Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (37 page)

I
dragged myself from bed, yawning across the room, and pulled open the curtains,
surprised the street lighting was still on, as if in the middle of the night. Dazed,
I washed, dressed and fumbled down the dark stairs to the kitchen, where I
stood blinking in the doorway, fluorescent light battering my bleary eyes.

The
old girl was at the cooker, sizzling bacon in a pair of blackened cast-iron
pans that I struggled to lift. When she raised one in each hand to shake them,
I feared her skinny wrists would snap, but she seemed as unperturbed as Dregs,
who was still sprawled in his basket, emitting gentle snores. Hobbes, dressed
alarmingly in his blue striped pyjamas and kitten slippers, leant across the
table, slicing slabs of bread from a vast white loaf.

‘Good
morning,’ he said.

‘Is
it?’ I asked, too dozy to argue, sitting down at the table and yawning.

‘You’re
up early,’ said Mrs G by way of greeting.

‘So
are you. Why?’

Flipping
a rasher, she examined it for defects and, finding none, flipped some more. ‘Well,
dear, it’s going to be a busy day, so we thought we’d best make an early start.
We weren’t planning on waking you yet.’

‘Thanks
… but what are we going to do?’

‘Keep
people safe,’ said Hobbes, waving the bread knife a little too close to my
nose. ‘The lass and her team will be ensuring there’s no trouble with the
festival-goers, while I’ll be undercover, mingling, being inconspicuous.’

I
tried not to laugh.

‘And
I’ll keep an eye out in case other things cause trouble,’ he continued.

‘You
mean the big cats?’

‘I
do in part, but I’ll be policing as well, seeing that nothing goes on that
shouldn’t.’

‘What
can I do?’ I asked, feeling like a spare part.

‘You
can enjoy the music … but keep alert and let me know of anything you think I
should know. In the meantime, would you care to saw this bread while I get changed?
When you’ve finished this loaf, there are three more in the pantry; that should
be sufficient.’ He handed me the bread knife.

‘Sufficient
for what?’ Since he’d already carved a small hill of slices, I reckoned it
might not all be for us.

‘For
you two and for my security lads,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘They’ll be getting to
the farm for seven and I think it’s only right and proper that they start the
day with a decent bit of breakfast in their bellies.’

‘And
when do we get ours?’ The aroma having wakened my stomach, it was grumbling and
groaning quietly like a disappointed audience.

‘When
we get there.’

‘So
… umm … what time is it now?’

‘Nearly
four o’clock.’

I
sighed, glancing out the window where a brittle, monochrome light was becoming
apparent and a chaffinch began to sing. Twice in three days, I’d witnessed the
sunrise and, much as I appreciated it, I hoped it wasn’t habit forming.

I
set to work, building a tottering tower of sliced bread, which the old girl,
butter knife in hand, jar of home-made chutney chinking, converted into bacon
sandwiches, hiding them away in a succession of brown paper bags. To my regret,
not a single sandwich finding its way to me, I had to make do with a handful of
the crumbs from the breadboard. Fortunately, there was a pot of tea and a
couple of steaming mugs provided temporary respite. Still, I couldn’t say I
wasn’t jealous when Dregs woke up and she treated him to a selection of bacon
scraps.

I
sat, watching as she scrubbed the dishes. She was wearing her normal checked
skirt, a brown cardigan and, as a concession to the event, a pair of green
wellington boots, very much down-at-heel.

‘Shouldn’t
you have a uniform or something?’

‘I
have, dear,’ she said, turning round, pointing to a badge pinned to the middle
of her cardie. ‘All the lads have them. Miss Pipkin typed them for us on her
computer and Billy Shawcroft had them laminated. Nice aren’t they?’

The
badge read ‘Festical Sexurity’.

‘Shouldn’t
that be ‘Festival Security’?’

‘Yes,
dear, but old Miss Pipkin’s eyesight is not so good these days and I didn’t
want to upset her. Anyway, it might have been worse.’

‘Much
worse,’ I said, smirking, ‘though they won’t do much for your authority, will they?
Won’t everyone laugh at you?’

