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

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘He looked more like a fox with the trots.’ I smirked.

  The old girl gave me her ‘stern’ look. ‘Did you do any better?’

  ‘Sort of. I danced with a young lady.’

  ‘Good for you, but why are you looking so glum?’

  ‘Because Violet saw me.’

  ‘Well, a dance can’t hurt.’

  ‘Umm …’ I said, squirming and blushing, ‘we weren’t actually dancing when she saw us … we were sort of rolling around in the grass.’

  Mrs G’s eyebrows rose and her eyes twinkled behind her glasses. ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t … I didn’t mean it to happen … in fact, I’m not sure how it did happen and I wish it hadn’t … At least not when she could see me. I want to explain it was all a mistake, but I can’t find her and I don’t know what she’ll say if I do … and I’m not sure what Felix will do to me if … when I speak to her.’

  ‘He won’t do anything while I’m around.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m going to talk to her whatever happens.’

  ‘Well, take care, dear and don’t do anything too foolish. I suspect millionaires won’t be spending the night in a tent; if I were you, I’d check those camper vans on the edge of the site.’

  ‘Thanks, I will, though I thought they were heading this way. Perhaps they’re staying in the farmhouse?’

  ‘I doubt it, dear. There can’t be much room inside with six children, not to mention Mr and Mrs Bashem and Mr Bullimore.’

  ‘Six? I thought there were an awful lot of them. Oh well, I expect they’re all out enjoying the music.’

  ‘I expect so, dear. Anyway, here’s young Arnold come to take over the gate.’

  Arnold wobbled towards us, a large paper cup of cola in one hand, an even larger burger in the other. He nodded with a greasy grin. Though, since living at Hobbes’s, burgers had lost much of their appeal, the sight of it, combined with the scent of fried onions, made me realise I was quite hungry. I wondered what I could do about it.

  ‘Well, unless anything happens, I’m off duty until midnight,’ said Mrs G. ‘I’ll go and make supper. I expect you’ll be hungry; I know the old fellow will be.’

  ‘I was starting to feel a bit peckish,’ I admitted. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Chicken in the bucket.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, dear, it’s all prepared. I just need to mix it up and get it on the heat. It’ll probably be ready after the next act.’

  ‘Umm … did you really say chicken in the bucket?’

  ‘Yes, dear, though it’s not really in a bucket; it’s in a Dutch oven. You go and enjoy the music. I’m sure you’ll find your young lady later.’

  Taking Dregs with her, she walked away, and I headed back towards the stage in time for the end of Tim’s short set, a complete racket. However, afterwards, we were privileged to witness a bizarre set from a lunatic calling herself Mad Donna. Though, when she started, some complained that she was not quite what they’d been expecting, her crazed antics and weird gibberings exerted a trance-like fascination, soon overriding any objections. She had a five-piece band, yet the music was strangely irrelevant. We finally cheered her off after three encores. I thought she’d be a hard act to follow, until I was strolling back to the tent and the scent of Mrs G’s chicken in the bucket struck me.

  The old girl, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was stirring an iron pot with a large wooden spoon or possibly a small paddle, with Hobbes squatting beside her, whittling a whistle from a small stick. Despite, or possibly because of, his weird costume and behaviour, I had to admit he’d done an amazing job at fitting in. No one would suspect him of being a policeman: he was quite obviously a nutter.

  I sprawled on the grass next to Dregs while the old girl dished up, pulling in quite an audience. Sad people with hungry eyes swallowed, gazing at the steam swirling from the gurgling pot, the pot that was sending out such enticing aromas. When, at last, they turned away, trudging towards the burger vans, I had never before felt so privileged and lucky. When she handed me a bowl, with a hunk of fresh, crusty bread and a spoon, I could barely wait for Hobbes to say grace. Hunger, fresh air and exquisite cooking had given me an appetite and I regret I rather stuffed myself, fearful any might go to waste, or be offered to the passing throng. Though undoubtedly selfish, I’d challenge anyone to resist another bite of the old girl’s cooking. A bottle of the good wine added extra zest to the meal.

