Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (40 page)

I
had to get out of the pit or die, yet the walls were smooth and sheer,
unclimbable except, maybe, to a gecko. I contemplated yelling for help, yet
Phil was chained up, Tony had run away and Rex, even if my voice could reach
him, was dead drunk. Accepting my fate with all the dignity I could muster, I
began to cry like a snotty little kid. It wasn't fair after all I'd done.

That
thought snapped me out of it. All my imagined brilliance in finding Hobbes and
Phil, in knocking out Narcisa, came to nothing now I was stuck in that dismal
hole. I hadn't actually rescued anyone, but at least I'd tried, which was no
comfort whatsoever.

Hobbes
stood up, loping towards me, still carrying a hefty chunk of bone. I shrank
back.

'Thanks
for that,' he said, 'I was rather peckish.'

'Hobbes?'
I stared into his face. Bristles sprouted from his chin and flecks of raw meat
were stuck to his lips and between his teeth as he smiled. By God, I had never
been so pleased to see a smile in all my life!

'Yes.
Sorry if I alarmed you.'

Getting
to my feet, I damn near hugged the bastard. 'You scared the life out of me,' I said,
damn near to kicking the bastard.

'Oops,'
he said. 'We'd better get out of here, and quickly. Your leg needs treatment
and Mrs Witcherley is waking up.'

'How
can you possibly know that?'

'Trust
me.'

'Umm
… we can't get out of here.'

'We
can try.'

'Haven't
you tried already? You must've been down here for ages?'

He
nodded. 'I did have a go, of course, but the rock's too hard and brittle.' He
showed me his hands, his nails all torn and bloody. 'However, you may have
provided a solution.'

Taking
the bone, which he'd gnawed into a crude pick, he attacked the wall.

Stone
chips flying in all directions, I hung back out of harm's way, sticking a
finger into the hole in my leg to slow the oozing, though the sensation made my
head float. I had to close my eyes until the nausea and faintness abated, yet
it wasn't long before I could pay attention. He was not, as I'd supposed,
making a mad assault on the wall. He was excavating ledges to serve as toe and
finger holds.

'She's
got Phil chained to an altar,' I said. 'She was going to kill us so I knocked
her out.'

Hobbes,
grunting, pulled himself up, wedging his feet into a small hole at
waist-height. Bits of stone fell at my feet. 'I know,' he said. 'He's very
frightened and she's regaining consciousness. I must work harder.'

I
didn't bother asking how he knew. He was speeding up, despite having to hold on
with one hand, the sinews on the back of his neck bulging with the effort. He
still had a long way to go. Above us, Narcisa groaned and muttered.

Two
thirds of the way up, he paused, gnawing at the bone's edge, sharpening it I
guessed. As he examined it, he slipped, falling at my feet. Though he leaped
back up in an instant, I'd seen the sweat streaming down his face and neck and
heard how hard and fast he was breathing.

A
light shone into the pit.

'Stop
right there,' said Narcisa, standing above us, the revolver in one hand, a
candelabra in the other.

Without
thinking, I began hurling debris and, though I don't think I actually hit her,
she obviously hadn't expected resistance and ducked back. Her head appeared
twice more and volleys of rocks kept her at bay. Hobbes, ignoring her, was
making astonishing progress. She didn't return again but once more, from a
distance, I heard her intoning the strange words of her ritual.

'Hurry!
She's going to kill him.' I nearly wept.

Stone
chips flew as the incantation continued. I couldn't stop myself hopping in a
frenzy of agonised helplessness, wishing I had some inkling what she was on
about, wishing I could do something.

At
last, Hobbes, stretching out a long arm, grabbed the edge of the pit, hanging for
a moment by his fingertips. With a grunt, he swung up and onto the floor.

He
beckoned. 'C'mon, Andy, and quickly.' Then he was gone.

My
leg throbbed and spasmed as I began to climb, yet the holds were so far apart
and so narrow, I only managed a couple before falling. Though pain made me cry
out, I had another go and was balanced on a narrow ledge, stretching for a
handhold when a shot rang out. The shock making me lose my grip, I slid down
the wall, skinning my elbows and jarring my leg. I barely noticed the pain, as
another shot echoed around, followed by a succession of shots.

