A moment later, Hobbes loped into view, a couple of hundred yards behind, catching up, despite having a cursing youth tucked under each arm. They didn’t look like they were enjoying themselves.
‘A couple of bad lads,’ said Hobbes with a grin as he passed.
I stepped down, running after him to see what was happening, until the hotdog made its presence known. I slowed to a jog and then to a brisk walk. I wasn’t following to offer my assistance – he only had three to deal with – but to see how the hunt ended. I was far too slow. Within a couple of minutes, I met him coming back, lecturing his prisoners, who were walking in front, hanging their heads like naughty three-year olds. One of them appeared to be crying.
‘I’m just taking these boys to apologise to the vicar,’ said Hobbes. ‘They picked his pockets and were trying to steal his car. They might have got away with it if the vicar had remembered to fill up with petrol. They didn’t get very far.’
I followed them back as far as the church wall where, indigestion claiming me, I sat back down, stomach churning, watching them out of sight. A few minutes later, Just-call-me-Dave reappeared, driving his little red car at a sedate pace, as fast as the sweating lads could push it. Hobbes ambled behind, offering encouragement and good advice.
‘Right, boys,’ he said as the vicar parked by the kerb, ‘I hope you’ve learned a good lesson today. Crime does not pay, especially when I’m around. However, it’s far too nice a day to go inside and mess with paperwork, so I’m going to let you go away and reflect on what you’ve done. If you behave yourselves, there’ll be no need for me to pay any unexpected visits, which, I ought to point out, you wouldn’t enjoy at all. Now, give the vicar a hand with his cakes. Then run along, and mind how you go.’
After profuse apologies and some serious grovelling, they hurried away.
The church clock striking two, the vicar opened proceedings with a speech that must have been a contender for the most boring ever, still rambling on twenty minutes later, by which time almost everyone had left him to it. The stalls began to get busy and, by three o’clock, the fete was swinging as well as any fete swings.
A pushy old man in a striped, multi-coloured waistcoat and a straw hat persuaded me, against all reason, to bowl for the pig; my attempt was humiliating, painful and best forgotten. Afterwards, I headed to the refreshments tent, still suffering from the hotdog, needing a drink to take away a lingering taste. Mrs Goodfellow’s ginger beer stall, conducting a brisk trade, I bypassed it, since I could enjoy it for free back home, and went to the bar for a lager. They only had the bottled kind, and since the bottles were small and expensive, and the day was hot and humid, I changed my mind, heading for a table where a red-faced, tubby woman was selling Brain-Damage Farmhouse Cider, kept under restraint inside a large plastic tub. Ordering a pint, I was delighted to find it considerably cheaper than the lager, with a fruity, rich, refreshing, innocuous taste. I had another and a third, by when the world was taking on a golden haze of well-being. I began to enjoy the fete, exuding a sort of paternal benevolence, a smile for everyone.
A young lady walked up to me, carrying a tray loaded with ginger beers. Her friendly smile was, I thought, a good sign, even if she failed to live up to the woman at the Wildlife Park’s standard, being a little plump and disfigured by tattoos. However, I wasn’t fussy: I couldn’t afford to be.
‘Hello,’ I said, trying my best to look interesting.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘Would you mind moving aside? You’re in my way.’
‘Oh … umm … yes, of course.’
As I stepped back, a man yelped and swore.
‘Sorry,’ I said, moving my foot.
The cider chose that moment to show off its strength. Co-ordination failing, I stumbled into the young lady, knocking the tray from her hands.
‘Sorry.’
As I squatted to pick it up, I found my legs wouldn’t work properly. Rocking backwards, slightly overcompensating, I lurched forward. Next thing I knew, I was lying across the young lady, who was face down in a sticky puddle of ginger beer.
‘I really must apologise,’ is what I wanted to say, but it came out slurred and incomprehensible. Anything I attempted seemed to require considerable concentration. I pushed myself upright, vaguely aware of my hands pressing on something soft.
‘Take your filthy hands off my arse,’ she said.