  When we’d finished, I asked if I could help with the washing up.

  ‘Oh no, dear,’ she said, smiling. ‘Why don’t you boys run along and enjoy yourselves.’

  Sometimes, I thought, she had all the right answers. We sat watching Simon and Garth Ingle perform a set of whimsical folky songs, Dregs howling and, in my view, improving the performance. However, some people seemed to want to listen, so eventually we led him away, paying a quick visit to the beer tent.

  ‘A pint of lager and two quarts of “Old Gutbuster” please, man,’ said Hobbes to the barmaid.

  Taking our drinks, we sat in the evening sun. Though Hobbes gulped down two pints in a matter of seconds, I sipped at mine, feeling far too full to take on copious amounts. My thoughts kept returning to Violet and, halfway through my drink, I came to a decision.

  ‘I’m going to find Violet,’ I said.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Good idea. Would you like me to come with you? In case Mr King starts anything?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’d rather do this on my own. I’ll be alright. See you later.’

  I got up, searching the crowd, examining every face, as bands came and went, some of them rather good, making me wish I could share them with her. I didn’t see her, or Felix, or any of his men. In the end, when darkness had fallen except for the stage lighting, I gave up and watched No One You’ve Ever Heard Of. Their music was noisy with a pounding beat and the band, giving the performance of a lifetime, almost revived my spirits, making me cheer along with all the others. Hobbes joined me for a short time and then wandered off to ensure there was no trouble. I didn’t think there would be; everybody seemed intent on enjoying themselves.

  The band finishing, I returned to the tent, removing my shoes and crawling under the blankets. To start with, Dregs lay across my feet, welcome warmth, on a clear night with a steady breeze. I lay, yawning, trying to sleep, the ground even harder and lumpier than it had looked, people far too noisy. It became apparent that, despite exhaustion, I would never drop off. My fidgeting disturbed Dregs, who, sighing, wandered out into the night. After about half an hour, remembering I hadn’t brushed my teeth, I dragged myself from beneath the covers, found my toothbrush and a towel and headed for the washrooms, shivering in the night air.

  Just about everyone had moved away from the silent stage, now lit only by starlight and the crescent moon. Small groups of people, sprawling in the grass, sitting on stools, laughed and talked, as if no one else planned on sleeping that night. An assortment of teenagers were attempting rudimentary cooking on an open fire, impaling sausages on sticks, but the bottles and cans surrounding them suggested why they were not enjoying much success. As another sausage flared up in a blaze of glory, they roared with laughter. I doubted they’d get much to eat; they didn’t appear to mind.

  Finding the washrooms, I blinked under the strip light until, a basin becoming free, I brushed my teeth, made a brave attempt at washing in cold water, and headed back across the field. I paused to watch a bare-chested tumbler’s wobbly one-man display. When he collapsed amidst great cheers, I turned away, bumping into a woman. Her perfume was powerful and heady.

  ‘Oops … umm … sorry,’ I said.

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘Oh … umm … Violet … Hi.’

  19

  ‘Well,’ said Violet, ‘I suppose I should be grateful you’ve remembered my name.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ I said. ‘I’m so glad I bumped into you – I’ve been … umm … looking for you all night.’
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br />   She glanced at my towel and toothbrush. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Even in semi-darkness, she looked stunning, her eyes reflecting the crescent moon, her dark, lustrous hair gleaming over her shoulders. Another whiff of her perfume reached my nostrils. ‘I’ve been trying to see you ever since the accident … I really have.’

  ‘Oh, yes? I was in hospital; I assume you know where that is?’

  She wouldn’t look me in the face, despite my best efforts.

  ‘Yes … but …’

  ‘You couldn’t even bother to get in touch when they released me. A token interest would have been polite.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you. I did try.’

  ‘Did you? How hard is it to pick up a telephone?’

  ‘But I hadn’t got your number,’ I said, realising how utterly useless I must be presenting myself.