‘They
might, if anyone notices. But that’s not such a bad thing.’

‘Isn’t
it?’

‘No,
dear. Laughter can dispel tension.’

‘I
suppose it can,’ I said, thinking that not all laughter was well meant.

Hobbes’s
reappearance drove out such thoughts, replacing them with horror and a large
dollop of amusement. Dregs, growling, retreated under the table, barking at
Hobbes’s hairy feet, which were enclosed in an ancient pair of leather sandals.
I averted my eyes.

‘It’s
time to load the car,’ said Hobbes. ‘Would you give me a hand?’

‘Umm
… yes.’ I said, controlling myself, following him to the sitting room,
wondering where the hell he’d found his clothes. Though I’d have been the first
to admit my ignorance of things sartorial, even I knew the summer of love had
run its course in 1967. I’d heard rumours of maroon velvet, flared trousers, but
had never truly believed such things existed. He was also wearing what might
have been an orange kaftan; if so, it was one for a much shorter person, barely
covering his belly, the sleeves cut off at the elbow. His rectangular,
blue-tinted sunglasses might have looked cool were they not beneath a stained,
broad-brimmed, brown-suede hat, and I was sure his psychedelic glass beads
would have been a bad idea at any point in history.

Even
so, his clothes weren’t the worst of it; even more alarming were the long,
black, snaggly wig and the immense, droopy moustache. He was going to be as
inconspicuous as a bull in a boudoir, though, in fairness, I doubted anyone
seeing him would immediately think police officer.

I
wondered why there was a pile of poles and tattered khaki rags on the floor.

‘Right,’
said Hobbes, ‘let’s pack the tents first.’

By
the looks of them, he’d got them from Army Surplus at some point between the
wars.

‘I’ll carry this lot if you open the boot.
Take these.’ Tossing me the keys, stooping, he scooped the whole lot into his
massive arms.

Within
a few minutes, we’d packed the car, all four of us squeezing into whatever
space remained. I ended up with Dregs sitting on my lap, since he’d also been
relegated to the back seat to make way for Mrs Goodfellow. Only when we were
hurtling towards the festival site did I remember the front wheel, guessing
Billy had fixed it overnight. I hoped he’d not been too drunk and, since we
made it without any problems, I guessed he hadn’t been.

As
we arrived at Loop’s Farm, Bashem and Bullimore, leaning on the gate in the
same pose as when I’d last seen them, directed us towards a large, flat, grassy
field where we parked in the farthest corner, beside a crumbling stone wall.
The next field along, glinting green in the morning sun, sloped gently down
towards a pair of stages between towering cliffs of speakers, awaiting the
crowds. I had to admit it, everything looked surprisingly professional.

I
got out of the car, clutching myself and groaning, for Dregs was never careful
where he put his great paws when excited, and he was very excited. Racing
across the field, he bounced around the farmers, as if they were old friends.

As
Mrs G went to liaise with them, Hobbes and I carried the tents to a suitable
spot. Truthfully, I only carried a tent peg that he dropped but I think my
moral support was invaluable. His method for pitching tents involved a great
deal of grunting and reminded me of Jonah being swallowed by the whale. I
helped where I could, running round, lifting and pushing wherever it looked
useful. Hobbes appeared to have gone down for the third time, when, emerging
briefly, he handed me two lengths of twine.

‘Hold
tight and don’t let go,’ he said.

Only
when both structures were up and he was battering the last pegs in with his
fist did I realise I was holding both ends of a length of baler twine, with no
connection with camping whatsoever.

‘Well
done, Andy, thanks,’ he said, grinning through his new-fangled moustache, and
pointing. ‘This one’s ours and that’s for the lass and Dregs. Now, let’s get
the bedding inside.’

Whereas
I’d hoped for camp beds and sleeping bags, we had a pile of rugs and blankets.
The ground looked hard and lumpy.

We’d
just finished when I was delighted to see the security crew turn up, which meant
Mrs Goodfellow could dole out the bacon butties. She had, of course, prepared
plenty for everyone, and there was enough left over to feed the pack of young
Bashems who’d emerged from the farmhouse in great excitement.

