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

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘The word we use with werecats is transmogrify,’ he said, ‘though, apart from that, you’ve got it. Of course, they can revert to human form whenever it suits them.’

  By then, I was too full of conflicting thoughts and swirling emotions to cope. Shaking my head, staggering upstairs, I collapsed onto my bed and curled up into the foetal position, my mind squirming with confusion, horror and doubt. After about ten minutes, feeling no better but still with an urge to know, I returned to the sitting room, where Hobbes had taken advantage of my absence to squeeze a third mug of tea from the pot. Dregs was dozing at his feet.

  ‘You’d better tell me everything,’ I said. ‘Just take it that I believe you.’ Though I wasn’t sure I did, nothing else made sense.

  ‘I will,’ said Hobbes, finishing his tea and taking a deep breath. ‘To start with, the big cat sightings only started after Mr King moved into the area, which, I admit, is purely circumstantial evidence. Then, as you know, they vanished whenever I tracked them and, since I often came across tyre tracks close to where I’d lost the trail, I assumed someone was transporting them. I now think it likely they drove themselves. Another thing which may be significant is that Mr King wears an overpowering aftershave or cologne, which I suspect he uses to mask any animal odours. Otherwise, I’m certain I’d have noticed something.’

  ‘It put you off the scent?’

  ‘Or, the scent put me off. And Miss King uses perfume, does she not?’

  ‘Yes, though that’s not unusual, is it?’

  ‘No, not in itself, but she does use rather a lot. Furthermore, we only became aware of two big cats after she joined him here. There is one point, though: has she ever met the dog?’

  Dregs, opening an eye, wagged his tail.

  I thought for a moment. ‘No, never. Except … umm … nearly that time at the Wildlife Park when something frightened him when he went inside …’ I ground to a halt, seeing what Hobbes was getting at.

  ‘Dogs have excellent noses and aren’t easily confused by artificial perfumes. I suspect her animal scent scared him. Of course, my nose wasn’t all it should be that day, with all that camel hair. You know something? I’ve a feeling Mr King might have got away with his intimidation of Eric and Featherlight and, I suspect, others who’ve sold property to him recently, had he not become aware of the Bashems. His schemes were overturned by his hatred of werewolves.’

  ‘But why does he hate them? Aren’t werecats and werewolves equally cursed?’

  ‘It only becomes a curse if they let it become one. The Bashems are perfectly happy with their heritage. As for Mr King’s hatred, I can only speculate that it started out as the usual cat and dog thing, but it seems to have grown out of all proportion. I fear he may be somewhat unbalanced.’

  ‘He’s stark raving mad,’ I said, remembering his tirade in the woods and shivering, ‘but what about Violet? She was nice to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I fear she used you to get information about me. I was obviously a threat, being what I am.’

  ‘What are you?’ I asked, hoping for insight.

  ‘A police officer.’

  ‘Of course. But, Felix sounded like he hated you personally.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first.’

  Though it was hard to accept, I was starting to believe him. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have, but, since being with Hobbes, I’d come to realise the world had more in it than I ever could have imagined.

  When we’d finished talking, Hobbes took Dregs out, leaving me to struggle with my confused feelings for Violet. I’d believed she was special, though, in all honesty, I hadn’t had much to compare with her. Without doubt, she’d brought glamour and yearning into my life and there’d been days when I’d barely been able to think of anything except her and, furthermore, there’d been whole hours when I’d dared to hope she was mine. Now it all boiled down to one fact, and there was no escaping it: she was a cat. I’d actually fancied a cat.

  The realisation, especially since it was more than mere fancy, for even when she’d greeted me so coldly at the festival, I’d still warmed to her, left me utterly bewildered and bereft. I think I had really loved her and part of me still did, while another part couldn’t help recoiling at the thought of what she was. Even so, such disasters just seemed to happen to me, my relations with women seemingly cursed. Then, at the back of everything, I was struggling to come to terms with one really odd fact, a fact that didn’t make sense: when Felix had seemed certain to kill me, she’d come to my rescue, as if she’d really cared for me, and her last words in the woods still haunted me. I sat for a long time, brooding.

