I stood up. 'Sorry. I need the bathroom.'
I fled for sanctuary, last night's lager throbbing in my skull, bladder close to overflowing, guts ready to burst. For some time, sitting on the toilet, I held my head, biding my time, trying to round up my stampeded wits. Occasionally, I heard Hobbes snort like an impatient bull.
Finished at last, I washed my hands, splashed cold water into my eyes, brushed my teeth and gazed into the mirror. My face was pastry-white beneath ragged stubble, my eyeballs, glistening like pink mushrooms, stared back. I groaned, finding it difficult to believe I could feel even rougher than I looked. On bending to drink from the tap, my brains felt like they would explode and I had to swallow hard so as not to throw up. The water was cool and, gulping it down, I berated myself, hating that I'd drunk so much again. Only then did I remember that I should have drafted and delivered a succinct account of my meeting with Hobbes to the Bugle. Cringing at what the Editorsaurus would say, I hoped to redeem myself with something brilliant later.
'Hurry up.' Hobbes's voice reverberated through my soul.
Opening the bathroom door, I stepped out, attempting to smile through the nausea, intending to explain that I needed a long, hot shower and a long, slow breakfast but, before I could start, he seized my shoulder, hauling me from the flat, down the stairs and into the street. The morning sun, reflecting off the damp pavement, left me blinking and rubbing my eyes, nearly blind and helpless. As my vision adjusted, I noticed he was dragging me towards a battered, rusty Ford Fiesta by the kerb. Opening the passenger door, he pushed me into it.
'Make yourself comfy and don't forget your seatbelt,' he said, getting in the other side, grinning, his mouth a mass of yellow fangs.
Fighting the impulse to protect my throat, I nodded, trying to project an image of polite alertness and interest. The belt clicked around my belly and he started the engine with a roar. Why he roared, I'll never know and I came within a whisker of wetting myself. I felt how I imagined I'd feel if someone locked me in a cage with a tiger, except tigers are beautiful. The car screeched away and, before I could plead for release, we were speeding to work.
He was really speeding, not simply exceeding the speed limit. Gripping my seat, wrestling with the urge to bail out, I hoped that, with luck, I might end up in hospital with nice nurses to look after me and no Hobbes to worry about. Yet, as I stared at the road flying past, I knew I couldn't do it; even if I survived the leap and the inevitable splat, I'd have trouble explaining my actions. After all, he'd never done anything to threaten me and flinging oneself from a moving vehicle because of a vague feeling of horror is a sure way into the nuthouse. Instead, I shut my eyes, letting my crazy thoughts divert me from his driving and, eventually, when it looked as if I might survive, it occurred to me I had no idea where we were heading.
Opening my eyes, peering around, I saw we were out of town, passing between avenues of tall, bleak trees, somewhere, I guessed, on the Stillingham Road. 'Umm … where are we going?'
Hobbes turned to face me, the car swooping back and forth across the road like a drunken swallow, causing a van coming the other way to flash its lights. 'To where Mr Roman's body was found. It's not far. Hang on and relax.'
He chuckled and, briefly, the idea of leaping from the car regained its appeal as it crossed my mind that Duncan's so-called 'accident' might have been a cunning ploy to get out of this assignment. Making an attempt at a smile, sitting back, I closed my eyes and thought of Ingrid, who sometimes spoke to me. I couldn't understand what she saw in that smarmy Phil.
Our brakes screeched, jerking me from my reverie. We swerved, accompanied by the long braying of the horn from a big, shiny, black car, and both vehicles, pulling into a lay-by, stopped.
A furious, red-faced, young man stepped out. He looked like trouble. So did the other three, their appearances perfectly matching my definition of 'yobs', especially the one twiddling a baseball bat. As they approached, Hobbes was fiddling with a map, while I cringed into my seat, aiming for invisibility. The red-faced one rapped on the door with heavy brass rings.
Hobbes wound down the window. 'Can I help you, sir?'
'What the hell d'you think you're playing at, arsehole? You forced us off the bloody road. You need a lesson.'
'Mind your language, please, sir,' Hobbes's voice rumbled. 'I wasn't playing. It appeared to me that you weren't paying due attention to the road conditions. In fact I considered you were driving to the imperilment of the public and so I forced you here so I could tell you to drive more responsibly.'
