Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (41 page)

Fortunately,
some things move even faster than cobras. The dagger, ceasing its attempt to
skewer my larynx, flew upwards like a rocket, twisting through the air, sticking
in the ceiling. A moment later, Narcisa, following a similar, if lower,
trajectory, landed on her back in the middle of the altar, groaning. Her eyes
opened with a look of puzzlement as if she was wondering how she'd got there
and the Dagger of Tepes, falling loose in a shower of stone fragments, dropped
towards her head. She screamed and was quiet.

'Hello,
dear,' said Mrs Goodfellow.

'You?'
I replied as intelligently as I could in the circumstances. 'How? You?'

'Well
spotted, dear, it is me. Has she hurt you?'

'Yes,
but Hobbes needs help.' I lurched towards him. 'She shot him.'

'Then
I wish I'd hit her harder. Who's the attractive young man in the chains?'

'It's
Phil – he was missing. We need to get Hobbes to hospital.'

'No.'
I felt a faint rumble as if a heavy vehicle had passed on the edge of hearing.
It came from Hobbes. 'No hospital.' The words emerged slowly. 'Fetch Rocky.'

'You
have to go to hospital.'

'No.
Rocky.'

'But
…' I began.

Mrs
Goodfellow shushed me. 'He's right, dear, we need Rocky.'

'But
…'

'The
old fellow knows what he's saying. Hospitals can't help. He's different to you
and me.'

I
sort of understood what she meant and one look at her persuaded me there was no
room for argument. 'What can Rocky do?'

'Same
as last time. Patch him up and fix him.'

'He's
not a doctor, he's a troll. And how do we get to him? Is he on the phone?'

'No.
Can you drive, dear?'

'Umm
… no … not really. I had a couple of lessons once. How about you?'

'I
don't know, I've never tried.' She nibbled her lip, looking worried.

'Phil
could drive when he comes round … or there's the Editorsaurus.'

'Who,
dear?'

'Upstairs.
Her husband.'

'The
fat, snoring one?'

'Yes.'

She
shook her head. 'He's out for the count.'

'A
taxi then?' I said.

'No,
taxi drivers are reluctant to carry trolls, even civilised ones like Rocky and
we need to hurry. You'll have to drive.'

'I
can't … I won't. It's out of the question.'

She gave me the look and knelt by Hobbes. Hobbling
upstairs, finding the keys to the Volvo on a small table, I set off on my
mission of mercy, no less scared than I'd been all evening.

To
my amazement, the car started first time, though when I tried to turn on the
lights, the windscreen wipers started instead. After a lot of stirring, I found
a gear, stalling three times before getting going. My progress was reminiscent
of a drunken kangaroo; I bounced, lurched and skidded down the drive. When I
reached the end, I turned into Alexander Court, having first turned into the gatepost.
The car rumbled and grumbled into the night and I allowed it to coast down the
slope towards Fenderton Road until I had to brake.

Though
I had to brake, I couldn't since my foot, hitting the accelerator instead,
refused point blank to try another pedal. My hands locked onto the steering
wheel and I wailed like a frightened baby as Fenderton Road came towards me at
a surprising pace.

Headlights
flashed as in desperation I turned the wheel, making the tyres squeal in agony.
I thought the car was going to roll as it swung into the main road, just
missing a van and a big green car, though not the tree.

There
was a horrible crunch and the airbag pinned me to my seat, leaving me winded
and shocked, yet unhurt, except for all the hurts I'd already got. My leg
throbbed and oozed and the bite in my neck was stinging as if a giant wasp had
scored a hit. I was light-headed, though glad to be alive, if only temporarily,
for who knew whether false teeth could transmit the curse of vampirism?

The
door of the Volvo opened with a crunch.

'Were
you trying to kill yourself? Or are you just a bloody idiot?' A high-pitched
voice berated me, though I couldn't see anyone.

