Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (8 page)

I
shuddered, turning my attention to tea: hot, sweet tea being unbeatable in
times of stress. Sitting down at the table, clutching my mug, I pondered where
Hobbes put it all, for he’d polished off three large steak and kidney pies and
within half an hour he was stuffing his face with cow tails. Yet he wasn’t fat,
though there was a hell of a lot of him. I put it down to his unhuman
metabolism.

He
was still a mystery. I’d only known him a few days when I came to the unlikely,
if undeniable, conclusion that he wasn’t actually human, yet I’d never quite
worked out what he might be. Sometimes, on waking in the night from disturbed
dreams, I’d felt close to a great revelation but it always slipped away before
I could grasp it. One thing was certain, I’d never met anyone like him, even in
Sorenchester, a town with more than its fair share of individuals who were
different, though none of them seemed different in the same way that Hobbes was
different. During my time with him I’d nearly been buried alive by ghouls, had
tea and crumpets with a troll and been told about a witch, but what other types
of being might be lurking on the edge of perception, I couldn’t guess.
Sometimes I feared the vague, hazy images that haunted my nightmares might not
be far from the truth.

I’d
just finished my second mug of tea when I heard Hobbes’s footsteps walking
upstairs and, a couple of minutes later, the new shower starting. He was very
proud of the shower, having installed it himself, like most of the plumbing in
the house. Never before had I seen anyone crimp copper pipes with his fingers,
but it appeared to work, for nothing dripped. Having only used the shower once,
coming within an inch of drowning as alternate blasts of icy and boiling water
flattened me, I now stuck to the bath, in a manner of speaking. Though he would
roar as the hot and cold torrents found their mark, he always emerged from the
bathroom with a happy grin.

It
wasn’t long before he strolled into the kitchen, clean and glowing, dressed for
work, as if nothing unusual had happened. ‘I ought to go into the station for a
couple of hours,’ he said, helping himself to tea, ‘I have some paperwork to
catch up with, worse luck. Do you want to come?’

I
shook my head.

‘OK
– I’ll get a takeaway on the way back. What d’you fancy?’

‘Fish
and chips, probably.’ After the cow tails, I didn’t fancy burgers.

‘Right.
Oh, would you mind clearing up?’ Pointing to the sitting room, he quaffed his
tea. ‘Cheerio.’

He
strode away, Dregs walking obediently to heel, behaving well as he always
behaved for Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow, while doing what he liked with me. Not
that I really minded, for we were on friendly terms, quite accustomed to each
other’s roles, and I’d come to enjoy taking him for walks, his zest for living being
infectious. Walking with him in the park or out in the countryside offered a
rare kind of freedom, allowing me time to think and reflect on life, though,
for the most part, my brain ticked over in pleasant idleness. Apart from that,
his exuberant behaviour meant other dog walkers, even women, sometimes talked
to me. It was as if I’d joined a club, with the advantage of not having to pay
for the privilege.

Taking
a bin liner from a cupboard, I went to clean up the sitting room, which didn’t
look too bad, considering; apart from the torn and bloodied newspapers and the
occasional cow hair, little evidence remained of what had gone on in there. As I
stuffed the papers into the bag I shuddered, with a sudden fear that Henry
Bishop could go the way of the cow tails, should he dare to transgress Hobbes’s
law again. I don’t know what put that in my mind, for Hobbes had not, to my
knowledge, killed anyone, apart from those in the First World War, who didn’t
really count.

Yet,
there’d been this guy called Arthur Crud, who, a few months ago, having got off
a rape charge on a technicality and having celebrated his lucky acquittal with
a few beers in the Feathers, had never made it back home. My suspicions had
been raised earlier that same evening when Hobbes had phoned to tell Mrs
Goodfellow he wouldn’t be home for supper. As the only other time I’d know him
miss his evening meal was when he’d been trapped in a hole, I’d wondered what
was up. Since then, no one had found any sign of Arthur, though I doubted
anyone had bothered looking and, though I supposed he might have just left town
or been abducted by aliens, I couldn’t quite rid myself of the absurd notion
that Hobbes had, not to put too fine a point on it, eaten him.

