Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (14 page)

Hobbes,
still listening, I spotted a knothole in the side of the bar near to his ear
and surmised Billy was on the other side. Hobbes's gaze flicked round the room
before settling on one of the group playing darts, a medium-sized man in his
mid-thirties with short hair, long sideburns and tinted spectacles. Despite the
cold outside, he was wearing a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt, showing off a
chunky gold chain around his neck and the matching Rolex on his wrist. I'd seen
him around town, I was nearly certain, but couldn't quite remember when.

As
Hobbes stood up and ambled towards him, the man's eyes widened, he turned and
ran. Although, he was at least six strides nearer to the door than Hobbes and
wearing expensive-looking trainers, Hobbes came within a shoelace of grabbing
him. The man slammed the door behind him.

'I
only wanted to play darts with him,' said Hobbes.

Featherlight
scowled. 'Don't you go scaring away my customers.'

'I'll
see if he wants to come back.' Hobbes opened the door, stepping into the night.
Throwing back the dregs of my lager, I followed.

He
was thundering up Vermin Street, hot in pursuit of the man in the shirt. I
jogged after them, the lager sloshing uncomfortably round in my stomach,
noticing that, despite the man's head start, Hobbes was gaining on him fast. I
puffed along as well as I could but there was no way I could keep up. I'm sure
I'd have fallen behind at the best of times and, with the earlier horror, a
full meal and the lager, not to mention my heavy tweed suit, I had no chance at
all. Turning sharp left into Rampart Street, the fugitive barged through a
group of young ladies waiting at the Pelican crossing, knocking two to the
ground. Hobbes stopped to help them, letting me catch up.

'Are
you alright?' he asked.

'Just
out of breath,' I gasped, leaning against a shop's wall.

'I
wasn't talking to you.' He stepped into the road, halting the traffic to allow
one of the girls to retrieve the scattered contents of her handbag.

A
car driver, held up for a few seconds, honked his horn repeatedly, leaning out
the window, shouting abuse. Hobbes waited, smiling, as the girl picked up her
belongings. Then, having escorted her back to the pavement, he sauntered
towards Mr Impatience, drawing himself up to his full height. The man cringed,
his face turning as pale as the moon as Hobbes bent and looked in at his
window. I couldn't make out what he said. I did, however, hear the driver yelp,
'Have mercy.'

Hobbes
nodded and let him drive off. 'A little courtesy goes a long way,' he remarked
and, having assured himself of the girls' well-being, saluted and loped off
along Rampart Street. The fugitive was long out of sight. I offered a sickly
smile to the ladies, who seemed more stunned by Hobbes's intervention than by
the collision, and toiled behind him as he sped up Hedbury Road. It wasn't long
before I gave up; all the exercise was killing me and I had to rest, bending
forward with my hands on my knees, gasping, contemplating the cracks in the
pavement and wondering whether I should throw up. By the time I felt better, Hobbes
had vanished. Though I began walking towards where I'd last seen him, it wasn't
long before I realised it was pointless. I rested on the wall by the Records
Office.

Then
I spotted the guy we'd been chasing. He'd doubled back and was sneaking into
the town centre. He crossed the road and into the Records Office car park,
ignoring me completely.

A wild thought entered my head; I could
arrest him. I'd heard of a citizen's arrest, though I wasn't really sure what
one was. Nor had I any clue why we'd been pursuing him, yet Hobbes was a
policeman and, therefore, must have had a reason, probably a good one. The
man's shirt was drenched with sweat despite the first crystalline hints of
frost and he looked exhausted. I stepped towards him at the same moment he
glanced over his shoulder. His eyes bulging behind his tinted lenses, he gasped
and ran before I could lay hands on him. Hobbes was still on his trail. I
started after the man as he fled downhill through the car park, by the side of
the wall, and out the far gate. Hobbes passed me, his stride long and loping
and, despite his heavy boots, almost silent. He didn't appear to be breathing
hard, though his coat flapped around him like an enormous bat's wings. As he
disappeared through the gate, I realised they were getting away from me again
and reckoned I might save a few seconds by going straight over the wall. Taking
a running jump, I scrambled up and over.