I
groaned, wondering if the first stage in being undead was not being able to see
the living. Unbuckling my seat belt, I rolled out onto wet grass, icy cold on
my exposed skin, making me leap up with a yell.

'Well
you're alive and, bloody hell, you are bloody.'

I
looked down into a small, worried face.

'Billy,
thank God.'

'Are
you alright? Did you find Hobbes?'

'He's
been shot and I'm going for help, only I can't drive.'

He
glanced at the wreck of the Volvo, his expression saying it all.

'I
need to fetch a troll called Rocky who can save him, and you'll have to get me
there before I change into a vampire, because I think I've been bitten by one.
Don't look at me like that, it's true.'

'You'd
better hop into the hearse,' said Billy with a look suggesting he might be
humouring me. Nevertheless, I noticed him finger the small silver cross round
his neck. A minute later we were hurtling towards Sorenchester.

'Where
am I going?' he asked.

'Left
at the traffic lights and you'd better be quick. Hobbes is in a bad way.'

'OK
then,' said Billy, calmly as if this sort of thing often happened on his nights
out. 'Just one thing, though. Why are you running round in your underpants?'

'Because
my trousers came off in the kitchen window, and would you mind turning the
heating up? It's freezing.'

'Fair
enough. Could happen I suppose.' Though he sounded sceptical, he did turn the
heating up, as well as offering me a rug from the back.

We
turned onto Green Way, flying past a long row of houses into the darkness of
the countryside. He kept his foot down until we passed Brancastle, which lay in
utter blackness apart from a lamp on the porch.

'Next
turn on the left,' I said.

We
swung onto the track towards the Olde Troll House.

I
leaped from the car before it had even stopped, landing on my bad leg with a
howling jolt, hobbling towards the front door, pounding on it like a Japanese
drummer, ringing the doorbell frantically and then spotting the note pinned to
the frame. It was too dark to read, so, tearing it down, I took it back to the
hearse, which Billy had already swung round for the return journey.

'He's
not answering,' I said, thrusting the note into Billy's hands. 'What's it say?'

Turning
on the light, he screwed up his face. 'It says he's outstanding in his field.'

'Well
I'm glad he's so modest,' I roared, 'but where is he?'

'Out
in his field,' Billy replied, as if talking to an imbecile. 'He's standing in
it. Actually, he might not be. Some big fellow's coming this way … doesn't look
much like a troll to me.'

Rocky
came striding towards us.

'Oo's
tryin' to knock my front door down?' he asked in his guttural voice.

'It's
me, Andy, I came here with Hobbes a couple of days ago.'

'Andy?
'ow the Devil are you?' A huge smile spread like a ravine across his face.

'I'm
fine,' I lied, unable to spare any time for explanations of my state.

'You
don't look fine, and I take it this is not a formal visit? You'll catch your
death if you go running round dressed like that at this time of year. You'd
best come in and bring your little friend. I'll put the kettle on.'

'Sorry,
there's no time. It's Hobbes.'

''ow
is the old boy?'

'He's
been shot.'

'What?
Again?' Rocky's smile snapped shut.

'Yes,
he asked for you and he's in a bad way. Hurry … please!'

'Righto,
lad. I'll get my things.' Running inside, he returned two interminable minutes
later carrying a selection of small leather bags.

The
hearse suited Rocky and appeared to amuse him. He lay down in the back. 'Most
comfortable,' he said. 'Now, tell me what's 'appened.'

I
told him as we sped back towards town. Billy nodded significantly when I
mentioned Tony Derrick's involvement. Rocky was silent. The traffic lights onto
Fenderton Road turning against us, we had to stop while a bulging, crop-headed
youth in low-slung jeans swaggered unsteadily across in front of us just as the
lights changed back to green.

'Shift
your fat arse!' I yelled, furious at any delay.

