Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (38 page)

He
grinned. ‘Hi, man, where’ve you been?’

‘Sleeping
in the sun, but I guess it must be lunchtime now. Do you fancy getting a bite?’

‘Why
not? There’s a stall selling hot roast pork or beef rolls, how about one of
them?’

‘That
sounds perfect.’

‘Come
on then.’

We
strolled to the food zone, from where the most delicious smells arose, and
bought a couple of enormous pork rolls with apple sauce.

‘Thanks,’
I said, taking mine. ‘Umm … I didn’t know you could drum?’

‘Yeah,
man, though I haven’t played much since I left the Army.’

We
leaned against a mossy, old stone wall, munching, keeping it all together with
difficulty, for the rolls were full to overflowing.

‘Have
you seen any signs of the panthers?’

‘No.
At least, no new ones. I did find some spoors, but they were at least two days
old, which might suggest the cats have moved on. Then again, it might not.
Still, I think everyone’s likely to be safe. The sheer number of people here,
not to mention the noise, should keep the creatures away.’

‘What
about … umm … the werewolf?’

‘If
he’s around, he’ll be no trouble, unless something upsets him.’

‘What’s
going to upset him?’

Hobbes
shrugged, pushing the remains of his roll into his mouth, chewing slowly,
observing the crowd. Finishing my last piece of pork, I wiped my mouth with the
serviette, which seemed to spread more grease than it absorbed.

‘Right,’
he said, walking away, ‘I’m off to patrol. I’ll see you later.’

I
mooched about, listening, watching and absorbing the atmosphere. A couple of
hours later, Hobbes reappeared.

‘All
seems well,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Hullo, something’s about to happen.’

‘Ladies
and gentlemen,’ said Bernie Bullimore, sporting a sparkling red waistcoat and a
battered top hat, his voice booming over the sound system, ‘welcome to the
First Annual Grand Sorenchester Music Festival. I’m delighted so many of you
are here and hope we’ve got a programme with something for everybody. Though we
don’t officially kick-off until five o’clock, we’ve had a young band turn up
and they’re desperate to play. I thought we’d given ’em a chance.’

Like
many others, Hobbes and I headed towards the stage, passing an oddball bunch of
hippie types, among whom even Hobbes would not have stood out too far. They
were sitting cross-legged, facing the stage.

‘Oh,
no,’ said one as Hobbes stepped round him, ‘it’s the Pigs.’

Bernie’s
voice roared out across the fields. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a
massive Sorenchester welcome to the Pigs.’

To
give the crowd its due, there was a spatter of cheering and even one or two
whoops but, mostly, it clapped politely, as five lads shambled onto stage and
picked up their instruments.

A
tall, skinny youth grasped the microphone. ‘Good afternoon, we’re the Pigs.
One, two, three … er …’

‘Four!’
prompted a loud mouth in the crowd, to much laughter.

The
singer counted the band in again, punching the air when he reached ‘four’ and the
song would probably have been more impressive had the sound system worked. We
could hear the tinny, un-amplified drums and the guitarist’s aggrieved moaning
before the crowd’s guffaws drowned it out. The Pigs slouched off stage, returning
ten minutes later, when the problems had been rectified. An hour later, I think
most agreed their first set had been the better one. Still, the lads had tried
and, as they trooped off, fists clenched, they generated a smattering of
applause, which, taking as a sign of approval, encouraged them to come back for
an encore.

‘Thank
you, Sorenchester,’ the singer bellowed and, something striking him on the
forehead, collapsed face first onto the stage.

Having
seen nothing, I was reluctant to point the finger at Hobbes, who, chuckling, wiped
his hands on his velvet trousers as the band trudged off, bearing their
stricken leader.

‘Rock
and roll,’ said Hobbes. ‘Who’s on next, man?’

‘Umm
… It’s the Famous Fenderton Fiddle Fellows at five. What time is it now?’

Hobbes,
with a glance at the horizon, answered, ‘Half-past four.’

