Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (40 page)

When,
shortly afterwards, an ambulance arrived to take him away, Wayne had sobered up
enough to realise his hair was a blackened frizz, and was seemingly more
concerned about that than the loss of his tent and near immolation.

As
order and calm gradually reasserted themselves, Hobbes took me across the
field.

‘It
was very brave,’ I said, ‘to throw yourself into a fire. You were lucky you
weren’t hurt.’

‘I
was just doing my job.’

‘But,’
I continued, ‘how did you know there was going to be a fire?’

‘I
didn’t, but I had smelt trouble.’

‘What
sort of trouble.’

‘Two
panthers.’

‘Won’t
the fires have scared them off?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Where
did you see them?’

‘I
didn’t see them,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose.

‘So,
where didn’t you see them?’

‘Near
the stage, heading towards the farmhouse.’

‘OK,
so what are we going to do?’ I asked, with as much bravado as I could, worried
he’d want to involve me in the trouble. Why else would he have woken me?

‘Find
them, if possible.’

‘Will
you need me?’

‘Need?
Probably not, but I thought you might be interested.’

‘Interested
is not the word,’ I said, thinking terrified might be more appropriate.

‘Good.
Now follow me, keep close and keep quiet.’

I
jogged behind, hoping the panthers had fled. As we reached the gate into the
lane, he stopped suddenly.

I
didn’t. Bouncing off him, I sat down heavily. ‘Oof!’

‘Shh!’

‘Sorry.’

‘Shh!’

I
used the gatepost to pull myself up, trying to see why he’d stopped, unable to
see much at all, and certainly nothing to worry me, apart from Hobbes, of
course.

‘That’s
odd,’ he murmured, sniffing the air.

‘What’s
odd?’

‘That
scent. I know it. But from where?’

I
couldn’t smell anything, except for burned tent and a faint whiff of manure.
The dark outline of the farmhouse stood out on the other side of the lane.

‘It’s
familiar and strange. I noticed it at home recently. Just faintly. It’ll come
to me. In the meantime, duck.’

‘You
what?’ I asked, puzzled.

He
dragged me to the ground behind the wall as a spear of light stabbed through
the darkness with a deafening retort.

‘What’s
happening?’ I asked keeping my head and voice low. ‘Is someone shooting us?’

‘No,
someone shot at us. There’s an important difference.’

‘OK.
But why shoot at us at all?’

‘We’d
better find out and stop them doing it again.’

‘Can
I do anything?’

‘Yes,
you can scream, as if you’ve been hit.’

‘What?’

‘Go
on.’

‘Agh,’
I cried.

‘No,
like this,’ he said, grabbing my wrist and pressing.

‘Aaagh!’
I screamed, writhing, until he released me.

‘Much
better. Now do that every few seconds.’

‘OK,
but for how long?’

He’d
already vanished, so I lay where I was and screamed. A few seconds later I
screamed again and then again, making sure it was a really good one, proud of
its length, volume and pitch. A light flashed in my face, dazzling me.

‘What’s
up with you?’ asked a man.

‘Nothing
… but I have a good reason.’ There was no sign of Hobbes and a number of people
were staring at me, while keeping at a safe distance.

‘What
reason?’

‘Umm
… I don’t know, exactly.’

‘You’re
a dickhead,’ said the man, and the group trudged away.

Once
again, I screamed.

‘Nutter!’

On
the far side of the lane, someone’s yell was stifled. I peeped over the wall to
see Hobbes standing by the farmhouse, holding some poor devil by the collar,
dangling him with his feet just scraping the ground. A shotgun with a broken
back lay in the dirt until Hobbes booted it into a ditch, if he could boot
anything with sandals on. Keeping my head down, creeping from the field, I went
to see what was happening.

As
he turned the man round, I saw it was Mr Bullimore, shaking like a man on the
gallows.

 ‘Good
evening, sir,’ said Hobbes. ‘Perhaps you’d explain why you fired at us?’

