'I ate a burger and chips there a couple of days ago,' I said.
'And you're still with us?' There was a hint of admiration in his voice. 'Isn't nature wonderful?'
As we reached the main road, the car leaped forward, weaving through the traffic like a skier down the slalom.
Clutching the seat until we were back on the dual carriageway and there seemed less immediate chance of being smashed into eternal darkness, I had a few minutes for reflection. 'Actually, could you drop me at the Cheery Chippy? I'm not sure I fancy the Greasy Pole tonight.'
When at last we stopped, I opened my eyes to find we were outside the Cheery Chippy. Something seemed odd, disorienting, until I realised he'd gone the wrong way down a one way street. I didn't know why I was surprised.
'D'you know this is a one way street?' I asked.
'Of course. I was only going one way.'
'But don't the arrows mean anything to you?'
'Arrows usually mean an attack by them pesky redskins. There ain't too many redskins in Sorenchester.'
I nodded, knowing I was wasting my time.
'Right, Andy, off you go and get your chips. I'll pick you up at your place at ten.' He drove off up the road, forcing two cars and a bus onto the pavement, and turned out of sight. I heard a screech of brakes as I stepped into the warm, greasy interior.
Carrying my haddock and chips home, I turned on the television, eating, relaxing in the pool of normality. On finishing my meal, I took a leisurely shower, changed my clothes and watched more telly, luxuriating in my vegetative state, relieved to forget all about Hobbes for a few minutes. Of course, that careless thought took me straight back to thinking about him. There was something about him I didn't understand at all, something that made me want to run and hide. In his company I felt like a nervous climber must feel on a snowfield, where any false move or noise might set off the avalanche. I'd been terrified half the day, yet I'd come to no actual harm, though I feared for the state of my nervous system. I guessed that with luck, in time, assuming I survived, I would get used to him. Oh God! I hoped I wouldn't have time to get used to him. I raised my hands. They appeared steady and for a moment I felt good about my nerves of steel, until I realised my whole body was trembling in time.
Finding my way to the bedroom, lying on the bed, burying my face in the pillow, I let loose the fear that had been growing throughout the day. It emerged as a long, long, long scream, from the soul, from the guts and most of all from the lungs. I counted myself fortunate I'd had the foresight to muffle it, just in case anyone heard and called the police, for Hobbes might have been sent round to investigate and might have been angry I'd disturbed his supper. He might … in fact, what might he do? In truth, and in his own way, he'd looked after me. He was an enigma. He was a monster. He was a policeman. He was someone I ought to be writing about.
A sharp crackle of rain on the window and the wind humming and whistling drove me to snuggle under the duvet. It sounded as if we were in for a fine storm and my tatty little flat had never felt so cosy or so safe.
Not meaning to fall asleep, I awoke to the storm rattling the windows and beating against my front door. As consciousness slowly returned I wondered how that could be, for my flat was upstairs and down a corridor. Raising my head, I glanced at the alarm clock, which showed 2200, ten o'clock, triggering an alarm in my brain that resulted in an attempt at a vertical take-off. I'd been lying on one arm, which felt all big and clumsy and useless, as far as I could feel it at all. It tingled back to life as I ran, jerking open the front door. Hobbes was standing there, his fist again raised for knocking and, though I'd been expecting him, I gasped and cringed.
'Evening,' he said. 'Good chips?'
'Oh … umm … yes. Very good.'
'Excellent.' He smiled. 'D'you fancy the graveyard shift?'
Not really, I thought, the rain pounding down with renewed vigour. Nevertheless, I nodded, for the evening might lead to a fantastic article, assuming I ever got down to writing anything.
'Great, get your things and we'll be off.'
Grabbing a thick jumper, the front curry-stained, stinking a bit of sweat under the arms, yet the warmest top I'd got, and pulling it on, I looked around for my cagoule, before remembering it was still in the office. I disinterred a dusty old anorak from under the bed and, before I'd really woken up, found myself back in the car, hurtling through the darkness. After a short while we turned onto the Fenderton Road.
'Are we going to Mr Roman's house again?'
'No,' said Hobbes, sounding puzzled, 'we're on the graveyard shift.'
