Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (4 page)

‘If
something startles them, they might charge,’ said Mr Catt, his ruddy complexion
having turned the same greenish colour as the dried mud caked on the rhino’s
backside.

‘Then
I’d better get her out,’ said Hobbes, ‘because she’s public and it’s my job to
protect her.’

‘No!’
said Mr Catt, his voice almost a shriek, ‘you might alarm them and …’

But
Hobbes, vaulting the high steel gate into the enclosure, was already speeding
towards the girl. Then a tall, thin woman, unmistakeably a schoolteacher, even
at a distance, noticing her charge, called out a sharp command. The child, running
towards the wall, was pulled to safety and given a stern rebuke. Mr Catt and I had
barely moved, understanding how it felt to be rooted to the spot.

Hobbes,
slowing to a jog as he saw the girl was safe, bent to pick up her hat.

Both
rhinos charged.

Mr
Catt and I yelled in unison. ‘Look out!’

Though
the rhinos’ massive feet were kicking up dust and turf as they pounded the dry
pasture into a thundering rhythm, like a troupe of Japanese drummers, Hobbes
didn’t appear to have noticed. Cold horror clutched my insides, for surely not
even he could withstand a direct hit from a pair of three-ton rhinos. The first
one lowered its horn and I shuddered, imagining the scene when I told Mrs
Goodfellow of his untimely and messy end.

Then,
straightening up, brushing the dust from the hat, he sprang into a twisting
somersault, carrying him straight over the first rhino. Landing with a gymnast’s
poise in time to meet the second one, he vaulted it, as if playing leapfrog, his
teeth glittering in a grin of pure exhilaration. Before the bewildered
creatures had skidded to a halt, he’d hauled himself from the enclosure and was
handing the hat back to the little girl, touching his forehead in salute as she
and her friends goggled, open-mouthed. The rhinos, seeing no sign of their
target, obviously assuming they’d pulped him into oblivion, swaggered back
across their field. If they’d exchanged high fives, I wouldn’t have been
surprised. Actually, I would have been, but, there was no denying, they were
exuding an air of smug achievement.

The
grin was still on Hobbes’s face when he rejoined us. ‘You can have a lot of fun
with rhinos,’ he said, ‘but we’re here for a look at your leopards.’

‘Oh,
yes, alright,’ said Mr Catt, rubbing his sleeve over his face. ‘That was a
remarkable thing you just did.’

‘Not
really. The child needs her hat on such a hot day. Anyone would have done the
same.’

‘Of
course they would,’ I said, nodding my agreement.

Hobbes
chuckled, patting me on the back. I picked myself up, brushing down my trousers,
following as he propelled a shaking Mr Catt towards the leopard enclosure.
Dregs, who’d been investigating a lamppost, appeared not to have noticed
anything out of the ordinary.

‘You
should have seen that,’ I told him. ‘Who’d have thought a big bastard like him
could do a backward somersault in mid-air? From a standing start, too!’

Dregs
wagged his tail to indicate he’d have thought it.

Mr
Catt was in lecture mode as we caught up. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘leopards are
by far the most adaptable of the big cats, being equally at home in forests,
savannahs, semi-deserts and mountains. If any big cat could survive in this
country I feel it would have to be a leopard, but I’m sure they’d leave signs.
I can’t believe they’d go undetected for long.’

Hobbes
nodded. ‘I agree. Most of England is too crowded to shelter large wild beasts.
It’s a shame there’s no room for animals these days.’

‘Well,’
said Mr Catt, ‘I, for one, am pleased. No one would pay to come here if they
could see the exhibits roaming outside for free. Anyway, it’d be dangerous. Our
male leopard weighs as much as the average man and can easily overpower prey
much larger than himself. He could kill or seriously injure someone.’

‘There
is that to consider,’ said Hobbes thoughtfully, as if the idea hadn’t occurred
to him. ‘Human beings are annoyingly fragile and it’s a good job they’ve got
good brains.’ He glanced at me. ‘Most of them, anyway.’

Mr
Catt smiled at my affronted expression but I was playing along with Hobbes’s
joke. I assumed he’d been joking.

