Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (9 page)

My
feet, with little input from my brain, carried me to the recreation ground just
off Moorend Road, where, sitting on a bench in the shade of a conker tree, I
watched two guys knocking a ball around on the tennis court. I paid them little
attention, since my mind was circling in a galaxy far, far away, trying to work
out why my benefactor in the shop had seemed familiar. I returned to earth with
a bang as a tennis ball struck me on the nose, exactly where the car keys had
hit earlier. Putting my hands to my face, I felt no surprise at the smear of
blood as I pulled them away.

A
harsh voice bellowed from the tennis court. ‘Oi, Caplet, you dozy git! Wake up
and chuck the ball back.’

There
was no hint of apology and though my eyes watered so I could only see blurs, I knew
it was Len ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the gross landlord of the Feathers public
house. I would never have suspected him capable of playing tennis, or of
engaging in any physical exertion, other than raising a glass or brawling with
his customers; Mrs Goodfellow had picked much of her tooth collection from the
floor of his establishment. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I clamped it
to my nose.

‘Come
on Caplet, shift your lazy arse.’

My
vision clearing, I found the sight of Featherlight in pink, flowery shorts
almost as disconcerting as the blood pumping from my nose. I picked up the
ball, throwing it back, staring in horror. His shorts, obviously designed for a
person of considerably inferior girth, had perhaps fitted him a quarter of a century
ago, when such garments had briefly and inexplicably achieved fashionable
status. In addition, he was wearing a pair of mildewed plimsolls and his
habitual stained vest, through which gingery chest hairs protruded. His
opponent, by comparison, was a young, athletic man, clad in the sort of
gleaming whites that detergent manufacturers often promise but rarely deliver.

If
ever there was a mismatch, this was it. Featherlight, his belly swinging low,
twirling a warped wooden racket between sausage fingers, was puffing and
wheezing, looking done in even before they’d completed the knock up. At last they
started. He served, tossing the ball high into the air, raising his racket, swinging
like a professional, giving his opponent no chance; the match was over before
the ball even hit the ground. He’d won by a knockout. Raising his massive, mottled
arms to the sky in triumph, picking up the ball, he lumbered to the other end
of the court to retrieve his racket. It was lying beside his fallen opponent. Squatting,
he removed a ten pound note from the man’s top pocket, grunted and strode away,
without looking back.

As
I hurried to the victim to see if I could be of assistance, he sat up, spitting
blood and groaning. We made a fine pair.

‘Umm
… Are you alright?’ I asked.

‘Do
I look alright?’

‘Sorry.’

He
held out his hand and I shook it.

‘Actually,’
he said, ‘I was hoping for a hand up.’

I
helped him to his feet. ‘Why were you playing Featherlight?’

‘For
a bet.’

‘You
should never bet against him,’ I said. ‘You can’t win. One way or another, even
if he loses, he comes out on top. I once got lucky and beat him at darts and
won a fiver. When he actually paid up, I felt pretty pleased but, when I was
taking my darts from the board, he threw one of his, and pinned my hand to it. Then
he charged me ten pounds for cleaning off the blood.’

The
man snorted and packed his kit away into a smart leather bag bearing a crown
symbol and a King Enterprises logo. ‘Binks might have won the bet but he won’t
win in the end. Mr King wants to take over his pub and Mr King always gets his
way.’ With a curt nod, he walked away, holding a tissue to his mouth.

He
left me with a puzzle. Why would anyone wish to buy the Feathers? It had a
reputation as far and away the nastiest, most dangerous pub in Sorenchester,
though it retained a loyal clientele. In addition, Featherlight, to the despair
of the council, had become a sort of unofficial tourist attraction, with people
visiting the Feathers because they couldn’t believe the rumours. Few left
disappointed, for Featherlight really was the vilest slob of a landlord you
could hope never to meet. He kept his beer badly, refused to serve wine or soft
drinks and his spirits were ‘interesting’, and I knew of one customer who,
having asked for a glass of his best malt, had been given malt vinegar. The fun
really began if anyone complained; few dared and fewer dared a second time. The
really intrepid even ate there. No one had died yet.

