Hobbes had not returned when I'd finished and I guessed Mrs Goodfellow would be busy for some time. Finding myself at a loose end, alone in the kitchen, my mind kept returning to the cellar below, the darkness beckoning me to adventure, to discover what might be hidden behind the nearly secret door below. Yet, I couldn't do it. When it came to the crunch, I was too chicken to venture down there, especially at night. I tried to convince myself I was worried that the light would shine through the grille, revealing my actions to Hobbes when he returned. In reality, I was just scared.
A happier idea struck: I'd glimpsed intriguing things in the attic, which wasn't nearly so scary. Besides, apart from Mrs Goodfellow's warning about the planks, there seemed to be no reason why I shouldn't go up there. Tearing myself away from the cellar door, I climbed upstairs.
As I pulled a cord, the ladder slid down towards me, clicking into place. I started up the rungs, breathing hard, as if doing something wrong, though no one had told me not to. When my head and shoulders poked through into the blackness, air, as cold as if blown from mountain peaks, cascading down, made me shiver. I groped for the switch, the light clicked on and I was staring into the gaping maw of a huge bear.
'Jesus Christ!' I gasped and damn near fell down the ladder. The bear was stuffed of course, its moth-eaten carcass lashed to a timber frame. Trying to control my rushing heart, I climbed up and examined a tarnished disc on its cracked, leather collar. 'Cuddles', it read and, on the reverse, 'Please return to Hobbes, 13 Blackdog Street'. Nerves made me giggle like a schoolgirl.
The place was infested with junk. I could see neatly stacked brass bedsteads, what appeared to be a penny-farthing that had come off second best in a brawl with a steamroller, boxes, crates and racks of canvasses. A threadbare cloak lay across a stack of old records and I wrapped it around myself to keep out the chill, before sitting down on an old trunk, wondering whether any other bits of elephant were concealed up there.
I eased one of the canvasses from its rack. It was a painting of a hilly landscape with an old man repairing a dry stone wall, a small town nestling in the background. Though I'm not an art buff, I found the colours, the contrasts, the vibrancy of the scene quite disturbing. It was almost photographic in its detail but there was more; the scene appeared real, yet more vivid than life and, gazing into the picture, I had an impression almost of flying above the landscape, like a kestrel, soaring and hovering on a whim, while my eyes picked out the tiniest details. The church tower seemed familiar and I realised the town was Sorenchester, though not as I knew it, as it had once been. I fancied I could make out Blackdog Street and even the number 13 on the door, such was the artist's skill. Wondering who'd painted it and why it had been confined to the attic, I looked for a signature.
In the bottom right-hand corner, a mess of loops and blots, it said W.M. Hobbes. I whistled, trying to make myself believe it had been painted by one of Hobbes's relations. I might have succeeded had he not told me he'd been adopted. Still in denial, I reasoned that he'd probably purchased the painting because of the coincidence of names and, yet, something about it made me suspect he was the artist. I realised then that I didn't actually know his first name – I assumed he had one – or his second name, assuming W.M. Hobbes really was him. To me, he was just Hobbes, or possibly Inspector Hobbes, or even, if Mrs G was correct, the old fellow. There was, to use Wilkes's word again, something unhuman about the painting, something suggestive of wildness, as if the artist related more to the natural world than to the world of the town, or even to the man working on the wall. Though they were there, and skilfully depicted, the grass, the trees, the sky and even the rocks felt more important.
Putting it back, I selected another. Again it was by W.M. Hobbes, this one showing a moonlit night in town. The details were every bit as vivid as the first, though the colours were muted and, again, it was disturbing, for there was too much in the picture, almost as if the artist had been using a night-vision scope. I shivered as my glance strayed to the shadows, for there was a suggestion of danger, of unseen beings lurking, waiting for the moon to be shrouded by the threatening clouds. It was eerie and yet compelling, exciting even.