'Yeah, so you said, but where are we going?'
He gave me a glance and replied slowly, as if to a simpleton, 'To the graveyard.'
'Umm … the cemetery?'
The night was very dark and very stormy.
'Precisely. We're going to be doing some surveillance.'
'In the cemetery? Why?'
'I have received information that a person, or persons well-known, might attempt a little grave robbing. We're going to watch and ensure no harm is done.'
I wished I were back in my flat.
'It might be a long night,' he said, turning onto a side road with a squeal of tyres.
After a short distance, he stopped on the kerb in a spot offering a panoramic view of the cemetery, if it hadn't been so dark, and, reaching into the back, pulled out a paper bag. 'Have a doughnut. Mrs Goodfellow made them.'
I took one, though I wasn't hungry. It was rather good and cheered me up a little. Then we sat and stared into the darkness, the windows steaming up, time crawling into the bleak, small hours. When I couldn't take any more, I flopped into the back, huddling beneath a musty old tartan blanket and dozing.
The car was buffeted by the pounding fist of a wind, howling in rage that anything dared stand in its way. Hobbes flicked on the windscreen wipers, combatting a fresh spattering of rain, sitting up abruptly as distant white headlights pierced the sodden darkness, illuminating the grinning grey headstones. When the lights turned away down Tompot Lane, he sighed, slouching back into his seat.
'It's on nights like this,' he remarked, 'that I wish I was tucked up in bed with the wife.'
'Really? I didn't think you were married?'
'I'm not but I can wish, can't I? Any doughnuts left?'
'No, sorry.' I emerged from the comforting warmth of the blanket, shivering. 'What time is it?'
'Nearly two. Looks like they're not coming. Hold on … what's this?'
He leaned forward, peering in the mirror, and I turned to see the vague shape of a car rolling down the hill towards us, lights off, vanishing now and again in the shadows. Hobbes sank down his seat, presumably in an effort to remain inconspicuous and, despite my fatigue and the cold, I chuckled. There could never be the remotest chance of him hiding in such a small car; it would be like trying to conceal a warthog in a wheelbarrow. Yet, I had little time for amusement with the other car approaching slowly, silently, as the hairs on my scalp stiffened. I couldn't see the driver and had a sudden horror that it was a ghost car. Although I'd heard whispers of strangeness happening in the vicinity of Hobbes, I'd never expected anything like this. When it drew alongside, I nearly wet myself. It was a hearse.
My mouth, opening and shutting involuntarily, only a feeble, stuttering whimper escaping, I stared wide-eyed over the edge of the window as the driver's door opened. The shriek that had been growing inside burst from dry lips and I fell back quivering.
'Oh, do be quiet, Andy,' Hobbes growled. 'This is supposed to be covert surveillance.'
I'd read books in which a character supposedly growls but, before meeting Hobbes, I'd just taken it as a literary affectation. Dogs and lions might growl but people didn't, except for him; he could growl fiercer than any of them.
Still, it had its effect and shut me up. I'd discovered one of the advantages of working with him that I failed to appreciate for some time: no matter how scary things got, he could always be scarier.
'Evening,' said Hobbes.
He'd spoken to no one. At least, to no one I could see.
'Wotcha,' said a high-pitched voice.
'What's the word on the street?'
I struggled up, staring through the open door into the black night. The driver wasn't, in fact, invisible, he was just short: very short. I'd seen him in town, now and again, mostly at the Feathers, where, bizarrely, he seemed to get on well with Featherlight, often working behind the bar.
'I can't stop, guv, but I thought you might be interested in some news. You scratch my back, y'know? Cos I'm a bit short this month.'
'Cheers, Billy,' said Hobbes, handing him a twenty pound note.
Billy grinning, screwed it up, thrusting it into his trouser pocket. 'Ta, guv. Right, the guys are gonna do it tonight, like I told you, but they're gonna do it in St Stephen's down Moorend. The rain's made it too wet to dig here and there's better drainage at St Stephens. Plus, their bike broke and it ain't so far for 'em to walk.'
'Great work.'
The dwarf nodded, returned to his hearse and drove away. It seemed to dissolve into the night.
'Good man, that,' said Hobbes. 'He keeps his ear close to the ground.'
