The door being heavy, I had to lean against it, shoving hard until, just as I was about to give up, it swung open. I would have plummeted straight down the narrow flight of worn stone steps had I not grabbed a rusting rail, which supported me until it snapped. Stumbling forward, losing my footing, I landed hard on my bottom and slipped into the darkness, bumping and grazing my elbows on the way. Though I managed to regain my footing before the end of the stair, my momentum carrying me forward, I ran into a wall, knocking the wind out of me, making me fall backwards into a couple of inches of icy water. Gasping as it soaked my overheated body, I stood up, cracking the top of my head on something hard, falling back into the puddle, cursing and nursing what felt like a fine collection of bruises and scrapes.
As the shock and pain receded, I started to make sense of wherever I was. I groped back to where I could stand up safely, the reek of ancient stone and damp all pervasive, the only light, the feeble and distant remnants that made it down the narrow steps from above. I was in a tight, bare passageway, leading, so far as I could tell, towards the town. Since I’d got so far, self-esteem insisted on investigating a little more. I took a few steps forward, my hands held out like a mummy from a horror film.
I was sopping wet, my trousers clinging to my skin, shivering, more with nerves than with cold. Although the floor was smooth and regular, occasional projections from the wall proved dangerous and painful to my elbows. After no more than a dozen steps, finding myself in utter blackness, having gone far enough to satisfy honour, if not curiosity, I glanced back over my shoulder to reassure myself that I could still see the faint light from the cellar.
Unable to see anything, anything at all, my nervousness multiplied. Though reason suggested the passage was not quite straight, or, maybe, that the door had swung shut, I was gripped by a sudden horror that I might wander off into a maze of passages. Turning round, taking a step forward, I smacked straight into a solid wall. Sliding down onto my side, I lay stunned on the rocky floor and, by the time my head cleared, I’d lost any sense of direction.
Since the total silence amid the blackness was oppressive, I spoke out loud to myself. ‘C’mon, Andy, stay cool and think. There are only two ways to go: backwards or forwards. If you take about twelve careful paces you’ll be back at the steps, or if not, you’ll be twelve paces further into the tunnel. If that’s the case, all you have to do is turn again and take twenty-four paces and you’ll be out. It’s quite simple.’
I did my best to ignore the small voice in my head saying, ‘What if there’s more than one tunnel down here? Then you’ve had it. It’ll serve you right, too; he told you not to come down here.’
The small voice made me forget to count. ‘No problem,’ I said to myself. ‘Just count to twelve and, if there’s still nothing, turn around and count up to, let’s say twenty and then we’ll be out. No problem.’
Having counted out twelve steps, all I could see, or rather, couldn’t see, was darkness. The tunnel feeling like it might have widened, I made sure to keep my left hand against the wall. In the distance, a long way off, I thought I could hear running water.
‘Oh well, that was the wrong way,’ I said in a brave voice. ‘About turn and you’ll soon be out.’
I turned, groping along the opposite wall, counting out each step with a cheerful boy-scout optimism I didn’t feel. I’d counted to fifteen when, reaching a dead end, my heart went into a frenzy of pounding, my breathing growing harsh and rapid. Trying to force myself to stay calm, I tried to think, aware that blind panic was lurking, ready to overrun any remaining good sense.
‘There must be another tunnel,’ I said. ‘If I work my way back, I’ll be able to find where I went wrong.’ The trouble was, I didn’t believe me.
Sometime later, I realised I’d been right not to believe me. Having no idea where I was, or to where I was heading, I just kept walking, on the dubious grounds that, sooner or later, I’d find a way out. The small voice in my head said, ‘You’ve really done it, you’ve got yourself well and truly lost and I hope you’re satisfied. Well done. You’re in the labyrinth and you didn’t even bring any string.’