  ‘Ever heard of directory enquiries? Anyway, you could have asked Felix.’

  ‘I did, but he wouldn’t …’

  ‘Wouldn’t what?’

  Her voice was harsh and cold and it hurt to hear it like that. I hesitated, wondering if I should just tell her what he’d said, fearing she wouldn’t believe me.

  ‘Umm … he … umm … suggested it might be better if I … we didn’t see each other again.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it worthwhile to ask me?’

  ‘Yes, I did … but …’

  ‘Is this man bothering you?’ asked one of Felix’s men, tall, burly, with a head as smooth as a pickled-onion, approaching from the darkness.

  Before she could answer, before I could think, but not before I could squeak, he frogmarched me across the field.

  ‘It would,’ he said, politely enough, had he not been crushing my shoulder, ‘be an excellent idea for you to stop hassling Miss King. If you are tempted, resist it. If you don’t, you are likely to find yourself in deep shit. You know what I’m saying?’

  When I nodded, he released me.

  ‘Good night,’ he said, turning back the way he’d come.

  Unable to see Violet anymore, I realised she might have been almost anywhere in the darkness, so all I could do was return to the tent and reflect on our chance meeting. It had not been a success and, although, the interruption hadn’t helped, I couldn’t fool myself that it had been going well before that. Knowing she believed I hadn’t wanted to see her, hadn’t even wanted to make sure she was alright, hurt as much as her cold voice. More painful though, was my shoulder, which, I suspected, would be displaying a hand-sized bruise by the morning.

  My response to the henchman must have impressed her. If she’d been thinking ‘what are you, Andy, man or mouse?’ then my pathetic squeak would have confirmed her suspicions. I wished I’d had the guts to take Mrs Goodfellow’s martial arts classes. If I had, I might not have been such a wimp.

  It was too late of course, so, crawling back into the tent like the mouse I was, curling up under the blankets, I lay awake for what seemed like hours, futile regrets churning through my brain. I didn’t expect to drop off.

  Hobbes shook me from deep sleep. ‘Wake up!’

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

  ‘Trouble.’

  ‘Oh, right. I don’t suppose you’ll need me.’

  Though my nose, my only exposed part, was cold, my bedding was warm and, to my astonishment, comfortable.

  ‘Get your boots on,’ said Hobbes, ‘and quickly.’ He tugged the blankets off me, except for the one I was clutching to my face.

  I sat up, bleary and cross. He bundled me from the tent, sitting me down in front with my shoes. People were running backwards and forwards, making panicky noises as I struggled with my laces, the brisk breeze making me shiver and wrap my blanket around my shoulders. In the distance, a girl screamed, a faint orange glow became an intense red flame and I became aware of the stink of burning plastic. Something bad was happening.

  ‘They’re setting fire to tents,’ said Hobbes. ‘Follow me.’

  Unable to make sense of shoelaces, I stumbled after him, shoes flapping, trying not to trip. When another tent flared up, his easy lope became a sprint and, on reaching it, he dived head-long into the inferno, as if into a swimming pool. Smoke and flames, bursting high into the night sky, rolled and twisted in the wind, casting shifting, fractured, red light over the crowd. People were coughing as the smoke billowed around the field.

  The tent erupting with sparks and flaming fragments, Hobbes burst forth like a rocket from the launch pad, a limp body beneath each arm. I was still running as he laid them on the grass and, without thinking, pulling the blanket from my shoulders, I threw it over the nearest figure, beating out the smouldering patches, realising it was a young woman cocooned within a sleeping bag. Despite the smoke and fumes, I could smell the alcohol on her breath as she started to come awake.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ she asked, ‘Get off me.’

  An arm emerged and dealt a stinging slap across my face. With no time to explain, ripping the blanket from her, I spread it over the other figure, patting out any smoking bits. On looking up, I saw Hobbes rolling on the ground, his head ablaze. I grabbed the blanket but before I could get to him, he tore off his head and tossed it to the ground.

