Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  As I jogged after him, a worrying habit I had no intention of forming, the effort started giving me just a little wonderful warmth. Still, my feet skidded and squelched inside my shoes, while my trousers, clammy and stiff, flapped whenever they took a break from clinging to and squeezing my poor legs. I wasn't used to the kind of activity to which I'd been subjected in the last few hours and every muscle was aching. I muttered to myself about what I'd do to Editorsaurus Rex should I ever chance upon him in a darkened churchyard – not that I could imagine him ever allowing himself to fall into such an awkward or uncomfortable situation, never mind into an open grave. Besides, I wouldn't really have done anything: I wasn't like that at all, and not merely because he was bigger than me.

  We passed through a covered gateway into a deserted street, where sad cars dripped into oily puddles, glinting under orange streetlights. A shredded plastic carrier bag, pale and ghostly, flapped into my face. Flinching, I beat it off, watching it skid along the gutter, twirling in eddies, vanishing as it rose over the rooftops. Crossing the street, we plunged down an alley that funnelled the wind into such a full-frontal gale I found it a struggle to get through. Hobbes, oblivious, turned left along a pot-holed back lane, ducking beneath a broken fence into the overgrown backyard of a decayed terraced house. He proceeded without problem. I, however, in following, snagged my trousers, my anorak and my skin on the sickle thorns of the brambles that infested the yard. I sucked a scratch on the back of my hand, while he opened the rotting door, lugging the two ghouls into the darkness within. A gut-turning stench billowed out and only Hobbes's urging made me enter.

  'Come in,' he said, 'and mind how you come down the steps. You'd better turn on the light. You'll find the switch by your hand … left a bit … a bigger bit … and down.'

  I groped and turned it on. The narrow room didn't exactly flood with light, because the grime-encrusted, bare bulb dangling above us failed to match up to the task. Nonetheless, it dribbled out sufficient illumination to show a bleak, damp cellar, the crude painting of a funeral on the far wall doing nothing to improve it. Hobbes deposited the ghouls onto two filthy beds, tucked into a corner, where they lay messily, matching everything else down there. Theirs was a cheerless, comfortless home, black with mould, a sticky nastiness coating the bare brick floor. All it contained was a pair of plain stools, a grubby, slimy-looking table, apparently constructed from coffin lids, some gruesome pans and bowls, a sink I doubted had ever been washed and, bizarrely, a stuffed crocodile.

  While Hobbes rinsed out a pan and filled it with water, I took a proper look at the ghouls: thin, insipid creatures, dressed in filthy overalls and muddy boots, from which fetid white toes peeped. One was bald, while the other sported a greasy comb-over plastered across his translucent scalp. Yet, it was their faces that stuck in my memory and, although I'd formed an impression when I'd been in the grave, I wasn't prepared for their full awfulness. They looked like what would happen if some ham-fisted incompetent, having carved a pair of pumpkin lanterns, had left them outside for a week or two to moulder and fall in on themselves. The only parts that appeared substantial and healthy were their small, sharp, white teeth, set in jaws a bulldog might have been proud of. Yet, no dog had ever been cursed with breath like these two.

  The one with the comb-over groaned as Hobbes splashed water in its face. Eyes, as cold and dark as those of a shark, opened and it sat up, rubbing its head with its claws. Looking up at Hobbes, it laughed, its mouth open, causing me to turn my head away as the charnel stench wreaked havoc on my stomach. Tottering upstairs into the garden, I threw up and leaned against the wall. Strange noises rose from the cellar as if two people were burping while a cat and a dog fought to the death. I stayed in the clean air, glad now of the cleansing rain and wind, until Hobbes emerged, pulling the door behind him, his brow corrugated in deep thought.

  'What was that horrible noise?' I asked as he led the way back.

  'I expect you mean my conversation with the ghoul. I don't get a chance to practise my Ghoulish very often and I think my accent amused him. However, the young fellow did tell me something interesting. Let's get out of this storm and I'll tell you. Hurry up.'

  We jogged back through the rain, Hobbes silent until we were back in the car and on the move.

  'The young ghoul,' he said, 'denies opening the grave you were mucking around in.'

  'They must have. Who else would have done it?'

