'Missed!' I glanced over my shoulder to see where it had landed and, in case she'd got more bullets, picked it up, finding it heavier than I'd imagined. Realising she was too dangerous to leave on her own, I knew she'd have to come with me while I phoned for help. I congratulated myself on forgetting nothing.
Except for one thing: the dagger. Terror chewed my guts, yet it was still lying beside Hobbes, out of her view. Unfortunately, it was not the only thing I'd forgotten.
She stuck the can of pepper spray in my face, squeezing the release, and it would have done for me, had the liquid burst out in a powerful jet instead of dribbling and dripping harmlessly to the ground.
'It's all gone,' I said, laughing, which was a mistake.
She leaped on me like an infuriated cat and, though I did my best against the clawing, spitting and biting, she'd taken me by surprise. A well-manicured talon, slashing at my eyes, I covered up as well as I could, feeling her sharp, varnished nails tearing my face. Squealing like a stuck pig, I shoved her down. She sprang back, this time more like an enraged leopard, and, my injured leg failing, I fell. She was all over me in an instant, hissing, screeching, gouging, biting. Her sharp teeth piercing my neck, I screamed, pushing and kicking her off, struggling to my feet, clutching the wound, sick and scared within. She'd bitten me and, as the realisation hit home, horror overwhelmed me. I feared I was doomed to become like her, one of the undead, her slave forever. I may not have been entirely rational.
'Help!' I cried.
Though she was sprawling on the ground at Hobbes's side, her teeth were still locked in my neck and, as I clawed at them, they dropped, clacking on the stone floor. I might have laughed if not for the pain and fear. False ones! Yet even as the relief hit me, she sprang up, wielding the dagger. Jumping backwards to avoid a slash, twisting to one side as she stabbed at me, I ducked and squirmed, fending her off with the brass candelabra. Too heavy and clumsy to be an effective weapon, it treacherously shed its load across the floor and, as I parried a lunge at my face, I stepped on a candle, skidding into a pillar. The candelabra clattered to the floor and, like a striking cobra, the dagger stabbed towards my throat. I took what I expected to be my last breath.
Fortunately, some things move even faster than cobras. The dagger, ceasing its attempt to skewer my larynx, flew upwards like a rocket, twisting through the air, sticking in the ceiling. A moment later, Narcisa, following a similar, if lower, trajectory, landed on her back in the middle of the altar, groaning. Her eyes opened with a look of puzzlement as if she was wondering how she'd got there and the Dagger of Tepes, falling loose in a shower of stone fragments, dropped towards her head. She screamed and was quiet.
'Hello, dear,' said Mrs Goodfellow.
'You?' I replied as intelligently as I could in the circumstances. 'How? You?'
'Well spotted, dear, it is me. Has she hurt you?'
'Yes, but Hobbes needs help.' I lurched towards him. 'She shot him.'
'Then I wish I'd hit her harder. Who's the attractive young man in the chains?'
'It's Phil – he was missing. We need to get Hobbes to hospital.'
'No.' I felt a faint rumble as if a heavy vehicle had passed on the edge of hearing. It came from Hobbes. 'No hospital.' The words emerged slowly. 'Fetch Rocky.'
'You have to go to hospital.'
'No. Rocky.'
'But …' I began.
Mrs Goodfellow shushed me. 'He's right, dear, we need Rocky.'
'But …'
'The old fellow knows what he's saying. Hospitals can't help. He's different to you and me.'
I sort of understood what she meant and one look at her persuaded me there was no room for argument. 'What can Rocky do?'
'Same as last time. Patch him up and fix him.'
'He's not a doctor, he's a troll. And how do we get to him? Is he on the phone?'
'No. Can you drive, dear?'
'Umm … no … not really. I had a couple of lessons once. How about you?'
'I don't know, I've never tried.' She nibbled her lip, looking worried.
'Phil could drive when he comes round … or there's the Editorsaurus.'
'Who, dear?'
'Upstairs. Her husband.'
'The fat, snoring one?'
'Yes.'
She shook her head. 'He's out for the count.'
'A taxi then?' I said.
'No, taxi drivers are reluctant to carry trolls, even civilised ones like Rocky and we need to hurry. You'll have to drive.'
'I can't … I won't. It's out of the question.'