After a couple of sandwiches, Hobbes, taking
Dregs, vanished in the direction of Loop Woods, leaving the security crew to
stand around trying to look important, giving the impression of being nervous.
They weren’t the big, rough lads I’d been expecting, apart from one hulking yet
wobbly youth called Arnold, who was there with his dad, a slight, balding man with
a paunch exaggerated by a knitted blue cardigan. The rest of them weren’t much
to look at either, being, for the most part, friendly, middle-aged blokes. One
was actually wearing a red bow tie. Yet, the old girl, as she issued orders,
exuded an air of quiet confidence that almost reassured me. Trucks and vans
started arriving from nine o’clock, carrying caterers and stallholders onto the
site.

I
was free to mooch around, the only drone among the workers, a most pleasant
sensation. The sun was warm, the scent of cut grass soothing, my belly full, as
I stretched out in a patch of tiny, aromatic yellow flowers, watching the
swifts and swallows swooping and soaring in the forget-me-not blue sky. Yawning,
I shut my eyes, awaking to the strumming of an imperfectly tuned guitar.

I
sat up, bleary, heavy-limbed, blinking in the bright summer sunshine, to see a
line of cars and vans blocking the lane onto the farm, along with a mass of
pedestrians. Mrs Goodfellow and Arnold’s dad were at the gate, collecting
tickets, letting the punters in and, since hundreds of tents had already
sprouted like toadstools across the field, it took me a few moments to work out
where ours were.

People
were everywhere, talking, eating, strumming guitars and dancing. A spotty-faced
troubadour, leaning against the wall, his hair like a failed experiment by a
drunken basket-weaver, was twanging his instrument and chanting in a nasal monotone.
Though a great believer in self-expression, I couldn’t help thinking there should
be limits.

I
went towards the gates, looking for Mrs Goodfellow, hoping for food, finding
only Arnold’s dad addressing a group of hard-faced, shaven-headed, tattooed,
young men.

‘Sorry,
gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in without a ticket, but I
believe Mr Bullimore still has a few left, if you wish to purchase them.’

‘We’re
not,’ said a nightmare figure with a spider’s web tattooed across his face, ‘going
to buy any tickets. Now, it’s bloody obvious there’s no way a fat, old git like
you is gonna stop us getting in, so step aside and no one gets hurt. Right?’

‘Sorry,
my friends. No tickets, no entry.’

The
men muttered and swore, bunching together, leaning over Arnold’s dad.

‘I’m
not getting through to you, am I?’ said the man with the facial tattoo, shoving
Arnold’s dad in the chest before dropping to his knees, moaning. ‘Ooh, that
hurt … that really hurt. What did you do that for?’

‘I’m
sorry to inconvenience you, sir, but I was merely ensuring my message got through
to you and your friends. We have a rule: no tickets, no entry. I didn’t make it,
but I will enforce it.’

The
group helped their sobbing friend back to his feet and led him away. He was
walking slowly, with extreme concentration, and none of the rest seemed
inclined to argue. Arnold’s dad, smiling, continued to collect tickets,
chatting to people as if nothing had happened.

As
I wandered around, I caught up with Hobbes, sitting cross-legged on the grass,
pounding a bodhran amidst an impromptu bunch of drummers before a crowd of
admirers. That the crowd was mostly young and female both surprised and
irritated me, though I had to admit he had a mean sense of rhythm.

‘The
big guy can’t ’alf play,’ said a skinny girl with too much eye make-up.

‘Ah,
but you should hear him sing,’ I replied, which was nasty.

‘Give
us a song,’ she cried, and the chorus joined in.

‘Right
on,’ said Hobbes, screwing up his face, closing his eyes and bursting into a
rendition of ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’.

Those
nearby clamped hands to ears and fled, even his fellow drummers. Those further
afield stopped whatever they were doing and looked stricken. It wasn’t that he
sang out of tune, which he didn’t, or that he mangled the lyrics, which he did,
it was the sheer, gut-tearing volume. Finishing, he opened his eyes, looking up
as if anticipating applause and I think I detected a hint of surprise, or maybe
disappointment, that I was the only one left.