  'Ghouls may have their faults but they don't lie. I don't think they understand the concept. No, as far as I could gather, the grave you were in was one they'd emptied years ago after the bones had matured; they prefer them dry.'

  I winced. 'They're horrible.'

  'They're not so bad, really. Live and let live. They only eat a few old bones their owners are done with and, mostly, they tidy up afterwards. Tonight, though, they were delayed because someone else was digging in their pantry.'

  'Another ghoul?' I yawned, longing to be warm and dry and asleep.

  'No, not a ghoul, a man. They watched him digging, apparently rather amateurishly and the interesting thing is that he removed something from the grave before running off without bothering to refill it.'

  'Well, the last part's true. I really thought I was going to die down there.'

  'These things happen.' He swerved and stopped the car. 'This sort of thing shouldn't, though.'

  He got out, dragged an enormous branch from the road, and slid back in. 'Someone should have been taking care of that. It was rotten and could have caused an accident to the public.'

  'Yeah … but any idea who was robbing the grave?'

  The car shot forward.

  He shrugged. 'I don't know. Ghouls aren't good at describing humans. He was wearing a black balaclava, though.'

  'Well, that narrows it down.' My heavy irony went unremarked, so I continued. 'And what did he take?'

  'Something small and shiny and, since it didn't look edible, the ghouls weren't interested. They lurked in the shadows until he'd gone before starting on the grave they wanted. Unfortunately, you blundered in and ruined their plans. They'll go hungry tonight, poor things.'

  'Poor things? They're disgusting. They shouldn't be allowed amongst ordinary, decent people. Aren't there laws against grave robbing?'

  'You get used to them and there are many humans who aren't pleasant: humans such as the grave robber tonight. I hope we catch him.'

  'But you took the ghouls home. You didn't even arrest them.'

  He laughed. 'As you should know by now, most laws in this country are specific to humans. They simply don't apply to ghouls. The law doesn't recognise them.'

  'Like it doesn't recognise gnomes?'

  'You're catching on.'

  I nodded. Since I'd met him, reality and dreams, or nightmares, had become intertwined. 'Umm …' I said, 'do you know whose grave it was? Might that be important?'

  'Good lad.' He nodded, slapping me on the back as he swung the car round a bend. 'It belongs to a chap called Lucian Mondragon who, according to the gravestone, departed this life on the thirty-first of October 1905. I don't believe I ever met him.'

  '1905? Why would anyone dig up such an old grave?'

  'I wish I knew,' he said. 'Oddly, the ghouls said they smelled fresh meat. And, come to think of it, whatever you were jumping about on was still solid. What's more, it didn't sound like wood did it?'

  'I don't know. Are you getting at something?'

  'I suspect there's more in that grave than mud, more than there ought to be.' He pondered. 'I think I'd better take another look.'

  'No, please.' I heard the panic rising in my voice. 'I'm cold, wet and tired. I can't do anymore tonight. I really can't.'

  Hobbes nodded. 'I understand. Tell you what, I'll drop you back at your place. You take it easy and have a lie-in and I'll pick you up at … let's say ten tomorrow. OK?'

  'Thank you.' I nearly wept. Fatigue was overwhelming me and I hadn't expected kindness.

  Hobbes chuckled. 'Hang
on.'

  I'd barely noticed that, up to then, he'd been driving relatively slowly, almost with due care and attention, but he made up for it and I could hardly express my relief when he stopped and I was still alive. As I got out, he accelerated away between the lines of parked cars before I could even say goodnight. Trudging upstairs to my flat, switching on the electric fire, I stripped, washed off the worst of the mud, and collapsed into bed. It had been a horrible night.

  A crash burst into my dreams and I awoke with blurred mind and senses, squinting at the alarm clock; it was just gone four. Why was there an orange light glowing under the bedroom door, and why could I smell smoke?

  'Fire!' I screeched, leaping up, lurching towards the bedroom door, grabbing the handle and letting go with a yelp of pain. The handle was red hot and I was in deep trouble. Up till then, I'd been acting on instinct but cold terror was growing inside, weighing down my legs and stomach. Choking fumes tormented my throat and I began to cough uncontrollably. I pulled myself to the window, struggling to open it. Everything began to happen too fast. My head was spinning and I knew I was going to die. It was ironic, I thought, falling to my knees, that I'd only just returned from the grave. The window burst inwards as I slumped onto my face to sleep.