After tidying up and disposing of the bag, I
switched on the telly, sprawling on the sofa, relaxing. Nothing grabbed me, so
I watched some awful chat show until my head drooped. I must have fallen
asleep, for I dreamt of bone-crunching, hairy terrors creeping up on me, while
I groped with increasing urgency for the fly spray that would defeat them.
Finally, my fingers chancing upon the can, I jerked up with a roar of defiance
and, still half asleep, rolled off the sofa.

Hearing
a slight movement, I looked up, straight into a jawful of huge brown teeth,
only a few inches from my face. I gasped, recoiling, trying to squirt the fly spray,
finding it wasn’t fly spray at all but the telly’s remote control. The jaw
pulled back; it was attached to a skull, appearing to float in mid-air.

‘Hello,
dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘did I wake you?’ Her smiling, wrinkled face came
into focus next to the monstrosity. ‘Look what those nice dentists let me have.’

Holding
the skull aloft like it was the World Cup, she leaned over me, exuding the
peculiar, sweet scent of dental surgery, a smell I hated, for not only did it
unlock memories of pain but it reminded me of my father’s surgery, a place I’d
spent many a miserable day while he tried to interest me in his profession.

‘Hello,’
I said, climbing back onto the sofa, fighting to control my breathing and
racing heart. ‘You’re back early. I thought you were finishing tomorrow?’

‘Yes,
dear, that was the plan but the hall was overrun with flies, so we called it a
day.’

‘Flies?’

‘Yes,
dear, there were horrible, buzzing bluebottles everywhere.’

‘Umm
… Where’d they come from?’ I asked, awake but still confused.

‘From
the air conditioning. There was a dead cat in it.’

‘Oh,
well. It’s good to have you back.’ I meant it, for apart from her unnerving
habit of appearing from nowhere, scaring the shivers out of me, she treated me
with enormous toleration and kindness and cooked like a goddess.

‘Thank
you, dear.’

‘That’s
a very fine skull,’ I said, trying not to make it too obvious that I was
humouring her. ‘Whose is it?’

‘It’s
mine.’

‘But
… umm … where did you get it from?’

‘The
dentists said I could have it. They were using it in a seminar to demonstrate
the effects of a rare dental condition. Just look at these.’ She pointed to the
malformed canines. ‘Don’t they look like Dregs’s?’

‘Yes,
very nice,’ I said, ‘but didn’t they want to keep it?’

‘No.
Just after I told them my opinion, the chairman asked if someone would have the
goodness to get rid of the old relic. So, I did.’

‘I
see.’ I smiled.

‘Where’s
the old fellow?’ She polished the dome of the skull with a delicate, lacy
handkerchief.

‘At
the station, doing some paperwork. He’s just eaten a bag of cow tails.’

‘I
expect he needed them. Shall I make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘No
thanks. I’m going out for a walk. Umm … By the way, he said he’d bring fish and
chips back tonight, so there’s no need to cook.’ I spoke with some regret, for
fish and chips, though delicious in their way, just didn’t compare to a Mrs
Goodfellow special, or even to a Mrs Goodfellow ordinary, if such a thing
existed.

I
needed to get out; the skull had unsettled me. Something didn’t look right
about it; it wasn’t just the horrible, discoloured canines, though they were
bad enough, but the shape was all wrong. It looked nearly human, in some way
reminding me of Hobbes and yet it was almost completely unlike him. I wondered
if it might have belonged to another ‘unhuman’ being, though, I guessed it was
more likely to have come from an unfortunate human with a nasty dental
condition.

Leaving
the house, I walked towards the centre of Sorenchester, trying not to think
about the skull, happy for it to remain a mystery, insoluble and forgotten,
except by Mrs G and possibly the dentists. One more mystery wouldn’t make much
difference to me.

The
sun was dazzling as I left the shade of Blackdog Street for the broad stretch
of road known as The Shambles, where it occurred to me that I had no idea why
it was called The Shambles; there was nothing shambolic about the neat rows of
Cotswold-stone shops or the hulking tower of the parish church. Turning down
Vermin Street, I headed for the bookshop, hoping to find a local history book –
not that I could buy it, of course, but a little browsing wouldn’t hurt.

