Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (10 page)

‘That’s
not a problem,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ll give you a hand. C’mon, vicar. And quickly.’

As
he turned to go, he paused. ‘Sorry, Andy,’ he said, ‘the pub’s off.’ Reaching
into his pocket for the small, hairy and deeply disturbing pouch that served
him as a wallet, he removed a twenty-pound note, thrust it into my hand and
loped away with Just-call-me-Dave.

It
was a heady feeling to once more have money in my pocket. I headed for the Cat
and Fiddle, intending to spend it wisely on food and a pint, or possibly two,
of lager. However, I hadn’t gone far, the pub still out of sight, when my
nostrils detected the scent of frying onions. It was like a Siren song, luring
me down an alley towards the lurking burger van, a greasy little man with a
stained white coat and discoloured grin watching me approach.

‘What
can I do for you, squire?’ He stirred the onions.

The
sizzling overcame any remaining resistance. ‘I’ll have a jumbo hotdog,’ I said,
‘with mustard and loads of onions.’

‘Good
choice, squire. That’ll be three-fifty.’

Handing
over the money, I gloated as I received my change, sixteen pounds and fifty
pence, money to spend on refreshments. I’d noticed a keg and several crates
being loaded into the beer tent and could believe it wasn’t going to be a fete worse
than death after all.

Carrying
my hotdog back, I sat on a low wall overlooking the road in the shade outside
the church. Saliva flooded my mouth as I inhaled the aroma. However, on taking
a bite, the bun, aided by a sausage with the texture of cotton wool, sucked up
moisture, leaving my mouth as dry as blotting paper. It became a struggle to
force the stuff down my reluctant throat and I had to spit out a couple of
mouthfuls of gristle. Still, the hotdog served two purposes: it filled me up
pretty well and made me appreciate Mrs G’s cooking even more. I’d just finished
and was beginning to wish I hadn’t started, when a skinny young man in shorts,
t-shirt and trainers shot past, breathing hard, going like a whippet down the
road. Shamed by his commitment to fitness, I wondered how he motivated himself.

A
moment later, Hobbes loped into view, a couple of hundred yards behind,
catching up, despite having a cursing youth tucked under each arm. They didn’t look
like they were enjoying themselves.

‘A
couple of bad lads,’ said Hobbes with a grin as he passed.

I
stepped down, running after him to see what was happening, until the hotdog
made its presence known. I slowed to a jog and then to a brisk walk. I wasn’t
following to offer my assistance – he only had three to deal with – but to see
how the hunt ended. I was far too slow. Within a couple of minutes, I met him
coming back, lecturing his prisoners, who were walking in front, hanging their
heads like naughty three-year olds. One of them appeared to be crying.

‘I’m
just taking these boys to apologise to the vicar,’ said Hobbes. ‘They picked
his pockets and were trying to steal his car. They might have got away with it
if the vicar had remembered to fill up with petrol. They didn’t get very far.’

I
followed them back as far as the church wall where, indigestion claiming me, I
sat back down, stomach churning, watching them out of sight. A few minutes
later, Just-call-me-Dave reappeared, driving his little red car at a sedate
pace, as fast as the sweating lads could push it. Hobbes ambled behind,
offering encouragement and good advice.

‘Right,
boys,’ he said as the vicar parked by the kerb, ‘I hope you’ve learned a good
lesson today. Crime does not pay, especially when I’m around. However, it’s far
too nice a day to go inside and mess with paperwork, so I’m going to let you go
away and reflect on what you’ve done. If you behave yourselves, there’ll be no
need for me to pay any unexpected visits, which, I ought to point out, you
wouldn’t enjoy at all. Now, give the vicar a hand with his cakes. Then run
along, and mind how you go.’

After profuse apologies and some serious
grovelling, they hurried away.

The
church clock striking two, the vicar opened proceedings with a speech that must
have been a contender for the most boring ever, still rambling on twenty
minutes later, by which time almost everyone had left him to it. The stalls
began to get busy and, by three o’clock, the fete was swinging as well as any
fete swings.