  On opening my eyes again, I appeared to be outside, in mid-air, looking onto the patio beneath my window. It got closer, yet slowly. I was dropping gently, like a leaf.

  I awoke in a bed. I knew it wasn't mine because of the clean, white sheets, though I was certain I'd crawled under my own duvet, with the familiar pong of stale curry and socks. A screen surrounded me and a table stood by my bedside. I groaned and a face appeared, a young woman's face, and I remembered being too tired to put on pyjamas. As I pulled the sheets around my chin, I found I was dressed in a sort of dress.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Caplet.' The face spoke, its smile pushing through the screen.

  A woman's body, dressed in nurse's uniform, followed the smile. It was all very puzzling. I was, it appeared, in hospital, but how? A memory surfaced, an idea of flinging myself from a speeding car to get away from Hobbes. Yes, Hobbes! Sitting upright abruptly, I groaned.

  'How are you feeling?'

  'Ohhhh!'

  'Are you alright?'

  'Ohhhh.'

  'I'll get the doctor.' The nurse hurried away as I struggled to pull my wits within touching distance.

  Coughing up something disgusting and acrid, brought back a hazy memory of fire. A quick check indicated that all of me was still present, though I'd acquired a white dressing on my right hand.

  A boy in a white coat approached. 'Hello, Mr Caplet, I'm Dr Finlay. No jokes please. How are you this afternoon?'

  My voice came out as a croak. 'OK, but my throat and chest are sore. So's my hand.'

  'A bit of smoke inhalation and a minor burn. You were lucky the policeman was passing and got you out before there was any lasting harm.'

  'Policeman?'

  'Yes, apparently he was going off duty when, noticing the smoke, he broke in and got you out, before alerting the other residents and calling the Fire Brigade.'

  'What policeman?' I had to ask, though I was sure I already knew.

  'An officer named Hobbes brought you in. You're lucky to be alive but you'll be alright. We'll keep you in for observation overnight, though I doubt there'll be any problems. You'll probably cough a bit and you might feel a bit confused during the next few hours.'

  'I've been feeling a bit confused ever since I met Hobbes.'

  'You know him then?' Doctor Finlay's voice registered surprise. 'He's obviously a great bloke.'

  'Obviously. What about my flat?'

  'I'm afraid you don't have one anymore.'

  'What happened?'

  'It caught fire. You must know better than I how it might have started.'

  Maybe the doc was right but I didn't wish to think about it. Not then.

  I spent the rest of the day in hospital. Most of the time I was sleeping or drinking pints of water to wash the smoke taint from my tubes. The rest of the time seemed to involve me tottering round, looking for the bathroom. In my more lucid moments I wondered where I might stay when it was time to leave.

  In the early evening I had a visitor. It was Ingrid. She was looking very pretty and worried and joy erupted at the sight of her. She sat beside me, asked how I felt, patting my hand, making sympathetic noises, finally crushing me by saying she couldn't stay long, as Phil was taking her to the opera. What a git he was.

  I barely had a chance to say anything before she rose to leave. Then, as she turned, she hesitated and handed me a carrier bag. 'Mr Witcherley asked me to give you this.'

  Inside were my cagoule, and a brown envelope.

  'Rex? I didn't think he'd remember me. That's nice of him.'

  She smiled. 'See you.'

  'Goodbye, Ingrid. Thanks for coming.' I deflated as soon as she was out of sight.

  A couple of minutes later, I tore open the envelope with a warm feeling of gratitude. Perhaps Rex wasn't as bad as I'd thought.

  Dear Mr Capstan.

  It got up my nose that he'd got my name wrong, and not for the first time.

  The Sorenchester and District Bugle has been undertaking a review. As a result of this, and because of your continued failure to produce requested articles on time, I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required. Please find enclosed a cheque for one month's salary in lieu of notice. Many thanks for your contribution and get well soon.

  Yours,

  Rex Witcherley.

  I'd never exactly been a high-flyer, yet the thud of my ego hitting rock bottom left me stunned. I had no job, no home, no girlfriend and, I realised, no clothes, apart from a short cagoule. At least things couldn't get any worse.