  As the evening darkened, Mrs Goodfellow brought a cup of cocoa. Thanking her, I took it to bed and, after forcing my bruised body into a pair of clean, stripy pyjamas, I sat by the window, sipping my drink, still lost in a sea of baffling thoughts. As the lingering fronds of the day slipped away, I stared down into Blackdog Street, glinting silver beneath the glare of electric lights, seeing groups of people wandering past, no doubt on their way between hostelries. One guy, swaying down the centre of the street, collapsed with his head on the kerb, his legs stretched into the road, fortunate that no cars came by. Eventually, his mates lugged him up and dragged him away amidst ribald comments. The town settled into its usual background noise. Thuds nearby suggested someone was working hard at their DIY. In the distance, a dog barked and a plane flew high overhead, flashing red and green lights in the clear sky.

  I was just about to turn in when, fancying I’d glimpsed a greenish flash from the roof opposite, I stared into the night, seeing nothing. Dismissing it, I got into bed. After only a few seconds, jumping back out, I shut the window and drew the curtains. Though it was silly, the flash had reminded me of the glowing eyes of the previous night and, stupidly, I blushed; if it had been Violet’s flashing eyes out there, she might have seen me undressing. Not that I really believed anything, least of all her, was out there; it had certainly been a trick of the light, or of my imagination. Though I lay down and tried not to think, it didn’t work as I needed time for my twisted thoughts to untangle.

  The church clock struck eleven as someone sang an enthusiastic, if inaccurate, version of The Green, Green Grass of Home. Sometime later, the silence in the street outside suggesting the revellers and DIYers had called it a day, although I could have sworn I’d not slept, I jerked into full wakefulness and sat up.

  My skin was crawling with goose pimples. I couldn’t see anything, other than faint shadows cast by whatever light made it through the curtain, and couldn’t hear anything beyond the hiss of my breathing and the tattoo drummed out by my heart. I tried holding my breath, listening, hoping not to hear whatever had alarmed me. My hope was fulfilled, which frightened me almost as much as if I had heard something.

  The thing was, something felt wrong and, though I tried reasoning with myself, arguing against the likelihood of anything being in my room that shouldn’t, I was scared, really scared. Grabbing the sheets, I pulled them tight around me, though why I thought that would help was beyond me. Then, at last, on the edge of hearing, yet distinct, I heard a faint sound, a little like Velcro being pulled apart. It came again … and again. It was close, very close.

  ‘Hello?’ I said with quavering voice that tended to falsetto. ‘Is somebody there?’

  ‘Yes,’ purred a soft voice by my head.

  ‘Violet?’ I gasped, knowing instantly what had been wrong: I could smell her perfume. It was too dark to see her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to make sure you’re alright.’

  ‘I’m OK. That is, I’m not too bad … nothing’s actually broken … I’m a bit sore though. And you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m glad you’re alright.’

  ‘I’ll turn the light on,’ I said, moving as if to get out of bed.

  She pushed me back.

  ‘That would not be a very good idea. It will be best if you stay where you are.’

  ‘Why?’


  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said and almost did, though a strange confusion of terror and elation was swirling through me. ‘It’s … umm … nice to see you again. I mean to say, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you, too. I hoped you’d call after the picnic. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I did try when I was better.’

  ‘You were ill? What was the matter?’

  ‘I got a bad fever, after I’d walked home in the rain.’

  ‘Sorry about that … I had to get away from the arboretum … Something nasty was in the woods.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘the werewolf.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘You know about them?’

  ‘Only what I’ve picked up recently. They still scare me.’

  ‘Poor Andy, I really wish you hadn’t got involved in all of this.’

  ‘In all of what?’

  ‘Our war against those vile, filthy abominations.’