I couldn't tell how old the paintings were, though they gave an impression of antiquity, which made me curious about Hobbes's age. I'd have guessed he was in his mid-fifties, yet Wilkes had mentioned how he'd looked about ready for retirement twenty years earlier. Recalling the newspaper cutting in Hobbes's office, I realised, assuming the policeman in the picture wasn't his ancestor, or an unfortunate look-alike, but Hobbes himself, that it would make him well over a hundred years old. I tried reasoning, to convince myself it was impossible, that his weirdness was messing up my head, and that there was no way he could be so ancient and still working. Surely, I thought, the police had to retire at a certain age, and definitely before they were one hundred. I decided he couldn't really be unhuman: it would be too stupid. I just wished I believed it.
The next painting was of Rocky wearing a military uniform, looking as if he was off to fight the Great War. Impossible, I told myself. Stop imagining things, he's not a troll, he's just a man in fancy dress.
It was then I heard an altercation in the street outside, the sound filtered into the attic. A man shouted, 'Get your dog off my bloody leg!'
Hobbes's voice came next. 'Your leg's not bloody yet. However, it might be if you don't pick it up.'
'You can't make me.'
'Can't I? My dog doesn't like litter louts, so pick up that cigarette packet or you'll discover there can be painful side effects to smoking.'
I heard a cry but that was all because, for some reason, I felt uncomfortable at the thought of Hobbes knowing I'd been in the attic. Sliding the portrait back into the rack, squeezing past the junk, I slid down the ladder and shut the hatch. As casually as could be, I strolled downstairs and towards the sitting room. All had gone quiet in the street and a key turned in the lock. The front door opened, there was an enormous woof and, as the bloody dog leaped at me, I sidestepped, dodging behind the table. The next few seconds featured a chase round and around the sofa to the accompaniment of a wailing moan, sounding as if it might be coming out of my mouth. I was vaguely aware of words in it. 'Get off! Get off! Get off! Get off!' In addition, there was, I regret, a selection of choicest swear words to fill any gaps.
'Get down,' said Hobbes.
I dropped to all fours. The dog came down on me, wagging his tail as if we'd been enjoying a great game.
Hobbes looked thoughtful. 'He does seem to like you. However, you shouldn't encourage him. Now leave him alone.'
I thought he was talking to me first and the dog second but I may have been wrong. Dregs and I parted with a relieved snivel from me and a sad whine from him. I stood up.
'Go to the kitchen,' said Hobbes.
I turned towards the door.
'Not you, Andy. Yes you, Dregs. Sit down. Not you, Dregs. Yes you, Andy.'
I sat as the dog left the sitting room with a mournful tail.
Hobbes subsided onto the sofa beside me. 'Were you looking for something?'
'When?' I replied, puzzled.
'Two minutes ago, when you were in the attic.'
'I wasn't in the attic,' I began, until I caught the look in his eye. 'Oh, you mean just then? No, I wasn't looking for anything as such. I just wondered what was up there. I hope you don't mind?'
'Oh no, not at all. Only I'm replacing some of the flooring up there. It's why I've got the sander in the bathroom, for when I have the time.'
I felt ashamed I'd suspected him of using it for shaving, though I still couldn't believe any normal razor could cope with bristles as thick as cactus spines. 'Umm … how did you know I'd been up there?'
He grinned. 'I'm a detective. Your skin is paler than normal, suggesting you've been somewhere cold, there's a speck of sawdust on your right shoe, hinting that you've been where someone has been woodworking and, what clinches it for me, you are wearing an old cloak from the attic.'
I s
lapped my forehead. I'd forgotten all about it. Taking it off, I draped it over the coffee table.
'Besides, I saw the light shining from the attic window.'
He'd got me bang to rights, whatever that meant and I thought I'd better explain. 'I was curious what was up there and I … umm … put the cloak on because of the cold.'
He nodded.
'There were some paintings, next to the bear,' I said. 'They were rather good. Did you do them?'
I was astonished to see his face turn pink. Surely he wasn't embarrassed? Not Hobbes, the man with the thickest skin in Sorenchester?
He avoided my stare. 'I dabble. It's merely a foolish hobby. By the way, did you like my bear? His name's Cuddles.'
'He frightened the life out of me, when I turned the light on and all I could see was his whopping great mouth.'
Hobbes chuckled. 'Cuddles was a fine bear; he used to have your room once, many years ago, after he'd retired from the circus.'
'A bear?' I gasped. 'Living here? What about the neighbours?'
