Hobbes and the farmers were now discussing the forthcoming event. ‘So,’ he said, ‘it’s all happening over the last weekend in July? What’s your security like?’
‘It should be fine,’ said Bernie. ‘It’s not as if we’re trying to compete with Glastonbury or anything, we’re just getting in a bunch of local acts and the Kung Fu club are willing to act as stewards. We were willing to pay normal rates but the lady I spoke to didn’t want paying, so long as we allowed her to keep any teeth she found.’
Hobbes nodded with a grin that almost made him look human. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I think I know the lady.’
Of course he knew her. Mrs Goodfellow, besides looking after us and collecting teeth, taught Kung Fu and gave instruction (as a result of a printing error) in the marital arts.
‘It sounds like you’ve got it sorted,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I think it would be a good idea for me to be here, in an unofficial capacity. It’s not the big cat that worries me so much as Henry Bishop’s short temper and shotgun.’
Bernie smiled. ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary but we’d be happy to have you here.’
‘I’ll want Andy and the dog with me, if that’s alright,’ said Hobbes.
‘Fine by us, Inspector,’ Les said. ‘He’s a fine dog.’
‘We’ll bring a tent,’ said Hobbes, ‘mingle with the crowd and I’ll keep myself inconspicuous.’
I suppressed a grin. Hobbes in a crowd was about as inconspicuous as a gorilla in the ballet. Still, he had solved my problem of how to get in, though he was not a regular fairy godmother.
‘That’s sorted then,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Will I know anyone taking part?’
‘We’re expecting No One You Ever Heard Of,’ said Les.
‘Excellent. I read about the jig they did at the Feathers.’
‘The gig they did,’ I corrected. He knew of course; it was all an act, almost certainly. And it had, reportedly, been some gig: never before in Sorenchester had a band generated so much raw emotion, never before had so many instruments been smashed in such a short time. The band really should have asked ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the landlord, before starting to play. If they had, he wouldn’t have said no; he’d have said a whole lot more, though the meaning would have been much the same, but asking would have saved a great deal of suffering. Featherlight had only got away with it because the magistrates refused to believe the band’s injuries had been caused in a brawl and assumed they must all have been in a car crash or two. Presumably, since the band had been booked, they’d been discharged from hospital.
Les continued. ‘There’s gonna be all sorts of bands and singers for every taste. So far we’ve booked Tiny Tim Jones, Mad Donna, the Delius Myth, Lou Pole and the Lawyers and Stink – you might remember him – he used to be in the police.’
Hobbes nodded. ‘Yes, I know him. He wasn’t, in fact, a police officer. He worked in the canteen for a while, but never quite mastered basic hygiene.’
‘There are more bands and singers that haven’t yet confirmed and we’re also going to have fire-eaters and jugglers and magicians and lots of things.’
‘I can see you’ve got it all running smoothly,’ said Hobbes, touching his forehead in salute. ‘Well, you must be busy so we’ll leave you to get on with it. If you do see any big cats, you know where to find me. Goodbye.’ He turned away. ‘C’mon you two.’
Dregs was reluctant to leave but I managed to coax him into the car with half a biscuit I found in the glove compartment. As we pulled away, I looked back. Les and Bernie had returned to business. Leaning on gates must have been a vital part of farming.
Our next stop was at Henry Bishop’s overgrown smallholding, outside the house, a house that looked as if it was still in the process of falling on hard times. So did Henry Bishop who burst from his tumbledown barn, an open shotgun over the crook of his arm, his unshaven face as red and as dirty as the handkerchief round his short, thick neck. His nose might have been mistaken for a giant blackberry.
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.’
4
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 myse
lf 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.
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.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 5
