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

by Martin, Wilkie

  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.

  My feet, with little input from my brain, carried me to the recreation ground just off Moorend Road, where, sitting on a bench in the shade of a conker tree, I watched two guys knocking a ball around on the tennis court. I paid them little attention, since my mind was circling in a galaxy far, far away, trying to work out why my benefactor in the shop had seemed familiar. I returned to earth with a bang as a tennis ball struck me on the nose, exactly where the car keys had hit earlier. Putting my hands to my face, I felt no surprise at the smear of blood as I pulled them away.

  A harsh voice bellowed from the tennis court. ‘Oi, Caplet, you dozy git! Wake up and chuck the ball back.’

  There was no hint of apology and though my eyes watered so I could only see blurs, I knew it was Len ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the gross landlord of the Feathers public house. I would never have suspected him capable of playing tennis, or of engaging in any physical exertion, other than raising a glass or brawling with his customers; Mrs Goodfellow had picked much of her tooth collection from the floor of his establishment. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I clamped it to my nose.

  ‘Come on Caplet, shift your lazy arse.’

  My vision clearing, I found the sight of Featherlight in pink, flowery shorts almost as disconcerting as the blood pumping from my nose. I picked up the ball, throwing it back, staring in horror. His shorts, obviously designed for a person of considerably inferior girth, had perhaps fitted him a quarter of a century ago, when such garments had briefly and inexplicably achieved fashionable status. In addition, he was wearing a pair of mildewed plimsolls and his habitual stained vest, through which gingery chest hairs protruded. His opponent, by comparison, was a young, athletic man, clad in the sort of gleaming whites that detergent manufacturers often promise but rarely deliver.

  If ever there was a mismatch, this was it. Featherlight, his belly swinging low, twirling a warped wooden racket between sausage fingers, was puffing and wheezing, looking done in even before they’d completed the knock up. At last they started. He served, tossing the ball high into the air, raising his racket, swinging like a professional, giving his opponent no chance; the match was over before the ball even hit the ground. He’d won by a knockout. Raising his massive, mottled arms to the sky in triumph, picking up the ball, he lumbered to the other end of the court to retrieve his racket. It was lying beside his fallen opponent. Squatting, he removed a ten pound note from the man’s top pocket, grunted and strode away, without looking back.

  As I hurried to the victim to see if I could be of assistance, he sat up, spitting blood and groaning. We made a fine pair.

  ‘Umm … Are you alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Do I look alright?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He held out his hand and I shook it.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was hoping for a hand up.’

  I helped him to his feet. ‘Why were you playing Featherlight?’

  ‘For a bet.’

  ‘You should never bet against him,’ I said. ‘You can’t win. One way or another, even if he loses, he comes out on top. I once got lucky and beat him at darts and won a fiver. When he actually paid up, I felt pretty pleased but, when I was taking my darts from the board, he threw one of his, and pinned my hand to it. Then he charged me ten pounds for cleaning off the blood.’

  The man snorted and packed his kit away into a smart leather bag bearing a crown symbol and a King Enterprises logo. ‘Binks might have won the bet but he won’t win in the end. Mr King wants to take over his pub and Mr King always gets his way.’ With a curt nod, he walked away, holding a tissue to his mouth.

  He left me with a puzzle. Why would anyone wish to buy the Feathers? It had a reputation as far and away the nastiest, most dangerous pub in Sorenchester, though it retained a loyal clientele. In addition, Featherlight, to the despair of the council, had become a sort of unofficial tourist attraction, with people visiting th
e Feathers because they couldn’t believe the rumours. Few left disappointed, for Featherlight really was the vilest slob of a landlord you could hope never to meet. He kept his beer badly, refused to serve wine or soft drinks and his spirits were ‘interesting’, and I knew of one customer who, having asked for a glass of his best malt, had been given malt vinegar. The fun really began if anyone complained; few dared and fewer dared a second time. The really intrepid even ate there. No one had died yet.

  By then my nose had stopped bleeding, so I decided to head home and clean up. Though the sun had dipped well into the west, the afternoon’s heat continued to build. If I’d had any lager money I would have visited the Feathers to find out about the take-over. However, I was broke and it wasn’t wise to ask for credit. There was a hand-written sign over the bar with the legend, ‘If you ask for credit, you’ll get a punch in the mouth’. It wasn’t a joke.

  When I got home, it seemed very still, so I assumed Mrs Goodfellow had gone out and that Hobbes and Dregs weren’t back. I went upstairs, washed my face, came back down and poured myself a glass of Mrs G’s ginger beer, which she made in the cellar but stored in the fridge. I made a point of avoiding the cellar, because the old girl had a tendency to lock me in. According to Hobbes, this was a result of a childhood trauma and I wasn’t to take it seriously. It was, he claimed, just a sign of affection but it didn’t stop him moaning whenever she did it to him. Besides, there was another reason for avoiding the cellar: it contained a hidden door that Hobbes had warned me against opening. He gave good warnings and my stomach still quaked when I remembered it. I reasoned that, if I kept away, I wouldn’t be tempted to explore, but sometimes, waking at night, I lay and wondered about its secrets.