'Oh,' he said, with a reminiscent smile, 'they weren't happy. They objected most strongly, so I told them he was my pal and that he was staying. They came to accept him in time.'
'But what about the smell?'
He shrugged. 'Cuddles got used to it. They're tolerant creatures, bears and well-behaved, except where salmon are concerned. He did invade the fishmongers once or twice, though I always paid for what he ate and, in time, he became quite friendly with the fishmonger, even having his photograph used in the advertisement, 'He can't bear to miss his weekly fish, can you?'
I laughed. Not that I really believed him.
'He left his mark on Sorenchester,' he said. 'You know the Bear with the Sore Head pub?'
'Yeah, of course.'
'Well, in the old days it was called the Ram but they renamed it in his honour. He often used to drink there.'
'The bear used to drink there?' I was fascinated.
'I'm afraid so. Alcohol was his weakness. I mean, many of us enjoy a beer or two but Cuddles couldn't hold his drink, which was something to do with having claws and no opposable thumbs. He had to sup from a bucket with a tap on it and they used to hang it by the dartboard, just above the number eight. He'd swig it all down, getting very drunk: hence the expression 'to drink one over the eight'. Incidentally, it was also the origin of pail ale. In the end, though, the drink caused his downfall.'
'Why, what happened?' I sat as still as a child who has been entranced by a fabulous tale.
Hobbes, shaking his head, sighed. 'It was very sad. One evening he fancied a drink and went down to the Ram, as it was then, and ordered a beer.'
'How?' I asked. 'Could he talk?'
'Don't be silly, he was a bear and bears can't talk, so he used sign language.'
'Ah,' I said, 'that explains it.' Actually, it didn't, though I failed to spot the flaw until afterwards.
'It,' he continued, 'was tragic. The Ram having quite run out of best bitter, they had to serve him a bucketful of worst bitter and Cuddles wasn't happy.'
'I bet he wasn't. There's nothing worse than bad beer.'
'Precisely,' said Hobbes, 'it was appalling.'
'The beer?'
'Yes. Well, to continue, though the story's harrowing, they hung his bucket up.'
'Over the eight?'
'Over the eight. By chance, there was a big grudge darts match underway. Poor Cuddles supped his beer, which was so horrific that he turned away in disgust. Unfortunately, he turned towards the dartboard and a dart aimed at the bull's-eye struck his nose.'
'Oh no.'
'Oh yes.' He nodded. 'It was awful. He staggered away, roaring in pain, and collapsed in the skittle alley, where a speeding ball struck him on the head. Hence, the pub was renamed the 'Bear with a Sore Head.'
'What happened to him?' I asked, agog.
'He died,' said Hobbes, sorrowfully, 'three years later. A salmon stuck in his throat and he choked.'
'He choked to death?'
'No, it was worse than that. You see, when the fishmonger began hitting him on the back, trying to remove the blockage, poor Cuddles thought he was being assaulted and ran straight out in the road, where he was struck by a bus.'
'Oh no,' I said. 'How awful.'
'I told you so.' Hobbes's eyes filled with tears.
'And that's what killed him?'
'Not exactly. Yet, we are approaching the really dreadful bit. The bus knocked him into a music shop, where his muzzle became entangled in an antique stringed instrument that suffocated him. And so my sad tale ends, with a bear-faced lyre.'
'Wow,' I said. 'Who'd have thought it?'
'There you go. I told you it was tragic.' He sniffed back tears that, if I hadn't seen the sorrow in his face, I might have thought sounded like a snigger.
In my defence, having pondered the story for a while, I became less than convinced of its veracity. Later, I asked Mrs Goodfellow, who said the old fellow had found the bear in a skip and brought it home – but she wouldn't have it in the sitting room because its stuffing was coming out.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Hobbes turned on the television and watched a documentary about 'The Secret Life of Aubergines', which he appeared to find gripping. Not many people know the aubergine is related to Deadly Nightshade and is not technically a vegetable but a fruit. Spread the word.
Mrs Goodfellow returned from her class and, after setting my heart pounding with her abrupt appearance, soothed it with a large mug of cocoa. Afterwards, I brushed my teeth and went to bed and, though it was barely ten o'clock, I dropped asleep in seconds. I had survived a very full day.
