After a while, the evening fading towards dusk, I realised, having walked in a near circle, that I was approaching Ride Park. The last time I’d been there, Hobbes had fallen from the tree, a time seemingly long ago, when I’d mostly trusted him. Grimacing, pushing through the gates, ignoring the path, I kicked through the sopping grass, enjoying the rich scent of damp earth, the fluttering and piping of birds getting ready for sleep, feeling pretty good. Perhaps, I thought, life wasn’t so bad. It had its ups and downs and, admittedly, there were too many downs, but the compensations were great.
After half an hour or thereabouts, as I turned for home, I remembered noticing a sign saying that the park gates were locked at dusk. Yet, there was no need to panic, for, if all else failed, I could knock on the door of the park-keeper’s cottage. He would let me out, I was certain, but only after I’d suffered a torrent of his pent-up frustrations about life and the idiocy of members of the public who ignored clear notices about closing times. I didn’t fancy any aggravation of that sort and had an idea there was a side gate that might still be open about half a mile along a path through the woods.
The last glimmers of sunlight having all but faded, myriad stars twinkled in the velvet blackness, a faint glimmer of silvery light heralding the rising of the moon. A slight breeze blew up a mist, concealing my legs below the knee as I hurried on, with a shiver and a yawn, keen to put the park behind me, to get home, to get into my comfy bed.
I stepped beneath the canopy of the trees into what seemed utter blackness. Beneath my feet, a twig cracked like a shot in the stillness. Small woodland creatures going about their nocturnal business rustled and squeaked and, in the distance, a pair of owls hooted.
A deep growl nearly stopped my heart. Although I tried to convince myself it was a fox, or the park-keeper’s dog, something about it chilled my blood. As I hurried on, not quite daring to run, far too scared to stop, the growl came again, closer and, surely, in front of me. Hesitating, half-turning to run, I tripped over my own feet and thudded into the soggy leaf mould. I lay still, my eyes wide open yet, with the dark and the clinging mist, I might just as well have been blind.
A faint hiss – the wind? Or soft breathing over sharp teeth? Whatever was out there was getting closer and all I could do was to stay still, to hold my breath, my heart beating in double time. A creature was out there, looking for me. Soon it would surely find me … and then what? I rolled onto my side in an ecstasy of terror, the breathing growing ever nearer. When hot, moist breath caressed my cheek, I thought my heart would stop. Something soft, something powerful, patted my head gently.
Since a human mind can only stand so much before primeval instinct assumes control, I leapt to my feet with a wild cry, running blindly into the night, expecting any moment to feel sharp claws in my soft skin, cruel jaws tearing at my throat. Yet, the pursuit never happened. Within seconds, I was close to the side gate, the glow of sodium streetlights offering safety. Risking a glance over my shoulder, for a heart-stopping moment I glimpsed two flashes of green, surely eyes: cat’s eyes. As I blinked in the sudden headlight glare of a passing lorry, something slipped into the woods.
A rough voice yelled. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The park keeper was standing at the gate, a padlock in his hand. ‘Don’t you know we close at dusk?’
I couldn’t even speak.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’
I nodded, pushing past him into the safety of Hedbury Road, my mind in turmoil again. On the walk home, every shadow, every unexpected noise, spooked me.
I reached Blackdog Street, where Mrs Goodfellow had already turned in and Hobbes had not yet returned. Dregs was curled up in his basket in the kitchen. Much to his indignation, needing reassurance, I lay beside him. It must have taken a couple of hours before I stopped trembling.
9
Something woke me. I was still lost in a sleep fuzz, surrounded by darkness, confused, my bed uncomfortable and smelling of dog. Recollection slowly returning, I knew where I was, why I had memories of fear. I was on my own, Dregs having deserted me, probably to sleep in my bed, if I was any judge of character. Though I was already shivering, a chilling realisation emerged from the depths of unconsciousness; a door had banged, the sound, I was nearly sure, having come from below. I longed to be under blankets, oblivious and if that meant sharing with the dog so much the better, for something was moving in the cellar.
