‘Thank you for lunch,’ said Billy, finishing the last knife and jumping down. ‘Now I gotta get to work, because Featherlight doesn’t like it if I take time off and I said I’d be back in this afternoon.’
‘Thanks for everything,’ said Hobbes, who was still at the table and frowning at a rock. ‘Mind how you go.’
I went upstairs and lay down. I had a slight headache, with a lot of questions churning in my mind and no answers forthcoming. But, when I heard Hobbes take Dregs out for a walk, I took the opportunity to answer one question: what had he brought back in that sack? It was lying in the corner of the kitchen and, knowing him as I did, I opened it with some trepidation.
I was disappointed to find it contained nothing but rocks, just like the one he’d been frowning at earlier, and that, as rocks went, they weren’t at all impressive, looking just like any other in the Blacker Mountains. They were strange souvenirs.
Baffled, I went through to the sitting room, turned on the television and found that watching a rather good black and white gangster film helped take my mind off things. The hero, a hard-bitten cop, reminded me a little of Hobbes until he drew his gun and fired; Hobbes preferred a more hands-on approach to crime fighting. As the hard-bitten hero filled the baddy with lead and ran inside the burning house to rescue the damsel in distress, there was a commotion in the street outside.
A car’s engine roared, tyres squealed, and a horn blared. A moment later the front door opened and Dregs bounded in, pinning me to the sofa and licking me in great excitement.
Hobbes followed him in. ‘Alright, Andy?’
‘Ugh!’ I said, curling up into a ball, and clutching myself. Dregs was never careful where he put his feet.
‘Good,’ said Hobbes, smiling and looking really pleased with himself.
As Dregs galloped after him into the kitchen, I unwound, wondering how he could be chatting with Mrs Goodfellow, because she hadn’t been in the kitchen and I was certain only Hobbes and Dregs had gone past. Maybe she’d been in the cellar, dusting the coal, or selecting root vegetables for our suppers.
The phone rang. It was Billy, though it took a while before a lull in the background racket allowed me to hear him clearly.
‘Andy,’ he said, ‘we’ve got trouble. Ask Hobbesie to come here, pronto.’
‘Are you at the Feathers?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why can’t Featherlight sort it out?’
‘He’s not in. Get Hobbes. Now!’
Glass shattered, someone screamed and the phone went dead.
I raced into the kitchen, where Hobbes was sitting, reading the Bugle.
‘That was Billy.’ I said. ‘There’s trouble at the Feathers.’
‘I’d better sort it out, then,’ he said.
‘You had, because Featherlight’s not there.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said getting up, grabbing his old raincoat and running to open the front door.
Dregs and I followed.
‘You better hurry,’ I said, the scream having really spooked me. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll only hold you up.’
‘It’s alright’ said Hobbes, as he ran into the street, ‘we’ll take the car.’
I hesitated in the doorway, worry about possible danger competing with a thrill at the prospect of action, until Dregs barged into me and made me lunge down the steps. Before I could object, Hobbes had dragged me into the car and I was fitting my seatbelt. Dregs, for once, accepted the back seat.
The acceleration as he launched us up Blackdog Street seemed to crush me into the seat and I was just getting my head up when we screeched into Pound Street, ignoring the red light and the traffic coming at us. Although The Shambles was packed with Saturday shoppers and tourists, Hobbes was in no mood to slow down, even when a pair of old ladies crossed the road in front of us. It turned out that there was just enough pavement for a car to squeeze past without touching them.
It was only when we’d turned onto Lettuce Lane and the Feathers was already in sight that I realised he shouldn’t have a car any more.
‘Where did this come from?’ I asked, wondering if he’d commandeered it.
‘Billy made the arrangements and it arrived this afternoon. Hold on!’