'Hobbes!'
I yelled and, forgetting impossibility, launched myself up the wall and over
the edge. Narcisa screamed as I got to my feet. Hobbes had his back to me and
he'd got her by the throat. She kicked and howled as he jerked her above his
head, as if he meant to dash her brains out against the wall.

'No,'
I said. 'Don't!'

He
turned, staring at me for a long moment, as if puzzled, blood soaking his shirt
front, dripping onto the stone floor. 'You're right,' he said. 'I should never
hurt a lady. Thank you.'

He
fell onto his face. She skidded across the floor like a stone, bouncing over a
frozen pond until she came to rest against the altar and lay still. As still as
Hobbes.

'Andy!'
Phil cried, sounding desperate, 'get these bloody chains off me. Please.'

'Hold
on,' I shouted, hurrying towards Hobbes. 'Are you alright?'

He
wasn't. Kneeling, sweating with the strain, I rolled him onto his back. He
didn't even twitch. Four neat round holes pierced his front and my hands were
red and sticky with hot blood.

Putting
my face in my hands, I groaned, knowing I'd failed. Yet Phil was sobbing and
begging for release and, after what he'd been through, I couldn't blame him. My
leg throbbed like a voodoo drum as, pulling myself together, I stumbled towards
him. Hobbes, after all, had come here to rescue him, so it was the least I
could do and the least seemed to be the most I would achieve.

Phil
gasped as I reached him. 'Your face! What's wrong with your face?'

'There's
nothing wrong with it,' I said, infuriated. I was trying to save his life and
all he could do was insult me.

'It's
covered in blood. Have you been shot?'

'Yes,
in the leg.'

'But
your face?'

'Oh
… umm … it's Hobbes's mostly. He's hurt.'

Although
I couldn't find the keys to the padlocks securing Phil's chains, I managed to
unbolt the shackles that anchored them. He sat up, clanking and groaning like
Marley's ghost, staring at me, looking puzzled.

'Andy,'
he asked. 'Where are your trousers?'

'In
the kitchen window.'

He
nodded. 'Great. How did you get here? I thought I was going to die. It's been
awful.'

As
he sobbed, I wrapped an awkward arm around his shoulders, despite his stink.

'There,
there,' I said, feeling useless and embarrassed, 'but I've got to help Hobbes
now. She shot him.'

'Why?
And why did she want to kill me? And why here? Like this? What's going on?'

Unable
to give a satisfactory reply, I shrugged, hobbling back towards Hobbes, kneeling
beside him, wishing I could remember what to do. The thing was, Rex, insisting that
everyone working for the
Bugle
should know at least basic first aid, had
made everyone take a course. Ingrid had been on mine, and having been far too
interested in her short skirt to pay attention to anything else, the ABC of
resuscitation was all that came to mind, the instructor having banged on about
it for long enough. Unfortunately, unable to remember why, I could have kicked
myself as the blood spread and steamed.

Phil
knew what to do, of course. Clanking his chains, kneeling opposite me, pulling
Hobbes's head back, he peered into his mouth. 'His airway's clear,' he said,
'and he's breathing, though not very well. I'll check his circulation.' He
poked around Hobbes's neck. 'I can't find a pulse.'

My
leg kept erupting into spasms of hurt and my body shook with cold and shock.
The stink of hot, fresh blood and its tacky feel as it dried on my hands was
getting to me, so, feeling my head floating, I closed my eyes and, had Phil not
grunted unexpectedly, might have fainted. On opening my eyes, I found he'd
beaten me to it, slumping across Hobbes like a wet blanket. I shook him. 'Wake
up.' There was no response, except that he slipped to the floor, leaving it all
up to me. I gritted my teeth.

At
least I now knew the ABC stood for Airways, Breathing and Circulation and,
though I couldn't find a pulse either, the blood still pumping from the holes
suggested he was still alive and that I should plug the leaks. Without bandages
or dressings, I had to improvise. Picking up the dagger, cutting strips from
Phil's nice silk shirt, I removed my vest and, folding it into a pad, used the
strips to bind it over Hobbes's wounds.

'Right,'
I said out loud, though I doubted he could hear, 'that should staunch the
bleeding while I go and phone for an ambulance. Don't worry.'