Going into the smart, modern, airy interior,
it only took a couple of minutes to find
A Concise History of Sorenchester
by local historian, Spiridion Konstantinopoulos. According to this, Shambles was
an ancient term for the meat market or slaughterhouse which had occupied an
area in the centre of town until the early nineteenth century. I nodded, appreciating
Spiridion’s scholarship, flicking through a few more pages until chancing on a
selection of black and white photos. In one, dated 1902, I spotted Hobbes,
lurking behind a luxuriant moustache. He was in uniform, standing as stiff as a
fence post, his hand resting on the shoulder of a wide-eyed, grubby-faced
schoolboy in a too-small blazer and a too-big cap. In the background, a
building, the ‘derelict Firkin public house,’ said the caption, lay in ruins. The
boy, Frederick Godley, had been playing inside when it had started to collapse
and only the timely arrival of Constable Hobbes had saved him from being
crushed.

‘Do
you intend to buy that book?’ asked a severe man, in a rainbow bow tie and a
brown woollen cardigan.

‘Umm
… no. I was just browsing.’

‘Well,
this is a bookshop, not a public library. Either buy it or get out.’

‘I’m
sorry. I was only looking.’

Grabbing
the book, he thrust it back onto the shelf. The cover, catching against another
book, creased.

‘Vandal!’
cried the man, pulling the book back out, shaking it in front of me, its cover
flapping like a broken wing. ‘Look at the damage you’ve caused. You’ll have to
pay for it.’

‘But
…’

‘It’ll
cost you fourteen pounds and ninety-five pence.’

‘But
I didn’t do it and, anyway … umm … I haven’t any money.’

The
small group of bibliophiles who had gathered to watch the fun stared at me with
deep loathing.

‘I
didn’t do anything,’ I insisted.

‘Just
look at it,’ cried the man, holding up the book like exhibit A.

There
was a collective intake of breath and much shaking of heads among the jury.

‘It
wasn’t my fault.’

‘I’m
going to call the police.’

The
man’s hand gripped my shoulder and the jury murmured with intent. As far as
they were concerned, I’d been caught red-handed, though I could feel my face
was even redder. The injustice was horrible.

I
evaluated my options: I could run for it, though a couple of blokes in the
crowd looked big and fit, like rugby players, I could feign a sudden, severe
illness, or I could await my fate with equanimity and contempt for the mob. In
the end, I dithered and gibbered, letting myself get hauled towards a side
office.

A
deep, authoritative voice rang out from the back of the crowd. ‘Release that
man at once.’

‘I
will do no such thing,’ said the man in the brown cardigan.

‘You
are laying yourself open to a charge of assault and false imprisonment if you
choose to continue this ridiculous charade.’

Twisting
free, I turned to face the voice.

‘He
damaged this book and refuses to pay for it,’ said the man in the cardigan.

‘No,
he didn’t. I chanced to see what really happened,’ said a tall man, with sleek,
dark hair and striking, green eyes, parting the mob. ‘You took the book from
this unfortunate man’s hand and damaged it yourself before putting the blame on
him.’

I
nodded. The man in the cardigan, his face as red as I imagined mine was, backed
away. ‘That’s a lie. He did it.’

‘No
doubt you have security tapes,’ said the tall man. ‘Can we perhaps examine them
and see who’s telling the truth?’

‘Oh.
Well, perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps it would be best to say no more about it
then,’ said the man in the cardigan, retreating behind his counter, breathing
hard, his face now white.

The
crowd dispersed, disappointed.

‘Thank
you,’ I said to my rescuer.

‘Don’t
mention it,’ he replied, turning away, walking towards the exit.

Although
I knew with absolute certainty I’d never seen him before, for some reason he
seemed extraordinarily familiar. I watched him leave the shop, impressed by his
easy walk, the cut of his black suit, how he looked so cool despite the heat
and, most of all, by his confident manner. I envied his elegance, something to
which I could never aspire, for even if the cream of Savile Row tailors had poured
their expertise into a suit for me, I’d still have looked like a sack of
potatoes with a belt round the middle. Then, since the man in the cardigan was
giving me the evil eye again, I walked out before he could rally and launch a
fresh, unprovoked attack.