She gave me the look and knelt by Hobbes. Hobbling upstairs, finding the keys to the Volvo on a small table, I set off on my mission of mercy, no less scared than I'd been all evening.
To my amazement, the car started first time, though when I tried to turn on the lights, the windscreen wipers started instead. After a lot of stirring, I found a gear, stalling three times before getting going. My progress was reminiscent of a drunken kangaroo; I bounced, lurched and skidded down the drive. When I reached the end, I turned into Alexander Court, having first turned into the gatepost. The car rumbled and grumbled into the night and I allowed it to coast down the slope towards Fenderton Road until I had to brake.
Though I had to brake, I couldn't since my foot, hitting the accelerator instead, refused point blank to try another pedal. My hands locked onto the steering wheel and I wailed like a frightened baby as Fenderton Road came towards me at a surprising pace.
Headlights flashed as in desperation I turned the wheel, making the tyres squeal in agony. I thought the car was going to roll as it swung into the main road, just missing a van and a big green car, though not the tree.
There was a horrible crunch and the airbag pinned me to my seat, leaving me winded and shocked, yet unhurt, except for all the hurts I'd already got. My leg throbbed and oozed and the bite in my neck was stinging as if a giant wasp had scored a hit. I was light-headed, though glad to be alive, if only temporarily, for who knew whether false teeth could transmit the curse of vampirism?
The door of the Volvo opened with a crunch.
'Were you trying to kill yourself? Or are you just a bloody idiot?' A high-pitched voice berated me, though I couldn't see anyone.
I groaned, wondering if the first stage in being undead was not being able to see the living. Unbuckling my seat belt, I rolled out onto wet grass, icy cold on my exposed skin, making me leap up with a yell.
'Well you're alive and, bloody hell, you are bloody.'
I looked down into a small, worried face.
'Billy, thank God.'
'Are you alright? Did you find Hobbes?'
'He's been shot and I'm going for help, only I can't drive.'
He glanced at the wreck of the Volvo, his expression saying it all.
'I need to fetch a troll called Rocky who can save him, and you'll have to get me there before I change into a vampire, because I think I've been bitten by one. Don't look at me like that, it's true.'
'You'd better hop into the hearse,' said Billy with a look suggesting he might be humouring me. Nevertheless, I noticed him finger the small silver cross round his neck. A minute later we were hurtling towards Sorenchester.
'Where am I going?' he asked.
'Left at the traffic lights and you'd better be quick. Hobbes is in a bad way.'
'OK then,' said Billy, calmly as if this sort of thing often happened on his nights out. 'Just one thing, though. Why are you running round in your underpants?'
'Because my trousers came off in the kitchen window, and would you mind turning the heating up? It's freezing.'
'Fair enough. Could happen I suppose.' Though he sounded sceptical, he did turn the heating up, as well as offering me a rug from the back.
We turned onto Green Way, flying past a long row of houses into the darkness of the countryside. He kept his foot down until we passed Brancastle, which lay in utter blackness apart from a lamp on the porch.
'Next turn on the left,' I sai
d.
We swung onto the track towards the Olde Troll House.
I leaped from the car before it had even stopped, landing on my bad leg with a howling jolt, hobbling towards the front door, pounding on it like a Japanese drummer, ringing the doorbell frantically and then spotting the note pinned to the frame. It was too dark to read, so, tearing it down, I took it back to the hearse, which Billy had already swung round for the return journey.
'He's not answering,' I said, thrusting the note into Billy's hands. 'What's it say?'
Turning on the light, he screwed up his face. 'It says he's outstanding in his field.'
'Well I'm glad he's so modest,' I roared, 'but where is he?'
'Out in his field,' Billy replied, as if talking to an imbecile. 'He's standing in it. Actually, he might not be. Some big fellow's coming this way … doesn't look much like a troll to me.'
Rocky came striding towards us.
'Oo's tryin' to knock my front door down?' he asked in his guttural voice.
'It's me, Andy, I came here with Hobbes a couple of days ago.'
'Andy? 'ow the Devil are you?' A huge smile spread like a ravine across his face.
'I'm fine,' I lied, unable to spare any time for explanations of my state.
'You don't look fine, and I take it this is not a formal visit? You'll catch your death if you go running round dressed like that at this time of year. You'd best come in and bring your little friend. I'll put the kettle on.'
