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

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘Huh!’ I said and, to distract him, pointed towards a pen where some white birds with long beaks were standing round a pond. ‘Are those storks?’

  ‘No, they’re Egrets. Egrets, I’ve had a few, but then again too few to mention.’

  I sighed. We were passing the rhino enclosure when Hobbes stopped walking. I continued, chatting to Mr Catt.

  ‘What’s a melanistic variant?’ I asked, more as an attempt to halt his little ‘jokes’ than because of a thirst for knowledge.

  ‘It’s merely an animal that possesses an increased amount of black, or dark, pigmentation. Interestingly enough it can occur in many felines and, it’s not generally known but …’

  ‘How dangerous are rhinoceroses?’ asked Hobbes, frowning.

  Mr Catt looked puzzled. ‘The rhinos? They’re not really dangerous at all, so long as they’re confined to their enclosure and we’re safely out here. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wondered if that little girl was safe,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘What? Oh hell!’ Mr Catt groaned.

  The child was running through the enclosure, presumably having squeezed under the wire and clambered across a ditch. She was heading for her sunhat which must have blown off. One of the rhinos raised its head, staring, ears twitching, ambling towards her. The other, looking up, trotted after it.

  ‘If something startles them, they might charge,’ said Mr Catt, his ruddy complexion having turned the same greenish colour as the dried mud caked on the rhino’s backside.

  ‘Then I’d better get her out,’ said Hobbes, ‘because she’s public and it’s my job to protect her.’

  ‘No!’ said Mr Catt, his voice almost a shriek, ‘you might alarm them and …’

  But Hobbes, vaulting the high steel gate into the enclosure, was already speeding towards the girl. Then a tall, thin woman, unmistakeably a schoolteacher, even at a distance, noticing her charge, called out a sharp command. The child, running towards the wall, was pulled to safety and given a stern rebuke. Mr Catt and I had barely moved, understanding how it felt to be rooted to the spot.

  Hobbes, slowing to a jog as he saw the girl was safe, bent to pick up her hat.

  Both rhinos charged.

  Mr Catt and I yelled in unison. ‘Look out!’

  Though the rhinos’ massive feet were kicking up dust and turf as they pounded the dry pasture into a thundering rhythm, like a troupe of Japanese drummers, Hobbes didn’t appear to have noticed. Cold horror clutched my insides, for surely not even he could withstand a direct hit from a pair of three-ton rhinos. The first one lowered its horn and I shuddered, imagining the scene when I told Mrs Goodfellow of his untimely and messy end.

  Then, straightening up, brushing the dust from the hat, he sprang into a twisting somersault, carrying him straight over the first rhino. Landing with a gymnast’s poise in time to meet the second one, he vaulted it, as if playing leapfrog, his teeth glittering in a grin of pure exhilaration. Before the bewildered creatures had skidded to a halt, he’d hauled himself from the enclosure and was handing the hat back to the little girl, touching his forehead in salute as she and her friends goggled, open-mouthed. The rhinos, seeing no sign of their target, obviously assuming they’d pulped him into oblivion, swaggered back across their field. If they’d exchanged high fives, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Actually, I would have been, but, there was no denying, they were exuding an air of smug achievement.

  The grin was still on Hobbes’s face when he rejoined us. ‘You can have a lot of fun with rhinos,’ he said, ‘but we’re here for a look at your leopards.’

  ‘Oh, yes, alright,’ said Mr Catt, rubbing his sleeve over his face. ‘That was a remarkable thing you just did.’

  ‘Not really. The child needs her hat on such a hot day. Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘Of course they would,’ I said, nodding my agreement.

  Hobbes chuckled, patting me on the back. I picked myself up, brushing down my trousers, following as he propelled a shaking Mr Catt towards the leopard enclosure. Dregs, who’d been investigating a lamppost, appeared not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘You should have seen that,’ I told him. ‘Who’d have thought a big bastard like him could do a backward somersault in mid-air? From a standing start, too!’

  Dregs wagged his tail to indicate he’d have thought it.