Although I gripped the seat with both hands, the top of my head still whacked the ceiling as we bounced onto the pavement and screeched to a standstill outside the Feathers. A fat man crashed through the pub’s window in a shower of glass shards in best western movie tradition, but unlike in westerns, he didn’t pick himself up, shake himself down and dive back into the fray. Instead, as we got out of the car, he lay there, groaning and bleeding from a number of cuts. Hobbes stepped over him and strolled inside, with Dregs at his heel. I considered helping the casualty but, since his wounds didn’t look severe and he was swearing like my father used to when hauling on an obstinate wisdom tooth, I walked past, intending to take a tentative look inside. Holding the door open, I peeked round it, ducking as a chair smashed into the wall where my head would have been. I was still congratulating myself on my reflexes, when something spinning like a Frisbee struck me full on the forehead with a resounding clang.
As if in slow motion, I sank to my knees and the door, swinging back, struck me on the ear. Although too dazed at first to register pain, I touched my hand to my forehead and wasn’t in the least surprised to see blood and, with the realisation of injury, my head began to pulse with a deep, dull throb while the world became distant and muffled.
Crawling forward, I cowered behind an overturned table, pressing my handkerchief to my wound, which felt as if it was on fire, and tried to make sense of what was happening. At least twenty men were brawling, while half a dozen more sprawled unmoving on the filthy, matted floor covering that had, presumably, started life as a carpet.
‘Stop this at once,’ said Hobbes in a quiet, friendly voice. He was standing just in front of me, watching the action, smiling, with Dregs at his side.
To my surprise, everyone ceased pummelling each other and turned to face him. About half of the brawlers were local tough guys, who were harmless enough, so long as you didn’t catch their eye, look at their girlfriends, or spill their beer. The opposition, all of them dressed in a similar smart casual fashion, with their hair cropped short, was unfamiliar.
One of the locals, a large, slow-witted lout, who often frequented the Feathers and liked to be referred to as Hammerfist (though his real name, as I recalled from my brief stint as deputy, temporary, stand-in crime reporter, was Tarquin Sweet), spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hobbes. I didn’t come here for no trouble, but these bastards were up for it.’
‘That’s alright, Tarquin,’ said Hobbes. ‘Put your stool down and wait for me outside. I’ll speak to you later. That goes for the rest of you, too.’
Although the local lads, apologising and carrying three of their unconscious mates with them, hurried outside, the newcomers were not inclined to be cooperative.
A tall, thickset man, with a flat nose and a mouthful of gold teeth, grinned. ‘So, you’re Hobbes, are you? We’ve been looking for you.’
‘I’ve been on my holidays,’ said Hobbes. ‘Why do you wish to see me?’
‘We don’t exactly want to see you.’
‘They say you’re hard,’ said a tattooed oaf, who was nearly as broad as he was tall, ‘but we don’t think you are.’
‘Everyone,’ said Hobbes pleasantly, ‘is entitled to their opinion. Would you care to discuss the issue, sir?’
‘We’re not going to discuss anything,’ said the first man.
‘Fair enough. There’s no reason why you should, but since you have contributed to the mess in here, you could start making amends by tidying up.’
‘Why don’t you make us,’ said the second thug.
‘I was hoping,’ said Hobbes, ‘that you’d do it because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘We’re gonna do you,’ said the second thug, forming an impressively sized fist with his
right hand.
‘I really don’t think you should,’ said Hobbes.
The tattooed oaf, lunging forward, swung a brutal haymaker at Hobbes who, swaying away from harm, raised his hands in a gesture of peace and could not be blamed if the man’s wild swing unbalanced him, so he stumbled and his jutting chin struck Hobbes’s outstretched palm. Slumping to the floor, he lay peacefully.
‘It would be so much pleasanter and easier if we could all be civil,’ said Hobbes, opening his arms as two more of the gang charged. It was not his fault that, as he embraced them in a friendly hug, their heads cracked together. As he laid them gently on the bar, out of harm’s way, three more of the gang, experiencing unfortunate collisions with Hobbes’s knee, foot and elbow, lay down and slept. The others backed away and fled and, to judge from the sounds outside, our locals didn’t waste any time in continuing the relationship. Only one man, the tall, thickset one, remained facing Hobbes.