'No one tells me nothing.' The man cracked his knuckles.
'We'll see,' said Hobbes, unbuckling his seat belt, opening the door.
I slid further down, a cold, sick feeling entering my belly.
Taking a step back, beckoning with both hands, the red-faced man laughed. 'C'mon then, granddad, if you think you're hard enough. '
Hobbes, squeezing from the car, straightened up. He was a bulky bloke, I knew, yet it was surprising how big he'd become, though it was still four against one, and one of the four was armed. Swallowing as Hobbes advanced, the red-faced man took another step backwards, looking to his mates, who showed little inclination to be heroes, except for the one with the baseball bat, who, lunging forward, yelling fiercely, took a great swing at Hobbes's head. I turned my face away, hearing a cry of pain; when I looked back, Hobbes was on his knees, the gang standing around him. Fearing it wouldn't be long before they started on me, I made up my mind to leg it. After all, what point would there be in me getting beaten up, too?
Leaping from the car, glancing over my shoulder, I stopped, for, although Hobbes was kneeling, his legs were straddling the man who'd swung the bat and who now appeared to be unconscious. He was gently slapping the man's cheek. At least, I supposed it was meant to be gently.
'Wakey, wakey,' he said.
The man groaned, and came to, the splintered stump of his baseball bat beside him.
'I'm sorry,' said Hobbes, 'I broke your stick.'
Standing up, he lifted the groggy man to his feet, holding him by the scruff of the neck, and addressed the yobs. 'Your mate needs a bit of a lie down. Now, you will all be certain to drive sensibly in future won't you?'
The man with the red face had changed, his expression of fury replaced by one of bewilderment, his complexion turned white, with a hint of muddy-green, reminiscent of some toothpaste I'd once bought in a hippy shop. He nodded.
'Promise?' said Hobbes.
'I promise.'
'Okey-dokey.' Hobbes smiling, swung the patient into the back of the big, black car. 'You may go now.'
Meekly, the men got in and drove away.
'That was fun,' said Hobbes, 'but I should get to work. Come along.'
Where we'd parked, the road cut through an expanse of desolate, grey, woodland. Hobbes, sniffing the air, strode into it with me on his tail. The season's fallen leaves were mouldering in deep drifts around our ankles, the closeness of the trees making everything gloomy and oppressive, an odour of damp decay filling my nostrils.
While he moved swiftly, quiet as a wood mouse, I stumbled over roots, banging my head on low branches. I was gasping for breath by the time the woods opened out into a clearing, in which stood a single oak tree, encircled by police tape.
Hobbes stepped over it. 'Stay where you are. This is where the body was found, hanged by the neck until dead.'
Although sweat was already trickling down my back, I shivered, as he squatted on all fours like a monstrous toad, appearing to sniff the grass. After a few seconds, he ducked back under the tape, loping into the woods, his knuckles brushing the ground. I toiled after him as well as I could, for he was following an erratic course at a deceptive pace, though, as far as I could tell, we were always heading away from the hanging tree. I blundered along behind, sweating, cursing, struggling to keep him in sight, already uncertain of finding my way back to the clearing, never mind to the car, and fearing I'd be in real trouble if I lost him. My rising
fears kept me lumbering forward while too many lagers, takeaways and days sat on my backside slowed me down. I puffed and gasped, the blood throbbing in my aching head.
After stumbling over a crumbling, mossy log, I leaned against a green-streaked tree trunk, catching my breath, and, by the time I was able to stand upright again, he'd gone. He'd abandoned me in the woods, in the wild, where anything might happen. My legs giving way, I knelt in the sodden leaf mould, feeling the damp and cold spreading through my jeans, longing for the familiarity of town, particularly that bit where my bed offered warmth and security. I didn't even know why we'd been running. I'd just been following because I couldn't help myself.
'Come on, Andy, keep up, lad.' He was standing over me, not even breathing heavily.
Shocked beyond speaking, filled with an adrenalin rush, I sprang back to my feet. Nodding, he set off again in the same hunched run, if just a little slower and, somehow, I did keep up for what I guessed was about twenty minutes. When he stopped and straightened up, I ran into him.