‘Our
leopards,’ Mr Catt continued, ‘are particularly fine specimens and we’re hoping
they’ll breed soon. The female has already had a couple of litters at her
previous zoo but, for some reason, our male doesn’t seem capable of making her
pregnant, appearing to prefer cheetahs.’ He sniggered. ‘We think he might be
trying to pull a fast one. Anyway, we’ve got the vet coming here next week. We’re
hoping he might be able to do something to get her in cub.’

‘Will
she let him?’ I asked, smirking.

Mr
Catt rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, as if talking to an imbecile. ‘The
vet’s going to check if there are any physiological or nutritional reasons for their
failure to copulate.’

‘I
was joking. But … where are your leopards?’

The
pen appeared empty apart from trees and stumps, a variety of wooden platforms
at different levels and tufts of tawny and grey fur, blowing in the breeze.

‘Eh?’
said Mr Catt with a look of wide-eyed panic.

‘Up
there,’ said Hobbes, pointing to the topmost platform where two pairs of furry
ears twitched in the shade. ‘They’re having a lie down.’

‘Of
course,’ said Mr Catt, regaining his composure, ‘they spend about twenty hours
a day sleeping and lounging and prefer to do it at height. Unfortunately, it’s
not so good for the visitors but the animals’ welfare must come first.’

‘Of
course it must,’ said Hobbes.

The
walkie-talkie crackled and Ellen’s distorted voice informed Mr Catt that the
kangaroo had arrived.

‘I’d
better go and see to it,’ said Mr Catt. ‘Bruce, our marsupial keeper, is laid
up in a coma after Rufus the red kangaroo jumped on him during his first day
with us.’

‘How
did that happen?’ I asked.

‘It’s
actually a very sad tale. Rufus, who was our alpha-male, was an orphan who’d
been hand-reared at Walkabout Zoo where he was born. It turned out that Bruce
had started his career at Walkabout, one of his first jobs being to hand-rear
young Rufus. Apparently, he used to wear a sort of apron with a pouch for Rufus
to jump into. When he started work here, he didn’t recognise Rufus but Rufus
recognised him and tried to leap into the bag of food Bruce was carrying. Being
hit full on by two hundred pounds of solid kangaroo is not good for a man.’

‘I
understand why Bruce isn’t here,’ I said, ‘but why do you need another
kangaroo?’

‘Because,
before uncovering the full story, assuming Rufus had just gone berserk, we
thought it best to shoot him. Ellen ordered a sane one on eBay.’

‘That’s
really sad,’ I said. ‘Poor Rufus.’

‘True,
but every cloud has a silver lining. The leopards did rather well out of it.’
He pointed towards the clumps of fur.

‘Well,
thank you for your time,’ said Hobbes. ‘It has been most instructive. Do you
mind if we look around on our own?’

‘Be my guests.’ Mr Catt bustled away.

We
strolled round the park for an hour or so, Hobbes studying each animal with
keen interest, now and again licking his lips and swallowing, as if hungry.
Dregs slouched alongside with an expression of acute boredom that only lifted
when he saw the tortoises; they caused great and noisy excitement. He obviously
held the opinion that rocks should stay put and should not sprout legs and
lumber around. Hobbes had to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him
away. Otherwise, I think he’d be there still. Other than that, we came across
nothing of great interest, though Hobbes appeared to be deep in thought about
something. I contented myself with walking at his side, occasionally kicking
stones for Dregs to chase.

A
barbed-wire fence eventually indicated the limits of public access. I noticed
one or two matted tufts of brown fur snagged on the barbs, as a pair of
Bactrian camels, appearing from the shade under an oak tree, began pulling at a
bale of hay.

‘I’d
be a bit careful if I were you,’ I said. ‘That could be camel hair.’

My
warning came too late. Hobbes had already plucked a tuft from the wire and
sniffed it. He looked up. ‘I wish I hadn’t just done that.’ He reached for his
handkerchief.

He
sneezed so violently that Dregs fled a hundred yards up the path, loping back
towards us suspiciously, growling. Hobbes sneezed again. And again. He blew his
nose, which, I swear, though prominent enough at the best of times, was growing
and ripening.