  Mr Catt was in lecture mode as we caught up. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘leopards are by far the most adaptable of the big cats, being equally at home in forests, savannahs, semi-deserts and mountains. If any big cat could survive in this country I feel it would have to be a leopard, but I’m sure they’d leave signs. I can’t believe they’d go undetected for long.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘I agree. Most of England is too crowded to shelter large wild beasts. It’s a shame there’s no room for animals these days.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Catt, ‘I, for one, am pleased. No one would pay to come here if they could see the exhibits roaming outside for free. Anyway, it’d be dangerous. Our male leopard weighs as much as the average man and can easily overpower prey much larger than himself. He could kill or seriously injure someone.’

  ‘There is that to consider,’ said Hobbes thoughtfully, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Human beings are annoyingly fragile and it’s a good job they’ve got good brains.’ He glanced at me. ‘Most of them, anyway.’

  Mr Catt smiled at my affronted expression but I was playing along with Hobbes’s joke. I assumed he’d been joking.

  ‘Our leopards,’ Mr Catt continued, ‘are particularly fine specimens and we’re hoping they’ll breed soon. The female has already had a couple of litters at her previous zoo but, for some reason, our male doesn’t seem capable of making her pregnant, appearing to prefer cheetahs.’ He sniggered. ‘We think he might be trying to pull a fast one. Anyway, we’ve got the vet coming here next week. We’re hoping he might be able to do something to get her in cub.’

  ‘Will she let him?’ I asked, smirking.

  Mr Catt rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, as if talking to an imbecile. ‘The vet’s going to check if there are any physiological or nutritional reasons for their failure to copulate.’

  ‘I was joking. But … where are your leopards?’

  The pen appeared empty apart from trees and stumps, a variety of wooden platforms at different levels and tufts of tawny and grey fur, blowing in the breeze.

  ‘Eh?’ said Mr Catt with a look of wide-eyed panic.

  ‘Up there,’ said Hobbes, pointing to the topmost platform where two pairs of furry ears twitched in the shade. ‘They’re having a lie down.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Catt, regaining his composure, ‘they spend about twenty hours a day sleeping and lounging and prefer to do it at height. Unfortunately, it’s not so good for the visitors but the animals’ welfare must come first.’

  ‘Of course it must,’ said Hobbes.

  The walkie-talkie crackled and Ellen’s distorted voice informed Mr Catt that the kangaroo had arrived.

  ‘I’d better go and see to it,’ said Mr Catt. ‘Bruce, our marsupial keeper, is laid up in a coma after Rufus the red kangaroo jumped on him during his first day with us.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s actually a very sad tale. Rufus, who was our alpha-male, was an orphan who’d been hand-reared at Walkabout Zoo where he was born. It turned out that Bruce had started his career at Walkabout, one of his first jobs being to hand-rear young Rufus. Apparently, he used to wear a sort of apron with a pouch for Rufus to jump into. When he started work here, he didn’t recognise Rufus but Rufus recognised him and tried to leap into the bag of food Bruce was carrying. Being hit full on by two hundred pounds of solid kangaroo is not good for a man.’

  ‘I understand why Bruce isn’t here,’ I said, ‘but why do you need another kangaroo?’

  ‘Because, before uncovering the full story, assuming Rufus had just gone berserk, we thought it bes
t to shoot him. Ellen ordered a sane one on eBay.’

  ‘That’s really sad,’ I said. ‘Poor Rufus.’

  ‘True, but every cloud has a silver lining. The leopards did rather well out of it.’ He pointed towards the clumps of fur.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ said Hobbes. ‘It has been most instructive. Do you mind if we look around on our own?’

  ‘Be my guests.’ Mr Catt bustled away.

  We strolled round the park for an hour or so, Hobbes studying each animal with keen interest, now and again licking his lips and swallowing, as if hungry. Dregs slouched alongside with an expression of acute boredom that only lifted when he saw the tortoises; they caused great and noisy excitement. He obviously held the opinion that rocks should stay put and should not sprout legs and lumber around. Hobbes had to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him away. Otherwise, I think he’d be there still. Other than that, we came across nothing of great interest, though Hobbes appeared to be deep in thought about something. I contented myself with walking at his side, occasionally kicking stones for Dregs to chase.