Without appearing to notice, he stepped away. Bending forward, resting my hands on my knees, dripping with sweat, throwing up water, I gulped down air, waiting for my pulse rate to drop to something feasible, and realising I wasn't as fit as I'd thought, though I'd thought I was pretty unfit.
'Found it,' said Hobbes.
Raising my head, I let my gaze follow his pointing finger towards a silver Audi, parked down a rutted track through the trees.
'That's Mr Roman's car.' He shambled towards it, rubbing his huge, hairy hands together in triumph. 'He must have parked here and wandered through the woods before hanging himself. There are no signs anyone was with him, so the suicide theory looks solid.'
He'd impressed me. I'd seen no trace of any trail.
'Right, I'll take a look.' He turned to me, efficient and commanding. 'You stay where you are, and don't touch anything.'
'OK.' Despite the nausea and headache, I was excited, seeing some real police work. Reaching into my jeans pocket for my notebook, I remembered it was still in my cagoule, still in the Bugle's office.
Hobbes, taking a large, red handkerchief, or possibly a small, red tea towel, from his coat, used it to open the car's door. Scanning the interior, he bent forward, and the boot opened with a click. There lay a violin case. Opening it, Hobbes revealed a violin.
'Interesting,' he said. 'Someone broke into his house, ransacked it and he claimed the only thing stolen was his violin, which was really in the boot of his car. Mr Roman was fibbing.'
'But why?' My teeth had started chattering as the heat of my exertions dissipated and cold air penetrated my clammy sweatshirt.
He shrugged. 'Who knows? Possibly he really did have something to hide.'
'It must have been something serious if it made him kill himself.'
Hobbes frowned. 'That seems likely. Maybe the burglar discovered a secret and tried to blackmail him, or perhaps the burglar took something so important he couldn't live without it.'
Pulling a mobile phone from his bulging coat pocket, he pressed a few buttons using the sharp, yellow nail on his little finger. I hadn't really noticed his fingernails before, which puzzled me, as they seemed to protrude like claws but, when he put the phone to his hairy ear, they appeared normal, if thick, horny and yellow is normal.
Having issued orders to someone, he thrust the phone back into his pocket. 'A couple of the lads will be here soon,' he said. 'Stay put while I have a poke around.'
Getting down on hands and knees, he crawled, sniffing and touching. Although fascinated, I couldn't settle, for throwing up had made me feel better, despite the chill, and my stomach, now empty, was demanding a fill.
The lads, actually a gangly constable and a fierce-looking young woman, drove down the track towards us about twenty minutes later. After briefing them, leaving them in charge, taking a glance at the sky and a sniff of the air, Hobbes led me straight back through the woods to the car.
As he squeezed inside and let me in, my stomach rumbling, I realised just how sharp hunger pangs could be, though I was glad the excitement and exertion had overwhelmed my hangover. My head felt clear, my brain ticked over sweetly: all the fresh air and exercise must have done me a deal of good. All the same, I would have preferred a couple of aspirins, several mugs of strong coffee and a relaxing morning in bed. I risked a question.
'Is there any chance of getting a bit of breakfast? I'm starving and a cup of coffee would be nice, too.'
He looked astonished. 'Have you not had breakfast? I thought you must have done, with those grease stains down your front.' He paused. 'I'll tell you what, we're heading back to the station and the canteen hasn't killed anyone recently. They'll do you some grub. I wouldn't touch the coffee but there's a kettle and stuff in my office.'
He started the engine and we sped back to Sorenchester, stopping with a squeal of brakes. Opening my eyes, I got out, wrinkling my nose on account of the stench of burned rubber, noticing the bumper touching the police station wall. He led me through a side-entrance straight to his office.