'Sorry, there's no time. It's Hobbes.'
''ow is the old boy?'
'He's been shot.'
'What? Again?' Rocky's smile snapped shut.
'Yes, he asked for you and he's in a bad way. Hurry … please!'
'Righto, lad. I'll get my things.' Running inside, he returned two interminable minutes later carrying a selection of small leather bags.
The hearse suited Rocky and appeared to amuse him. He lay down in the back. 'Most comfortable,' he said. 'Now, tell me what's 'appened.'
I told him as we sped back towards town. Billy nodded significantly when I mentioned Tony Derrick's involvement. Rocky was silent. The traffic lights onto Fenderton Road turning against us, we had to stop while a bulging, crop-headed youth in low-slung jeans swaggered unsteadily across in front of us just as the lights changed back to green.
'Shift your fat arse!' I yelled, furious at any delay.
Billy pumped the horn and the youth, turning, lurched towards us with an expression hinting at imminent drunken violence. It took him a couple of seconds to notice he was approaching a hearse. He hesitated, his glare fixed on Billy, propped up on a pile of cushions in the driving seat. His expression turned to puzzlement as he looked at me, covered in blood and half-naked. When Rocky sat up he fled. Billy flattened the accelerator.
'Fast as you can,' I said, 'and take a right into Alexander Court, just after the 'Thank You for Driving Safely' sign.'
'Righto, Chief,' said Billy. 'Just past the broken Volvo, eh?'
I doubted I'd been away more than twenty minutes, yet I'd begrudged every second and, though Billy was by no means slow, I longed for the sort of speed Hobbes could squeeze from a vehicle. At last we turned into Alexander Court and into the Witcherleys' drive.
I leaped from the car, urging Rocky to move before Billy even had time to tug on the parking brake. 'C'mon,' I said over my shoulder, 'this way.'
Running into the house, I had to go back for the olde troll who was still sliding out, as slow as a slug. Despite my sore leg, I caught myself in a little jig of despair and frustration.
'Calm down, Laddie. I'm moving as fast as I can but there've been too many years and there's too much chalk in my joints.'
When, eventually, I reached Hobbes, his breathing was slow and ragged with bright blood bubbling round his mouth. Mrs Goodfellow had applied a new and improved dressing, discarding my blood soaked vest in a corner, placing a pillow behind his head, covering him in blankets. Narcisa was still sprawled on the altar where the Dagger of Tepes had ended her part in the story. I barely spared her a glance.
'How is he?' I asked.
'Not so good. So you found Rocky?'
''e did.' The olde troll creaked as, kneeling beside us with a cracking of knees like a ragged volley of shots, he began examining him.
It was too much for me, so I hobbled towards Phil, who, sitting against a pillar, his head in his hands, was groaning, his face as white as a vampire's, his eyes strawberry red, though I didn't think he'd been bitten. I wondered how long it would take me to turn evil.
'Someone had better fetch a stake,' I said, 'I'm going to need one soon.'
'Don't mention food,' said Phil. 'I'll be sick again.'
Billy joined us. 'Old Hobbesie doesn't look too good.' He wrinkled his nose. 'And someone doesn't smell too good.' He looked at Phil. 'I know you – you're the newspaper bloke who was hanging round with Tony Derrick. I told you he was a wrong 'un, didn't I?'
Phil nodded.
Billy returned to his hearse, coming back with a hacksaw that made short work of Phil's chains. Then he went upstairs, bringing us glasses of water, for which I was truly grateful, while Rocky set to work on Hobbes, the gleam of polished blades turning my stomach.
'What's been going on here?' asked Billy. 'This place is weird.'
'I don't really know,' said Phil, 'except Mrs Witcherley was trying to kill me, to use me as a sacrifice. She sounded insane. I'd been investigating her, not realising Tony was her stooge. I think he slipped something into my drink and next thing I knew I was stuck in the horrible cage. They got the Inspector too. He fell through the ceiling and I thought he must be dead. I don't know how long I was down here but she was just about to murder me when he reappeared like a demon from the black pit … and then Andy turned up.'
Though I wanted to play up my heroic part in the rescue, an urgent call made me jump to my feet.