‘Very impressive,’ he sneered. ‘Now, let’s see what you’re really made of.’
All of a sudden, a long, slim knife appearing in his hand, he lunged only to find Hobbes had swayed to one side. He made a wild slash at Hobbes’s face but, unfortunately for him, Hobbes, as fast as a striking snake, displaying the reactions of a well-trained police dog, seized his wrist in his mouth. Although he made an attempt to punch with his free hand, he went limp, crying like a child as Hobbes, growling, increased pressure and Dregs, bristling, butted him in the groin. As the knife dropped, Hobbes kicked it into the dart board that had come off the wall and was lying in a corner. By then, all the fight had drained from the man and, besides his whimpering and the occasional groan from the ranks of the fallen, all was peaceful.
That was when I saw red and my eyes began to sting. Blood was dripping into them. I wiped it away with my handkerchief, which was sopping, and blinked. Looking down, I saw I’d been struck by a battered, rusty beer tray, and got to my feet a little unsteadily. Hobbes released the sobbing thug and sat him on a bar stool.
I leaned against a wall, swaying slightly, and fearing what Hobbes had done to him. After all, someone who I’d seen crunching up raw marrowbones with his teeth was quite capable of biting off a man’s hand. I was relieved when everything appeared to be where it ought to have been.
‘What did you do to him?’ I asked.
‘I just gave him a quick nip on a pressure point. It’s something the lass showed me and it’s remarkably effective, though I have modified the technique slightly. He’ll be over it in a few minutes with no harm done.’
‘Well done.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Hobbes. ‘A policeman has to be able to deal with high spirits every now and then.
‘I see you are bleeding, Andy. Are you alright?’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said bravely.
‘Good,’ said Hobbes and tossed me a bar towel. ‘This will mop it up, until you get it treated.’
Despite many misgivings about what horrible bugs the towel might contain, I pressed it to my forehead.
‘Now, sir,’ said Hobbes, addressing the weeping man, ‘what have you done with the barman?’
He shook his head, looking puzzled. ‘Nothing,’
‘Then where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He was here when it all kicked off.’
A Billy-sized groan arose from beneath one of the prone figures. Hobbes ran across and rolled an unconscious troublemaker, one I knew as Sam Jelly Belly, to one side to reveal Billy, who was looking extremely cross.
‘The big bully fell on me,’ said Billy, and I thought he was going to put the boot in until a glance from Hobbes dissuaded him.
‘I don’t think he had much say in the matter,’ said Hobbes, pointing to an impressive lump on the man’s head. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Apart from my dignity,’ said Billy. ‘What are you going to do with this lot? Our lads were having a quiet drink when this mob from Pigton burst in looking for trouble.’ He glanced around him and grinned. ‘It looks like they found it.’
‘I am going to have a quiet, friendly chat with these boys,’ said Hobbes, ‘and then they can help tidy up the mess.’
Billy chuckled. ‘Featherlight won’t recognise the place.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Hobbes, ‘you’d better call an ambulance. There’s some here that need patching up.’
He went over to the dart board, pulled out the knife, which must have been a foot long at the least, and snapped the blade off at the hilt with his bear hands. Handing the hilt back to the thug, who was blowing his nose on his shirt, he slipped the blade into his coat pocket. ‘That can go in the recycling,’ he said.
Hobbes had such a convincing way with his little chats that within ten minutes seven Pigton penitents were clearing up. The others, plus a couple of local boys, were taken away by ambulance.
When they were all working to his satisfaction, he turned to me. ‘You’d better get yourself seen to.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, though I was feeling light headed.
‘That cut could do with a couple of stitches and, from the look of that tray, you’ll need a tetanus shot.’
‘Do I have to? I hate needles.’
‘You have to. Billy will take you. On your way. And quickly.’
So, while the great clean-up of the Feathers continued and Hobbes, backed up by Dregs, was organising an impromptu whip-round to pay for the damage, Billy drove me to the hospital, where, I regret to say, too many people recognised me as an old customer. Nearly all my injuries had occurred since I’d known Hobbes.
