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

by Martin, Wilkie

  Hobbes, still engrossed in his paperwork, I placed a mug of tea beside him, looking around for distraction. There was a pile of books on the rug by my chair and, sitting back down, I selected a leather-bound, musty volume from the top of the pile and flicked through. It was filled with pages of old-fashioned handwriting, a mess of loops and blots and the occasional smudge, and appeared to be a record of old Sorenchester crimes. Heinous offences they'd been too, judging by the first item to catch my attention, one about a certain Thomas 'Porky' Parker who'd been arrested on suspicion of pig stealing. Though the pig had never been recovered, a substantial quantity of sausage had been returned to its rightful owner. I chuckled, looking at the following page, where Mistress Katherine Boot, having been discovered intoxicated in the parish church, tried to put the blame on her next door neighbour, Gramma Black, claiming she'd cursed her.

  As I bent to replace the book, a scrap of yellowed paper, a cutting from the Bugle, fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, I noticed it was from August 1912 and about an aerobatic display in the church grounds. Though marvelling at the blurry photograph of the aeroplane, a flimsy structure of wood, canvas and wire, with an astonishing curved propeller, it was the women's enormous hats and the men's vast whiskers that struck me as most remarkable.

  Or so I thought, until, when about to return the cutting, I noticed the police constable holding back the crowd. The unfortunate fellow was almost a dead ringer for Hobbes, though not quite so bulky, and with his face partly concealed behind a dark, drooping moustache. Finishing my tea, I speculated whether he might have been an ancestor. Hobbes laid down his pen and sat back.

  'Was your grandfather a policeman as well?' I asked.

  He looked up with a small frown. 'As well as what?'

  I held out the cutting. 'This policeman looks a bit like you and I was just wondering if he was a relation?'

  'No.' He pushed aside his papers and leaned back in his chair with a strange grin. 'He's no relation. I never knew my grandparents, or my parents for that matter; I was adopted.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Don't be. My adoptive parents were kind and looked after me as if I was really their own. They forced me onto the straight and narrow and held me there long enough that I wanted to stay. They were good people and it's a shame there aren't a few more like Uncle Jack and Auntie Elsie.'

  'I sometimes wish I'd been adopted,' I said. 'They fuck you up, your mum and dad,' to quote Jim Betjeman … or was it L S Eliot?'

  'Larkin, I think you'll find.' He shook his head, sighing. 'It's always easy to blame others, particularly parents, for one's own shortcomings. I have observed that bringing up a child is never easy and that the majority of parents and adoptive parents do their best, most of the time. People just find it difficult to take responsibility for themselves and their own mistakes.'

  'Do you ever make mistakes?' I was astonished to hear him speak in such a way.

  'Of course, though not so many as I used to. For instance, in my younger days I would sometimes miss mealtimes when on a case. I don't do that anymore, unless it's an emergency, which is why we are leaving now.'

  'Are we leaving?'

  He was on his feet, nodding. 'Put the cutting away, it's time to go home. Mrs Goodfellow will have our suppers ready.'

  I did as instructed, happy at the prospect of being fed, for I'd had a growing feeling of hunger, and followed him into the night air. A few shreds of cloud, clinging to the face of the half-moon, were torn away as I looked up, and were lost in the darkness. Despite the town's brightness, stars glittered in the open sky and I blessed the thick tweed suit, shrugging into it as the rising wind chucked leaves and grit into my face.

  I expected we'd drive but Hobbes wanted, he said, 'a brisk walk to blow away the cobwebs and stir the juices before supper'. Turning up my collar, taking an almost wistful glance at the car and its promise of shelter, I followed down an alley into The Shambles, where a handful of Saturday night revellers were braving the chill in their search for fun and alcohol. Pub windows glowed with welcome. Passing whiffs of cooking piqued the appetite.

  'Are you originally from Sorenchester?' I asked, struggling to keep up.