  A barbed-wire fence eventually indicated the limits of public access. I noticed one or two matted tufts of brown fur snagged on the barbs, as a pair of Bactrian camels, appearing from the shade under an oak tree, began pulling at a bale of hay.

  ‘I’d be a bit careful if I were you,’ I said. ‘That could be camel hair.’

  My warning came too late. Hobbes had already plucked a tuft from the wire and sniffed it. He looked up. ‘I wish I hadn’t just done that.’ He reached for his handkerchief.

  He sneezed so violently that Dregs fled a hundred yards up the path, loping back towards us suspiciously, growling. Hobbes sneezed again. And again. He blew his nose, which, I swear, though prominent enough at the best of times, was growing and ripening.

  ‘I’ve got some stuff that helps in the car,’ he said, snuffling. ‘I’d better get back there … and quickly.’

  By the time we reached the car park his eyes had swollen shut as if he’d come off worse in a punch-up and his nose shone like a baboon’s bottom. I had to guide him as he groped for the car.

  Reaching into his pocket, he handed me the keys. ‘Look in the boot. There should be a black bag. I’d be obliged if you’d open it for me.’

  I did as he asked. The bag contained a bottle of Optrex, half a dozen handkerchiefs and an assortment of glass vials filled with a coloured liquid.

  ‘Could I have one of the green ones, please? And a fresh handkerchief. This one’s ripped.’

  Ripped wasn’t really the word: it had been blown to shreds. I handed the things to him. Between explosions, he bit the top off the vial, tilting back his head, gulping down the contents. Then he sneezed again. Then he howled like a wolf. Then he collapsed like a factory chimney that had been dynamited.

  3

  Though Hobbes came down with a thud, a desperate dive saved me from being completely crushed. Even so, I ended up flat on my front, my legs trapped beneath him. As I pushed myself up on my elbows, Dregs ran up, nosing me, wagging his tail, as if it was all a jolly game.

  ‘What do I do now?’ I asked.

  He made a strange snicker that I interpreted as, ‘You’re the human. You do something.’

  ‘A great help you are.’

  Neither education nor experience had prepared me for how to act when my legs were pinned beneath a hefty, unconscious police inspector. Groaning, wriggling and straining proved to be of no avail; I might just as well have tried to break free from the stocks. Yet, most of all, I was worried about Hobbes. Unable to tell how sick he was, though able to feel the rise and fall of his chest, I felt utterly helpless, not to mention ridiculous. Dregs, thumping his tail on the ground, eager for further entertainment, sat by us, expectantly. I had a great idea.

  ‘Go and fetch help,’ I said in my most commanding voice.

  He listened, his head on one side, his tail beating faster and then, to my amazement, ran off, as if on a mission. ‘Good dog!’ I cried, impressed.

  Sadly, he had not turned into a latter-day Lassie and, returning, he dropped one of the chewed rubber balls he kept in the car in front of me, bullying me until I threw it. As soon as I did, he bounded after it with a joyous bark.

  Fearing rescue would not come until I gave up on dignity, I decided to call for help, though the car park was deserted.

  ‘Excuse me, anybody,’ I cried, at a polite volume. ‘I could do with a little help here.’ Since there was no response, I concluded a more effective option might be to scream with all the force of my lungs. For me, to think was to act and so, throwing back my head, opening my mouth, I sucked down air in preparation for a titanic bellow. As I did, Dregs, scampering back, dropped the ball. My mouth wasn’t big enough to take it in, at least not in one bite, but it stuck between my upper and lower teeth, gagging me. Spluttering, I spat it out, wiping my mouth in a frantic bid to remove any dangles of dog drool, as a low, rumbling groan emerged from Hobbes.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I asked, continuing to wipe away with the backs of my hands, while Dregs, barking excitedly, stared at the ball, waiting.

  ‘Ugh,’ said Hobbes, pushing himself into a kneeling position.

  Pulling my legs to safety, I rubbed the life back into them.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I repeated.

  He turned towards me, his face pale, skin glistening like moist putty, eyes damp and red, though, at least, his nose had shrunk to its normal dimensions. He nodded and we helped each other up. Then he leant against the car, every breath bubbling and popping, as if he were sucking through a part-flooded snorkel.

  ‘Optrex!’