Snippets of Greek mythology, learned at school, in particular, something about a Minotaur that lived in a similar place, devouring human flesh, kept flashing into my mind, the sort of memories I could have done without, for my imagination was already in full swing. The thing was, Hobbes, though warning of dangers behind the door, hadn’t specified what they might be and I was conjuring up monsters, the sort previously only seen in nightmares, to scare me half to death. Since running was out of the question, I sat down on the hard stone floor, taking a breather, regretting my failure to get that glass of water for, by then, I would have been glad to drink from the puddle at the bottom of the staircase. Even in the midst of my terror and despair, I recognised that was a stupid idea, because, if I found the puddle, I’d be able to go to the kitchen. I listened for the running water I thought I’d heard, however long ago that had been, yet all I could hear was my own breathing.
Sitting there, calming myself, I wondered what on earth, or rather, below earth the tunnels were. I wasn’t aware of any mine workings in the area and wondered if they could have been smugglers’ tunnels, or part of an elaborate wartime bomb shelter, or maybe I was in one of those places where dead bodies were stored. What were they called? Catamarans? Something like that. Catacombs – that was the word. What a perfect place to hide a body.
I shouldn’t have gone down there.
Vile images entered my mind, as bright as if I could really see them, of grinning skulls and heaps of rotten bones, and Hobbes sitting in the middle, chewing on some bit of somebody. Yet, I couldn’t smell decay, which was some comfort. All my nose could detect was damp, soil and my own sweat. I was shivering, goose pimples erupting on my skin, teeth chattering, so I got to my feet, needing to keep walking or die of hypothermia. Anyway, I was bound to come across something eventually.
I couldn’t stand much more of the darkness and the silence.
In fact, it wasn’t quite silent. Something was moving, something I hoped wasn’t rats, because there was nothing worse than rats, except for something bigger and fiercer. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound as small as a rat: not by a long way.
Surely there wasn’t another panther? Was it possible I’d stumbled into their daytime hideaway? But then, Hobbes would have known about it already, unless they were what he was hiding. Nothing made sense in that blackness, in my state of rising terror.
The noise getting louder, sounding horribly like paws, I held my breath, on the edge of blind panic, hearing something sniffing, something not far away. My nerves, or what was left of them, unable to take any more, I turned to flee, knowing it was hopeless.
‘Stop! Stop right there!’ said a voice that could not be disobeyed. ‘Do not take another step. Stay exactly where you are.’
I stopped, terror giving way to fearful, almost tearful, relief.
‘I’m lost,’ I said, looking back over my shoulder, a futile thing to do in the blackness.
‘Of course you are,’ said Hobbes. ‘Now do as I say, exactly as I say.’
‘Alright.’ My voice was surprising in its pitch, its feeble lack of timbre.
‘Do not turn around. Take a step backwards … now another … and another … one more ought to do it. Now you can turn around, and put your right hand against the wall … your right hand! That’s it. Now walk towards me, and slowly.’
I turned towards his voice, reassured by its calm authority, though the fear of whatever was behind goaded me into a scurry.
‘Stop there,’ he said, ‘do not put your foot down.’
‘Why not?’ I gulped, keeping it raised.
‘Because you’ll tread on the dog.’
A cold nose pressing into my left hand, I stroked Dregs’s head, safe for the first time since I’d lost my way. Hobbes’s hand touched my shoulder.
‘You shouldn’t have come down here,’ he said, ‘ther
e are more dangers than you can possibly imagine.’
‘Like what?’
‘Now is not the time for questions,’ he said looping a length of cord around my neck. ‘Follow me.’
The cord tightening, I followed, like a small child on a harness and, just like a child, I felt secure, wondering why, though I feared I was in for a severe telling off, I had no concerns about my well-being. There’d been no anger in his voice, only concern, and my suspicion that he’d murdered Henry Bishop and others no longer mattered; he was still my friend, someone I could rely on. It wasn’t a ruthless application of logic that led me to this conclusion, it was just a feeling; sometimes feelings are worth more than logic.