It was not the first time I'd been in a police station. I'd once become involved in an unfortunate incident at the Wildlife Park, although I have always maintained my innocence; my arrival and the hippopotamus's disappearance being entirely coincidental, but that's another story, one entirely different to what the Bugle published, without my contribution. Yet, Hobbes's office looked unlike anything I'd seen before, except, perhaps, when I'd watched reruns of Dixon of Dock Green. The furniture, not that there was much, would have been at home in a junk shop: a battered and dented mahogany desk with brass fittings, two substantial oak chairs, looking as though they might once have been upholstered, a rusting filing cabinet, with a black, Bakelite telephone on top. Cardboard boxes had been stacked in one corner and a hat stand, constructed from lustrous dark wood with bullhorns for hooks, lurked behind the door. A vast aspidistra on the window ledge, gave the room a gloomy, greenish tinge like being in the jungle. A small table with a gas ring stood in the corner opposite the entrance, supporting a dented copper kettle, a stained white teapot, a few tins and two chipped mugs. The room smelt of dust, old books and, of course, the feral scent of Hobbes. Mounds of papers littered the desk, along with a solitary picture frame. I glanced at it, expecting a photograph of … actually, I'm not sure what I'd expected: maybe his family, assuming he had one. I wouldn't have bet on a sepia photograph of Queen Victoria.
'I see you're admiring my picture of the queer old dean.' The room shook as he laughed. 'Right, d'you fancy a cup of tea?'
'Yes, please,' I said.
'Good. Make me one as well, would you?' A banana-sized finger pointed to the kettle.
'Oh, right. Of course. Umm … do you take milk or sugar?'
'Two lumps of each, please. When you're done, I'll show you to the canteen.'
The kettle, being already full, and discovering a box of matches on top of one of the tins, I lit the gas and rummaged for tea bags. There weren't any, just loose leaves in a tin caddy, for which my training as tea-boy at the Bugle had not prepared me. Still, I had learned of the possibility of making tea without bags; Phil had been telling Ingrid how tea tasted 'so much nicer if made properly', while I'd listened sarcastically, never thinking I might one day be grateful. When the kettle boiled, I poured a little into the pot, swirling it round to warm it and then, since there wasn't a sink, opened the window, flinging out the contents. A roar of anger followed, prompting me to slam it shut and duck out of sight. Hobbes, sitting behind his desk, writing on a form, merely snorted. I tipped three spoons of tea into the pot, inundating it with boiling water and picked up the chipped mugs.
'Careful with those,' said Hobbes, 'they're Chippendale.'
'Oh right, of course.'
I held them with exaggerated care. They showed images of Chip and Dale, the cartoon chipmunks. I grimaced, putting them down, Hobbes grinning as he returned to his paperwork. Sprawling in the spare chair, I waited while the tea mas
hed.
His fountain pen looked the size of a matchstick in his great paw, and he wrote slowly, his brow furrowed, the pink tip of his tongue between his lips, looking like a monstrous schoolboy, lost in a world of his own. Occasionally, he would hum a few bars of a tune I thought I nearly recognised. For those few quiet minutes he looked at peace with the world and himself and had a strange air of vulnerability. I almost felt friendly towards him.
The tea smelt fantastic as I poured it out and placed the Chip mug on the desk beside him. He was dreamily stirring it with a finger as I sat back down, taking a sip from the Dale mug, the fragrance steaming away any last vestiges of hangover. I relaxed, closing my eyes, leaning back in my chair. The office was warm, the distant hum of the world seemed far away and I felt strangely happy until, upending my mug, I got a mouthful of tealeaves. Spluttering, I spat the dregs back.
'Manners, Andy,' said Hobbes, shooting me a disapproving look, putting down his pen, picking up his mug and standing up. 'Right, give me a top-up and have one yourself if you like and I'll take you to the canteen.'
Having drained the teapot into our mugs, I followed him through the dark panelled doorway into a large, airy and untidy room where half a dozen officers and civilians were hard at work. Some looked up from their computer screens as we passed, seeming surprised to see me, one or two nodding as Hobbes acknowledged them with a gesture like a benediction. Turning into a corridor, he pushed open a double door and the rich warm scent of fried bacon overwhelmed me. I'd quite obviously not really been hungry earlier. What I'd experienced then had been a passing peckishness, but this was the real thing. Ordering an all-day breakfast, though lunchtime approached, I proceeded to stuff my face, while Hobbes sat quietly, as if in deep thought. When I'd eaten enough to allow some of my attention to wander from the plate, I noticed, with suppressed amusement, that his little finger, on raising his mug, was crooked like that of an old lady at a vicarage tea party. He left the canteen as I polished the plate clean, returning as I finished off the last slice of toast and marmalade.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 3