  ‘Well … they’re a bit dirty, maybe, but Hobbes reckons they’re alright.’

  ‘He would do, but he’s quite wrong. Felix thought you were one of them.’

  ‘Me? A werewolf? That’s crazy.’

  ‘Not a werewolf, but a collaborator, which is almost as bad.’

  ‘You’re talking like him.’ I said, not liking it at all, for she didn’t sound like my Violet. Though I’d loved hearing her voice, always sounding soft and sweet, even when she’d been frightened or angry, the new, fanatical harshness scared and repelled me even more than what she was saying. I hoped, she hadn’t meant it.

  She continued. ‘Felix talks a lot of sense. No one wants those freaks polluting our world.’

  ‘They don’t do any harm.’

  ‘That’s not the point. They exist. Therefore, they must be annihilated.’

  ‘Why? Hobbes reckons we can all live together.’

  ‘You are starting to sound like a collaborator and I thought you were one of the good guys … I liked you, despite what Felix said, but perhaps he was right, like he was with Arthur.’

  ‘Who’s Arthur?’ I asked, suddenly, unaccountably jealous.

  ‘Arthur Crud. He was my fiancé. Felix warned me about him.’

  ‘Arthur Crud? The rapist?’

  ‘That’s him. He was like you, nice and harmless on the surface but a monster beneath.’

  ‘He didn’t …’ I felt sick.

  ‘Not me. Some other poor girl who worked for us. He’d be banged up in prison right now if your friend Hobbes hadn’t got him off.’

  ‘Hobbes did that?’ The idea was appalling.

  ‘Yes. And yet you admire him. I don’t understand you.’

  I felt like I’d fallen into an ocean of confusion. That Hobbes had his bad points, I’d have been the first to admit, though I found it hard to believe he’d help a rapist escape justice. It wasn’t what he did and, whereas I knew he had his own take on the law, in my experience, he’d always aimed for justice, even if it might have been a rough sort of justice.

  ‘But I thought Hobbes had killed Arthur Crud,’ I said.

  ‘Killed him? Felix would have had him killed if Hobbes hadn’t interfered.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hobbes got Arthur away when Felix sent round some of the boys to deal with him.’

  ‘Oh. But I’m not like Arthur Crud.’

  ‘No? I saw you throw yourself onto that poor girl.’

  ‘I didn’t. She threw herself onto me!’

  Though she laughed, it was a cold laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not that good looking. Actually, you’re not bad. What lets you down is being friends with Hobbes, who’s responsible for all the nastiness in this godforsaken town. You really should get away from here, and get away quickly.’

  ‘I’m not really his friend,’ I said, regretting it immediately, feeling a real traitor. Yet, he wasn’t exactly a friend, for friendship implies a sort of equality and I didn’t believe I was his equal in anything. Even so, there was something between us and I did care for him and his good opinion. In fact, it occurred to me that I often felt almost like a son, who needed his father’s approval. The idea shocked me, though the time was not right for thinking about it. ‘I’m only here because I’ve got nowhere else.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she said, her voice softening again. ‘My advice is to get out of here, to get out of here tomorrow. Then you’ll have a future to look forward to, a future untainted by association. But time’s getting on and I must say goodbye now. It’s been interesting knowing you.’

  ‘Has it? Good. Umm … are you going somewhere?’

  ‘We’re leaving. We can’t stay after what’s happened, can we?’

  ‘I suppose not, but why come to see me? Why not send a note? Surely, this is dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, but I really wanted to see you again. I’d hoped, just for a few days, that you might be the special one because there is something in you … I don’t know what. The thing is, in the beginning, Felix asked me to befriend you as a way to get at Hobbes but I actually found that I liked you. You seemed different to other men and I hoped I might get you away from him and that I’d have you forever.’

  Her voice was so gentle and sad I sat, entranced, quite forgiving her unforgivable behaviour.

  ‘I’d hoped, too,’ I said.