Though Dregs’s paws pattered quietly as we twisted and turned through the blackness, my feet scuffed and clattered, as I tripped and stumbled in the rear. Of Hobbes, other than a light pressure on my neck and the usual faint, feral odour, I could discern nothing, except on the occasions when he paused to sniff. I didn’t care, so long as I got out of that horrible place, where the weight of aeons of darkness was crushing me, the unseen walls squeezing too tightly.
At last, so faint at first I doubted my own eyes, I began to see Hobbes’s silhouette. As the outline sharpened, I could make out Dregs, padding to heel, two steps in front. Eventually, I could see my own hands, and then, a moment of bliss, the doorway. Though I longed to rush up the steps, to put the dark behind me, I had to climb up at Hobbes’s steady, deliberate pace, until, at last, I was blinking in the dim light of the cellar. The dog yawned and shook himself, apparently sharing my feelings of relief as Hobbes shut and locked the door, pocketing the key.
‘Thank you for getting me out of there,’ I said, as a thought struck. ‘Umm … how would you have opened the door if I hadn’t already moved the coal?’
‘Quite easily. Now, you’d best get upstairs, get washed and make yourself respectable. We need to have a little chat, but it can wait till we’ve had some grub.’
Looking at myself, I was staggered how black, streaked and filthy I was.
As he picked up the shovel, shifting the coal back, I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, a flutter of butterflies taking wing in my stomach at the prospect of the little chat. Dregs bounded after me, pushing past at the top.
‘Have you been having fun, dear?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow, who was slicing bread at the table, apparently unsurprised by my appearance.
‘It wasn’t fun. I got lost.’
‘Well, at least you didn’t tumble into the bottomless pit of doom, or worse. Never mind, dear, you’ll find clean clothes in your room.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, turning towards the stairs.
‘But you’d better take those filthy things off first. I’m not having you messing up anywhere else. Anyone would think you’ve been rolling around in the coal.’
‘But …’
‘But nothing. Hurry up.’ She gave me what passed for her stern look.
Hobbes emerged from the cellar without a speck of dirt on him, having taken all of two minutes to put the coal back.
‘C’mon, Andy,’ he said, ‘clean yourself up, and quickly. I’m famished.’
Giving up, I stripped to my underpants, which apparently passed muster for she nodded. ‘Now hurry up. Dinner will be ready when you are.’
‘Just one thing,’ she said as I turned away, ‘that young lady of yours called round when you were out.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Now move yourself.’
Although I hesitated, wanting to find out more, Hobbes’s expression moved me on. My insides had been twisting themselves into knots at the prospect of the impending little chat, yet the mere thought of Violet blew away my immediate fears, as I tried to work out why she’d come round. It was hardly likely she wanted to see more of me, unless I’d misjudged everything. As hope sprouted, so did a sudden horror, for the old girl had said she’d called round, but hadn’t actually said she’d left and the idea of her seeing me streaked with dirt and sweat, wearing only a pair of Y-fronts, made me cringe. Adopting stealth mode, creeping like a cat, I peeped nervously into the sitting room, as Dregs pushed past, making a circle of the room, sniffing and acting in an unusually manic way, before rushing back into the kitchen. I wasn’t entirely sure if I was relieved or disappointed to find her gone.
I went upstairs and ran a bath. I was amazed how much black muck sloughed off me as I scrubbed away, using Mrs Goodfellow’s long-handled back scrubber and a bar of soap. I had to change the water twice before it stayed reasonably clear. Afterwards, having dried myself and made some sort of effort to clean the bath, without completely removing the dark ring, I dressed and went downstairs.
For once, I didn’t pay much attention to my lunch, though the crusty ham sandwiches didn’t deserve such negligence. The problem was that, as the time for my little chat with Hobbes grew closer, my mouth was becoming as dry as talcum powder, despite the sluicing of a couple of pints of ginger beer down my throat. I wanted it to be all over, even if I really didn’t want it to start, and he seemed to be lingering over his meal, as if he had all day. Though part of me wanted to urge him to hurry up, I suspected the waiting wouldn’t be the worst part. At last, dabbing his lips with a napkin, he rose to his feet.