Billy
pumped the horn and the youth, turning, lurched towards us with an expression
hinting at imminent drunken violence. It took him a couple of seconds to notice
he was approaching a hearse. He hesitated, his glare fixed on Billy, propped up
on a pile of cushions in the driving seat. His expression turned to puzzlement as
he looked at me, covered in blood and half-naked. When Rocky sat up he fled.
Billy flattened the accelerator.

'Fast
as you can,' I said, 'and take a right into Alexander Court, just after the 'Thank
You for Driving Safely' sign.'

'Righto,
Chief,' said Billy. 'Just past the broken Volvo, eh?'

I
doubted I'd been away more than twenty minutes, yet I'd begrudged every second
and, though Billy was by no means slow, I longed for the sort of speed Hobbes
could squeeze from a vehicle. At last we turned into Alexander Court and into
the Witcherleys' drive.

I
leaped from the car, urging Rocky to move before Billy even had time to tug on
the parking brake. 'C'mon,' I said over my shoulder, 'this way.'

Running
into the house, I had to go back for the olde troll who was still sliding out,
as slow as a slug. Despite my sore leg, I caught myself in a little jig of
despair and frustration.

'Calm
down, Laddie. I'm moving as fast as I can but there've been too many years and
there's too much chalk in my joints.'

When,
eventually, I reached Hobbes, his breathing was slow and ragged with bright
blood bubbling round his mouth. Mrs Goodfellow had applied a new and improved
dressing, discarding my blood soaked vest in a corner, placing a pillow behind
his head, covering him in blankets. Narcisa was still sprawled on the altar
where the Dagger of Tepes had ended her part in the story. I barely spared her
a glance.

'How
is he?' I asked.

'Not
so good. So you found Rocky?'

''e
did.' The olde troll creaked as, kneeling beside us with a cracking of knees
like a ragged volley of shots, he began examining him.

It
was too much for me, so I hobbled towards Phil, who, sitting against a pillar,
his head in his hands, was groaning, his face as white as a vampire's, his eyes
strawberry red, though I didn't think he'd been bitten. I wondered how long it
would take me to turn evil.

'Someone
had better fetch a stake,' I said, 'I'm going to need one soon.'

'Don't
mention food,' said Phil. 'I'll be sick again.'

Billy
joined us. 'Old Hobbesie doesn't look too good.' He wrinkled his nose. 'And
someone doesn't smell too good.' He looked at Phil. 'I know you – you're the
newspaper bloke who was hanging round with Tony Derrick. I told you he was a
wrong 'un, didn't I?'

Phil
nodded.

Billy
returned to his hearse, coming back with a hacksaw that made short work of Phil's
chains. Then he went upstairs, bringing us glasses of water, for which I was truly
grateful, while Rocky set to work on Hobbes, the gleam of polished blades turning
my stomach.

'What's
been going on here?' asked Billy. 'This place is weird.'

'I
don't really know,' said Phil, 'except Mrs Witcherley was trying to kill me, to
use me as a sacrifice. She sounded insane. I'd been investigating her, not
realising Tony was her stooge. I think he slipped something into my drink and
next thing I knew I was stuck in the horrible cage. They got the Inspector too.
He fell through the ceiling and I thought he must be dead. I don't know how
long I was down here but she was just about to murder me when he reappeared
like a demon from the black pit … and then Andy turned up.'

Though
I wanted to play up my heroic part in the rescue, an urgent call made me jump
to my feet.

'Come
on, boys,' said Mrs Goodfellow, 'Rocky says the old fellow's got to be moved.'

Under
Rocky's command, Billy unscrewed the cellar door, we loaded Hobbes onto it and
carried him carefully upstairs. He was muscle-achingly heavy even for four of
us – there were only four, because Billy couldn't reach. Lying Hobbes gently in
the back of the hearse, his breathing sounding better, though his face was as
pale as the moon, we piled into the front, a tight squeeze.

As
we left I'd seen Rex, still snoring peacefully and felt strangely sorry for
him: he'd have one hell of a headache in the morning.