The ginger beer, tingling on my tongue, cooled my throat. Emptying the glass, I refilled it and sat at the kitchen table with the Sorenchester and District Bugle, amazed to see the image of the man who’d helped me in the bookshop smiling from the front page. It was millionaire Felix King, head of King Enterprises, who, according to the report, was looking to develop properties in the area. He had already acquired the old cinema, intending to demolish it to make way for luxury flats and claimed the scheme would provide plenty of jobs for locals and that no one would miss the cinema since everyone preferred to watch DVDs at home. In truth, the article interested me less than Felix King himself. He was a remarkably good-looking man in his late thirties, I guessed, impeccably dressed, slim and masterful. I stared at his picture, perplexed. Something about his face was definitely familiar but what was it? Resting my chin on my hand, I dug through layers of memory.
‘Did you have a nice walk, dear?’
An involuntary leg spasm launching me upwards, my knees struck the bottom of the kitchen table, knocking it at least six inches into the air before coming down hard, as if retaliating. Missing my chair on re-entry, I sprawled on the red-brick floor, gasping like a fish. Ginger beer dripped onto my stomach.
‘Did I surprise you, dear?’
I nodded, puzzled, unable to see her.
‘Sorry.’
I sat up. ‘Where are you? I thought you’d gone out.’
‘No, dear, I’ve been cleaning the tin cupboard.’
Smiling happily, she was kneeling on the shelf, half-hidden behind the cupboard door, a bucket and a sponge in front of her.
‘From inside? Why?’
‘Why not? Would you clean a room from outside?’
It was true but, then, I probably wouldn’t clean a room at all, if I could help it.
‘It’s the best way to reach into those awkward little corners. And someone had messed up all the tins.’
I climbed to my feet.
‘Anyway, dear, I’d best get the kettle on. The old fellow will be home soon.’
Clearing up my spillage, I helped her set the table. When, at half-past six precisely, Hobbes returned, bearing fish and chips, Dregs insisted on a five-minute dance of tail-wagging welcome for Mrs G, while Hobbes engulfed her in an enormous bear hug that had me worried. She emerged red-faced and beaming a vast toothless smile.
As always, when eating at home, Hobbes said grace. Then we could tuck in – and about time too – my walk and the shock having left me ravenous. The fish was fragrant and flaky, the chips crisp and hot and liberally vinegared. It was nowhere near as good as what Mrs G would have produced, but still pretty good.
Afterwards, Hobbes picked up the newspaper. ‘This chap on the front,’ he remarked, ‘must be related to the lass who took your fancy at the Wildlife Park. They’ve got the same eyes. I’d guess they’re brother and sister.’
He was right.
Mrs Goodfellow gave me a gummy twinkle. ‘You’ve found yourself a lady-friend then? It’s about time, too.’
I shook my head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. She’s lovely.’ I could feel a blush coming on. ‘But if that really is her brother and she’s a millionaire too, she’s never going to be interested in someone like me.’
Leaving the kitchen, I sat and moped in front of the telly.
5
The evening, bringing in heavy cloud, wind and rain, conspired with my feelings of hopeless inadequacy, to push me into a dark, moody place where I spent the next two days. The fact that the woman’s brother was super-rich had, I knew, only reduced my chances of getting to know her from next to none to none, but it had slashed through a slim thread of hope, a thread I’d been holding onto. I brooded on my life, raking up embers of failure and misery from the ashes of cold despair, wondering how much I could blame the misfortune of my birth date for my situation. Why, I thought, had I, a man seemingly incapable of being punctual for anything, allowed myself to be born precisely on time? If I’d only held on for a few more hours, I wouldn’t have been an April fool, wouldn’t have been such an object of derision to my schoolmates.
That April I’d celebrated, if that was the word, my thirty-eighth birthday. By that age, a man should have achieved something: a decent job, a home, a wife, perhaps a family, whereas all I had I owed to Hobbes. Despite my enormous gratitude for his kindness, I was scared resentment might erupt from the seething magma chamber of my past failures and make me say something I shouldn’t. I kept to my room, only emerging for meals, toilet breaks and long, damp walks in long, damp grass with Dregs.