‘Let’s go through to the sitting room,’ he said. ‘I think some explanation is in order.’
I followed him, quaking. He appeared calm, but that meant little.
‘Take a seat,’ he said, indicating the near end of the sofa, planting his big backside on the far end. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
Nodding, I attempted a smile as, sighing, he rested his feet on the coffee table, just as Mrs Goodfellow came in with the tea. As she tutted, he shifted his feet onto the carpet with a sheepish grin.
‘Thanks, lass,’ he said as she returned to the kitchen.
‘Now, then, Andy,’ he said turning towards me, piling sugar into his mug, ‘a few months ago, I told you not to use that door and I believe I suggested you would do better to forget all about it. Is that correct?’
I gulped, nodding.
Having stirred his tea with his finger, he took a long slurp and continued. ‘Since it is often dangerous to seek out secrets, my intention was to instil such fear into you that you wouldn’t dream of going in there. I thought, as the months went by, that it had worked.’
‘It had,’ I said, my voice a croak. ‘Nearly.’
‘I had good reasons, for there are untold dangers down there, dangers it would have been better for you to remain ignorant of. Unfortunately, I failed to take into account human curiosity. It was remiss of me and I apologise.’
I grunted, the little chat failing to live up to expectations.
‘It must have been difficult to restrain yourself for so long. Was there something in particular that made you look?’
It was a tricky question and I squirmed before answering. ‘Well, it was like this … umm … it was last night.’
‘I see. Anything in particular?’
I was too bewildered to lie. ‘The body you brought in.’
‘I’d hoped I’d concealed it.’
‘I saw the reflection.’
‘I expect,’ he said, ‘that you want to know why I brought it back here?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Who was it and why?’
‘You didn’t recognise him?’
I shook my head. ‘I only caught a glimpse.’
‘It was the late-lamented Henry Bishop.’
‘Oh … but why?’
‘Because I needed a really close look at the body before the pathologist mucked it up and it was easier to fetch him back here than to conceal myself in the morgue.’
‘But how did you get him out of the morgue?’
‘The tunnels run right across town and beyond. One of them goes by the morgue and there’s a very useful manhole cover in the basement that allows access. Since hardly anyone even knows about the tunnels, I sometimes use them to move about without being ob
served, something I think is essential at the present.’ Finishing his tea in one draught, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
‘What’s so special about the present?’ I asked.
‘I’ve sensed someone watching me. I don’t know who yet, or why.’
‘I see but … umm … why did you want to examine Henry Bishop’s body?’
‘I wanted to know what killed him.’
‘Why didn’t you have a look when you were at the restaurant?’
I experienced the rare pleasure of making Hobbes start. ‘You saw me?’
‘Yes and there was blood all over you and … and when you disappeared, I thought you’d … well, I didn’t know what to think.’ I still didn’t and my nervousness returned.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘That explains it; I thought something was bothering you. Alright, I’ll tell you what happened. If you recall, I was looking for Henry, following the incident with the Bashem’s lad. It turned out he was a surprisingly good woodsman but I got onto his trail in the end and was only a few minutes behind when something crossed his path.’
‘What?’
‘A big cat that got to Henry before I could. Though he fired both barrels of his shotgun, it was to no avail and it attacked him. Managing to break away, bleeding badly, he made a run for the restaurant. I got some of his blood on me as I followed through the bushes.’
His explanation relaxed me enough that I was able to take a sip of tea. ‘Umm … why didn’t you help him?’
‘Because I hoped he’d be safe in the restaurant and believed it would be better to apprehend the cat before it caused any more trouble.’
‘Shouldn’t you have waited for backup? It might have been dangerous. And what happened?’
He frowned. ‘Unfortunately, it gave me the slip, almost as if it had vanished. It was most peculiar and, since then, I’ve been aware of being watched from time to time. Since I’d venture to suggest such behaviour is unusual for a cat, it must be a person.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 14