‘If
I’d known who it was, I wouldn’t have.’

‘You
shouldn’t,’ said Hobbes, ‘be firing at anyone; it’s against the law.’

Bullimore’s
voice shook. ‘I apologise … I thought it was them again.’

‘Them?’

‘Yes,
them.’

‘Right,’
said Hobbes, ‘I think we should go inside and have a little chat. Don’t you?’

‘No,’
said Bullimore, shaking his head, ‘we’ve got to find them.’

‘Whom,’
asked Hobbes, ‘do we need to find and why?’

‘Them!’
Bullimore screamed, his scream far more convincing than any I’d managed.

Hobbes
shrugged. ‘Calm down, sir, let’s go inside and then you can explain. Let’s be
having you, sir.’

Setting
Bullimore back down, keeping a firm grip on his collar, he marched him round
the side of the house to the front door, a great, solid, iron-studded creation,
yet battered and cracked, as if it had withstood a siege. When he tried the
handle it didn’t turn. He knocked; a few moments later, he thumped it.

‘Is
anyone in?’

‘Yes
… I hope so,’ said Bullimore. ‘I do have the key, though. There’s only this one
door.’

He
stepped forward and tried to open it.

‘I’m
afraid,’ said Hobbes, ‘that it appears to be bolted, which suggests someone is
in.’ He pounded the door so that it shook, with a rhythm and volume that must
have made people suppose another band had come on stage. When it stayed shut,
he raised his fists as if contemplating demolition, hesitated and let his fists
drop to his side. ‘You two stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself in.’

I
leaned against the gritty, old farmhouse wall in a state of hyper-nervousness,
waiting with Bullimore, who might have been paralysed. Hobbes disappeared round
the back of the house, glass shattered and, soon afterwards, the bolts on the
door squealing, he reappeared in a blaze of electric light. As Bullimore rushed
past him, I followed, stepping over a scattering of various-sized wellington
boots, finding myself in an old-fashioned house, with a large plank table, a
number of worm-eaten wooden chairs and very few modern comforts.

Mr
Bullimore shouted, ‘Helen? Les? Kids?’

No
one replied. I knelt to tie my shoelaces hearing him running from room to room.
As I got back to my feet, I became aware of a faint background odour, not
dissimilar to Hobbes’s feral scent, and noticed him sniffing the air and
frowning while looking around.

Bullimore,
white-faced and panting, pounded down the shiny, dark-wood stairs back into the
front room. ‘They’re not here!’

‘Someone
must have bolted the door,’ I said. ‘So where are they?’

‘I
don’t know,’ he said, slumping heavily onto a creaky wooden stool.

Hobbes
was crawling, toad-like, around the front room, sniffing, staring intently at
the threadbare rug on the timeworn flagstones. Stopping, poking at a spot, he
licked his finger. ‘This is blood and it’s fresh.’

Bullimore,
groaning, held his head.

‘Though,’
said Hobbes, ‘it’s not human.’

Bullimore
gave another, longer, groan.

Hobbes,
quivering like a terrier in a barn full of rats, reached the back window. ‘There
are fresh scuff marks here … and dried mud. Someone has gone out through the
window.’

‘When?’
I asked.

‘Within
the hour, I’d say.’

Bullimore
looked up, his eyes hopeful.

‘Hello,
hello, hello,’ said Hobbes, pointing to the peeling cream paint on the
woodwork, ‘this is interesting.’ Holding a long, thick, brown hair between
thumb and fingernails, he examined it.

‘Never
mind that,’ said Bullimore, despondent again, ‘the window is locked and can
only be locked from the inside. What you say doesn’t make sense.’

Hobbes,
standing up, pushed at the sash window, which moved easily and silently,
sliding back into place when he let it go. ‘The lock,’ he said, peering at it, ‘is
broken. It appears to have broken a very long time ago.’

Bullimore
groaned again, his face tinged grey.