A
pushy old man in a striped, multi-coloured waistcoat and a straw hat persuaded
me, against all reason, to bowl for the pig; my attempt was humiliating,
painful and best forgotten. Afterwards, I headed to the refreshments tent,
still suffering from the hotdog, needing a drink to take away a lingering taste.
Mrs Goodfellow’s ginger beer stall, conducting a brisk trade, I bypassed it, since
I could enjoy it for free back home, and went to the bar for a lager. They only
had the bottled kind, and since the bottles were small and expensive, and the
day was hot and humid, I changed my mind, heading for a table where a red-faced,
tubby woman was selling Brain-Damage Farmhouse Cider, kept under restraint
inside a large plastic tub. Ordering a pint, I was delighted to find it
considerably cheaper than the lager, with a fruity, rich, refreshing, innocuous
taste. I had another and a third, by when the world was taking on a golden haze
of well-being. I began to enjoy the fete, exuding a sort of paternal
benevolence, a smile for everyone.

A
young lady walked up to me, carrying a tray loaded with ginger beers. Her
friendly smile was, I thought, a good sign, even if she failed to live up to
the woman at the Wildlife Park’s standard, being a little plump and disfigured
by tattoos. However, I wasn’t fussy: I couldn’t afford to be.

‘Hello,’
I said, trying my best to look interesting.

‘Oh,
hello,’ she said. ‘Would you mind moving aside? You’re in my way.’

‘Oh
… umm … yes, of course.’

As
I stepped back, a man yelped and swore.

‘Sorry,’
I said, moving my foot.

The
cider chose that moment to show off its strength. Co-ordination failing, I
stumbled into the young lady, knocking the tray from her hands.

‘Sorry.’

As
I squatted to pick it up, I found my legs wouldn’t work properly. Rocking backwards,
slightly overcompensating, I lurched forward. Next thing I knew, I was lying
across the young lady, who was face down in a sticky puddle of ginger beer.

‘I
really must apologise,’ is what I wanted to say, but it came out slurred and
incomprehensible. Anything I attempted seemed to require considerable
concentration. I pushed myself upright, vaguely aware of my hands pressing on
something soft.

‘Take
your filthy hands off my arse,’ she said.

Her
words were a little crude for a lady, but making allowances for the
circumstances, I did as she asked, as hands grabbed my shoulders, pulling me
up. Considering it a diabolical liberty, I wriggled free and, slumping forward,
found I was lying across the young woman again, who made such unpleasant
remarks I could no longer think of her as a lady. Somebody shoved me and I
rolled off her onto my back. A big hand grabbed my shirtfront, jerking me to my
feet, so I was looking into the face of a burly man, his head shaved as smooth
as a hard-boiled egg.

‘I’d
be obliged if you’d leave my wife alone,’ he said.

‘Don’t
you tell me what to do.’ I wagged my finger in his face.

‘Look
mate, I can see you’ve had too much to drink, so I’m not going to make a fuss. Just
leave her alone, walk away and try to sober up.’

He
had a dotted line tattooed round his neck above the words, ‘cut here’. It
struck me as rather amusing and I giggled.

His
frown deepened. ‘D’you think I’m being funny?’

It
deepened even more when my wagging finger found its own way up his nostril.

‘Right,
that’s it.’ He raised his fist, ‘love’ tattooed across the knuckles.

The
realisation that I was in for a pasting almost sobered me up. I squealed like a
snared rabbit, cringing, anticipating pain as the fist drew back. The punch
never came. Hobbes was holding it in his own great hand.

‘Calm
down, sir,’ he said with a shake of his head, ‘there’s no need for violence. We’re
all friends here. Andy, get your finger out. And quickly.’

‘Sorry.’
Freeing it, I wiped it down my trousers.

‘Now,’
said Hobbes, ‘what’s going on here then?’

The
woman got to her feet. ‘He knocked me over, spilt our drinks and pinned me to
the ground.’

‘Is
that true, Andy?’