On the third day, the wet weather having apparently doused the nefarious schemes of local villains, Hobbes joined us as we headed to Ride Park. When I let Dregs run free, he set off like a guided weapon, targeting a small white cat, rubbing its whiskers against a holly bush, apparently daydreaming until, spotting the incoming dog just in time, it leapt into a tree. Dregs’s momentum carried him, scrabbling madly, well above head height, until gravity, realising what was up, pulled him down. The cat mewed from the topmost branches.
‘I suppose,’ said Hobbes, looking up, ‘that I should rescue it.’
He jumped, grasping a branch, pulling himself into the tree, swinging from arm to arm like a great ape, disappearing among the greenery. I did what I could to calm Dregs who, thinking we’d started a wonderful game, was making bounding attempts to join him. From above, came rustling and the occasional creak and, now and again, Hobbes’s grinning face emerging from the foliage.
‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ he called in a voice that would surely have driven even a fierce creature further into the canopy. There was a pause. ‘Aha!’ he said, as something cracked. ‘Oops.’
A drum-roll of thuds and crashes coincided with a shower of leaves, twigs and drops of water. Then came Hobbes.
‘Oof!’ He chuckled as he lay on his back in the grass, the cat clamped in one hand, a broken branch in the other. Tossing the branch aside, he sprang to his feet. ‘Make sure you’ve got hold of Dregs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll let kitty go.’
‘Umm,’ I said, grabbing Dregs’s collar, ‘wouldn’t it be better if …’
Too late. Putting the struggling cat back onto the ground, he released it. It hissed, bolting straight back up as Hobbes, brushing moss from behind his ear, laughed. ‘Kitty appears to like it up there.’
‘Are you alright?’ I asked, shaken. ‘I suppose you must know how to fall?’
‘I’m fine and any fool knows how to fall; the trick is in knowing how to land. It’s not the first time I’ve fallen from a tree.’ He glanced upwards. ‘In fact, I fancy it’s not the first time I’ve fallen from this one – and I dare say it won’t be the last.’ He coughed and spat into a patch of nettles. ‘It clears the tubes out most wonderfully. You should try it, but start with a small tree, because you need to build up your resistance and make sure there’s a nice, thick layer of leaf mould in the landing area.’
I nodded, taking a decision to ignore his advice. ‘Are you going to get the cat down again?’
‘No, she can look after herself.’
‘Then why fetch it down in the first place?’
‘I needed the exercise.’
The shock of his plunge did, at least, jolt me from my brooding, and, though I still felt the ache of thwarted desire, I continued living. Unfortunately, this meant I had no excuse for getting out of St. Stephen’s Church Fete when Hobbes asked me, saying he’d be showing off his King-Size Scarlets. These he declared were a sort of delphinium and nothing to snigger about. As I couldn’t tell the difference between lavenders and lupins, I had no reason to doubt it and, assuming they were the ones he’d been growing for the last few months, they were eye-catching plants, their vivid scarlet spikes standing up to my shoulders and adding ranks of regimented colour to the exuberant scruffiness of the back garden.
Waking early on Saturday morning, I drew back the curtains and was greeted by sunlight glinting off the damp street and the roofs opposite and, despite my
impending fete, I was filled with an unexpected sense of well-being. My feelings had been very different the previous year, when, as a very badly paid reporter, I’d attended the fete, which alongside pet shows and beetle drives had been my speciality, since Editorsaurus Rex had rarely trusted me with real news. I remembered arriving and shaking hands with the new vicar of St. Stephen’s, before a downpour of biblical proportions forced us into the refreshment tent.
When, somehow, I made it back to the office, my recollection of the event was hazy, possibly on account of the farmhouse cider stall I’d discovered, I had nothing to report and Editorsaurus Rex was on the rampage. However, always resourceful in a crisis, and working on the theory that all church fetes were basically the same, I wrote a few inconsequential words about rain and then cut and pasted an article my colleague, Phil, had written the previous year. If I’d read it first, I might have remembered that not all fetes were the same, for that particular one had been remarkable for the untimely and, indeed, unlikely, death of the old vicar who, having just awarded first prize in the flower show, had been struck down by a bolt from the blue. Though some had considered it a sign of the wrath of God, it turned out to have been debris from an ex-Soviet satellite. Obviously, this meant my subterfuge didn’t pass unnoticed and I had to endure a most unpleasant and prolonged showdown with the Editorsaurus. Still, the event summed up my life at the time: a succession of lousy assignments, failures, drunkenness and apoplectic editors.