I
wondered how he knew, until I realised he’d been looking in the direction of
the church clock, at least four or five miles away. I was impressed, though,
for all I knew, he could have been lying. People were still arriving and I’d
guess there were several thousand on the site, their tents as many and as close
together as zits on a teenager’s chin. Hobbes wandered off to make sure Mrs G
was alright, although, with Dregs at her side, I didn’t expect she’d have had
much trouble, even if anyone had felt inclined to try anything. Besides, with
the exception of the bunch Arnold’s dad had turned away, everyone seemed in a
friendly mood, gathering in small groups, chatting, laughing and occasionally
singing. Queues snaked across the field towards the catering vans, beer tents
and toilets.

I
went over to watch a young man in motley garb juggling a handful of assorted
cook’s knives before a fascinated audience. We gasped with astonishment when,
spinning a cleaver in a high loop, he bounced it off his forehead, carrying on
as if it had been part of the act. Only when blood dripped into his eyes did he
lose control, receiving several spectacular stab wounds and fainting as the
knives responded to gravity. A team of St. John’s Ambulance carried him away,
along with the capful of small change he’d earned for his pains.

I
wandered through the crowd seeing other, more successful, if less spectacular,
jugglers, along with magicians, buskers and face-painters, narrowly avoiding getting
my face painted by a hefty, determined lady in dungarees, escape only becoming
possible when she discovered I was broke. I’ve tried to suppress memories of
how she found this out, but it involved some pain and a loss of dignity. A
number of brawny young blokes, their arms adorned with tangles of fantastic
tattoos, laughed at my plight before heading towards the beer tent, which was
doing a roaring trade.

To
my surprise, when the Famous Fenderton Fiddle Fellows took to the stage, they’d
transmuted from the drunken shambles I remembered into a good-time band, quite
matching the spirit of the occasion. The crowd danced and sang and even I found
my feet tapping. Hobbes was on the far side, apparently attempting to fit waltz
steps to a rock beat, alternately smiling at the people around him and
apologising when he stepped on them.

Towards
the end of the set, a girl with long blonde hair and big hazel eyes, catching
hold of my wrist, dragged me, protesting slightly, into a space where we and
several others bobbed and gyrated to the music. The way she was smiling at
everyone made me suspect the lager I could smell on her breath was not the only
substance she’d taken. At the end, hot and sweaty, heart thumping, I dropped to
the grass, my new friend, sprawling across me, kissed me hard on the lips.

I
responded with a squeeze that made her giggle, until, pushing herself up on her
arms she stared into my face with a look of disgust. ‘You’re not Wayne,’ she
said, getting to her feet, leaving me.

‘Hello,
Andy,’ said a familiar voice, ‘I’m glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.’

Felix
King, dressed in an immaculate linen suit, was looking down on me.

I
sat up. ‘Umm … Hello … I didn’t know you’d be here.’

‘It’s
always good to meet the locals. I’ll see you around.’

He
strolled away towards the camping field, a pair of large, intimidating young
men in dark suits following and, to my horror, Violet walking in front. She was
stunning in a diaphanous pale-green sundress, showing off her slim, tanned
shoulders and I realised with dismay that she must have walked past when I’d
been rolling in the grass with the strange girl. I wanted to run and explain
myself, to tell her that what she’d seen wasn’t what it looked like, but Felix,
having caught up with her, putting his arm around her, glanced back at me,
shaking his head.

My
spirits plummeted. I feared I’d blown it and lost her forever. I pounded the
turf with my clenched fists.

‘What’s
that poor grass ever done to you, mate?’ asked a bloke in a baseball cap,
watching me with an infuriating grin. He walked away when I ignored him.

Getting
back to my feet, I came to a decision that, whatever the risk, I was going to
talk to her and explain. If she then told me to shove off, I was done for, yet
there was a chance she’d listen and understand. As for Felix and his heavies, I
didn’t care; they could do their worst. Not that they were likely to do much in
a packed field.

The
crowd was swelling in anticipation of the next act, which I assumed, because of
the cries of ‘Come on Tim’, was Tiny Tim Jones, who’d been released on parole. When
at last I pushed my way through and out the other side, there was no sign of
Violet, or Felix and his merry men. I walked around for a while, disconsolate.