‘Now,
sir,’ said Hobbes, sounding urgent, ‘I think it’s time you told me what’s going
on. I want the truth, mind, no matter how peculiar.’

‘I
don’t know how to tell you; you’ll never believe it.’

‘I’m
very good at believing things. Try me. And quickly.’

Bullimore
sighed, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I’m not sure where to start … it’s
rather complicated and I really shouldn’t tell you this.’ He hesitated. ‘In
fact, I can’t unless you promise not to tell anyone. You won’t believe it
anyway.’

‘I
said quickly,’ Hobbes growled, ‘and I meant it; we may not have much time.
Perhaps it would help if I told you that I already know about Mr Bashem? I
already had a strong suspicion, but the blood and the hair confirm it.’

‘What
d’you know about him?’ asked Bullimore, staring, looking nervous.

‘That
he’s your son-in-law, that he’s thirty-eight, that he and Mrs Bashem have six
children, and that he’s a werewolf.’

Bullimore’s
mouth dropped open, mimicking mine. I was stunned Hobbes would think Mr Bashem
was the werewolf; he seemed such a nice man. Maybe he was a little hairy and,
perhaps he could have done with taking a bath but …

‘How
did you know?’ asked Bullimore.

‘It’s
my business to know,’ said Hobbes. ‘Now, please, tell me what’s going on,
before it’s too late.’

‘I’ll
try,’ said Bullimore. ‘Do you know anything about werewolves? Anything at all?’

‘A
little.’ Hobbes smiled. ‘I was friends with one many years ago. He lived in a
werehouse in town, next to the railway station.’

‘There
isn’t a railway station in town,’ I said.

‘This
was before your time, Andy. So, Mr Bullimore, I am familiar with the type.’

Bullimore
sighed, looking relieved. ‘That’s good, because I didn’t know how to start. You’re
absolutely right, Les is a werewolf. He’s a good lad, though, or I wouldn’t
have let him near my daughter, being very protective after her poor mother died.
I admit to being unsure about him to start with, and took steps to keep the
wolf from the door when some of his behaviour struck me as barking mad. He’d
scratch himself in public and wolf down his meals and, though I tried to put
him off, he was dogged and one night he collared me and won me round. Of
course, he’d long ago won Helen’s heart.

‘Well,
to cut a long story short, they got married, with my blessing, and moved into a
council house in Wolverhampton where, unfortunately, there were allegations
about inappropriate use of lampposts and a misunderstanding over a cat that
resulted in bad relations with the neighbours. A very unpleasant situation
arose and Les was hounded by vigilantes. When he complained to the council, he
was howled down and in the end they had to do a moonlight flit.

‘They
tried other places but similar things happened. It seemed that someone was
always telling malicious tales to their new neighbours. Though they were lies
or gross distortions the result was always the same; people weren’t prepared to
tolerate him, or Helen, or the young ’uns when they came along. They were spat
at in the street and it began to get increasingly violent. In the end, in
despair, they turned to me for help. As it happened, I’d long had an ambition
to settle down in the country.’

‘So
you all moved here,’ said Hobbes. ‘Why?’

‘Because
Loop’s Farm is mine. It’s been in the family for generations and I inherited it
from my grandfather, though he never lived here. It was always rented out in my
time until the old boy who was the tenant passed away and we moved in. We’re
not great farmers, though the young ’uns have learned how to herd sheep, and
money has been tight. That’s why we came up with the idea of the festival. We
thought it would make a bit of cash while, hopefully, getting people on our
side. Things seemed to be going well until a couple of months ago. It all
started with our neighbour, Henry Bishop.’

‘I
saw him die,’ I said.

Bullimore
stared at me, puzzled.

‘This
is not the time for idle chitchat,’ said Hobbes. ‘Please continue, sir.’

I
didn’t feel he was being fair. It wasn’t chitchat; I had seen the man die, it
had been horrible, and I’d suspected Hobbes. Though part of me still did, I
began to wonder if Mr Bashem might actually have been the culprit.