Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (25 page)

Hobbes
grinned. 'Curry too hot?'

'No,'
I defended it, 'it's wonderful but I fear it's too good for this world.'

'If
you like this, then you should try her vindaloo. That'll bring more than a tear
to your eyes.'

I
expected we'd adjourn to the sitting room as usual. Instead, Hobbes, picking up
the dishes, carried them to the sink.

'The
lass has her Kung Fu class on Monday nights,' he said, 'so I do a bit of
washing up.'

'She
does Kung Fu?' My voice soared incredulously. 'I'm surprised they let anyone
her age learn a martial art. Isn't it dangerous?'

'You
don't understand,' said Hobbes, 'she's the teacher and an honorary Master of
the Secret Arts. She combines her class with sex education as a sort of
spin-off. It was all the printer's fault; he made a mistake and some folk
turned up hoping to learn the marital arts. She didn't like to disappoint
them.'

I
was so flabbergasted I volunteered to do the washing up myself and Hobbes, to
his credit, did not stand in my way, taking himself and Dregs off for a walk.
The bowl I'd melted had been replaced and I washed the dishes with a virtuous
feeling. Afterwards, I dried and put everything away methodically, some of it,
I flattered myself, in the right place.

Hobbes
had not returned when I'd finished and I guessed Mrs Goodfellow would be busy
for some time. Finding myself at a loose end, alone in the kitchen, my mind
kept returning to the cellar below, the darkness beckoning me to adventure, to
discover what might be hidden behind the nearly secret door below. Yet, I
couldn't do it. When it came to the crunch, I was too chicken to venture down
there, especially at night. I tried to convince myself I was worried that the
light would shine through the grille, revealing my actions to Hobbes when he
returned. In reality, I was just scared.

A
happier idea struck: I'd glimpsed intriguing things in the attic, which wasn't
nearly so scary. Besides, apart from Mrs Goodfellow's warning about the planks,
there seemed to be no reason why I shouldn't go up there. Tearing myself away
from the cellar door, I climbed upstairs.

As
I pulled a cord, the ladder slid down towards me, clicking into place. I started
up the rungs, breathing hard, as if doing something wrong, though no one had
told me not to. When my head and shoulders poked through into the blackness,
air, as cold as if blown from mountain peaks, cascading down, made me shiver. I
groped for the switch, the light clicked on and I was staring into the gaping
maw of a huge bear.

'Jesus
Christ!' I gasped and damn near fell down the ladder. The bear was stuffed of
course, its moth-eaten carcass lashed to a timber frame. Trying to control my rushing
heart, I climbed up and examined a tarnished disc on its cracked, leather
collar. 'Cuddles', it read and, on the reverse, 'Please return to Hobbes, 13
Blackdog Street'. Nerves made me giggle like a schoolgirl.

The
place was infested with junk. I could see neatly stacked brass bedsteads, what
appeared to be a penny-farthing that had come off second best in a brawl with a
steamroller, boxes, crates and racks of canvasses. A threadbare cloak lay
across a stack of old records and I wrapped it around myself to keep out the
chill, before sitting down on an old trunk, wondering whether any other bits of
elephant were concealed up there.

I
eased one of the canvasses from its rack. It was a painting of a hilly
landscape with an old man repairing a dry stone wall, a small town nestling in
the background. Though I'm not an art buff, I found the colours, the contrasts,
the vibrancy of the scene quite disturbing. It was almost photographic in its
detail but there was more; the scene appeared real, yet more vivid than life
and, gazing into the picture, I had an impression almost of flying above the
landscape, like a kestrel, soaring and hovering on a whim, while my eyes picked
out the tiniest details. The church tower seemed familiar and I realised the
town was Sorenchester, though not as I knew it, as it had once been. I fancied
I could make out Blackdog Street and even the number 13 on the door, such was
the artist's skill. Wondering who'd painted it and why it had been confined to
the attic, I looked for a signature.