Such problems hadn’t afflicted me since the fiasco of my last mission, which had been to report on Hobbes. Since then, life wasn’t bad at all, though it might have been better, and very soon did get better, the scent of frying bacon greeting my nostrils as I hurried downstairs.
After breakfast, I helped Hobbes as he worked in the greenhouse, a structure he’d thrown together from odds and ends picked out of skips, but it wasn’t long before he suggested that I might try getting under someone else’s feet for a change. So, grabbing myself a glass of ginger beer, I sat on a bench, enjoying the sun, watching his pest control procedure. Refusing to use chemicals, he examined each plant from leaf to stem, removing any aphids and harmful bugs by hand, his patience amazing me. Still, it looked like he would produce a bumper crop of aubergines.
When satisfied, he left the aubergines and felled a small forest of King-Size Scarlets, sticking them into a black plastic bin, filled with water. Then, after a mug of tea, he prized me from my seat, ready to go to the fete. Grasping the bin to his chest, he set off for St. Stephen’s. Mrs Goodfellow held the back door for him, while I rushed to open the front door. Though I doubted I’d be able to move such a weight, never mind carry it, I could still barely keep up with him as he marched through the centre of town, down Vermin Street, weaving through the Saturday shoppers, as if he wasn’t carrying a flower shop. Sweat dripped off me but he looked just as cool as ever in his tweed jacket.
Although the sun was high and hot as we reached St. Stephen’s, I couldn’t suppress a shiver, for the last time I’d been there, on a dark and stormy night, a pair of ghouls had tried to bury me alive, until Hobbes intervened, dissuading them with a spade. Taking a deep breath, I followed him into the marquee, where the noise and migrations of herds of roaming exhibitors drove the horrifying memory back to its dark recess. He found a space, marked W.M. Hobbes, and set about arranging his blooms while I, finding I was superfluous, wandered off to take a look around. Apart from the bustle in the marquee, loads of other people were setting up all sorts of stalls, including one where customers could bowl for a pig. What the lucky winner would do with a pig, I hadn’t a clue.
I moved on, fascinated by a small brown wigwam staggering from place to place until it found a spot to settle near the front gates. A woman, magnificent in purple and lace, emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis, erected a cardboard sign that read, ‘Madame Eccles, palms read, fortunes told, medium.’ She looked more like a large, or even an extra-large to me. I looked like a customer to her.
‘Can I read your palm, love? Or would you prefer to talk to loved ones who have passed over? Cross my palm with silver – or paper money would be better – and all proceeds to charity.’
‘I’m sorry … I’m … umm … skint.’
‘Never mind, love. Step inside and I’ll give you one for free.’
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I followed her inside. In actual fact, since she occupied most of the interior, I perched on a three-legged stool in the entrance as she, forcing her ample backside into a fold-up chair that groaned most piteously, drew a small crystal ball from deep within her robes and placed it on her lap.
‘Palm reading? Divination? Or would you prefer an encounter with the spirit world?’
‘Palm reading.’ I said; it sounded safest. I held out my hand.
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘that’s not right.’
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, feeling a lurch of fear, though I knew it was all bunkum.
‘Wrong hand, love.’
I gave her the other one.
‘Let’s see. Aha! That’s interesting … But that’s not so good. Do you know, I’ve never seen such a varied fate line.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘You will live an unusual life. I see fear and laughter, delight and horror. Love may be on the horizon but, beware, something wicked this way comes.’