  ‘Did you? It’s such a shame. If those stinking werewolves hadn’t turned up, it might have worked out. Given time, I would have convinced you to think and act right and saved you. I wish I still could. Maybe, Felix would have accepted you. Still, it can’t be helped. Felix has done what had to be done and we’ve got to move on. Maybe, we’ll be able to come back when the fuss dies down and people can see that we acted for the best.’

  ‘You don’t always have to do what he says.’

  ‘My interests are his interests.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘Did he tell you to attack Mr Bullimore?’

  ‘He doesn’t tell me what to do. That half-breed stinks of werewolf and had to be destroyed. I’m only sorry I failed.’

  ‘Because you came to help me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Against Felix.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t have to go with him. If you stay, I’m sure we can work something out. You’re not like him.’

  ‘I am very much like him. Sometimes we have to be ruthless, even if it hurts. We must always see the bigger picture. But you could come with me.’

  ‘But what about Felix?’ I asked, almost ready to risk his wrath, just to be with her. I was too late.

  ‘Hobbes is coming,’ she hissed. ‘I must go. Goodbye, darling. I am truly sorry.’

  Something soft and velvety brushed my cheek. There was a faint sensation of movement and a dark shadow before the curtains flapped and she was gone. Everything was quiet.

  I sat, as if her leaving had turned me to stone, knowing I still loved her.

  The front door opening, heavy feet pounded upstairs.

  Hobbes burst into my room, turning on the light. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and astonished myself by bursting into tears.

  22

  I would, no doubt, have found the next few minutes excruciatingly embarrassing, had I been capable of anything other than gut-wrenching grief. Though grown men weren’t supposed to cry, I couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Hobbes, raising his hand as if to console me, hesitating, and scratching his head.

  I couldn’t force out much intelligible in the gaps between the sobs. He stared and looked uncomfortable. Dregs hurtled upstairs, stopping just outside my room, and, picking up the mood, threw back his big black head and howled.

  Mrs Goodfellow, shrouded in a voluminous white nightie, her thin grey hair coiled in rollers, arrived. ‘What have you been doing to him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hobbes. ‘I sensed
one of those big cats up here when I was coming up the street, so I thought I’d better make sure it hadn’t eaten him.’ He sniffed. ‘It seems Miss King has been to see you.’

  ‘She has,’ I said, squeezing out words in the intervals between upheavals of my chest. ‘She said she’s got to go away from here.’

  I don’t think I’d ever felt such a cutting, debilitating sense of loss, at least not as an adult. Unable to help it, I cried, while Dregs bristled and howled.

  After several seconds of mayhem, Hobbes roared, ‘Be quiet!’

  It shut us both up. Dregs, tail between his legs, mournful eyed, fled, while I sat up, blowing my nose on the tissue Mrs G had pulled from her pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hobbes, frowning. ‘Now, maybe you’ll explain what she was doing here?’

  Though I did my best, it wasn’t my most coherent narrative and yet he listened, appearing to understand my ramblings.

  ‘Did she give any hint where they might be going?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. Not today … She did once mention a house in France, but I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Hobbes, looking eager, ‘I’d better look for her. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Loping towards the open window, he vaulted out.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of cocoa,’ said Mrs G.

  Dregs crept into the room as she left, laying his head on my hand. I stroked his rough hair, which comforted us both so much that, when the old girl returned a few minutes later, carrying a steaming mug, I’d more or less recovered from the crying fit, while Dregs was back to his normal self, though avoiding places where I guessed Violet had been.

  ‘Your eyes are red, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, handing me the mug. ‘It’s hard when a loved one goes away.’

  ‘I’m not sure I … umm … loved her.’

  ‘I think you did, dear.’

  She was right, though my feelings were too tender to admit to. Only much later did it occur to me that she knew what she was talking about, her husband having left her to find himself in Tahiti. I supposed she’d probably found his desertion hurtful.