  I handed him the bottle. His hands shook and he must have spilled half of it as he filled the bath to rinse his eyes.

  ‘That’s better.’ He sighed.

  Maybe he really did feel better, but he still looked as if someone had scooped out his eyeballs and filled the sockets with overripe strawberries. It was a most striking effect, causing my own eyes to water in sympathy and a small group of respectable elderly visitors strolling by to gasp and hurry away.

  ‘Andy,’ said Hobbes in a loud, nasal voice, ‘a word of advice. It’s never a good idea to let the dog drop his balls into your mouth; you don’t know where they’ve been.’

  The blood boiling in my cheeks, all I could do was nod and grin inanely.

  The pensioners departed even more rapidly, muttering, shaking their heads.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I can’t drive like this. I wonder if Billy’s free?’

  Billy Shawcroft was a binge-drinking dwarf, who, for reasons I’d never fathomed, drove a reconditioned hearse and claimed Hobbes had once saved him from the clutches of a witch. Whether or not his grasp of reality could be trusted, he seemed to like Hobbes, often providing valuable information and other help. There was no point in asking me to drive; the last time I’d tried I’d demolished a Volvo while creating the ‘Leaning Tree of Fenderton’, as the Bugle dubbed it. Not that it leaned anymore; last January, having decided enough was enough during a storm, it had lain down across the main Fenderton Road, holding up the rush-hour traffic for several hours while the chainsaws reduced it to bite-sized chunks. Hobbes had since offered me driving lessons, but I’d declined. It seemed wisest.

  Pulling his mobile phone from his pocket, he handed it to me. ‘See if he can pick us up. His number’s in the menu under “D”.’

  ‘OK. “D” for dwarf.’

  ‘No, “D” for driver,’ said Hobbes and attempted a smile. ‘You’re under “D” too.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘No, not “A”; “D” for don’t let him drive.’ His attempted chuckle turned into a soggy cough. Those pensioners didn’t know how lucky they were to be out of earshot.

  As I phoned Billy, who was available, didn’t sound as if he’d been drinking and reckoned he’d be with us in about half an hour, Hobbes slumped in the shade of a tree, groaning that he wished to be left
alone.

  As we waited, I chucked the ball round the field, keeping Dregs entertained, mostly thinking about the wonderful woman, kicking myself for not asking her name, though my father would, no doubt, have pointed out that she was way out of my league. I had to admit he might have been correct, but I could dream and hope, which are two things I was rather good at. After all, there was no accounting for taste and, one never knew, she might have fallen under a curse, compelling her to fancy an out-of-work, crap journalist. I might have been just her type. These things can happen … really. In fact, at the very same moment, she might have been feeling similar regret at not having asked for my name and telephone number. My hand feeling the smoothness of my chin, I was grateful for Hobbes’s Christmas gift of an electric razor, something I used nearly every day. I wished I’d managed to buy him a little more than a bumper bag of walnuts, which had been all I could afford. Still, he’d appeared rather pleased and had eaten them all, though I would have preferred it if he’d removed the shells first.

  The image of the woman’s loveliness, having burned into my brain, I knew I’d never forget her face, her eyes, her hair, her figure, her clothes, her everything. She’d smiled at me and moved with such grace, her voice as warm and soft as a kitten’s purr, and I realised with stomach-churning certainty I’d never see her again, unless, of course, I could persuade Ellen Bloom to give me her name and number, an act of bravery that would risk embarrassing myself further. Remembering the old saying that faint heart never won fair lady, time and again, in between throwing the ball for Dregs, I tried to revive my fainting heart and had probably nearly succeeded when Billy’s hearse showed up.

  He waved, sitting atop the pile of cushions he needed to see over the steering wheel, operating the pedals by means of long wooden extensions. It must have been illegal but no police officer had ever brought him to book, which I suspected was something to do with Hobbes’s influence. Even so, Billy was an excellent and careful driver, who retained enough sense never to try when he was on a bender. On those occasions, he might sometimes be seen flailing down The Shambles on a pair of roller blades that scared him silly when sober. I had long suspected that at least part of the reason for his headaches after a night on the booze was because he’d fallen over so often, but at least he didn’t have far to fall.