'Come on, boys,' said Mrs Goodfellow, 'Rocky says the old fellow's got to be moved.'
Under Rocky's command, Billy unscrewed the cellar door, we loaded Hobbes onto it and carried him carefully upstairs. He was muscle-achingly heavy even for four of us – there were only four, because Billy couldn't reach. Lying Hobbes gently in the back of the hearse, his breathing sounding better, though his face was as pale as the moon, we piled into the front, a tight squeeze.
As we left I'd seen Rex, still snoring peacefully and felt strangely sorry for him: he'd have one hell of a headache in the morning.
We drove back to Blackdog Street at a funeral pace to avoid jarring Hobbes, who was limp when we carried him inside, placing him on the kitchen table like a huge turkey. Rocky, grim-faced and intense, assisted by Mrs Goodfellow, performed a variety of gruesome operations. I went to check on Phil, who having long since fled the gory scene, was slumped in the corner of the sitting room with Dregs, both looking mournful and blinking, presumably due to the effects of the pepper spray, but they appeared to be weeping. I returned to the kitchen where Billy busied himself with tidying up my bloody leg and applying stinging antiseptic to all my bumps and grazes. It was over an hour before Rocky finished, stitching Hobbes up with what appeared to be leather shoelaces, straightening up with a percussive rattle and, I hoped, a hint of a smile.
'Is he alright?'
The olde troll nodded.
19
'I reckon 'e should be just fine,' said Rocky, with a sudden grin that lent his time-smoothed face the illusion of softness, 'yet it was a close thing. You did well to get to me so quick, cos 'e wouldn't 'ave lasted much longer. And 'e was lucky she was a bad shot and ran out of ammo.'
'Wouldn't it have been better to get him to hospital?' asked Billy
'Not at all, young man,' said Rocky. 'They really wouldn't know 'ow to deal with 'is … Well, let's just say, 'obbes would be beyond their experience.'
'Umm … how did you know what to do?' I asked.
Under the table stood a bucket brimming with blood-sodden rags. Not so many days ago, it would have made me s
ick.
'Aye, well, I 'ad to patch 'im up last time 'e got a belly full o' lead – at Arras it was. The sawbones reckoned 'e was already a goner, cos 'e was so full of 'oles but 'e was one o' my lads, so I did what I could to 'elp and saw 'e wasn't like the rest of 'em. 'e pulled through then and 'e'll pull through now.'
A weight lifted from my soul and, though his big hand was covered in gore, I shook it.
'I'm only glad I could 'elp. 'e's a goodun. Now, I'll wash myself and we'll take 'im upstairs to bed. Then I must get back to my field, if your little friend wouldn't mind giving me a lift?'
Billy nodded.
'Thank you, young man. I'll stop round tomorrow and make sure all's well but 'obbes is as tough as old boots. 'e'll get better, though it'll take a few days.'
We carried Hobbes to his bed and Mrs Goodfellow tucked him in. Though he lay as still as a corpse, his face greenish, his soft, regular breathing was reassuring.
Rocky and Billy left together and Phil took himself straight to the police station to inform them he was no longer missing and explain why they should pay an immediate visit to the Witcherleys, leaving me alone with Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow.
'Why does Rocky stand out in his field?' I asked, as she smoothed the sheets.
'It's just that his sort …'
'Trolls?'
She shrugged, stroking Hobbes's brow. 'His sort enjoys communion with the earth. They say they like to stand and think, though mostly I reckon they just like to stand. They're good at it. Still, Rocky has a talent for patching up wounds and the old fellow reckons he was a damn fine sergeant in his day – excuse my language. Now, you'd best have a wash and get some sleep. You've had a rough day, too. I'll sit with him.'
'Thanks,' I said, for the church clock was striking two and I'd been stifling yawns for over an hour. As I started towards the bathroom, a thought stopped me in the doorway. 'D'you know, you're the only one who didn't ask why I wasn't wearing my trousers.'
'I expect you had your reasons. Now, hurry up, have a wash and turn in.' She smiled.
I followed her advice and very soon, and just in time, pulled myself into bed. Billy had been lavish with his first aid, covering me in a patchwork of plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. Everywhere was sore and the bite in my neck throbbed even more than the wound in my leg. Despite this, I fell asleep in no time.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 29