By
then my nose had stopped bleeding, so I decided to head home and clean up. Though
the sun had dipped well into the west, the afternoon’s heat continued to build.
If I’d had any lager money I would have visited the Feathers to find out about
the take-over. However, I was broke and it wasn’t wise to ask for credit. There
was a hand-written sign over the bar with the legend, ‘If you ask for credit,
you’ll get a punch in the mouth’. It wasn’t a joke.

When
I got home, it seemed very still, so I assumed Mrs Goodfellow had gone out and
that Hobbes and Dregs weren’t back. I went upstairs, washed my face, came back
down and poured myself a glass of Mrs G’s ginger beer, which she made in the
cellar but stored in the fridge. I made a point of avoiding the cellar, because
the old girl had a tendency to lock me in. According to Hobbes, this was a
result of a childhood trauma and I wasn’t to take it seriously. It was, he claimed,
just a sign of affection but it didn’t stop him moaning whenever she did it to
him. Besides, there was another reason for avoiding the cellar: it contained a
hidden door that Hobbes had warned me against opening. He gave good warnings
and my stomach still quaked when I remembered it. I reasoned that, if I kept
away, I wouldn’t be tempted to explore, but sometimes, waking at night, I lay
and wondered about its secrets.

The
ginger beer, tingling on my tongue, cooled my throat. Emptying the glass, I refilled
it and sat at the kitchen table with the
Sorenchester and District Bugle
,
amazed to see the image of the man who’d helped me in the bookshop smiling from
the front page. It was millionaire Felix King, head of King Enterprises, who,
according to the report, was looking to develop properties in the area. He had
already acquired the old cinema, intending to demolish it to make way for
luxury flats and claimed the scheme would provide plenty of jobs for locals and
that no one would miss the cinema since everyone preferred to watch DVDs at
home. In truth, the article interested me less than Felix King himself. He was
a remarkably good-looking man in his late thirties, I guessed, impeccably
dressed, slim and masterful. I stared at his picture, perplexed. Something
about his face was definitely familiar but what was it? Resting my chin on my
hand, I dug through layers of memory.

‘Did
you have a nice walk, dear?’

An
involuntary leg spasm launching me upwards, my knees struck the bottom of the
kitchen table, knocking it at least six inches into the air before coming down hard,
as if retaliating. Missing my chair on re-entry, I sprawled on the red-brick
floor, gasping like a fish. Ginger beer dripped onto my stomach.

‘Did
I surprise you, dear?’

I
nodded, puzzled, unable to see her.

‘Sorry.’

I
sat up. ‘Where are you? I thought you’d gone out.’

‘No,
dear, I’ve been cleaning the tin cupboard.’

Smiling
happily, she was kneeling on the shelf, half-hidden behind the cupboard door, a
bucket and a sponge in front of her.

‘From
inside? Why?’

‘Why
not? Would you clean a room from outside?’

It
was true but, then, I probably wouldn’t clean a room at all, if I could help
it.

‘It’s
the best way to reach into those awkward little corners. And someone had messed
up all the tins.’

I
climbed to my feet.

‘Anyway,
dear, I’d best get the kettle on. The old fellow will be home soon.’

Clearing
up my spillage, I helped her set the table. When, at half-past six precisely,
Hobbes returned, bearing fish and chips, Dregs insisted on a five-minute dance
of tail-wagging welcome for Mrs G, while Hobbes engulfed her in an enormous
bear hug that had me worried. She emerged red-faced and beaming a vast
toothless smile.

As
always, when eating at home, Hobbes said grace. Then we could tuck in – and
about time too – my walk and the shock having left me ravenous. The fish was
fragrant and flaky, the chips crisp and hot and liberally vinegared. It was nowhere
near as good as what Mrs G would have produced, but still pretty good.

Afterwards,
Hobbes picked up the newspaper. ‘This chap on the front,’ he remarked, ‘must be
related to the lass who took your fancy at the Wildlife Park. They’ve got the
same eyes. I’d guess they’re brother and sister.’

He
was right.

Mrs
Goodfellow gave me a gummy twinkle. ‘You’ve found yourself a lady-friend then?
It’s about time, too.’

