Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (29 page)

I
hobbled through the deserted streets, the storm receding into distant rumblings,
the rain turning to a light drizzle. It stopped completely when I reached
Blackdog Street.

The
house was quiet when I let myself in. I dragged myself upstairs, filled the
bath with hot water, stripped off my filthy, sodden clothes and lowered myself
in with a groan. Though my chilled skin protested, my feet stinging and throbbing,
it was glorious to feel the warmth ooze back into my body. I would have fallen
asleep had I not dropped the soap with a splash. I got out, dried myself, wrapped
a towel around my middle and stumbled towards my room. Too tired to worry about
anything, even Violet, I must have fallen asleep as soon as I’d got into bed.

On
waking, I wished I hadn’t. My head was throbbing with the power of a ten-pint
hangover, my armpits had apparently been fitted with painful lumps, as big as
golf balls, and my ankle kept going into agonising spasms on every heartbeat.
Everywhere hurt and, weak as a newly-hatched chick, I was shivering, presumably
because all my bedclothes had fallen off. Blindly groping on the floor failing
to find them, I opened my eyes and whimpered, for even my eyeballs ached. The
door clicked open.

‘Good
morning,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘How are you today?’

Shaking
my head in response proving a big mistake, my groan sounded as pathetic as I
felt.

‘Are
you feeling poorly?’

‘Yes,’
I said through chattering teeth.

‘You
must be cold, dear, without any bedclothes or pyjamas,’ she said, pulling the
blankets over me and touching my forehead. ‘You feel like you’re burning, but I’ll
fetch you a hot water bottle.’

She
left, returning a few minutes later with a grey rubber object that appeared to
have been moulded in the shape of a deformed hippopotamus. I hugged it,
enjoying the warmth, and snuggled down.

‘Were
you caught in the storm, dear? I thought you must have been because of the
state of your clothes. I’m having ’em laundered and Milord should be able to
fix the trousers and the blazer, but your pumps have had it and there’s such a
big hole in the straw hat I doubt there’s any chance of fixing it. Now, can I
get you something to eat?’

‘No.’

‘A
nice hot drink, then?’

‘Please
… and some aspirins.’

‘Aspirins?
I don’t think we’ve got any, though I do have a tincture that should make you
feel as right as reindeer.’

As
her footsteps receded, having an urgent need to relieve my bladder, I pulled
myself into a sitting position, fearing any delay might prove disastrous and,
though I hardly dared get to my feet, I had no choice. Wrapping a soft blanket
around me, I hobbled to the bathroom, making it with seconds to spare, finding
it a long way back.

The storm having passed, the sun shone painfully
brightly through the closed curtains, as I curled up in bed, blankets piled
high, the warm rubber hippo on my stomach, still shivering when the old girl
returned with a mug of steaming something. Fluffing a couple of pillows, slipping
them under my shoulders, she helped me sip the concoction. I’m not certain what
was in it, though there might have been lavender. Finishing it, I lay back,
feeling disconnected from the aches and pains in my body.

A
scuffling woke me, or I think so, because everything was vague and fuzzy,
almost as if I was dreaming or hallucinating. The curtains having been drawn
back and the window opened, I could hear the Saturday bustle of the town as I lay
a while, blinking, fascinated by the scintillating patterns swirling in the
sunlight. Trying to work out what was causing the peculiar misshapen shadow moving
across the carpet, I looked up, seeing Hobbes’s face upside down outside the
window, winking at me from beneath a broad grin.

Puzzled,
I closed my eyes. When I looked again, he’d been replaced by Milord Schmidt,
hunched on a small stool, stitching a tear in my blazer.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, peering over the
top of his half-moon spectacles, stretching out his long, thin legs.

An
unfamiliar middle-aged woman, smelling of disinfectant, was leaning over me,
poking various tender places, shaking her head and frowning. When I opened my
mouth to ask what she was doing, she popped in a thermometer, continuing the
prodding occasionally saying ‘um’ or ‘aah’. The ‘ooh’ came from me; her hands could
have been warmer.