Mrs
G and Dregs were still by the gate. She was counting the ticket stubs out onto
a table and frowning.

‘Hello,
dear,’ she said, as I approached, ‘are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Yeah,
I am,’ I said, stroking Dregs’s head. ‘Umm … you look worried. Is something the
matter?’

‘Well,
dear, the thing is, Mr Bullimore said he’d sold three-thousand tickets, but I’ve
got more stubs than that.’

‘Forgeries,
maybe? At thirty quid a ticket, someone might have thought it worthwhile.’

‘I
fear you may be right, dear, but they all look genuine. I’ll ask the old fellow
when he turns up; he’s good at spotting things. Have you seen him?’

‘Yes,
he was dancing.’

‘I’m
glad. He’s good at it.’

‘Umm
… I’m not sure good is the right word, he was treading on people.’

‘I
expect it’s because of this modern music and the grass. He can do a wonderful
foxtrot on a sprung floor.’

‘He
looked more like a fox with the trots.’ I smirked.

The
old girl gave me her ‘stern’ look. ‘Did you do any better?’

‘Sort
of. I danced with a young lady.’

‘Good
for you, but why are you looking so glum?’

‘Because
Violet saw me.’

‘Well,
a dance can’t hurt.’

‘Umm
…’ I said, squirming and blushing, ‘we weren’t actually dancing when she saw us
… we were sort of rolling around in the grass.’

Mrs
G’s eyebrows rose and her eyes twinkled behind her glasses. ‘I see.’

‘No,
you don’t … I didn’t mean it to happen … in fact, I’m not sure how it did
happen and I wish it hadn’t … At least not when she could see me. I want to
explain it was all a mistake, but I can’t find her and I don’t know what she’ll
say if I do … and I’m not sure what Felix will do to me if … when I speak to
her.’

‘He
won’t do anything while I’m around.’

‘Thank
you. I’m going to talk to her whatever happens.’

‘Well,
take care, dear and don’t do anything too foolish. I suspect millionaires won’t
be spending the night in a tent; if I were you, I’d check those camper vans on
the edge of the site.’

‘Thanks,
I will, though I thought they were heading this way. Perhaps they’re staying in
the farmhouse?’

‘I
doubt it, dear. There can’t be much room inside with six children, not to
mention Mr and Mrs Bashem and Mr Bullimore.’

‘Six?
I thought there were an awful lot of them. Oh well, I expect they’re all out
enjoying the music.’

‘I
expect so, dear. Anyway, here’s young Arnold come to take over the gate.’

Arnold
wobbled towards us, a large paper cup of cola in one hand, an even larger
burger in the other. He nodded with a greasy grin. Though, since living at
Hobbes’s, burgers had lost much of their appeal, the sight of it, combined with
the scent of fried onions, made me realise I was quite hungry. I wondered what
I could do about it.

‘Well,
unless anything happens, I’m off duty until midnight,’ said Mrs G. ‘I’ll go and
make supper. I expect you’ll be hungry; I know the old fellow will be.’

‘I
was starting to feel a bit peckish,’ I admitted. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Chicken
in the bucket.’

‘Can
I help?’

‘No,
dear, it’s all prepared. I just need to mix it up and get it on the heat. It’ll
probably be ready after the next act.’

‘Umm
… did you really say chicken in the bucket?’

‘Yes,
dear, though it’s not really in a bucket; it’s in a Dutch oven. You go and
enjoy the music. I’m sure you’ll find your young lady later.’

Taking
Dregs with her, she walked away, and I headed back towards the stage in time
for the end of Tim’s short set, a complete racket. However, afterwards, we were
privileged to witness a bizarre set from a lunatic calling herself Mad Donna. Though,
when she started, some complained that she was not quite what they’d been
expecting, her crazed antics and weird gibberings exerted a trance-like
fascination, soon overriding any objections. She had a five-piece band, yet the
music was strangely irrelevant. We finally cheered her off after three encores.
I thought she’d be a hard act to follow, until I was strolling back to the tent
and the scent of Mrs G’s chicken in the bucket struck me.