  'No. We had to move around a lot when I was young. They were troubled times. I first remember living near the Blacker Mountains on the Welsh borders. Afterwards we lived near Hedbury in a cottage in the woods until there was some trouble and we had to move to London, where Auntie Elsie worked in a hat shop and Uncle Jack became a docker. I went to school there until there was some trouble and we left for Wales. I used to love the mountains and the green valleys and the singing. After the trouble in Tenby, we lived in a caravan, touring round the shows and carnivals. Later, Uncle Jack worked at a factory in Pigton, where we lived until there was some trouble, and moved here when I was eleven. There was never much trouble here, so we stayed.'

  'Trouble seemed to follow you around.'

  He chuckled. 'So they told me. I regret being the cause of much of it, in the days when I was young and wild.'

  We crossed The Shambles opposite the church, from where we could hear a choir practising. Hobbes, dawdling outside the great studded doors, closed his eyes, evidently enjoying the sound. Being no fan of choirs, preferring a good stonking beat in my music and lots of volume, I was glad when the song ended and we could get on. I shivered, hoping there might be an overcoat hanging in the wardrobe.

  'I know you were adopted,' I said, as we turned up Pound Street past the old yew tree, 'but did you ever try to trace your real parents?'

  Hobbes shook his head. 'Uncle Jack said they were killed.'

  'An accident?'

  'No.'

  'What? D'you mean someone killed them?'

  'That's enough. They died. Uncle Jack and Aunt Elsie looked after me.'

  'But—'

  'Enough.' He scowled and I shut up.

  Though curious to know more about him, and pleasantly surprised at his brief openness, I knew he'd closed up again, and feared my probing had touched a sore spot. I consoled myself that there would be plenty of time for further investigations for, though my remark about going freelance had been no more than bravado, the thought had been growing. I really could write something about Hobbes, something to amaze the people in Sorenchester and, maybe, those as far away as Pigton, or even further, would find him fascinating. I could make a name for myself with a racy article in the national press. Or why not a series of articles? Or a book? Hobbes could be my ticket to fame and fortune. I'd have a flat in London, probably a penthouse, a mansion in the country, a villa in Spain and there'd be girls and parties and designer suits. Editorsaurus Rex would grovel to get my reports and he'd be sorry he sacked me. Plus, I'd be able to sneer at my father's pathetic little dental practice from a safe distance. I felt I was scaling new heights.

  Arrival at 13 Blackdog Street brought me down to earth. My penthouse and all the rest were way over the horizon. For now, I'd have to make do with Hobbes's spare room, Mrs Goodfellow, suppers in the kitchen and Mr Goodfellow's old suits. I hoped it would be worth it.

  The door opening, an enticing savoury aroma welcomed us and my mouth was awash by the time Hobbes shut the door on the cruel night. As we took our places at the kitchen table, I restrained myself until he'd said grace and then got stuck into the casserole, as if I hadn't eaten all day. Mrs Goodfellow, opening a bottle of red wine, left us to it. When I'd slowed down a little, had enjoyed a sip of the smooth, fruity wine and the kitchen's warmth had soaked into my core, my optimism began to rise, for Hobbes wasn't so bad when you got to know him and Mrs Goodfellow was just a harmless old biddy who fed me and brought me drinks.

  So, she wanted my teeth? Well, she could want. I intended hanging on to them as long as I could. I was attached to them and they were deeply attached to me, apart from one in front that was a little wobbly since I'd fallen down the cellar at the Feathers. Featherlight Binks, who'd been changing a barrel, had broken my fall. A moment later he'd broken my lip and loosened th
e tooth with an uppercut. I always knew where I stood with Featherlight, or on this occasion, where I lay. He had a regrettable tendency to lash out without thinking. He did most things without thinking.

  'Excuse me,' I said, on finishing eating, 'what do you make of Featherlight Binks at the Feathers?'

  'He is a thoughtless, charmless, soap-less, hopeless lout, who runs a squalid drinking hole and can't even keep his beer well. He should not be allowed to meet the public and has been arrested more than anyone else in town.'

  'Ah,' I said, 'though I've heard he has a bad side, too.'

  'That is his bad side.' Hobbes frowned. He must have noticed my grin because he nodded. 'I see, that was a joke. In fact, he's not all bad: he just reacts like an animal. To give him his due, he doesn't have an ounce of real malice in his entire corpulent frame. Yet, he can be dangerous, especially when he's full of drink, which is most of the time.'