When the wooden steps creaked, I crawled, without thinking, in a state of panic, across the kitchen floor, huddling into a corner, holding my breath, listening to the slow footsteps coming up, coming towards the kitchen. I’d spent long hours wondering about the mysterious door down in the cellar, the door hidden behind a heap of coal. Hobbes had once tried to deny its existence, making me doubt the evidence of my own eyes, but I knew what I’d seen. Later, when he’d refused to say what lay behind it, putting the fear of Hobbes into me when I’d pressed, I’d surmised, since he had no compunction in exposing me to the most nightmarish of situations, that something beyond averagely horrible was there.
The footsteps drawing nearer, terror rising, I suppressed a whimper and scrambled into the cupboard beneath the sink, lying there on my front, a scrubbing brush pressed into my soft bits. As I pulled the cupboard door to, I knocked over a bottle of disinfectant, the fumes soon stinging my eyes, making my nose run. Though the animal part of my brain was urging the need to make less noise than a sleeping mouse, I was sure my heart sounded like a kettledrum pounded by an enthusiastic gorilla, sure anyone could hear it two streets away. The door from the cellar to the kitchen opened and shut; footsteps entered the kitchen; there was an unearthly grunt as if from a wild beast. Then a dull thud suggested something solid had been dropped onto the kitchen table. I concentrated on not moving, keeping utterly quiet.
A sudden shaft of electric light stabbed through the crack where I’d left the cupboard door slightly ajar and I could see the kitchen floor and the vegetable rack in the corner. Despite part of me being desperate for a glimpse of what was out there, another part recoiled, fearing what would be revealed. Even worse, if I could see out, then it could see in.
‘Who’s there?’ asked Hobbes.
Hearing it, though some of my terrors subsided on the principle of ‘better the devil you know’, I didn’t move, hoping he couldn’t have heard me, that the disinfectant would mask my scent.
‘I require an answer, and quickly.’
Holding my breath, not moving a muscle, as his footsteps approached my hidey-hole, I wanted to scream.
The cupboard door jerking open, I looked up to see him staring down, scowling.
‘Good evening,’ I said, forcing a friendly smile.
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘Umm … I don’t know … I …’
‘If you’re worried about personal hygiene,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘I’d suggest taking a bath rather than disinfecting yourself. Out you come.’
Squatting down, seizing an arm and a leg, he dragged me out, lifting me, letting me dangle while he examined me, like a butterfly collector with a dubious specimen. Apparently satisfied, he set me down, his scowl holding me as firmly as tweezers grip a butterfly. ‘Would you care to tell me what you were doing in there?’
I had no choice but to tell him, my story erupting like pus from a pierced boil. ‘I went for a walk in Ride Park but there was a panther, I think, and it patted me on the head and I came home and stayed down here with Dregs, because I was still frightened. I must have fallen asleep and I think he’s gone to my bed now. And … and then I heard something in the cellar and got scared again, scared something was coming for me.’
I felt a little better.
He nodded. ‘What did you expect was coming from the cellar?’
‘Umm … I don’t know but I thought something had come through … that door.’
‘I used the door. Now, tell me about the panther.’
I told him what
I could, feeling powerless, something in his eyes compelling me to talk, though I had no intention of holding anything back.
His scowl relaxed into a frown, though it still held me tight. ‘That’s very interesting. You see, this evening, I was trailing a panther through Loop Woods and round Bishop’s Farm. Since it couldn’t have been in two places at once, there must be two panthers out there.’
‘Did you catch the one you were after?’
‘No, it gave me the slip. I haven’t yet worked out how.’
‘Did you actually see it?’
‘I could smell it and I must only have been seconds behind. It’s puzzling.’
His frown releasing me, I became aware that he was trying to stop me seeing whatever he’d lugged into the kitchen.
‘But why did you come through the cellar?’ I asked, trying, without making it too obvious, to catch a glimpse behind him, finding he was too close, blocking my field of view.
‘That’s police business,’ he said, looking thoughtful. ‘I need to examine something urgently and I want to examine it in my own way before anyone can tamper with it.’