  Rock bottom split apart and plunged me into Hell.

  'Evening, Andy. How are you?' asked Hobbes cheerfully, approaching.

  'Not bad,' I said. 'More like bloody awful.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that. Dr Finlay informed me you were on the mend.'

  I was ashamed. After all, Hobbes had saved my life, such as it was. Still, I couldn't help but feel he was partly to blame for my misfortunes and that, if I'd died, things might have been better. No matter how hard I tried to look on the bright side, I couldn't see round the dark side. 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but the last couple of days have been a bit traumatic. I didn't have much and now I've got nothing. I've got nowhere to live, Ingrid's going to the opera with Phil and I've just been sacked.'

  Hobbes shrugged. 'Don't despair,' he said. 'Adversity often brings out the best in people. You'll be alright, your friends will help out.'

  That didn't improve my state of mind, merely bringing home the fact that I had no friends, not real ones, anyway. Apart from Ingrid and some blokes I sometimes talked to in the pub, there was no one to turn to.

  'Anyway,' he continued, 'you'll be out of here in the morning and you'll have to stay with someone until you can sort out another place.'

  I tried to think. There were my parents of course. They would take me in. She'd be delighted to have me to mother again. She meant well but it had been such a struggle to escape her stifling affections the last time my life had gone belly up. As for him? He'd love letting me know just how useless I was, pointing out every mistake I'd ever made from childhood onwards. I couldn't do it to myself; there had to be another option.

  'If you're really stuck,' said Hobbes, 'I've got a spare room.'

  I listened, considering the proposal, highlighting just how low I'd sunk. Those were my choices: Hobbes or my parents.

  'Thank you,' I said at last. 'I am really stuck and your spare room seems my best option.' God help me, I thought.

  'Great.' He grinned. 'I'll let Mrs Goodfellow know, so she can make up a bed.'

  'Oh good,' I said. Incredible though it might seem, I'd forgotten her. Maybe it was self-defence, for there are only so many horrors a mind can hold. 'I've got no clothes, or money, apart from this cheque.' I
read it. It was for five hundred pounds and made out to Andrew Capstan. The Editorsaurus had got my first name right.

  'I'll get Mrs Goodfellow to sort you out some clothes and pick you up tomorrow.'

  'Thank you.' Despite everything, I really meant it.

  Then I slept.

  Shortly after breakfast, a cheerful Dr Finlay told me I was fit to go, though he advised taking it easy and keeping the dressing on my hand for a day or two. I sat up in bed, wishing I didn't have to leave. It had been pleasant to lie between clean sheets and have nurses caring for me.

  'Hello, dear.' Mrs Goodfellow was standing by my bed, her eyes bright as a cat's in the morning sun. My body jolted with the shock and my heart thumped like a drum roll. Somehow, I found myself standing on the floor with the bed between us.

  'Did I shock you?' she beamed. 'That's a nice frock you're wearing. I didn't know you liked women's clothing or I'd have brought you some.'

  'I don't normally wear this sort of stuff,' I explained. 'This is just a gown they put on me because I lost all my clothes, man clothes, in the fire.'

  'Have it your own way, dear. I don't mind. The old fellow says we have to live and let live and I reckon he's right. I hope these suit you.'

  Hauling a battered leather case onto the bed, she opened it, pulling out a carefully folded tweed suit in rusty-herringbone, a gleaming white shirt, a silk tie with a subtle flower pattern that matched the suit exactly, a pair of thick black socks, white cotton underwear, a pair of glossy brown brogues and a white linen handkerchief. Everything looked old-fashioned and I was more a jeans and sweater person, yet they were all I'd got and, until I could get Rex to change the name on the cheque, all I seemed likely to get. It struck me I really was penniless and destitute and reliant on Hobbes's charity.

  'They look OK, thanks,' I said. 'Umm … would you mind turning your back while I put them on?'

  'Bashful are you, dear?' she twinkled but turned around and sat on the bed.

  I dressed, surprised how everything fitted perfectly, though it felt stiff and heavy compared to my usual garb. I noticed the faint odours of cigar smoke and lavender and wished I could see myself.