In
the bottom right-hand corner, a mess of loops and blots, it said W.M. Hobbes. I
whistled, trying to make myself believe it had been painted by one of Hobbes's relations.
I might have succeeded had he not told me he'd been adopted. Still in denial, I
reasoned that he'd probably purchased the painting because of the coincidence
of names and, yet, something about it made me suspect he was the artist. I
realised then that I didn't actually know his first name – I assumed he had one
– or his second name, assuming W.M. Hobbes really was him. To me, he was just
Hobbes, or possibly Inspector Hobbes, or even, if Mrs G was correct, the old
fellow. There was, to use Wilkes's word again, something unhuman about the
painting, something suggestive of wildness, as if the artist related more to
the natural world than to the world of the town, or even to the man working on
the wall. Though they were there, and skilfully depicted, the grass, the trees,
the sky and even the rocks felt more important.

Putting
it back, I selected another. Again it was by W.M. Hobbes, this one showing a
moonlit night in town. The details were every bit as vivid as the first, though
the colours were muted and, again, it was disturbing, for there was too much in
the picture, almost as if the artist had been using a night-vision scope. I
shivered as my glance strayed to the shadows, for there was a suggestion of danger,
of unseen beings lurking, waiting for the moon to be shrouded by the
threatening clouds. It was eerie and yet compelling, exciting even.

I
couldn't tell how old the paintings were, though they gave an impression of
antiquity, which made me curious about Hobbes's age. I'd have guessed he was in
his mid-fifties, yet Wilkes had mentioned how he'd looked about ready for
retirement twenty years earlier. Recalling the newspaper cutting in Hobbes's
office, I realised, assuming the policeman in the picture wasn't his ancestor,
or an unfortunate look-alike, but Hobbes himself, that it would make him well
over a hundred years old. I tried reasoning, to convince myself it was
impossible, that his weirdness was messing up my head, and that there was no
way he could be so ancient and still working. Surely, I thought, the police had
to retire at a certain age, and definitely before they were one hundred. I
decided he couldn't really be unhuman: it would be too stupid. I just wished I
believed it.

The
next painting was of Rocky wearing a military uniform, looking as if he was off
to fight the Great War. Impossible, I told myself. Stop imagining things, he's
not a troll, he's just a man in fancy dress.

It
was then I heard an altercation in the street outside, the sound filtered into
the attic. A man shouted, 'Get your dog off my bloody leg!'

Hobbes's
voice came next. 'Your leg's not bloody yet. However, it might be if you don't
pick it up.'

'You
can't make me.'

'Can't
I? My dog doesn't like litter louts, so pick up that cigarette packet or you'll
discover there can be painful side effects to smoking.'

I
heard a cry but that was all because, for some reason, I felt uncomfortable at
the thought of Hobbes knowing I'd been in the attic. Sliding the portrait back
into the rack, squeezing past the junk, I slid down the ladder and shut the
hatch. As casually as could be, I strolled downstairs and towards the sitting
room. All had gone quiet in the street and a key turned in the lock. The front
door opened, there was an enormous woof and, as the bloody dog leaped at me, I
sidestepped, dodging behind the table. The next few seconds featured a chase
round and around the sofa to the accompaniment of a wailing moan, sounding as
if it might be coming out of my mouth. I was vaguely aware of words in it. 'Get
off! Get off! Get off! Get off!' In addition, there was, I regret, a selection
of choicest swear words to fill any gaps.

'Get
down,' said Hobbes.

I
dropped to all fours. The dog came down on me, wagging his tail as if we'd been
enjoying a great game.

Hobbes
looked thoughtful. 'He does seem to like you. However, you shouldn't encourage
him. Now leave him alone.'

I
thought he was talking to me first and the dog second but I may have been
wrong. Dregs and I parted with a relieved snivel from me and a sad whine from
him. I stood up.

'Go
to the kitchen,' said Hobbes.

I
turned towards the door.

'Not
you, Andy. Yes you, Dregs. Sit down. Not you, Dregs. Yes you, Andy.'

I
sat as the dog left the sitting room with a mournful tail.