Her words were a little crude for a lady, but making allowances for the circumstances, I did as she asked, as hands grabbed my shoulders, pulling me up. Considering it a diabolical liberty, I wriggled free and, slumping forward, found I was lying across the young woman again, who made such unpleasant remarks I could no longer think of her as a lady. Somebody shoved me and I rolled off her onto my back. A big hand grabbed my shirtfront, jerking me to my feet, so I was looking into the face of a burly man, his head shaved as smooth as a hard-boiled egg.
‘I’d be obliged if you’d leave my wife alone,’ he said.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’ I wagged my finger in his face.
‘Look mate, I can see you’ve had too much to drink, so I’m not going to make a fuss. Just leave her alone, walk away and try to sober up.’
He had a dotted line tattooed round his neck above the words, ‘cut here’. It struck me as rather amusing and I giggled.
His frown deepened. ‘D’you think I’m being funny?’
It deepened even more when my wagging finger found its own way up his nostril.
‘Right, that’s it.’ He raised his fist, ‘love’ tattooed across the knuckles.
The realisation that I was in for a pasting almost sobered me up. I squealed like a snared rabbit, cringing, anticipating pain as the fist drew back. The punch never came. Hobbes was holding it in his own great hand.
‘Calm down, sir,’ he said with a shake of his head, ‘there’s no need for violence. We’re all friends here. Andy, get your finger out. And quickly.’
‘Sorry.’ Freeing it, I wiped it down my trousers.
‘Now,’ said Hobbes, ‘what’s going on here then?’
The woman got to her feet. ‘He knocked me over, spilt our drinks and pinned me to the ground.’
‘Is that true, Andy?’
‘No. Well … umm … yes. It’s sort of true but it was all an accident. I stepped back to get out of her way like this …’
A man yelped and swore.
‘Sorry.’ The cider still had me in its grasp. Stepping off his foot, I stumbled, the edge of a table coming up at me.
I came to, lying on my side on a hard bench somewhere cool and gloomy, my head throbbing, women’s voices echoing as I tried to sit up. It appeared I was inside the church. I shook my head to clear the fuzziness, a bad mistake, only amplifying the pain, slumping back as waves of nausea overwhelmed me.
‘How are you?’ a woman asked.
‘I’m going to be sick.’ Sitting up abruptly, I threw up.
Someone thoughtful had placed a bucket next to the bench. I missed, distributing my hotdog and cider over the stone floor, splashing a pair of elegant ladies’ shoes.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, encoring with another deluge. Closing my eyes, I held my head in both hands, hoping the pain would subside. Someone had tied a rag round my forehead. It felt sticky.
‘The ambulance will be here in a minute. How are you feeling?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.
‘Awful,’ I groaned.
‘I’m not surprised. I’ll go and find a mop and something to wipe your shoes.’
‘What’s wrong with my shoes?’
‘Nothing, dear, I was talking to this young lady.’
I was intrigued, though everything seemed to be very distant and getting further away. ‘Umm … good. Who’s the ambulance for?’
‘For you,’ said a woman with a soft, comforting purr that made me think of rich velvet.
‘For me?’ It sounded unlikely. All I needed was a rest and maybe a new brain.
‘Yes. You banged your head.’
<
br /> She sounded like the beautiful lady at the Wildlife Park. I risked opening my eyes. It was her. Again, I retched, the hot, sharp taste of vomit stinging my throat. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Mind yourself, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, clattering a metal bucket, wielding a dreadlocked mop. I lay back, groaning, as she swilled away my mess. What would the beautiful lady think of me now? It had been bad enough throwing myself at her feet but throwing up on her feet was such a horrible thing to do. I wondered if I was cursed. I always messed up with women.
The church doors opened and a man and woman dressed in green entered. The light hurt my eyes and blurred my vision.
‘Hello, sir’ said the green man. ‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s …’ I said, ‘it’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘I have a headache but I think someone’s had an accident.’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘I think we’d better get him to casualty,’ said the green woman.
I wondered about whom she was talking. ‘Has there been an accident?’
