Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (26 page)

'The
beer?'

'Yes.
Well, to continue, though the story's harrowing, they hung his bucket up.'

'Over
the eight?'

'Over
the eight. By chance, there was a big grudge darts match underway. Poor Cuddles
supped his beer, which was so horrific that he turned away in disgust.
Unfortunately, he turned towards the dartboard and a dart aimed at the bull's-eye
struck his nose.'

'Oh
no.'

'Oh
yes.' He nodded. 'It was awful. He staggered away, roaring in pain, and
collapsed in the skittle alley, where a speeding ball struck him on the head.
Hence, the pub was renamed the 'Bear with a Sore Head.'

'What
happened to him?' I asked, agog.

'He
died,' said Hobbes, sorrowfully, 'three years later. A salmon stuck in his
throat and he choked.'

'He
choked to death?'

'No,
it was worse than that. You see, when the fishmonger began hitting him on the
back, trying to remove the blockage, poor Cuddles thought he was being
assaulted and ran straight out in the road, where he was struck by a bus.'

'Oh
no,' I said. 'How awful.'

'I
told you so.' Hobbes's eyes filled with tears.

'And
that's what killed him?'

'Not
exactly. Yet, we are approaching the really dreadful bit. The bus knocked him
into a music shop, where his muzzle became entangled in an antique stringed
instrument that suffocated him. And so my sad tale ends, with a bear-faced
lyre.'

'Wow,'
I said. 'Who'd have thought it?'

'There
you go. I told you it was tragic.' He sniffed back tears that, if I hadn't seen
the sorrow in his face, I might have thought sounded like a snigger.

In my defence, having pondered the story for
a while, I became less than convinced of its veracity. Later, I asked Mrs
Goodfellow, who said the old fellow had found the bear in a skip and brought it
home – but she wouldn't have it in the sitting room because its stuffing was
coming out.

The
rest of the evening passed quietly. Hobbes turned on the television and watched
a documentary about 'The Secret Life of Aubergines', which he appeared to find
gripping. Not many people know the aubergine is related to Deadly Nightshade
and is not technically a vegetable but a fruit. Spread the word.

Mrs Goodfellow returned from her class and,
after setting my heart pounding with her abrupt appearance, soothed it with a
large mug of cocoa. Afterwards, I brushed my teeth and went to bed and, though
it was barely ten o'clock, I dropped asleep in seconds. I had survived a very
full day.

Something,
either a sound or a feeling, woke me. I lay, listening to the silence, trying
to get back to sleep. Unfortunately, my bladder had reached the awkward stage
and I dithered, unsure whether to get up and empty it or to try ignoring it
until daylight. When the church clock bonged only twice, morning seemed
uncomfortably distant, so I got up, groping my way to the bathroom. On the way
back, still drowsy, barely aware of anything, cold air blew across my bare
feet.

Hobbes's
door was open and in the faint light from the street, I could make out the
curtains flapping. A dark figure, cloaked like Dracula, lurked in the corner by
the wardrobe.

'Who's
there?' The words trembled from my shivering jaw and received no reply. I tried
again. 'What are you doing here?' This time, though my voice sounded firmer,
more manly even, there was still no response, apart from a swaying of the
cloak. Nor was there any sound from Hobbes.

A
sudden horror struck that the shadowy figure might be an assassin. Fear kicked in
for Hobbes, as well as for myself, yet there was also an overwhelming anger.
With a yell, I dived headlong at the intruder. There was a stunning crash and
pain and fairy lights danced behind my eyes before everything went black and I
was struggling against an overwhelming, smothering force. Something sharp jabbing
my neck, I gasped in pain and horror. Had that been the vampire's bite? Would
my existence continue as some sort of half-life, one of the undead? The fight
left me, my body going limp. So, to my confusion, did my assailant's.

Standing
up, holding my neck, there was just enough light to see that I'd attacked the
cloak I'd taken from the attic and which Hobbes must have hung on a sharp wire
coat hanger from his wardrobe door. It was no wonder my head hurt and I didn't
half feel a twerp, but at least I hadn't disturbed Hobbes; he wasn't in.

