human detritus, returned
to the house, remaining inside for a few minutes. I could hear his voice rising
and falling gently. He reappeared, carrying three shotguns.

‘If
you obtain a valid certificate and behave yourself,’ he said, looking down, ‘I
may let you have them back. Right, my next question is, have you seen any big
cats around here?’

Henry,
still lying in the dirt, shook his head and whimpered.

‘Thank
you, sir,’ said Hobbes, walking back to the car, dropping the guns into the
boot. As Dregs and I crept in, he started the engine and moved off. Looking
back, I glimpsed a woman at the upstairs window. She was pale, thin and
grey-haired, her most outstanding feature being the grotesque swelling of her
right eye. Understanding, I shared Hobbes’s anger. We drove away in silence,
broken only by the sound of Dregs licking himself.

Despite
the angry feelings, I was extremely pleased when Hobbes pulled up outside The
Crown at Dumpster. He ushered us into the cool gloom of the bar where horse
brasses gleamed and the smell of cooking made my mouth water. ‘A double lashing
of ginger beer for me, a pint of mild in a bowl for the dog and a pint of lager
in a glass for the lad.’

The
rosy-cheeked barmaid poured out our drinks.

‘And
I’ll order three steak and kidney pies with all the trimmings and one for the
dog too. Do you want anything, Andy?’

I
sipped my lager. ‘I’ll have the same.’

‘Same
as me or same as Dregs?’

‘Same
as Dregs.’

He
smiled. ‘That’ll be five steak and kidney pies then please, miss.’

Both
outside and in, The Crown gave the impression of unchanging permanence. Hobbes
and I took opposite seats on a pair of creaking, old settles in the corner,
while Dregs stood on the timeworn flagstones, lapping at his bowl of mild.
Though Hobbes smiled, commenting on the horse brasses around the bar, the
bunches of hops hanging from the beams, there was something tense in his
hunched posture as if he was not quite at ease. That, combined with his strange
feral odour, always there, but seeming suddenly stronger, made me nervous and I
was relieved that, when the barmaid served our meals, he thanked her with his
normal gentle, old-fashioned courtesy. For the next few minutes as he shovelled
down his three substantial, steaming pies, I ate mine with quiet appreciation.
Though it wasn’t up to Mrs G’s standards, it was good – and hunger adds relish
to any meal. Dregs, wolfing down his lunch and licking his bowl dry, took
himself out through the open front door. A few moments later, there was a
furious, imaginative and prolonged outbreak of swearing from some man in the
garden.

Hobbes,
a semi-circle of empty plates in front of him, ignored the commotion, mopping
up any remaining gravy with his fingers and sucking them clean. He drained his
glass in one long, slow movement, putting it down carefully on a beermat. The
rank, feral taint in the air grew stronger.

‘That
sort of thing makes me angry,’ he said, his voice rumbling. ‘In fact, it makes
me very angry.’ He thumped the table and a plate, bouncing off it, hitting the
stone floor, exploded into jagged splinters. He grimaced, glancing
apologetically at the barmaid. ‘Sorry, miss, it was an accident. I’ll pay for
it.’

She
stared at him, as if at a diabolical manifestation.

‘What
does?’ I asked, in case it was something I’d done, fearing he was going to blow
his top because I’d nearly set fire to his kitchen again, coming over all
sweaty and breathless. It brought back a memory of how I’d felt as a ten-year
old when I’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office to explain why I’d broken
the windows in the gym. Although, I’d had absolutely nothing to do with it,
someone had reported seeing me in the vicinity and, despite all my denials, I
was forced to take the blame, all my pocket money for the next few months going
to pay for the repairs. It still rankled.

‘Bullying,’
said Hobbes.

I
was able to breathe again. I’d never done anything like that. ‘Do you mean what
Henry Bishop did?’

‘I
do. He hit Mrs Bishop in the face just because she had to stop and think where
he might have put the key to the gun cabinet. It was such a casual thing, even
with me standing there, and her eye was already bruised. If he’s like that when
the police are with him, what’s he like when they’re on their own?’

‘Worse?’

‘Damn
right!’

He’d
never before sworn in my presence and, though it was mild by most standards,
the shock hit so hard I struggled to breathe, having to force myself to speak.

‘You
won’t really dismember him if he hits her again, though?’