‘Yes,’ said the green man, untying the rag round my head. It came away red.
‘Someone’s cut themselves,’ I said. ‘You’d better make sure they’re OK.’
My recollection after that is fragmentary. They wheeled me to an ambulance and a pigeon flew overhead, while a man with a bald head said ‘sorry.’ I couldn’t imagine why. When they loaded me into the back, the beautiful lady looked in, looking worried. It felt good until Mrs Goodfellow’s voice impinged.
‘I wouldn’t worry about him too much, he’s got a good, thick skull. Do you think they’ll give him a brain scan? I wonder if they’ll find anything?’
‘Poor man,’ said the lady.
The doors closed.
6
The rocking motion would have put me to sleep had the green man, who seemed to think he was in an ambulance, not insisted on talking to me. When, at last, everything went still, the door opened and they wheeled me into an echoing building with a white ceiling. Now and then something bumped and pain jolted through my head, making it spin, yet, on another level, everything seemed a long way away, as if I were drifting like a balloon. A Casualty sign hanging from shiny chains above my head, it dawned on me that there’d been an accident and, since my head was hurting, I wondered whether I might have been involved.
A thin lad in a white coat, a stethoscope dangling around his neck, appeared above me. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know you?’
He was familiar, though last time I’d seen him he’d been less blurry and there’d been only one of him. My head throbbed, throwing up a memory. ‘You’re Dr Finlay and you’ve heard all the jokes.’
‘That’s correct and you’re Mr Andrew Caplet. I remember meeting you after the fire. Nice to see you again. Now, I want you to lie still while I take a look at you. A nasty bang on the head, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll soon be on the mend.’
Flashing a torch into my eyes, he asked loads of questions. I answered those I could but he seemed to think I should know something about a fete, when all I wanted to talk about was a beautiful woman. Apparently, I spent the afternoon and evening under observation, though I slept through most of it when my headache allowed, for they wouldn’t let me take anything for the pain. I was told I also underwent a CT scan and that I cheered when Dr Finlay said it showed absolutely nothing wrong with my brain that a couple of days of rest and quiet wouldn’t cure. I asked him to let Mrs Goodfellow know.
Next morning, still delicate, though feeling much better, I lay in a white bed behind curtains, a pretty nurse with a sympathetic smile and a scent of soap, checking up on me from time to time. At some point, with a clattering and a nauseating smell of burned grease, my breakfast, charred bacon and leathery eggs, with bread that had been toasted just enough to dry out, without browning, arrived. I made an attempt at it but didn’t much fancy staying for lunch. However, Dr Finlay, looking in, allayed my worries.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘How are you today?’
‘Not too bad, apart from a sore head and feeling a bit confused.’
‘That’s perfectly normal after a minor head injury, though I expect it feels like a major injury from your side. Tilt your head, please … good. You have a magnificent goose egg on your forehead, or it would be magnificent if we hadn’t put a couple of stitches in – they’ll drop out in a few days.’
Nodding, I yawned. I couldn’t remember being stitched, which was good because I’d always feared needles. The lump, beneath a sticking plaster, was very tender.
‘You’ll probably notice that you tire easily in the next week or so. Listen to your body and take plenty of rest. How’s your vision?’
‘It’s … umm … fine now. It was all fuzzy yesterday, I think. Like my memory.’
‘Excellent. And your speech patterns are normal. You were perseverating yesterday.’
The blood rose to my cheeks. ‘Oh God, I wasn’t, was I? I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing … Umm … What was I doing?’
‘Perseverating – you had a tendency to repeat yourself – a classic symptom of a concussion.’
‘Oh, is that all?’
‘Yes. Well, Mr Caplet, in my opinion you’ll be fit enough to go home in a couple of hours. Will there be anyone to look after you?’
I nodded, cheered by the prospect of getting home for Sunday lunch, wondering what the old girl was cooking, hoping there’d be plenty for me.
‘Excellent. Remember, plenty of rest and quiet and don’t go back to work for at least five days.’