I
shook my head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. She’s lovely.’ I could feel a blush coming
on. ‘But if that really is her brother and she’s a millionaire too, she’s never
going to be interested in someone like me.’

Leaving
the kitchen, I sat and moped in front of the telly.

The
evening, bringing in heavy cloud, wind and rain, conspired with my feelings of
hopeless inadequacy, to push me into a dark, moody place where I spent the next
two days. The fact that the woman’s brother was super-rich had, I knew, only
reduced my chances of getting to know her from next to none to none, but it had
slashed through a slim thread of hope, a thread I’d been holding onto. I
brooded on my life, raking up embers of failure and misery from the ashes of
cold despair, wondering how much I could blame the misfortune of my birth date
for my situation. Why, I thought, had I, a man seemingly incapable of being punctual
for anything, allowed myself to be born precisely on time? If I’d only held on
for a few more hours, I wouldn’t have been an April fool, wouldn’t have been such
an object of derision to my schoolmates.

That
April I’d celebrated, if that was the word, my thirty-eighth birthday. By that
age, a man should have achieved something: a decent job, a home, a wife,
perhaps a family, whereas all I had I owed to Hobbes. Despite my enormous
gratitude for his kindness, I was scared resentment might erupt from the
seething magma chamber of my past failures and make me say something I shouldn’t.
I kept to my room, only emerging for meals, toilet breaks and long, damp walks
in long, damp grass with Dregs.

On
the third day, the wet weather having apparently doused the nefarious schemes
of local villains, Hobbes joined us as we headed to Ride Park. When I let Dregs
run free, he set off like a guided weapon, targeting a small white cat, rubbing
its whiskers against a holly bush, apparently daydreaming until, spotting the
incoming dog just in time, it leapt into a tree. Dregs’s momentum carried him,
scrabbling madly, well above head height, until gravity, realising what was up,
pulled him down. The cat mewed from the topmost branches.

‘I
suppose,’ said Hobbes, looking up, ‘that I should rescue it.’

He
jumped, grasping a branch, pulling himself into the tree, swinging from arm to
arm like a great ape, disappearing among the greenery. I did what I could to
calm Dregs who, thinking we’d started a wonderful game, was making bounding
attempts to join him. From above, came rustling and the occasional creak and, now
and again, Hobbes’s grinning face emerging from the foliage.

‘Here,
kitty, kitty,’ he called in a voice that would surely have driven even a fierce
creature further into the canopy. There was a pause. ‘Aha!’ he said, as something
cracked. ‘Oops.’

A
drum-roll of thuds and crashes coincided with a shower of leaves, twigs and
drops of water. Then came Hobbes.

‘Oof!’
He chuckled as he lay on his back in the grass, the cat clamped in one hand, a broken
branch in the other. Tossing the branch aside, he sprang to his feet. ‘Make
sure you’ve got hold of Dregs,’ he said, ‘and I’ll let kitty go.’

‘Umm,’
I said, grabbing Dregs’s collar, ‘wouldn’t it be better if …’

Too
late. Putting the struggling cat back onto the ground, he released it. It
hissed, bolting straight back up as Hobbes, brushing moss from behind his ear,
laughed. ‘Kitty appears to like it up there.’

‘Are
you alright?’ I asked, shaken. ‘I suppose you must know how to fall?’

‘I’m
fine and any fool knows how to fall; the trick is in knowing how to land. It’s
not the first time I’ve fallen from a tree.’ He glanced upwards. ‘In fact, I
fancy it’s not the first time I’ve fallen from this one – and I dare say it won’t
be the last.’ He coughed and spat into a patch of nettles. ‘It clears the tubes
out most wonderfully. You should try it, but start with a small tree, because
you need to build up your resistance and make sure there’s a nice, thick layer
of leaf mould in the landing area.’

I
nodded, taking a decision to ignore his advice. ‘Are you going to get the cat
down again?’

‘No,
she can look after herself.’

‘Then
why fetch it down in the first place?’

‘I
needed the exercise.’