  He pondered a moment. 'There is some good in him. In a way, he's like a child and genuinely dislikes hurting people, though he doesn't often remember until after he's clobbered them. A couple of years ago he was the one who told me Billy Shawcroft had gone missing.'

  'The dwarf in the hearse?' The memory of the silent, sinister shape rolling towards us was imprinted on my mind.

  Hobbes nodded. 'Once again, Featherlight had been brought into the station for assaulting a customer. This one had complained about his jacket potato having skin on it.'

  'Jacket potatoes should have skin on them. Isn't that the point?'

  'But not cat skin. The customer put two and two together and made certain allegations about the spicy meat stew that Featherlight took rather badly, being proud of having once served as an Army cook. To cut a long story short, he rammed the customer's head into the stew pot.'

  'Was he hurt?'

  'The customer? No, not much. It wasn't very hot, though the pot became well and truly stuck and he had to go to hospital to have it removed. When they got it off, they found a little collar and bell at the bottom.'

  'No!' I said, horrified. 'I once had his spicy meat stew.'

  'The worst part,' Hobbes continued, 'was that the customer worked for the Food Standards Agency and happened to be a keen supporter of the RSPCA and Featherlight ended up in court again. However, he was only prosecuted for serving unfit food, as there'd been no animal cruelty. A dustbin lorry had run over the cat and Featherlight was just being thrifty. He claimed he'd eaten far worse in the Army and didn't see what all the fuss was about.'

  I grimaced, wishing I'd had the sense to keep away. 'But what had happened to Billy?'

  'I was coming to that,' said Hobbes. 'Billy's a regular at the Feathers, often helping out behind the bar, but hadn't been seen for a couple of days. Featherlight grew concerned. At his trial, he claimed to have been too distracted by worry to buy meat and had been forced to use the cat. The point is, he informed me about Billy's disappearance and, thanks to his information, I was able to trace the poor little chap. He'd been kidnapped and was being held in a cage. I got him out and closed the case.'

  'Who kidnapped him?' I didn't remember hearing anything about it.

  'A kidnapper, who would have become a murderer had I not got there when I did. If it hadn't been for Featherlight, I doubt there'd have been a happy ending.'

  'So, umm … who kidnapped him? And why?'

  'That's all I'm prepared to say. Ask Billy if you want more of the story. It was a good thing for me that I rescued him because he's since proved a most valuable ally. When you're in a tight spot, Billy's the sort of man you want with you, because there's so little of him. Mind you, he can put away a surprising amount of beer, which reminds me, if you fancy a drink later tonight, I haven't looked in on Featherlight for a while.'

  'Sounds good to me.'

  'In the meantime, let's go through to the sitting room. The lass will bring us tea and she says she's got me a bone to pick.' As he drained his glass, a drop of blood-red wine ran down his chin.

  I took my place on the sofa, wondering why sheets of newspaper had been spread in the corner of the normally immaculate room.

  I glanced at Hobbes, who, all of a sudden, seemed twitchy and tense.

  Mrs Goodfellow came in, carrying a huge bone in both hands. Raising it above her head, she tossed it towards the newspapers.

  Hobbes growled like a dog. The sofa jolted backwards.

  I jerked my head to see what he was up to. He was a blur on the edge of vision. My eyes focussed just in time to see him roll with the bone into the corner. He'd caught it in mid-air. In his jaws.

  Slavering, he crouched over the bone on all fours and the crunching began. His teeth, tearing off great lumps of bloody, raw meat, he swallowed without chewing. The feral smell grew stronger, wilder and more predatory. His eyes flashed red and his upper lip pulled up in a snarl, like a hyena's. I couldn't stop myself from hugging my knees. A strange whimpering filled the room, as if a frightened animal had come in, and it was a few seconds before I realised I was responsible. Though within a minute or two he'd stripped the bone of meat, he continued gnawing until he'd cracked it open and could slurp the oozing marrow.

  'Cup of tea, dear?' She was back.

  My normal, civilised inhibitions taking fright, I cried out in horror. What had I let myself in for? Why had I ever considered that staying in this madhouse would be a doddle? I must have been mad. What the Hell was happening?