‘I’ve
got some stuff that helps in the car,’ he said, snuffling. ‘I’d better get back
there … and quickly.’

By
the time we reached the car park his eyes had swollen shut as if he’d come off
worse in a punch-up and his nose shone like a baboon’s bottom. I had to guide
him as he groped for the car.

Reaching
into his pocket, he handed me the keys. ‘Look in the boot. There should be a
black bag. I’d be obliged if you’d open it for me.’

I
did as he asked. The bag contained a bottle of Optrex, half a dozen
handkerchiefs and an assortment of glass vials filled with a coloured liquid.

‘Could
I have one of the green ones, please? And a fresh handkerchief. This one’s
ripped.’

Ripped
wasn’t really the word: it had been blown to shreds. I handed the things to
him. Between explosions, he bit the top off the vial, tilting back his head,
gulping down the contents. Then he sneezed again. Then he howled like a wolf.
Then he collapsed like a factory chimney that had been dynamited.

Though
Hobbes came down with a thud, a desperate dive saved me from being completely crushed.
Even so, I ended up flat on my front, my legs trapped beneath him. As I pushed
myself up on my elbows, Dregs ran up, nosing me, wagging his tail, as if it was
all a jolly game.

‘What
do I do now?’ I asked.

He
made a strange snicker that I interpreted as, ‘You’re the human. You do
something.’

‘A
great help you are.’

Neither
education nor experience had prepared me for how to act when my legs were
pinned beneath a hefty, unconscious police inspector. Groaning, wriggling and
straining proved to be of no avail; I might just as well have tried to break
free from the stocks. Yet, most of all, I was worried about Hobbes. Unable to
tell how sick he was, though able to feel the rise and fall of his chest, I
felt utterly helpless, not to mention ridiculous. Dregs, thumping his tail on
the ground, eager for further entertainment, sat by us, expectantly. I had a
great idea.

‘Go
and fetch help,’ I said in my most commanding voice.

He
listened, his head on one side, his tail beating faster and then, to my
amazement, ran off, as if on a mission. ‘Good dog!’ I cried, impressed.

Sadly,
he had not turned into a latter-day Lassie and, returning, he dropped one of
the chewed rubber balls he kept in the car in front of me, bullying me until I
threw it. As soon as I did, he bounded after it with a joyous bark.

Fearing
rescue would not come until I gave up on dignity, I decided to call for help,
though the car park was deserted.

‘Excuse
me, anybody,’ I cried, at a polite volume. ‘I could do with a little help here.’
Since there was no response, I concluded a more effective option might be to
scream with all the force of my lungs. For me, to think was to act and so,
throwing back my head, opening my mouth, I sucked down air in preparation for a
titanic bellow. As I did, Dregs, scampering back, dropped the ball. My mouth
wasn’t big enough to take it in, at least not in one bite, but it stuck between
my upper and lower teeth, gagging me. Spluttering, I spat it out, wiping my
mouth in a frantic bid to remove any dangles of dog drool, as a low, rumbling
groan emerged from Hobbes.

‘Are
you alright?’ I asked, continuing to wipe away with the backs of my hands, while
Dregs, barking excitedly, stared at the ball, waiting.

‘Ugh,’
said Hobbes, pushing himself into a kneeling position.

Pulling
my legs to safety, I rubbed the life back into them.

‘Are
you alright?’ I repeated.

He
turned towards me, his face pale, skin glistening like moist putty, eyes damp
and red, though, at least, his nose had shrunk to its normal dimensions. He
nodded and we helped each other up. Then he leant against the car, every breath
bubbling and popping, as if he were sucking through a part-flooded snorkel.

‘Optrex!’

I
handed him the bottle. His hands shook and he must have spilled half of it as
he filled the bath to rinse his eyes.

‘That’s
better.’ He sighed.

Maybe
he really did feel better, but he still looked as if someone had scooped out his
eyeballs and filled the sockets with overripe strawberries. It was a most
striking effect, causing my own eyes to water in sympathy and a small group of
respectable elderly visitors strolling by to gasp and hurry away.