‘No.
Well … umm … yes. It’s sort of true but it was all an accident. I stepped back
to get out of her way like this …’

A
man yelped and swore.

‘Sorry.’ The cider still had me in its grasp.
Stepping off his foot, I stumbled, the edge of a table coming up at me.

I came
to, lying on my side on a hard bench somewhere cool and gloomy, my head
throbbing, women’s voices echoing as I tried to sit up. It appeared I was
inside the church. I shook my head to clear the fuzziness, a bad mistake, only
amplifying the pain, slumping back as waves of nausea overwhelmed me.

‘How
are you?’ a woman asked.

‘I’m
going to be sick.’ Sitting up abruptly, I threw up.

Someone
thoughtful had placed a bucket next to the bench. I missed, distributing my
hotdog and cider over the stone floor, splashing a pair of elegant ladies’
shoes.

‘I’m
sorry,’ I said, encoring with another deluge. Closing my eyes, I held my head
in both hands, hoping the pain would subside. Someone had tied a rag round my
forehead. It felt sticky.

‘The
ambulance will be here in a minute. How are you feeling?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.

‘Awful,’
I groaned.

‘I’m
not surprised. I’ll go and find a mop and something to wipe your shoes.’

‘What’s
wrong with my shoes?’

‘Nothing,
dear, I was talking to this young lady.’

I
was intrigued, though everything seemed to be very distant and getting further
away. ‘Umm … good. Who’s the ambulance for?’

‘For
you,’ said a woman with a soft, comforting purr that made me think of rich
velvet.

‘For
me?’ It sounded unlikely. All I needed was a rest and maybe a new brain.

‘Yes.
You banged your head.’

She
sounded like the beautiful lady at the Wildlife Park. I risked opening my eyes.
It was her. Again, I retched, the hot, sharp taste of vomit stinging my throat.
‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Mind
yourself, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, clattering a metal bucket, wielding a
dreadlocked mop. I lay back, groaning, as she swilled away my mess. What would
the beautiful lady think of me now? It had been bad enough throwing myself at
her feet but throwing up on her feet was such a horrible thing to do. I
wondered if I was cursed. I always messed up with women.

The
church doors opened and a man and woman dressed in green entered. The light hurt
my eyes and blurred my vision.

‘Hello,
sir’ said the green man. ‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s
…’ I said, ‘it’s on the tip of my tongue.’

‘How
are you feeling?’

‘I
have a headache but I think someone’s had an accident.’

‘How
many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Yes.
Why not?’

‘I
think we’d better get him to casualty,’ said the green woman.

I
wondered about whom she was talking. ‘Has there been an accident?’

‘Yes,’
said the green man, untying the rag round my head. It came away red.

‘Someone’s
cut themselves,’ I said. ‘You’d better make sure they’re OK.’

My
recollection after that is fragmentary. They wheeled me to an ambulance and a
pigeon flew overhead, while a man with a bald head said ‘sorry.’ I couldn’t
imagine why. When they loaded me into the back, the beautiful lady looked in, looking
worried. It felt good until Mrs Goodfellow’s voice impinged.

‘I
wouldn’t worry about him too much, he’s got a good, thick skull. Do you think
they’ll give him a brain scan? I wonder if they’ll find anything?’

‘Poor
man,’ said the lady.

The
doors closed.

The
rocking motion would have put me to sleep had the green man, who seemed to
think he was in an ambulance, not insisted on talking to me. When, at last,
everything went still, the door opened and they wheeled me into an echoing
building with a white ceiling. Now and then something bumped and pain jolted
through my head, making it spin, yet, on another level, everything seemed a
long way away, as if I were drifting like a balloon. A Casualty sign hanging
from shiny chains above my head, it dawned on me that there’d been an accident
and, since my head was hurting, I wondered whether I might have been involved.

A
thin lad in a white coat, a stethoscope dangling around his neck, appeared
above me. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know you?’

He
was familiar, though last time I’d seen him he’d been less blurry and there’d
been only one of him. My head throbbed, throwing up a memory. ‘You’re Dr Finlay
and you’ve heard all the jokes.’