  Mrs Goodfellow, placing a steaming mug at my side, glanced at me, then at Hobbes, and shrugged. 'Don't you go letting the old fellow worry you. It's just his way. He'll not hurt you … probably.' She patted my shoulder.

  I nodded feebly, understanding how a lamb must feel inside the lion's den. Yet lambs don't drink tea. That's what an Englishman does in a crisis. Reaching out with unsteady hands, picking up the mug, I took a sip and turned to thank her but she'd already gone. The tea was hot and sweet, ideal for cases of shock. The old girl knew what she was doing. I tried and failed to ignore the crunching and sucking from the corner. I drank and concentrated on not spilling any, though my whole body was quivering. In times of stress, say the experts, our physiology prepares us for fight or flight. Mine didn't. I couldn't force any bits to move at all. I couldn't even look away. It made no sense whatsoever.

  Aeons passed. At some point Mrs Goodfellow materialised and refilled my mug. I didn't jump and hardly even noticed, though conditioned reflexes kept me sipping. By then, my vision was narrowing and I felt as if I was cowering, trembling and sweating, in a long, narrow tunnel, with Hobbes at its mouth, shattering raw, white bone with his teeth. From behind, unseen demons urged me to retreat into the blackness and hide forever. Then, I could no longer see him and the dread grew that he was creeping up, preparing to spring. My breathing grew rapid and shallow and the blood pounded in my head like tom-toms. Darkness folded around and embraced me.

  'Are you alright, Andy?'

  I recognised the rumbling voice.

  'Wake up.'

  I opened my eyes to see Hobbes frowning down at me, his eyes dark, his teeth concealed behind bulldog lips. I gasped and flinched and found I was still on the sofa. My mug was empty.

  'Are you alright?' he repeated.

  I decided his frown was one of concern and nodded, while striving to rediscover my power of speech. The room was bright and warm. There were no tunnels or demons, just a heap of torn and scrunched newspaper in the corner. Something small, warm and soft patted the back of my hand and Mrs Goodfellow gave me a gummy smile.

  'Good lad,' she said. 'All this excitement's been too much for you. You just sit a while and you'll feel better.'

  'Thank you.' I shut my eyes. The animal odour faded.

  I did begin to feel better. I don't know how long it took, yet when I opened my eyes again the newspapers had been removed and Hobbes was sitting beside me, engrossed in The Times.

  'What happened?' I asked.

  'You had a turn. Don't you remember?'

  'Yes, of course. What I mean is, what ha
ppened to you? I mean the bone and … and everything?'

  He shrugged. 'I just enjoy a bit of a chew sometimes. It's good for the teeth and exercise for the jaws. It stops me getting a double chin.' He peered at my face and grinned. 'Maybe you should give it a try.'

  'But, you went strange.'

  'Sorry. There's a lot of stress in police work and we all have our little methods for coping with it. It's best to let loose the beast within on a bone rather than on a member of the public.'

  'That's true,' I said, imagining horrible things.

  He smiled. 'You've had a tricky few days too, and dealt with it by having a funny turn. Each to his own. By heck, though, you had me worried when your eyes turned in on themselves.'

  'I had you worried? Good.' I tried to appear nonchalant, though I was still trembling. In all honesty, I'd never been so terrified in my life for, though the ghouls had been horrible, they'd been strangers and I'd thought I was getting to know Hobbes.

  He smiled, putting down his paper. 'These crosswords are getting too easy. I remember when one might take me as much as fifteen minutes. Now, how about that drink?'

  I don't remember much about walking to the Feathers, except feeling cold and detached. Hobbes talked about aubergines, and I think I nodded a few times. Now and again I wanted to cry. It was a relief when he opened the door and ushered me into the warm, smelly fug. Featherlight lounged behind the bar, flouting the law by smoking a stinking pipe, while taking great swigs from a pewter tankard and snubbing any customers demanding drinks. Nonetheless, pints of beer kept appearing on the counter and cash disappeared behind it, though no one appeared to be serving. Featherlight, ignoring me, glowered at Hobbes.