Two hours later, stitched, heroically bandaged, and shot full of tetanus vaccine, I got back to Blackdog Street, where Mrs Goodfellow enjoyed having a patient to fuss over and I did nothing to spoil her enjoyment, playing the part of a wounded soldier most convincingly until she went to prepare supper.
Hobbes returned and was telling me what a great job his cleaning gang had done, when the doorbell rang and he went to answer it. A woman with orange hair and large, slightly protuberant eyes was standing at the top of the steps, a big red suitcase on wheels at her side.
‘Hi,’ she said in a soft American accent, ‘I’m your daughter.’
11
Since I’d grown accustomed to seeing Hobbes cope with just about any situation, including a pair of rhinos charging at him, without even flinching, it was a shock to hear him gasp and to see him stagger. For a moment, I thought he might collapse, until, pulling himself together with a jerk, he grabbed Dregs, who was attempting to charge the door.
‘Could you repeat that, madam?’
‘I’m your daughter,’ she said, breathing hard, though whether from emotion or the shock at seeing him I couldn’t tell.
‘But,’ said Hobbes, ‘I don’t have a daughter.’
‘Surprise!’ Although she looked anxious, she smiled.
‘There must be some mistake.’
‘I don’t think so. Mom recognised you straight away on YouTube.’
‘I’m not on YouTube … am I?’
‘You sure are.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You were chasing bad guys. Mom recognised you at once. You’re famous, Daddy.’
‘You’d better come in,’ said Hobbes, his face troubled. ‘We need to talk. Mrs? Miss?’
‘Miss Johnson. Kathleen Johnson,’ said the woman, walking into the sitting room as if she owned it.
‘Johnson?’ said Hobbes. ‘That name rings a bell.’
‘It should do. It’s my mom’s name.’
‘Shift up, Andy,’ said Hobbes. ‘Give Miss Johnson some space.’
‘Yeah … Of course,’ I said, sliding to the end of the sofa, because she looked as if she’d need most of the rest. ‘Can I take your coat, Miss Johnson?’
Ignoring me, she parked her ample rear. Hobbes watched her, looking bewildered, but keeping a firm grip on Dregs. After a moment of staring and looking nonplussed, he dragged the over-excited dog into the kitchen, came back and
pulled up one of the heavy, old oak chairs. As he sat down, facing her, apparently lost for words, I took the opportunity for a good look at the interloper.
My impressions weren’t favourable. She was a stout, lumpy woman, a few years older than me, at a guess, with protuberant, dull-brown eyes, puffy, flabby, sallow skin and with short, orange hair (dyed by her own hand, I assumed) that appeared to have been hacked by a hedge trimmer, although for all I knew, it might have been a fashionable and expensive cut where she came from. She was wearing an unbuttoned green coat and a purple dress that was a little too tight and bulged. So far as I could see, her only attractive parts were her even, white teeth.
‘This is a nice little house,’ she said, looking around.
‘Thank you, Miss Johnson,’ said Hobbes.
‘Please call me Kathy.’
As he nodded, she smiled at him. He was still looking bewildered and I’d rarely seen him at a loss, except the time when my ex-editor’s wife shot him, and when he was stricken by acute camel allergy.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ said Hobbes. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she said, ‘but I’d prefer a coffee and I’m famished with all the excitement and the travelling, so I wouldn’t say no to a few cookies.’
‘I’ll have the lass see to it,’ said Hobbes, standing up and leaving at such a pace I almost suspected him of running away.
‘And who might you be?’ she asked.
‘I’m Andy … Andy Caplet.’ I held out my hand.
After a slightly uncomfortable pause, she shook it.
‘So, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Eh?’
‘Your head.’
‘It … umm … got in the way of a beer tray during a pub brawl.’
‘Why were you brawling?’ she asked, looking at me with distaste.
‘I wasn’t. I was with Hobbes, your father that is, when he was stopping it.’
3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Page 12