I
walked towards the window, taking deep breaths of the clean, night air, shivering,
picking up the cloak, wrapping it around me and peering out over the street.
The rain had passed and everything was grey and damp. The half-moon, partly
hidden by wisps of dark cloud, lit up a shadowy figure clambering up the roof on
the house opposite. The way the thing moved reminded me of an orang-utan,
except its hairy back was black.

Despite
the cloak, I felt goose pimples erupting as the creature moved from the shadow
of the chimney onto the ridge. The shock was palpable when I saw it was wearing
stripy pyjama bottoms. It stood, raising its head, apparently looking for
something, or sniffing, and crept along the ridge. It turned towards me and for
an instant I could see its face. It was Hobbes.

The
bedroom lights coming on, I spun around with a gasp as a foot hurtled towards
my head. The lights went out.

My
eyes felt as if they'd been gummed shut, while my waking mind echoed with
confusion and fear. The side of my face was sore and my brain sort of connected
the fact with a hazy recollection of a bad dream that made no sense. Getting
out of bed, I prised open my eyelids, peering at the mirror, shocked to
discover I'd become the proud owner of another black eye, a close match for the
first one.

I
had a vague image of a foot powering towards my head and my mind was awash with
even vaguer fragments of images.

I
was trying to rearrange them into coherent pictures when the bedroom door
opened and Mrs Goodfellow peeped in.

'Did
you sleep well, dear?'

'I'm
not sure,' I said. 'I got up in the night and things went a bit strange.'

'I
expect they did,' she said, 'though I'm sorry I kicked you. I heard a noise and
saw a figure dressed in a black cloak and I thought to myself, there's one of
them ninjas, and I reckoned I'd see if they was as good as in the movies. I was
a little disappointed; you didn't put up much of a fight, dear.'

'I'm
… umm … sorry.' So, it had been her foot. I hung my battered head. What else
could I do when I'd been beaten up by a skinny old woman?

'Never
mind,' she said. 'Though, why were you lurking in the old fellow's room dressed
in a cloak?'

I
told her the truth because I couldn't think of a more plausible explanation.

She
laughed. Then she laughed a whole lot more. 'So, you nutted the wardrobe,
thinking it was Count Dracula? You are a one, dear.' She grinned all the time
she wasn't laughing and I attempted to show that I, too, was amused. Becoming
suddenly serious, she said, 'It was a brave thing to do, if you really thought
the old fellow was in trouble. It's not everyone who'd put themselves on the
line for him.'

The
vision of Hobbes crawling on the rooftops exploded into my brain, taking my
breath away. I had to sit down on the bed, never again doubting that he wasn't
human, except when doubting my own sanity.

'I
saw him out on the roof over there. He was wearing stripy pyjama bottoms.'

'Of
course, he'd hardly go out in his bare skin would he? There are laws against
that sort of thing. Anyway, it's time for breakfast; he's having a bit of a
lie-in. He usually does after a night on the tiles.'

'What
was he doing out there?'

'How
should I know? He's still asleep.'

'Does
he go out on the tiles often?'

'Only
when he wants to, or has to. Now get dressed. I'll make you a nice breakfast
and then I'll see if I can find something to put on your eyes.'

'A
bit of raw steak?'

'I
was thinking more of bacon and eggs,' she said. 'I don't think we've got any
steak, though the old fellow likes one for his breakfast, sometimes. Mind you,
sometimes he prefers Sugar Puffs. I could nip into the butcher's? I was going
out later, anyway.'

'Stop,'
I said, 'I don't want raw steak for breakfast. I was asking if you were going
to put it on my eyes.'

'I
could if you really wanted, though it wouldn't do you much good. It might amuse
Dregs, though. No, dear, I was thinking of my special tincture that I prepare
from herbs and stuff: it's very good. Now, hurry up.' She turned and left the
room.