  I screeched, an incoherent outpouring of horror, feeling sick, staring stunned and uncomprehending, as he leapt to his feet, stamping out the blaze. Only then did I realise that he’d simply torn off his hippie hat and wig.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Never better,’ he said, ‘though I was, maybe, a little hot-headed diving in like that, if not as hot-headed as I was getting out. I appear to be a little singed. It’ll pass.’

  Despite everything, I chuckled, before spluttering, the swirling, acrid smoke catching the back of my throat.

  Hobbes, still smoking slightly, patted me on the back. ‘You did well. It was good thinking to bring that blanket.’

  He turned away and attended to the two he’d rescued. I knelt beside them as the girl, who looked familiar, unzipped herself.

  ‘You!’ she said, looking up at me and frowning.

  ‘I’m still not Wayne,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m sorry I hit you, not that you’re not Wayne.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m alright. You didn’t hit me hard. Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ She coughed. ‘Your lip’s bleeding, I’m sorry; I thought you were Wayne trying it on. And I’m really sorry I stitched you up this afternoon.’

  ‘What d’you mean? That was on purpose? Why?’

  She looked away. ‘Some bloke gave me twenty quid to jump on you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. A tall guy in a suit … quite old: older than you, anyway. He said you were a bastard who was trying it on with his sister and I was to show her what you were like. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, despite seething – not at her, not much, but at Felix. Turning towards the other casualty, who was lying very still, I asked Hobbes how he was.

  ‘He appears to be dead …’

  The girl screamed, clapping a hand across her mouth.

  Hobbes held up his hands, shaking his head. ‘I was trying to say that he appears to be dead drunk. Otherwise, he seems alright apart from his hair. He’ll not be needing a cut for a while.’

  ‘Fetch water!’ he roared at the crowd, getting to his feet, tearing down burning tents, three of which were already ablaze, others being in imminent danger as the breeze whipped up sparks and flame.

  A few individuals, getting past the gawping stage, set up a chain from a standpipe, hurling containers of water onto the conflagrations. I joined them and, under the command of Mrs Goodfellow’s team, with Hobbes’s demolitions providing a firebreak, it wasn’t too long before we were in control. When the fire brigade turned up, at last, there wasn’t much left to do, other than damping down the
remaining hot spots.

  When, shortly afterwards, an ambulance arrived to take him away, Wayne had sobered up enough to realise his hair was a blackened frizz, and was seemingly more concerned about that than the loss of his tent and near immolation.

  As order and calm gradually reasserted themselves, Hobbes took me across the field.

  ‘It was very brave,’ I said, ‘to throw yourself into a fire. You were lucky you weren’t hurt.’

  ‘I was just doing my job.’

  ‘But,’ I continued, ‘how did you know there was going to be a fire?’

  ‘I didn’t, but I had smelt trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble.’

  ‘Two panthers.’

  ‘Won’t the fires have scared them off?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Where did you see them?’

  ‘I didn’t see them,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose.

  ‘So, where didn’t you see them?’

  ‘Near the stage, heading towards the farmhouse.’

  ‘OK, so what are we going to do?’ I asked, with as much bravado as I could, worried he’d want to involve me in the trouble. Why else would he have woken me?

  ‘Find them, if possible.’

  ‘Will you need me?’

  ‘Need? Probably not, but I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘Interested is not the word,’ I said, thinking terrified might be more appropriate.

  ‘Good. Now follow me, keep close and keep quiet.’

  I jogged behind, hoping the panthers had fled. As we reached the gate into the lane, he stopped suddenly.

  I didn’t. Bouncing off him, I sat down heavily. ‘Oof!’

  ‘Shh!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Shh!’

  I used the gatepost to pull myself up, trying to see why he’d stopped, unable to see much at all, and certainly nothing to worry me, apart from Hobbes, of course.

  ‘That’s odd,’ he murmured, sniffing the air.

  ‘What’s odd?’

  ‘That scent. I know it. But from where?’

  I couldn’t smell anything, except for burned tent and a faint whiff of manure. The dark outline of the farmhouse stood out on the other side of the lane.