I smiled, approving Dr Finlay’s instructions, the sort I could agree to follow without hesitation or guilt. His bleeper sounding, he left me to doze.
Just after twelve o’clock, Hobbes stomped into the ward, his head appearing round the curtain. ‘The hospital called to say you can come home. How are you?’
‘Much better, but the doctor says I need rest and quiet.’ I was hoping to influence his driving.
I needn’t have worried. On leaving the hospital, I found he hadn’t come in the car, instead bringing Dregs and the little cart, to which he’d fitted a three-legged stool from the kitchen. Dregs, taking it all in his stride as I sat down, set off, trotting by Hobbes’s side. At first, I squirmed with embarrassment, though few people were out and about in town, but after a while, to my amazement, I began to enjoy the ride, feeling safe and comfortable, if eccentric. The town glistened with the sprinklings of an overnight downpour, the streets steaming under the sun’s power.
‘It’s a fine cart,’ I said.
Hobbes agreed. ‘It is. If you’d hung around a little longer yesterday, you’d have seen him giving rides round the fete in it. The children loved him and he raised more money than any other attraction, though the lass might have matched him if she hadn’t run out of ginger beer.’
‘She makes good stuff,’ I said. ‘I wish I’d stuck to it. That cider was lethal.’
Hobbes chuckled. ‘It nearly was, wasn’t it? They’re talking about renaming it “Dozy Headbanger” in your memory.’
I grimaced. ‘How did you get on in the flower show? Did you win?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, though they awarded me a certificate for the most original use of delphiniums, which was nice of them.’
‘Shame. Umm … by the way, have there been any more big cat sightings?’
‘Not as such, but a bird watcher reported a large paw-print in Loop Woods. I took Dregs up to have a look this morning but, unfortunately, some lads had been motor biking and everything was churned up. There were no signs of cats and the whole place stank of two-stroke.’
‘If there really was a big cat on the loose, would they get someone to shoot it?’
‘Not if I had my way,’ said Hobbes.
‘What would you do?’
‘Catch it.’
‘H
ow?’
‘With stealth, cunning and a big sack.’
‘Then what?’
‘Find it somewhere to live where it can’t be hurt by anyone and where it can’t hurt the public.’
His answer came as some relief, for I’d got it into my head that, if he found one, and caught it, he’d bring it home. Having a panther in the house would not be good for my state of mind, especially when I needed to rest.
All went well until, reaching Blackdog Street, Hobbes, pulling the keys from his pocket, strode up the steps to the front door. Dregs, forgetting what he was doing, bounded after him. The cart’s wheels bounced and skipped and, though I grasped the stool with desperate hands, I tipped out backwards with a yelp, bracing myself for a heavy fall. I never hit the floor. Hobbes, diving full length down the steps, caught me.
‘Sorry,’ he said, standing up, setting me down. ‘That wasn’t much of a start to your course of peace and rest. Are you alright?’
‘I’m alright, but what about you?’
The knees of his baggy, old trousers were torn and his elbows, poking through the sleeves of his tweed jacket, were dripping blood.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘The odd scrape won’t do me any harm. Mind you, I’ll need to get these clothes fixed.’
Springing back up the steps, he opened the door and let us in. A delicious scent of roasting meat welcomed us.
‘It’s good to be home,’ I said, with some difficulty for my mouth was flooding.
‘Good,’ said Hobbes, ‘and now you need to take yourself up to bed.’
‘But I’m alright … and hungry.’
‘Doctor’s orders. Up you go. And quickly.’
Arguing with Hobbes never worked, so I went up to my room, undressed, climbed into bed and hoped the old girl wouldn’t forget me. The next thing I knew, I’d woken up. From the light outside, the emptiness of my stomach, I guessed it was late afternoon. As I stretched and sat up, still a little weak, I became aware of soft breathing. A little man was sitting cross-legged on a stool in the window, sewing. He had a big head and a long, thin nose, supporting a pair of half-moon glasses. Looking up, he grinned and nodded.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 8