I
scratched my head, still the stranger in this bizarre world. Nevertheless,
breakfast was breakfast, so having a wash, getting dressed, I went downstairs.
Despite the ache of my swollen face, the fry-up was just what I needed, leaving
me deeply indebted to the pig who'd laid down his life so I could enjoy the
best bacon ever. I hoped he'd thought it was worth the sacrifice. I knew I did.

I
finished off with toast and marmalade and, while I was wolfing down the last
fragments, Mrs Goodfellow rummaged in a drawer. Pulling out a small, glass
bottle and uncorking it, she shook a couple of drops of pungent, green sludge
onto a wad of cotton wool and handed it to me.

'Go
to the sitting room, dear, and press this gently against your eyes and they'll
soon be as right as reindeer. You'd best keep the bottle; you're a little
accident prone.'

Dregs
was occupying the sofa and, when I tried to persuade him to move over, he went
limp and immovable, growling, baring his teeth, something he'd never have dared
had Hobbes or the old girl been there. I gave up, sitting down on one of the
hard oak chairs, holding the pad against my face. Hell, it stung! I gasped and
nearly threw it down in disgust yet, as I persevered, it began to soothe and
relax the skin. It was good stuff, if a little on the stinky side of ripe, and
I never did discover what she put in it. All she'd say was that it was based on
a recipe her Kung Fu master had taught her and that she could tell me the
ingredients but then she'd have to kill me. I didn't press.

For
an hour or more I sat still, the pad to my face, peeping out just once to see Mrs
Goodfellow climbing upstairs with an armful of neatly pressed sheets. Shortly
afterwards, hearing Hobbes's roar, I gathered he didn't appreciate his bedding
being changed when still in occupancy. For some reason, Dregs held me
responsible for the altercation. He emitted a deep woof and an angry growl and I
uncovered my eyes to see the horrible creature leaping from the sofa, approaching,
bristling and stiff-legged. His teeth looked awfully big, his snarl reminiscent
of Hobbes, who sounded as if he was coming off second best in the struggle for
mastery of the bed. Dregs looked ready to spring and, in desperation, I thrust
the pad towards his nose. Taking one sniff, he sneezed and fled, yelping, tail
squeezed between his legs as a thump from above, suggested a heavy body had
rolled out of bed.

A
few moments later, Hobbes slouched downstairs in his stripy pyjamas and
slippers and, nodding to acknowledge me, disappeared into the kitchen. By then
I reckoned I'd had enough of the stinking tincture. Standing up, walking to the
stairs, intending to dispose of the cotton wool and to wash my face, I glanced into
the kitchen where Hobbes, frowning and growling,  his face dark and bristly,
was hunched at the table over an enormous bowl of Sugar Puffs. Dregs, slumped
in the corner, whimpered when he saw me. I climbed the stairs with some
satisfaction.

Heading
to the bathroom, I examined my face in the mirror, amazed at what a remarkable
a job the gunge had done, delighted the soreness and swelling had all but vanished.
What remained was a slight, barely noticeable, greenish discoloration beneath
my eyes and I wasn't sure if it was a residual effect of the tincture or the
remains of bruises. If the old girl had ever marketed the stuff, she'd have
made a fortune.

Sometime
later, when the Sugar Puffs and several mugs of tea had raised his spirits and
he was washed and dressed, Hobbes called me down to the sitting room. Dregs was
there too, but maintained a respectful distance from me, which felt like a
victory.

A
strange light was glinting in Hobbes's eyes. 'Would you like to see an arrest?'

'I'd
love to,' I said, 'unless it's me getting arrested.'

He
smiled. 'No, you're safe enough for now. I'm going to nab Tony Derrick.'

'Good,'
I said. 'Umm … where is he?'

'He's
squatting in a house over on the Elms Estate.'

The
clock on the mantelpiece showed ten-thirty. 'Don't you normally make dawn
raids?' I asked.

'As
far as a sluggard like Tony Derrick is concerned, any time before lunchtime is
as good as dawn.'

'Great.
When are we off?'

'Now,'
said Hobbes, 'so get your jacket on.'

'Right
… umm … how did you find him?'