'Look
before you leap' is a wise maxim, though I doubt whoever coined the phrase knew
anything of supermarket trolleys. I didn't hit the ground running as I'd expected,
I hit a supermarket trolley, sprawling
.
The lazy individual who'd
abandoned it there instead of returning it to the trolley park probably never thought
of the danger, that someone might drop into it, that the impetus of that someone's
landing would set the trolley rolling downhill. Despite frantic struggles, I
was stuck on my back in the wire shell, legs in the air, helpless as an
overturned tortoise as the speed inexorably picked up. Typically, I'd fallen
into that rare breed of supermarket trolley that runs freely, and my teeth
rattled with every crack in the pavement. There was an instant when I
experienced the sensation of flying, followed by a bone-jarring smack as the
trolley left the kerb and landed in the road. Raising my head, peering between
my knees, I could see the cars hurtling along Beechcroft Road directly ahead. I
gulped and my struggles grew frantic though no more productive. I shouted for
help.

It
was no use. The front wheels hitting a pothole, the trolley tipped over,
flinging me in front of a speeding van. Too dazed to move, all I could do was
close my eyes and prepare to be smashed into oblivion. I heard the screeching
of brakes before something seized my legs.

I
found myself flat on my back on the pavement, winded and shocked, smelling hot
metal and burnt rubber.

Hobbes
squatting next to me, grinned. 'By heck, Andy, you do lead an exciting life.
Are you alright?'

I
nodded as well as I could and sat up, rubbing bruises and grazes. The van
driver and crowd of concerned onlookers began dispersing when they saw I was
still alive.

'Did
you catch him?'

'No,'
said Hobbes. 'I thought I'd be able to talk to him any time, whereas I only had
one opportunity to save you.'

'Thanks.'
I really was grateful because, for the third time in as many days, I'd been
sure I was going to die. 'And … umm … sorry about the one that got away.'

'Don't
mention it.'

The
pavement was seeping coldness into my bones and I was glad when Hobbes helped
me to my feet, though I needed his support for a while. As I was counting my
injuries, bloody Phil drove past in a new blue Audi and stared. What a day I
was having! Still, enough was enough. 'I want to go home now.' My words came
out perilously close to being a sob.

'OK,'
said Hobbes. 'I'll come back with you.'

Strangely,
I was pleased, although only an hour or two earlier he'd been crunching bone
like a wild animal. I was happy I was going to sleep under his roof and that
Mrs Goodfellow would be after my teeth. He led me back, humming to himself.

'What's
the tune?'

'Ribena
Wild.'

'I
don't think I know it.'

'You
must do,' he said. 'It was playing on Pete Moss's car stereo. You know, Ribena
wild rover for many a year?'

I
grimaced and was relieved to get back to 13 Blackdog Street. I went straight to
my room, dressing in thick, stripy pyjamas and, despite the horrors of the day
and the not-so-distant thump of music, quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Coming
awake to the faint tang of smoke triggered a memory of fear. I jerked upright
with a racing heart, yet there was no fire, just a lingering hint of cigars,
noticeable over the scent of lavender. Though my eyes were open, I could see
nothing apart from a feeble glimmer of street lighting through heavy curtains.
The lack of curry and sock pong made me realise I was not in my own room, or
even in my own flat. The time, I guessed, was somewhere in the aptly-named wee
hours, and I desperately needed to relieve myself, but, apart from the fact of
being in a bed, I had no point of reference. It took a couple of minutes of
disorientation to work out I was in Hobbes's spare bedroom, and that my room
had burned, along with my socks.

My
drowsy brain failing to remember where the door was, I was forced to fumble and
grope around the walls until locating it allowed me to lurch towards the
bathroom, getting there in the nick of time. Afterwards, I washed my hands, in
case Mrs Goodfellow was lurking, although the faint, ladylike snores from her
room were reassuring. On the way back, and considerably more at ease, I noticed
Hobbes's door was open. Greatly daring, I peeped inside. The curtains had not
been drawn and light from Blackdog Street showed he wasn't there. I was blurry with
fatigue, a biting draught from his open window making me shiver, so I groped my
way back to bed, instantly dropping back into sleep. At some point, I was
vaguely aware of a clunk, as if a window was closing, and it was light when I
woke again.