‘What is it?’
‘Evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘I won’t know until I’ve examined it. Now run along, you should be in bed.’
I tried to peep under his arm but his bulk blocked me.
His frown beginning to deepen once more, he stared into my eyes. ‘You should be in bed. You must be feeling sleepy. Really sleepy.’
I nodded and yawned. Escorting me upstairs, he evicted a resentful Dregs from my bed. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, closing the door behind him, going back downstairs.
I undressed, put on my pyjamas and got into bed, certain sleep was out of the question, yet unable to keep my eyes open.
It felt as if I’d hardly lain down before I awoke. Getting up, I drew back the curtains, finding it was dull and grey outside, drizzle spattering the window. As usual, clean clothes had been laid out for me. I assumed Mrs G was responsible, though I’d never caught her at it. One day, I thought, I should thank her.
The stink of disinfectant was all over me, bringing the events of the previous night back into my head. I was still haunted by the panther’s green eyes, again feeling the helpless terror as it had stalked me through the darkness. Worse memories returned, vague memories, almost as if I’d dreamt them: Hobbes emerging from the cellar, finding me cowering under the sink, questioning me. A horrific image squeezed back from when he’d pushed me from the kitchen and I’d glimpsed a reflection in the shiny bottom of a copper pan hanging on the wall. A man’s body was lying on the kitchen table. Hobbes, I feared, had killed again. I wondered who his latest victim was, what he’d done.
Though unable to understand why he’d felt the need to bring the corpse home, it made me think of Whisky, the cat, who’d always done the same, usually keeping a little something for later; I’d once found a half-eaten rat under my pillow. Perhaps, I thought, Hobbes, too, liked to eat at leisure. The idea made me feel quite ill, yet I realised that, if he stored his leftovers behind the mysterious door, it was no wonder he didn’t want me to see.
Yet, life had to go on and I was starving. So, steeling myself, rising above the ghastliness, I headed downstairs into the kitchen, where Dregs, bounding towards me with his usual morning enthusiasm, struck me as being a little wary, perhaps fearing I’d hug him again. Mrs Goodfellow, smiling, said ‘Good morning’, as I took my seat at the table.
Hobbes wasn’t there. Neither was the corpse. Everything seemed so normal, I might have believed I’d dreamt the incident, had it not been for the lingering scent of disinfectant, nearly masked by the enticing aroma of the mushroom omelette Mrs Goodfellow was making. When she fed me, I found it as light as a cloud and utterly delicious, my appetite only slightly restrained by a nagging worry that Hobbes might not have scrubbed the table. It occurred to me, as I finished off the last bit of omelette and reached for the marmalade, that exposure to Hobbes had desensitised me. I doubted I’d have been so cool before my life in Blackdog Street.
After finishing breakfast, I helped Mrs G dry up, a rare event, but successful in that I didn’t break anything and managed to locate the cutlery draw without prompting. We were chatting about the weather and pork chops when she told me she was going out to visit a dear old friend, who’d broken a leg falling off a trampoline.
‘How old is she?’ I asked.
‘Eighty-eight.’
‘Should she have been doing that at her age?’
‘Well, dear, she’s been doing it since she was sixty. Why stop when she enjoys it? I think her big mistake was jumping out the bedroom window to get a bigger bounce.’
‘That sounds dangerous.’
‘I suppose it does now you mention it, though it wasn’t the big bounce that hurt her, but hitting the shed and landing on a pile of bricks. She’s a silly old fool sometimes, I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to get a proper landing mat, but she always knows best.’
As often occurred in conversation with the old girl, I was soon out of my depth. I tried a change of subject. ‘Where’s Hobbes this morning?’
‘At work. He was out very early and had Sugar Puffs for breakfast again. I’m worried he’s not eating enough.’
‘I’m sure he won’t starve,’ I said, suppressing a grimace.
‘You’re probably right.’ She sighed. ‘Still, I’ll get him a good, big, juicy rib-eye steak for his supper. You like a steak, too, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘That’s alright, then. Thank you for your help and I’d better be off to the hospital.’