Though I normally had no truck with this kind of nonsense, a sudden cold sensation up my spine made me shudder. The feeling persisting, I looked behind me. It was Dregs, his nose stuck where my shirt had rucked up, looking sheepish, as well he should have been, for Mrs Goodfellow had harnessed him to a small cart loaded with bottles of ginger beer. She’d brushed his wiry black coat till it shone and, as a final indignity, had garlanded him with ribbons. He looked at me with mournful eyes and, though I sympathised, I couldn’t help; he was in the clutches of a far greater power. I was glad the old girl was there though, because she was helping out with the refreshments and I hoped I might be in for a few freebies.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, as I jumped up, tucking my shirt back in. ‘Has he been pestering you, Edna?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Madame Eccles. ‘He’s a very interesting young man and is going to lead an eventful life.’
Dregs sighed as I made my excuses and left them talking.
I looked in on Hobbes who’d completed his arrangement. It was breath-taking for, as well as his King-Size Scarlets, he’d worked in daisies, producing a flower sculpture of a sheep with its throat torn out. There was blood everywhere. ‘That’s amazing,’ I said.
‘Thanks.’ He blushed.
Although he had a superb eye for detail and his great paws could work with amazing delicacy, he seemed to think that art wasn’t quite manly. I wished I had a fraction of his skill, even though his creations gave me the creeps.
‘Let’s get some grub,’ he said, before I could embarrass him any further. ‘The fete opens at two, so we’ve got about an hour. We could try the Cat and the Fiddle. I haven’t dropped in for ages and I hear they’ve got a decent menu.’
‘Great,’ I said, already feeling hunger pangs.
We left the marquee but never made it to the Cat and the Fiddle. ‘Just-call-me-Dave’, the vicar, approached. He was a pale and nervous man at the best of times and I could tell that times were not the best.
His voice trembled. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, I wonder if I might call on your expertise?’
‘Of course, vicar. What’s the matter?’
‘It was like this … A group of young men bumped into me in town. They apologised and I didn’t think anything of it, but I’m afraid my wallet and car keys have gone. The worst thing is that I’d picked up a load of cream cakes for the cake stand and now they’re locked in the boot of my car. The cream will go off in this heat and they’ll all be spoiled.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Can you help me?’
‘Of course,’ said Hobbes. ‘That’
s my job.’
‘Unfortunately, my car’s parked in town.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ll give you a hand. C’mon, vicar. And quickly.’
As he turned to go, he paused. ‘Sorry, Andy,’ he said, ‘the pub’s off.’ Reaching into his pocket for the small, hairy and deeply disturbing pouch that served him as a wallet, he removed a twenty-pound note, thrust it into my hand and loped away with Just-call-me-Dave.
It was a heady feeling to once more have money in my pocket. I headed for the Cat and Fiddle, intending to spend it wisely on food and a pint, or possibly two, of lager. However, I hadn’t gone far, the pub still out of sight, when my nostrils detected the scent of frying onions. It was like a Siren song, luring me down an alley towards the lurking burger van, a greasy little man with a stained white coat and discoloured grin watching me approach.
‘What can I do for you, squire?’ He stirred the onions.
The sizzling overcame any remaining resistance. ‘I’ll have a jumbo hotdog,’ I said, ‘with mustard and loads of onions.’
‘Good choice, squire. That’ll be three-fifty.’
Handing over the money, I gloated as I received my change, sixteen pounds and fifty pence, money to spend on refreshments. I’d noticed a keg and several crates being loaded into the beer tent and could believe it wasn’t going to be a fete worse than death after all.
Carrying my hotdog back, I sat on a low wall overlooking the road in the shade outside the church. Saliva flooded my mouth as I inhaled the aroma. However, on taking a bite, the bun, aided by a sausage with the texture of cotton wool, sucked up moisture, leaving my mouth as dry as blotting paper. It became a struggle to force the stuff down my reluctant throat and I had to spit out a couple of mouthfuls of gristle. Still, the hotdog served two purposes: it filled me up pretty well and made me appreciate Mrs G’s cooking even more. I’d just finished and was beginning to wish I hadn’t started, when a skinny young man in shorts, t-shirt and trainers shot past, breathing hard, going like a whippet down the road. Shamed by his commitment to fitness, I wondered how he motivated himself.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 7