I nearly remarked that he kept all of himself pretty close to the ground, but something in Hobbes's expression suggested it might not go down too well. Instead, I asked a question. 'Why did he come here in a hearse?'
'Because it was too far to walk.' His reply had an unanswerable logic.
The engine bursting into life, the acceleration flinging me back into my seat, we roared through the rain to St Stephens, a Victorian churchyard on the Moorend edge of town.
'It's a thirty,' I squeaked, as Hobbes's buttress foot squashed the accelerator.
He flashed his yellow teeth in what I supposed was a grin. 'What's a thirty?'
'The speed limit.'
'Well, I never.'
'And wouldn't headlights be useful?' I asked, rechecking my seatbelt, clinging to the passenger seat in front.
'If we weren't on covert surveillance.' He was grinning like a maniac.
I groaned, shutting my eyes, holding on, cursing myself for accepting the assignment. If I'd just resigned on the spot, I'd be safe and warm back home in bed.
The car, stopping abruptly, I opened my eyes, blinked and tried again. It was just as dark as when they'd been shut.
'Where are we?' I whispered.
'Just outside St Stephens in a derelict garage. No one comes here but derelicts. You may find the aroma is rather … pungent. Now, let's move, we're supposed to be on watch. Be quiet and follow me. And quickly.'
We left the car and, he was right, it didn't half pong. Holding my breath, I followed the sound of his footsteps until we were in the open air, where a glimmer revealed the silhouette of a kneeling angel, marking the edge of the churchyard. I could just about pick out Hobbes's hunched form.
I wiped rain from my eyes. 'Shouldn't we have back-up?'
'I don't normally require it. Anyway, I have you.' I caught a vague glint of teeth.
'Mightn't it be dangerous?'
'Let's hope so.'
As he slouched forward, a huge, creeping gargoyle, I shuffled after him. I didn't want to be with him, yet daren't lose him.
Lights flashed from behind a huddle of overgrown gravestones. I froze, heart pounding, as the rumble of chanting male voices reached me, making the hairs on my neck quiver, starting a dull ache in my stomach. Hobbes had melted into the blackness. I blundered forward, close to panic, needing the reassurance of his hulking presence and, unfortunately, he wasn't present. He'd left me, lost and alone, in a churchyard at night and my head was filled with chanting that chilled even more than the icy stab of the rain.
'Turn the bleeding music off, you daft berk,' said a rough voice, like someone was gargling with hot gravel. With a click, the chanting ceased and, at the same instant, a light shone in my face.
Dazzled and disoriented, I turned to run, my heart racing like a dog's at the vets. My feet missing the ground, I dropped through blackness until something hard transformed my gasp of terror into a groan of pain, leaving me to endure a few seconds of stunned confusion.
My groping hands touched wet, muddy walls. A sharp, earthy odour filled my nostrils. I'd tumbled into an open grave. The next horror was discovering I had an audience. As the grave filled with light, voices coming from above, I rolled onto my back, blinking, temporarily blinded. After a few moments, I began to make out two faces that, if I hadn't spent the past day with Inspector Hobbes, would surely have given me an immediate cardiac arrest.
'Blimey, this one's still moving. What we gonna do with it?' The gravel voice I'd heard earlier sounded hesitant.
Another voice, softer, yet creepy, replied. 'Dunno. Maybe if we fill it in again, it won't be next time. Nuffing like this ever 'appened to me before. They've always been still … and packed inside the box.'
'Good evening,' I said, putting my hope in politeness and affability. At least I had the satisfaction of making them jump.
'Wah!' said Gravel Voice. 'It talks.'
'Certainly, I talk. Look, I appear to have stumbled into this hole and I wonder if you could see your way to giving me a hand out?'
'Give you a 'andout?' said Creepy Voice. 'Do I look like I'm a charity? What are you? A bleeding scrounger?'
'No, sir, I mean, could you help me to get out?'
''elp you to get out?' Creepy Voice sounded shocked. 'I'm not sure that's allowed. What are you in for anyway?'
'It was an accident. I slipped and fell. I shouldn't really be here.'
'That's what they all say,' said Gravel Voice, knowingly.