‘Won’t
I?’ His scowl was as deep as the ocean.

‘You
scared him pretty well. He’ll behave himself, won’t he?’

‘Oh
yes, he will for a while, a few days, maybe for a week or two, but bullies like
him don’t change. Still, having their arms and legs torn off usually slows them
down.’

His
laugh was deep, long and wicked. The barmaid, dropping a tray of glasses,
scurried, wide-eyed towards the kitchen; a man walking in, an empty glass in
his hand, turned, heading straight back out.

‘Right,’
said Hobbes, his hands twitching and clutching, as if they were already squeezing
Henry’s throat, ‘I think a visit to the butcher’s is in order. And quickly.’

I
nodded. ‘Are you alright to drive?’

‘Never
better.’

Indeed,
having stopped snuffling, his eyes, no longer retaining the pink tinge, having
instead turned a furious, burning red, he appeared fully recovered from his
allergic attack. Despite being reasonably confident that he wouldn’t harm me, I
felt like a kid in the tiger’s den. Standing up, dropping a handful of money
onto the bar, he dragged me from the settle, to which I’d become quite
attached, and dumped me in the back of the car. Dregs jumped into the front,
his panting almost as loud as the engine.

I
closed my eyes, clinging to the seat as we accelerated away from the pub onto
the road, realising just how wrong I’d been to suggest his careful driving of
the morning might have been more alarming than his usual style. I knew we were
going fast, overtaking in places where no one in their right mind should
overtake but, when the car seemed to jump, landing heavily, my head banged the
ceiling and my eyes opened involuntarily, I saw he was taking a short cut
through what I guessed was Barnley Copse. Trees and shrubs whizzed past only
millimetres away, as we plunged into hollows, leaped over mounds, swerved past
fallen logs. But we didn’t hit anything, not even Bob Nibblet, who was staring
open-mouthed, a sack over his shoulder, as we skirted the hulk of a vast,
rotting trunk.

After
a few minutes, a stomach-churning bounce and the wail of car horns, we left the
bumps and ruts behind, meaning my teeth were only chattering with terror. When
he stamped on the brake, stopping the car, I cannoned into the seat in front, sprawling
back, stunned, into the footwell, wishing I’d got round to doing up my seat
belt. As Hobbes got out, slamming the door behind him, Dregs stuck his head
between the seats to snicker at my predicament. By the time I’d extricated
myself and had struggled back into a sitting position, Hobbes was striding
back, a bulky parcel wrapped in white paper and string balanced on his
shoulder. Slinging it down beside me, he started the engine, and the nightmare
journey continued. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to get home and as I
clambered from the car I reflected, not without a degree of horror, that I did
regard 13 Blackdog Street as home.

Hobbes
was already bounding up the steps to the door, the parcel tucked under his arm,
Dregs very attentive at his heels. At the top, he turned, tossing me the car
keys. I caught them – on the bridge of my nose, which didn’t half smart. After
wiping away the tears, I retrieved the keys from the gutter, locked the car and
prepared myself for the sitting room. I knew what was happening and intended
keeping out of the way.

As
I entered, Hobbes having already spread newspapers in the corner of the sitting
room, lobbed his parcel onto the paper, springing after it, like a lion onto a
wildebeest. The bag disintegrated, spilling a dozen or so cow tails, as, shutting
the front door behind me, edging past, I fled towards the kitchen, cringing at
the sound of his great jaws crunching hide and bone. Dregs prowled round the
edge of the paper like a jackal hoping for scraps. When he’d first joined us,
he’d refused raw meat in favour of gourmet meals, but acquaintance with Hobbes
had broadened his horizons.

Hobbes’s
face was already slathered with blood and hide and bits of bone, the hairy end
of a cow’s tail protruding from his mouth, as I made it to sanctuary. I shut
myself in the kitchen until it was all over. Though I’d seen him the same way
several times and no longer experienced the same paralysis of horror as on the
first occasion, I did my best to keep out of his way whenever he was enjoying
one of his ‘little turns’, as Mrs Goodfellow described them. She reckoned it
was just his way of ridding himself of built-up anger and frustration and it
seemed to work, for he was always most affable after a good session of bone
crunching. Frankly, the whole procedure turned my stomach and I couldn’t rid
myself of the fear that, one day, having run out of bones, he’d start on me.