Having wiped her hands on her pinafore, she put a lead on Dregs and left me on my own.
Though I tried to think pleasant thoughts, I kept returning to Hobbes and the hidden door. Sitting back at the kitchen table, I realised I had the perfect opportunity to investigate, yet, had no idea what dangers lay behind it, assuming there really were any. One way or another, I needed to confirm my suspicions, or prove them false. I began trembling, torn between curiosity and self-preservation. Standing up, I marched round the kitchen trying to dispel my nervous energy. To my surprise, finding myself holding the handle of the door down to the cellar, the conflict in my head still raging, I decided there could be no harm in merely taking a quick look. I pushed open the door, turned on the light and started down the creaking wooden steps, breathing in air as moist and cool as a cavern, amazed as always by the extent of the cellar. On reaching the bottom, I stood a moment, taking a deep breath, before walking onto the old brick floor, past the enormous wine racks, noticing no dust or cobwebs on any of the hundreds of bottles down there. Mrs G’s devotion to cleanliness and order was soothing.
The door, as I’d expected, was hidden behind a pile of coal that gleamed as if it had been polished. I laughed at the very idea, before forcing myself to calm down and to be serious. I could see that, if I really wanted to have a look at the door, heavy spadework would be required, so, picking up the broad, heavy coal shovel propped against the wall, I put my back into the task. Though it wasn’t long before I was sweating, taking a moment for a breather, I saw I’d uncovered the top of the doorframe, having shifted about a third of the coal. Taking off my shirt, hanging it on the pedal of a penny-farthing, quietly rusting in the corner, I set to work again. Blisters tingled on my palms and, after another ten minutes, I had to stop to wipe the sweat from my eyes. I gritted my teeth and kept digging.
I was gasping for breath, a little light-headed, by the time I completely uncovered the door. After a moment’s triumph, came a horrible moment when, cursing my stupidity, I realised I’d have to shift the whole lot back again. My plan, if I’d had one, was to get the coal out of the way, open the door, take a swift shufti and get the hell out of there, leaving no trace. Things had already gone awry, since I’d lost track of time, having no idea how long the old girl had been away, or when Hobbes would return. However, since I’d gone so far, I reckon
ed I might as well carry on and open it.
I reached out, taking the cold brass door knob in a shaking hand and turning it. Nothing happened and though I tried pushing and tugging, it was clear the door was locked.
‘Bugger it!’ I muttered, performing a stamping, fist-shaking dance of frustration, culminating in a wild kick at the door. It didn’t help and, as I hobbled away, swearing like a bastard, I was glad Hobbes couldn’t hear me.
‘Right, Andy,’ I said out loud, ‘you’ve screwed this up right and proper. What are you going to do now?’
‘Shut up and think,’ was the answer.
Sitting on the coal, I thought: if the door was locked, then there had to be a key, a key that, perhaps, Hobbes kept hidden down there. Since taking a few minutes to search for it would make little difference to the mess I was in, since my only other option was to admit defeat, to shovel the coal back and walk away still ignorant, I started looking. The old Andy would no doubt have followed the second option but I’d developed into sterner stuff under Hobbes’s tutelage.
I searched everywhere, trying to use my intelligence to work out where anyone might conceal a key. I looked under piles of flowerpots, through a cupboard full of ancient paint tins, even pulled a couple of loose bricks from the wall, without any luck. At last, in despair, making a decision to give up, to abandon my stupid plan, a feeling of utter relief surged through me. Dry of mouth, needing a glass of water, I walked slowly towards the steps, heading for the kitchen, hoping I’d have sufficient time and strength to shift all the coal back, to clean myself up, so no one would be any the wiser.
I didn’t quite make it to the kitchen, for, hanging in plain view from a nail beneath the light switch, was a large black key. My stomach lurching, my heart thumping, I reached for it and picked it up. It was as long as my hand, weighty and old-fashioned. Taking it to the door, fitting it in the keyhole, I turned it. Its motion was smooth, silent, well lubricated, unnerving since I was anticipating a gothic creak.
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 13