'Oh,' I said as I pushed myself onto my knees, 'it's most remiss of me. You must think I'm terribly rude. I haven't introduced myself. I'm Andrew Caplet, Andy. And you are?'
'I am not,' said Creepy Voice, 'you're wrong there, mate. I'm not Andrew Caplet Andy.'
'No.' I forced a smile, struggling to my feet, for the muddy coffin top was as slippery as an ice rink. 'I meant, who are you?'
'Ghouls,' said Gravel Voice.
I held up a hand. 'Nice to meet you. Umm … I'd appreciate a bit of help, it's getting very wet down here.'
The two faces looked at me, then at each other. They whispered a few words.
Creepy Voice nodded and spoke. 'Er, look, mate, we'd like to 'elp but we're worried that if we was to let you out, then all of them would want out and then what would we 'ave to eat?'
'Yes,' said Gravel Voice. 'And we 'ave our reputations to fink of. We wouldn't want anyone to fink we're just a couple of ghouls who can't say no.'
'So, we're gonna 'ave to bury you again,' said Creepy Voice. 'It's for the best. I'm sure you'll understand. No 'ard feelings, eh?'
'You can't bury me again. I haven't been buried at all.'
'Then what are you doing in a grave?' Gravel Voice was mocking. 'Now, enough of your nonsense. Lie down and get buried before this 'ole fills up with water and we 'ave to bury you at sea.'
Mud began to thud around me as the ghouls set to work with shovels. No matter that I screamed for help and sobbed for mercy, they shook their heads and carried on. Black despair and terror took me, madness seemed my only escape, and I was considering taking that dark path when I heard two metallic clangs, two grunts, two soggy thuds. A massive hand engulfed mine and before I knew what had happened, I was dangling over the open grave while Hobbes inspected me for damage. He set me down on solid ground, the two ghouls stretched out at his feet.
'Thank you.' My voice quavered. 'That was horrible.'
'Was it?' He shrugged. 'Well, it's all over now, so you can help me tidy up.'
He set to work, filling in the grave, stamping down the black, oozing mud, refitting the toppled headstone. I helped as much as my trembling body would allow. One of the ghouls groaned.
/>
'What are they?' I asked at last.
'Just a couple of local ghouls. They eat old skeletons and they're quite harmless really, providing a valuable service to the community. Otherwise, we'd be knee-deep in bones and no one would like that, except for dogs. Still, I like to make sure these lads tidy up afterwards. If they don't, folk get upset and I won't stand for bad feelings between them and the ghoul community. Not on my patch.'
'Old bones? Aren't they rather hard?'
'They grind 'em up and make a sort of ghoul hash.'
I nodded. 'Do you know their names?' I reached for my non-existent notebook, believing I'd got a major scoop on only the second night of my assignment. With luck, it would make Editorsaurus Rex forgive me.
'They don't have names like you and I, though you could call them Doug and Phil.'
'Why?'
'Well that one,' he said, pointing at Creepy Voice with an inappropriate snigger, 'dug the grave and this one,' he poked Gravel Voice with his boot, 'was going to fill it.'
I sighed. 'What are we going to do now?'
'Take them home.' Bending, he hoisted both of them over one shoulder and straightened up. 'Then I'll make my report and we can call it a night. By the way, tonight's little escapade will not be appearing in the Bugle. As far as that's concerned, we had a quiet night, apart from having to take a couple of drunks home. Understand?'
'But …'
'Understand?' Hobbes repeated, standing a little closer than was necessary.
'I understand.' Self-preservation had asserted itself. I wanted to ask questions, wanted to know so many things, yet I was afraid, as if I'd fallen into a nightmare. My perception of Sorenchester as a nice, cosy, little town had been blown to pieces, I'd seen things I shouldn't have, and had a terrible sickly feeling my life had changed forever.
4
My old anorak proving no match for the storm, icy water trickled down my back, making me shudder. Though the rain was as heavy as a tropical downpour, the cold and a wind, too powerful to even consider going around me, blew that idea away.
Hobbes loped to the edge of the churchyard, the limp ghouls bouncing on his shoulder. 'Follow me. We'll take care of these two and then we're done and can head back to the station.'
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 5