Hobbes
subsided onto the sofa beside me. 'Were you looking for something?'

'When?'
I replied, puzzled.

'Two
minutes ago, when you were in the attic.'

'I
wasn't in the attic,' I began, until I caught the look in his eye. 'Oh, you
mean just then? No, I wasn't looking for anything as such. I just wondered what
was up there. I hope you don't mind?'

'Oh
no, not at all. Only I'm replacing some of the flooring up there. It's why I've
got the sander in the bathroom, for when I have the time.'

I
felt ashamed I'd suspected him of using it for shaving, though I still couldn't
believe any normal razor could cope with bristles as thick as cactus spines.
'Umm … how did you know I'd been up there?'

He
grinned. 'I'm a detective. Your skin is paler than normal, suggesting you've
been somewhere cold, there's a speck of sawdust on your right shoe, hinting
that you've been where someone has been woodworking and, what clinches it for
me, you are wearing an old cloak from the attic.'

I
slapped my forehead. I'd forgotten all about it. Taking it off, I draped it
over the coffee table.

'Besides,
I saw the light shining from the attic window.'

He'd
got me bang to rights, whatever that meant and I thought I'd better explain. 'I
was curious what was up there and I … umm … put the cloak on because of the
cold.'

He
nodded.

'There
were some paintings, next to the bear,' I said. 'They were rather good. Did you
do them?'

I
was astonished to see his face turn pink. Surely he wasn't embarrassed? Not
Hobbes, the man with the thickest skin in Sorenchester?

He
avoided my stare. 'I dabble. It's merely a foolish hobby. By the way, did you
like my bear? His name's Cuddles.'

'He
frightened the life out of me, when I turned the light on and all I could see
was his whopping great mouth.'

Hobbes
chuckled. 'Cuddles was a fine bear; he used to have your room once, many years
ago, after he'd retired from the circus.'

'A
bear?' I gasped. 'Living here? What about the neighbours?'

'Oh,'
he said, with a reminiscent smile, 'they weren't happy. They objected most
strongly, so I told them he was my pal and that he was staying. They came to
accept him in time.'

'But
what about the smell?'

He
shrugged. 'Cuddles got used to it. They're tolerant creatures, bears and well-behaved,
except where salmon are concerned. He did invade the fishmongers once or twice,
though I always paid for what he ate and, in time, he became quite friendly
with the fishmonger, even having his photograph used in the advertisement, 'He
can't bear to miss his weekly fish, can you?'

I
laughed. Not that I really believed him.

'He
left his mark on Sorenchester,' he said. 'You know the Bear with the Sore Head
pub?'

'Yeah,
of course.'

'Well,
in the old days it was called the Ram but they renamed it in his honour. He
often used to drink there.'

'The
bear used to drink there?' I was fascinated.

'I'm
afraid so. Alcohol was his weakness. I mean, many of us enjoy a beer or two but
Cuddles couldn't hold his drink, which was something to do with having claws
and no opposable thumbs. He had to sup from a bucket with a tap on it and they
used to hang it by the dartboard, just above the number eight. He'd swig it all
down, getting very drunk: hence the expression 'to drink one over the eight'.
Incidentally, it was also the origin of pail ale. In the end, though, the drink
caused his downfall.'

'Why,
what happened?' I sat as still as a child who has been entranced by a fabulous
tale.

Hobbes,
shaking his head, sighed. 'It was very sad. One evening he fancied a drink and
went down to the Ram, as it was then, and ordered a beer.'

'How?'
I asked. 'Could he talk?'

'Don't
be silly, he was a bear and bears can't talk, so he used sign language.'

'Ah,'
I said, 'that explains it.' Actually, it didn't, though I failed to spot the
flaw until afterwards.

'It,'
he continued, 'was tragic. The Ram having quite run out of best bitter, they
had to serve him a bucketful of worst bitter and Cuddles wasn't happy.'

'I
bet he wasn't. There's nothing worse than bad beer.'

'Precisely,'
said Hobbes, 'it was appalling.'