The shock of his plunge did, at least, jolt
me from my brooding, and, though I still felt the ache of thwarted desire, I continued
living. Unfortunately, this meant I had no excuse for getting out of St.
Stephen’s Church Fete when Hobbes asked me, saying he’d be showing off his King-Size
Scarlets. These he declared were a sort of delphinium and nothing to snigger
about. As I couldn’t tell the difference between lavenders and lupins, I had no
reason to doubt it and, assuming they were the ones he’d been growing for the
last few months, they were eye-catching plants, their vivid scarlet spikes
standing up to my shoulders and adding ranks of regimented colour to the exuberant
scruffiness of the back garden.

Waking
early on Saturday morning, I drew back the curtains and was greeted by sunlight
glinting off the damp street and the roofs opposite and, despite my impending
fete, I was filled with an unexpected sense of well-being. My feelings had been
very different the previous year, when, as a very badly paid reporter, I’d
attended the fete, which alongside pet shows and beetle drives had been my
speciality, since Editorsaurus Rex had rarely trusted me with real news. I
remembered arriving and shaking hands with the new vicar of St. Stephen’s, before
a downpour of biblical proportions forced us into the refreshment tent.

When,
somehow, I made it back to the office, my recollection of the event was hazy,
possibly on account of the farmhouse cider stall I’d discovered, I had nothing
to report and Editorsaurus Rex was on the rampage. However, always resourceful
in a crisis, and working on the theory that all church fetes were basically the
same, I wrote a few inconsequential words about rain and then cut and pasted an
article my colleague, Phil, had written the previous year. If I’d read it
first, I might have remembered that not all fetes were the same, for that particular
one had been remarkable for the untimely and, indeed, unlikely, death of the
old vicar who, having just awarded first prize in the flower show, had been
struck down by a bolt from the blue. Though some had considered it a sign of
the wrath of God, it turned out to have been debris from an ex-Soviet
satellite. Obviously, this meant my subterfuge didn’t pass unnoticed and I had
to endure a most unpleasant and prolonged showdown with the Editorsaurus.
Still, the event summed up my life at the time: a succession of lousy
assignments, failures, drunkenness and apoplectic editors.

Such
problems hadn’t afflicted me since the fiasco of my last mission, which had
been to report on Hobbes. Since then, life wasn’t bad at all, though it might
have been better, and very soon did get better, the scent of frying bacon greeting
my nostrils as I hurried downstairs.

After
breakfast, I helped Hobbes as he worked in the greenhouse, a structure he’d
thrown together from odds and ends picked out of skips, but it wasn’t long
before he suggested that I might try getting under someone else’s feet for a
change. So, grabbing myself a glass of ginger beer, I sat on a bench, enjoying
the sun, watching his pest control procedure. Refusing to use chemicals, he
examined each plant from leaf to stem, removing any aphids and harmful bugs by
hand, his patience amazing me. Still, it looked like he would produce a bumper
crop of aubergines.

When satisfied, he left the aubergines and
felled a small forest of King-Size Scarlets, sticking them into a black plastic
bin, filled with water. Then, after a mug of tea, he prized me from my seat, ready
to go to the fete. Grasping the bin to his chest, he set off for St. Stephen’s.
Mrs Goodfellow held the back door for him, while I rushed to open the front
door. Though I doubted I’d be able to move such a weight, never mind carry it,
I could still barely keep up with him as he marched through the centre of town,
down Vermin Street, weaving through the Saturday shoppers, as if he wasn’t
carrying a flower shop. Sweat dripped off me but he looked just as cool as ever
in his tweed jacket.

Although
the sun was high and hot as we reached St. Stephen’s, I couldn’t suppress a
shiver, for the last time I’d been there, on a dark and stormy night, a pair of
ghouls had tried to bury me alive, until Hobbes intervened, dissuading them
with a spade. Taking a deep breath, I followed him into the marquee, where the
noise and migrations of herds of roaming exhibitors drove the horrifying memory
back to its dark recess. He found a space, marked W.M. Hobbes, and set about
arranging his blooms while I, finding I was superfluous, wandered off to take a
look around. Apart from the bustle in the marquee, loads of other people were
setting up all sorts of stalls, including one where customers could bowl for a
pig. What the lucky winner would do with a pig, I hadn’t a clue.