Something, either a sound or a feeling, woke me. I lay, listening to the silence, trying to get back to sleep. Unfortunately, my bladder had reached the awkward stage and I dithered, unsure whether to get up and empty it or to try ignoring it until daylight. When the church clock bonged only twice, morning seemed uncomfortably distant, so I got up, groping my way to the bathroom. On the way back, still drowsy, barely aware of anything, cold air blew across my bare feet.
Hobbes's door was open and in the faint light from the street, I could make out the curtains flapping. A dark figure, cloaked like Dracula, lurked in the corner by the wardrobe.
'Who's there?' The words trembled from my shivering jaw and received no reply. I tried again. 'What are you doing here?' This time, though my voice sounded firmer, more manly even, there was still no response, apart from a swaying of the cloak. Nor was there any sound from Hobbes.
A sudden horror struck that the shadowy figure might be an assassin. Fear kicked in for Hobbes, as well as for myself, yet there was also an overwhelming anger. With a yell, I dived headlong at the intruder. There was a stunning crash and pain and fairy lights danced behind my eyes before everything went black and I was struggling against an overwhelming, smothering force. Something sharp jabbing my neck, I gasped in pain and horror. Had that been the vampire's bite? Would my existence continue as some sort of half-life, one of the undead? The fight left me, my body going limp. So, to my confusion, did my assailant's.
Standing up, holding my neck, there was just enough light to see that I'd attacked the cloak I'd taken from the attic and which Hobbes must have hung on a sharp wire coat hanger from his wardrobe door. It was no wonder my head hurt and I didn't half feel a twerp, but at least I hadn't disturbed Hobbes; he wasn't in.
I walked towards the window, taking deep breaths of the clean, night air, shivering, picking up the cloak, wrapping it around me and peering out over the street. The rain had passed and everything was grey and damp. The half-moon, partly hidden by wisps of dark cloud, lit up a shadowy figure clambering up the roof on the house opposite. The way the thing moved reminded me of an orang-utan, except its hairy back was black.
Despite the cloak, I felt goose pimples erupting as the creature moved from the shadow of the chimney onto the ridge. The shock was palpable when I saw it was wearing stripy pyjama bottoms. It stood, rais
ing its head, apparently looking for something, or sniffing, and crept along the ridge. It turned towards me and for an instant I could see its face. It was Hobbes.
The bedroom lights coming on, I spun around with a gasp as a foot hurtled towards my head. The lights went out.
1 2
My eyes felt as if they'd been gummed shut, while my waking mind echoed with confusion and fear. The side of my face was sore and my brain sort of connected the fact with a hazy recollection of a bad dream that made no sense. Getting out of bed, I prised open my eyelids, peering at the mirror, shocked to discover I'd become the proud owner of another black eye, a close match for the first one.
I had a vague image of a foot powering towards my head and my mind was awash with even vaguer fragments of images.
I was trying to rearrange them into coherent pictures when the bedroom door opened and Mrs Goodfellow peeped in.
'Did you sleep well, dear?'
'I'm not sure,' I said. 'I got up in the night and things went a bit strange.'
'I expect they did,' she said, 'though I'm sorry I kicked you. I heard a noise and saw a figure dressed in a black cloak and I thought to myself, there's one of them ninjas, and I reckoned I'd see if they was as good as in the movies. I was a little disappointed; you didn't put up much of a fight, dear.'
'I'm … umm … sorry.' So, it had been her foot. I hung my battered head. What else could I do when I'd been beaten up by a skinny old woman?
'Never mind,' she said. 'Though, why were you lurking in the old fellow's room dressed in a cloak?'
I told her the truth because I couldn't think of a more plausible explanation.
She laughed. Then she laughed a whole lot more. 'So, you nutted the wardrobe, thinking it was Count Dracula? You are a one, dear.' She grinned all the time she wasn't laughing and I attempted to show that I, too, was amused. Becoming suddenly serious, she said, 'It was a brave thing to do, if you really thought the old fellow was in trouble. It's not everyone who'd put themselves on the line for him.'
The vision of Hobbes crawling on the rooftops exploded into my brain, taking my breath away. I had to sit down on the bed, never again doubting that he wasn't human, except when doubting my own sanity.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 18