Yawning
and stretching was good, despite a superficial tenderness from a hundred
bruises and scrapes. My burned hand didn't feel too bad beneath its dressing,
just a little stiff and tight. I hadn't slept so well for ages and was able to
take pleasure in the ache of muscles, muscles that had barely been active
during most of the previous decade. My stomach being empty, I lay a while,
relishing the anticipation of what Mrs Goodfellow would prepare for breakfast.
There was sufficient light for me to notice that yesterday's underwear and
shirt, carelessly tossed into the corner, had vanished and miraculously been
replaced with clean, pressed garments, lying neatly folded on the dressing
table, alongside a fluffy white towel. I got up and went to the bathroom.

Both Hobbes's and Mrs Goodfellow's doors were
shut and the house had an odd stillness, suggesting I was alone. After washing,
returning to my room and dressing, I went downstairs, to find that the kitchen,
apart from a mouth-watering aroma of roasting beef, was empty. A note lay in
the middle of the table. It had been written on pink paper with a fountain pen
and the writing was infested with loops and the occasional blot.

Dear
Andy,

I
trust you slept well. The lass and I have gone to the Remembrance service and
didn't want to disturb you. We will be back around noon. Please help yourself
to breakfast – there's bacon and eggs in the pantry and a loaf in the bread
bin. I recommend the marmalade. The lass makes it herself out of oranges.

Hobbes.

PS.
There was a break-in at the museum last night.

I
shrugged away a sense of disappointment. There was nothing for it but to look
after myself. I've never been a dab hand at cooking and reckoned marmalade
sandwiches would do me well enough. A pat of primrose-yellow butter lay in a
white china dish on the table, alongside a pot with a hand-written label
declaring its contents as marmalade. Filling the kettle, setting it on the hob
and lighting the gas, I located the bread in a cream-coloured, enamel bread bin
with a wooden lid. On opening it, I hit a snag: the bread was all in one lump -
and I'd usually known it to come in slices. A childhood memory surfaced from
when I was staying at Granny Caplet's while mother was in hospital having my
baby sister, who died. Granny was using a big, shiny knife with a serrated edge
to cut a Hovis loaf. A similar knife lay on a gleaming, wooden breadboard next
to the marmalade.

Sawing
energetically produced two slices or, more accurately, wedges of the fragrant,
crusty, brown bread, which I buttered and marmaladed while waiting for the
kettle to boil. As soon as it did, I made tea, taking the loose leaves in my
stride. Then, satisfied with my achievements, sitting down at the table, I
tucked in. Hobbes had been right to claim the marmalade was excellent. It held
just a hint of whisky smokiness, lending a satisfying warmth and depth to the
citrus tang and sweetness.

I
drank a mug of tea, cut another hunk of bread and remembered the last breakfast
in my flat: left-over chop suey, still in its foil box. Washing down the
congealed mess with the warm, flat, dregs of a can of Special Brew, I was blissfully
unaware of the cigarette butt until it caught in my throat. As smoking is a
vice I've never indulged in, and I was pretty sure I'd been alone when I got
home from Aye Ching's takeaway, it was a mystery. I never did get to the bottom
of it, unlike the bottom of the can. At least, I couldn't imagine anything
quite so horrible happening in Mrs Goodfellow's kitchen.

Smoke
seemed to be on my mind a lot and it was almost as if I could smell it again.
Actually, I could. The kettle was glowing red, its wooden handle carbonising. I'd
forgotten to turn off the gas, though in my defence, I was more used to
electric kettles. Jumping up, I grabbed the smoking handle, releasing it with a
yelp, lucky my hand was still partially protected by its dressing. A souvenir
of Margate tea towel was hanging on a rail by the sink and, grabbing it, wrapping
it around the handle, I hurled the incandescent kettle into the sink and turned
on the tap.