Retrieving
the thermometer, she peered at it. ‘You did well to call me in,’ she said,
ignoring me. ‘He’s certainly got a high fever, so it’s no wonder he’s feeling
poorly. He would appear to have picked up a rather nasty infection, almost
certainly a bacterial one, though I’ll take a blood sample to make sure. In the
meantime, I’ll prescribe him a course of antibiotics. He should start it as
soon as possible. I must say it’s peculiar how the illness happened just like
that, but I’d be surprised if it wasn’t connected with the scratches on his
hand.

‘I
almost think he should be in hospital, but I’ve an idea he’ll be better off
here. Make sure he has plenty to drink and he can eat a little when he feels up
to it. Call me if he gets any worse, or if there’s no improvement in the next
two days.’

‘Now,’
she said, swabbing my arm with alcohol, ‘you’ll feel a little scratch.’

When
she thrust the needle into my arm just below the elbow, I whimpered, nearly
fainting as the little glass tube filled up with my blood. As she straightened
up, turning away, I felt a momentary resentment that I hadn’t been involved
before drifting off.

Now
and again Mrs Goodfellow shook me awake to pop some foul-tasting pills down my
throat, washing them down with cool drinks. Sometimes I sweated, kicking off
the bedclothes; other times I shivered, clutching them around me. The long
night let loose dreams, leading me down nightmare alleys, where big cats with
glowing eyes prowled, oblivious to something darker, something worse than
panthers, lurking in the shadows. It was something looking like a man, except
it was all wrong, though not in the way Hobbes was wrong. It was stalking
Violet and I tried to warn her, only for Charlie Brick to release a herd of
grinning pigs that ran squealing through a hole in the hedge, getting in my way.
Unable to get close, I screamed for her to run.

‘It’s only a nightmare, dear,’ said Mrs G.

I
opened my eyes, blinking in the morning light, my chin rasping against the white
sheets. I found it was surprisingly bristly.

‘How
are you feeling?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.

‘Not
so bad,’ I said.

‘That’s
good. You’ve been rather ill and Doctor Procter was quite worried – we all were
– but the antibiotics seem to be working. Would you like any breakfast?’

‘Umm
… yes. Yes, I would. I really fancy scrambled eggs. I’m starving.’

Smiling,
she walked away. After a few minutes, I sat up abruptly, feeling something terribly
wrong around my waist. I put my hand beneath the sheets. Appalled at what I touched,
I threw back the blankets and stared in absolute, horrified disbelief. Someone,
and I didn’t need to guess who, had encased my nether regions in a nappy.

A
tray appeared at the bedroom door, followed by Mrs Goodfellow.

‘Why,’
I asked, pointing, ‘am I wearing this?’

‘To
keep you dry.’

‘But
…’

‘You
needed it, dear, to stop you wetting the bed.’

‘I
did what?’

‘Sorry,
dear. It was for the best. You weren’t able to get to the bathroom.’

‘Oh,
God,’ I muttered, cringing, covering myself up, disgusted and ashamed, ‘I’m really
sorry.’

‘You
couldn’t help it and, anyway, I saw a lot worse when I was nursing. Don’t
worry. Enjoy your breakfast.’ Handing me the tray, she left me to it.

I
shrugged. What had happened had happened, and didn’t alter the fact that I was
ravenous. She’d made scrambled eggs on toast and I wolfed them down at first, desperate
to fill the emptiness. Only towards the end, the edge having been smoothed off
my hunger, did I begin to appreciate their wonderful fragrance and fluffiness,
though my taste buds didn’t seem quite up to scratch. Even the tea tasted odd,
though I still gulped it down.

I’d
just finished eating when she returned with the
Bugle
. ‘I brought you
this. Would you like anything else, dear?’

‘Yes,
please. Could I have some toast and marmalade?’

‘Of
course. Would two slices do?’

‘Better
make it four … and some more tea would be great. Thanks.’

The
headline was intriguing.