Pushing
myself up, I staggered towards the arch, convinced Hobbes was a goner.

'Stop
right there,' said Narcisa.

 Her
makeup had run, she had a lump the size of a duck egg on her forehead, a purple
bruise on the cheek where I'd hit her, and she'd put her wig on askew. Though
she looked grotesque and battered, she was holding the revolver in a steady
hand. I had a vision of myself standing before her, facing death, bloodied and
shocked and surprisingly heroic. Strangely, I felt little fear.

'You
couldn't hit a barn door at this distance.'

'You
could be right,' she said grinning and her teeth looked uncannily white in the
candlelight, 'so, you'd better come closer.'

'I'm
not that stupid.'

She
laughed and sneered, 'Oh, but you are. If you don't, I'll shoot him.' She
pointed the gun at Phil's head.

Even
she couldn't possibly miss at that range, so forced to comply, I limped towards
her as slowly as possible, hoping for the best.

'Good
boy,' she said. 'Now, if you don't mind, or, let's face it, even if you do, I
want you to lift Mr Waring back onto the altar.'

'No,'
I said.

'No
is not the answer I expect when I've got a gun in my hand. Do you imagine
you're being heroic? You ought to take a look in the mirror sometime. You're a
mess. Now, move him before I get angry.'

'No.'

'There's
no chivalry in young men these days. Are you sure you mean no?'

'No.
I mean, yes, I'm sure I mean no.'

'Oh,
well,' she said and raised the gun. 'Parting is such sweet sorrow.'

'And
parkin is such sweet cake.' I couldn't help thinking that my attempt at a James
Bond-style witty riposte hadn't quite reached the standard. They were hardly
famous last words and I grimaced, though I didn't anticipate them being either
famous or last.

She
squeezed the trigger.

Nothing
happened. She squeezed it again and again.

My
mind was clear and any fear was minimal. I'd counted how many shots she'd
fired. 'You're out of ammo,' I said.

Screaming,
she hurled the revolver at me but it was a real girlie throw, one even I might have
bettered. It clattered to the floor behind.

'Missed!'
I glanced over my shoulder to see where it had landed and, in case she'd got
more bullets, picked it up, finding it heavier than I'd imagined. Realising she
was too dangerous to leave on her own, I knew she'd have to come with me while
I phoned for help. I congratulated myself on forgetting nothing.

Except
for one thing: the dagger. Terror chewed my guts, yet it was still lying beside
Hobbes, out of her view. Unfortunately, it was not the only thing I'd forgotten.

She
stuck the can of pepper spray in my face, squeezing the release, and it would
have done for me, had the liquid burst out in a powerful jet instead of
dribbling and dripping harmlessly to the ground.

'It's
all gone,' I said, laughing, which was a mistake.

She
leaped on me like an infuriated cat and, though I did my best against the
clawing, spitting and biting, she'd taken me by surprise. A well-manicured
talon, slashing at my eyes, I covered up as well as I could, feeling her sharp,
varnished nails tearing my face. Squealing like a stuck pig, I shoved her down.
She sprang back, this time more like an enraged leopard, and, my injured leg
failing, I fell. She was all over me in an instant, hissing, screeching,
gouging, biting. Her sharp teeth piercing my neck, I screamed, pushing and
kicking her off, struggling to my feet, clutching the wound, sick and scared within.
She'd bitten me and, as the realisation hit home, horror overwhelmed me. I
feared I was doomed to become like her, one of the undead, her slave forever. I
may not have been entirely rational.

'Help!'
I cried.

Though
she was sprawling on the ground at Hobbes's side, her teeth were still locked
in my neck and, as I clawed at them, they dropped, clacking on the stone floor.
I might have laughed if not for the pain and fear. False ones! Yet even as the
relief hit me, she sprang up, wielding the dagger. Jumping backwards to avoid a
slash, twisting to one side as she stabbed at me, I ducked and squirmed, fending
her off with the brass candelabra. Too heavy and clumsy to be an effective
weapon, it treacherously shed its load across the floor and, as I parried a
lunge at my face, I stepped on a candle, skidding into a pillar. The candelabra
clattered to the floor and, like a striking cobra, the dagger stabbed towards
my throat. I took what I expected to be my last breath.