I
moved on, fascinated by a small brown wigwam staggering from place to place
until it found a spot to settle near the front gates. A woman, magnificent in
purple and lace, emerging like a butterfly from a chrysalis, erected a
cardboard sign that read, ‘Madame Eccles, palms read, fortunes told, medium.’
She looked more like a large, or even an extra-large to me. I looked like a
customer to her.

‘Can
I read your palm, love? Or would you prefer to talk to loved ones who have
passed over? Cross my palm with silver – or paper money would be better – and
all proceeds to charity.’

‘I’m
sorry … I’m … umm … skint.’

‘Never
mind, love. Step inside and I’ll give you one for free.’

It
was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

I
followed her inside. In actual fact, since she occupied most of the interior, I
perched on a three-legged stool in the entrance as she, forcing her ample backside
into a fold-up chair that groaned most piteously, drew a small crystal ball
from deep within her robes and placed it on her lap.

‘Palm
reading? Divination? Or would you prefer an encounter with the spirit world?’

‘Palm
reading.’ I said; it sounded safest. I held out my hand.

‘Oh
no,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘that’s not right.’

‘What’s
the matter?’ I asked, feeling a lurch of fear, though I knew it was all bunkum.

‘Wrong
hand, love.’

I
gave her the other one.

‘Let’s
see. Aha! That’s interesting … But that’s not so good. Do you know, I’ve never
seen such a varied fate line.’

‘What’s
going to happen to me?’

‘You
will live an unusual life. I see fear and laughter, delight and horror. Love
may be on the horizon but, beware, something wicked this way comes.’

Though
I normally had no truck with this kind of nonsense, a sudden cold sensation up
my spine made me shudder. The feeling persisting, I looked behind me. It was
Dregs, his nose stuck where my shirt had rucked up, looking sheepish, as well
he should have been, for Mrs Goodfellow had harnessed him to a small cart
loaded with bottles of ginger beer. She’d brushed his wiry black coat till it
shone and, as a final indignity, had garlanded him with ribbons. He looked at
me with mournful eyes and, though I sympathised, I couldn’t help; he was in the
clutches of a far greater power. I was glad the old girl was there though,
because she was helping out with the refreshments and I hoped I might be in for
a few freebies.

‘Hello,
dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, as I jumped up, tucking my shirt back in. ‘Has he
been pestering you, Edna?’

‘Not
in the least,’ said Madame Eccles. ‘He’s a very interesting young man and is
going to lead an eventful life.’

Dregs
sighed as I made my excuses and left them talking.

I
looked in on Hobbes who’d completed his arrangement. It was breath-taking for,
as well as his King-Size Scarlets, he’d worked in daisies, producing a flower
sculpture of a sheep with its throat torn out. There was blood everywhere. ‘That’s
amazing,’ I said.

‘Thanks.’
He blushed.

Although
he had a superb eye for detail and his great paws could work with amazing delicacy,
he seemed to think that art wasn’t quite manly. I wished I had a fraction of
his skill, even though his creations gave me the creeps.

‘Let’s
get some grub,’ he said, before I could embarrass him any further. ‘The fete
opens at two, so we’ve got about an hour. We could try the Cat and the Fiddle.
I haven’t dropped in for ages and I hear they’ve got a decent menu.’

‘Great,’
I said, already feeling hunger pangs.

We
left the marquee but never made it to the Cat and the Fiddle. ‘Just-call-me-Dave’,
the vicar, approached. He was a pale and nervous man at the best of times and I
could tell that times were not the best.

His
voice trembled. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, I wonder if I might call on your
expertise?’

‘Of
course, vicar. What’s the matter?’

‘It
was like this … A group of young men bumped into me in town. They apologised
and I didn’t think anything of it, but I’m afraid my wallet and car keys have
gone. The worst thing is that I’d picked up a load of cream cakes for the cake
stand and now they’re locked in the boot of my car. The cream will go off in
this heat and they’ll all be spoiled.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Can you help me?’

‘Of
course,’ said Hobbes. ‘That’s my job.’

‘Unfortunately,
my car’s parked in town.’