‘Publican
struck by lightning on battery charge.’

Underneath
was a photograph of Featherlight Binks, wrestling with six police officers in
front of the Feathers. I wasn’t surprised, knowing how often he’d been arrested
before.

What
confused me was seeing it was in Monday’s paper, which made no sense. The
picnic had been on Friday evening, after which I’d walked home and gone to bed.
It must, therefore, have been Saturday morning when I’d woken up feeling poorly,
and now, somehow, it was Monday. Sunday had apparently come and gone without
trace, which was weird, almost as if I’d been time travelling, skipping over a
day of my life. Still, there was no point fretting. All I could do was to
resume life where I’d rejoined it.

I
forced myself to read the story. ‘Leonard Holdfast Binks,’ it said, ‘landlord
of the Feathers public house, was arrested on Sunday lunchtime, following
allegations of a serious assault. According to Mr William Shawcroft, an
eyewitness, when officers informed Binks, widely known as Featherlight, that he
was under arrest, he adopted an aggressive stance, letting slip a tirade of
foul and abusive language before attempting to absent himself from the premises
via the back door. He was arrested after a struggle during which six officers
received minor yet spectacular injuries. According to Mr Shawcroft, Binks would
probably have made good his escape had he not been under the weather, having
been struck by lightning during Friday night’s storm. Binks, he reports, is
frequently struck, possibly on account of a metal plate in his head. Mr
Shawcroft stated that Binks, who has several previous convictions for violence
and cooking, is normally at his most placid following a lightning strike and
that his behaviour was out of character. As Binks was dragged into the back of
a police van, he denied assaulting anyone over the weekend and threatened anyone
who disagreed with him with “a good shoeing”.

‘The
victim, an as yet unnamed businessman, remains in hospital, where a spokesman
reports that he is critical but stable.’

I’d
just finished the article when Mrs Goodfellow returned with the toast and marmalade
and more tea.

‘I
see Featherlight’s in trouble again,’ I remarked.

‘It
seems so,’ she said, adjusting my pillows. ‘Yet the old fellow has his doubts.’

‘But,
he injured six policemen,’ I said, pointing at the photo. ‘You can see what he
did. There can’t be any doubt.’

‘He
did that, but denies the original assault.’

‘Well,
he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘I
doubt it. The old fellow reckons Mr Binks is honest. That is, though he may be
involved in a multitude of nefarious schemes, he doesn’t actually tell lies. Of
course, what he perceives as the truth might differ from how you or I might see
it.’

I
laughed. ‘You might be right, I’m sure he really believes he is a purveyor of
fine ales and good food.’

‘That’s
true, dear. Anyway, the old fellow believes him.’

‘I
still don’t get it. If he didn’t attack the businessman, then who did?’

‘I
have no idea, dear. Now, enjoy the rest of your breakfast and then you can tell
me all about your picnic.’

After
breakfast, while Mrs Goodfellow tidied up, I told my tale, though leaving out
Felix’s threats and the werewolf. I was still trying to come to terms with it
all. When I’d finished, fearing the worst, I asked whether Violet had been in
touch.

‘No,
I’m afraid not. I did wonder when she didn’t call, if you two had fallen out.’

‘I
hope she’s alright,’ I said, a flock of worries fluttering round my stomach
like frightened pigeons.

‘I
expect she is, dear. Otherwise we’d have heard something. Her brother would
have let you know, wouldn’t he?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, without feeling reassured.
Still, I had an inkling that if anything really bad had happened, then Hobbes
would have known and told the old girl. I still wasn’t happy but the feelings
of panic took wing.

After
a bath, I brushed my teeth, removing a triple dose of morning breath, and went
back to bed for a couple of hours. Waking just before lunch, I was strong
enough to hobble downstairs, where Mrs Goodfellow had prepared chicken soup
especially for me, Hobbes and Dregs having gone out for the day. Though I’d
guess it was up to standard, my taste buds were still numb, for which I blamed
the antibiotics, hoping the effect was temporary.