Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (17 page)

‘Rissoles!’

Mrs
Goodfellow’s voice ringing in my ears, I jumped up, barking my shin on the
coffee table. Her constant sneaking up on me could not be good for my heart.

‘Your
rissoles are ready,’ she announced. ‘You’d best eat them while they’re hot.’

‘Thank
you,’ I said, following her into the kitchen where she dished up a plate of
rissoles and good brown gravy with a selection of nicely steamed vegetables.
After the first bite, I decided, once again, to forgive her pretty much
anything, so long as she continued to feed me, for although I hadn’t been much
looking forward to supper, having unpleasant memories of Mother’s dry,
tasteless cannonballs, the old girl’s take on the humble rissole would have
delighted the fussiest gourmet.

Later,
relaxing in the sitting room with a nice, fresh mugful of tea while the old
girl dusted the spotless room, my thoughts returned to Hobbes. ‘Did he say what
he was doing tonight?’ I asked.

‘No,
dear, I expect it’s something to do with the panther. He said he’d got a scent
of it last night, so he’ll probably try to catch it.’

‘On
his own?’

‘I
expect so. He wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.’

‘But
what if Henry Bishop wasn’t killed by a panther? What if someone had murdered
him and the panther was getting the blame?’

‘Then,
I’m sure the old fellow would have mentioned it,’ she said, rubbing the
television screen with her duster before returning to the kitchen to wash up.

I
was neither convinced nor comforted. First, it had been Arthur Crud. Now, it
was Henry Bishop. Who would be next? Furthermore, how many others might he have
murdered in the name of justice? Though somewhere, in a dark corner of my mind,
a vigilante was applauding what he’d done, the rest of me couldn’t help but
feel that the two men should, at least, have had a fair trial with a proper,
human jury. I couldn’t blame him for detesting rapists and wife-beaters but he
held strong views on thieves and dangerous drivers (except himself) and I
wondered where it might end. He had no right to act as judge, jury and
executioner.

I
wished I had someone to talk to. Violet would have been best but I could see no
hope after what I’d put her through. Though I knew it hadn’t been my fault, if
I’d let her take me somewhere else, somewhere less swanky, she wouldn’t have spent
the evening kneeling in a dead man’s blood. Yet, maybe, I reasoned, it had been
for the best; I’d have screwed things up anyway, sooner or later. Some things
were inevitable. The rain beat against the window, thunder crashed overhead, I
jumped and unplugged the telly, sitting in the gloom, until the storm passed. When
the rain stopped just before nine o’clock, I slipped out for a walk.

The
evening air cooling my heated brow, I revelled in the fresh smell of the town’s
air, washed clean of car fumes and stagnant drains. As I stepped over a puddle,
I thought, what the heck and jumped and splashed my way down The Shambles,
going wherever my fancy took me, sometimes striding out, sometimes dawdling, or
looking in shop windows. I half wished I’d taken Dregs, but having been asleep
under the kitchen table, he didn’t look like a dog that wanted to be disturbed.

After
a while, the evening fading towards dusk, I realised, having walked in a near
circle, that I was approaching Ride Park. The last time I’d been there, Hobbes
had fallen from the tree, a time seemingly long ago, when I’d mostly trusted
him. Grimacing, pushing through the gates, ignoring the path, I kicked through
the sopping grass, enjoying the rich scent of damp earth, the fluttering and
piping of birds getting ready for sleep, feeling pretty good. Perhaps, I
thought, life wasn’t so bad. It had its ups and downs and, admittedly, there
were too many downs, but the compensations were great.

After
half an hour or thereabouts, as I turned for home, I remembered noticing a sign
saying that the park gates were locked at dusk. Yet, there was no need to panic,
for, if all else failed, I could knock on the door of the park-keeper’s
cottage. He would let me out, I was certain, but only after I’d suffered a
torrent of his pent-up frustrations about life and the idiocy of members of the
public who ignored clear notices about closing times. I didn’t fancy any
aggravation of that sort and had an idea there was a side gate that might still
be open about half a mile along a path through the woods.

The
last glimmers of sunlight having all but faded, myriad stars twinkled in the
velvet blackness, a faint glimmer of silvery light heralding the rising of the moon.
A slight breeze blew up a mist, concealing my legs below the knee as I hurried
on, with a shiver and a yawn, keen to put the park behind me, to get home, to
get into my comfy bed.

I
stepped beneath the canopy of the trees into what seemed utter blackness.
Beneath my feet, a twig cracked like a shot in the stillness. Small woodland
creatures going about their nocturnal business rustled and squeaked and, in the
distance, a pair of owls hooted.

A
deep growl nearly stopped my heart. Although I tried to convince myself it was
a fox, or the park-keeper’s dog, something about it chilled my blood. As I
hurried on, not quite daring to run, far too scared to stop, the growl came
again, closer and, surely, in front of me. Hesitating, half-turning to run, I
tripped over my own feet and thudded into the soggy leaf mould. I lay still, my
eyes wide open yet, with the dark and the clinging mist, I might just as well
have been blind.

A
faint hiss – the wind? Or soft breathing over sharp teeth? Whatever was out
there was getting closer and all I could do was to stay still, to hold my
breath, my heart beating in double time. A creature was out there, looking for
me. Soon it would surely find me … and then what? I rolled onto my side in an
ecstasy of terror, the breathing growing ever nearer. When hot, moist breath
caressed my cheek, I thought my heart would stop. Something soft, something
powerful, patted my head gently.

Since
a human mind can only stand so much before primeval instinct assumes control, I
leapt to my feet with a wild cry, running blindly into the night, expecting any
moment to feel sharp claws in my soft skin, cruel jaws tearing at my throat.
Yet, the pursuit never happened. Within seconds, I was close to the side gate,
the glow of sodium streetlights offering safety. Risking a glance over my
shoulder, for a heart-stopping moment I glimpsed two flashes of green, surely eyes:
cat’s eyes. As I blinked in the sudden headlight glare of a passing lorry,
something slipped into the woods.

A
rough voice yelled. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

The
park keeper was standing at the gate, a padlock in his hand. ‘Don’t you know we
close at dusk?’

I
couldn’t even speak.

‘What’s
the matter? Cat got your tongue?’

I
nodded, pushing past him into the safety of Hedbury Road, my mind in turmoil again.
On the walk home, every shadow, every unexpected noise, spooked me.

I
reached Blackdog Street, where Mrs Goodfellow had already turned in and Hobbes
had not yet returned. Dregs was curled up in his basket in the kitchen. Much to
his indignation, needing reassurance, I lay beside him. It must have taken a
couple of hours before I stopped trembling.

Something
woke me. I was still lost in a sleep fuzz, surrounded by darkness, confused, my
bed uncomfortable and smelling of dog. Recollection slowly returning, I knew
where I was, why I had memories of fear. I was on my own, Dregs having deserted
me, probably to sleep in my bed, if I was any judge of character. Though I was
already shivering, a chilling realisation emerged from the depths of
unconsciousness; a door had banged, the sound, I was nearly sure, having come
from below. I longed to be under blankets, oblivious and if that meant sharing
with the dog so much the better, for something was moving in the cellar.

When
the wooden steps creaked, I crawled, without thinking, in a state of panic,
across the kitchen floor, huddling into a corner, holding my breath, listening to
the slow footsteps coming up, coming towards the kitchen. I’d spent long hours
wondering about the mysterious door down in the cellar, the door hidden behind a
heap of coal. Hobbes had once tried to deny its existence, making me doubt the
evidence of my own eyes, but I knew what I’d seen. Later, when he’d refused to
say what lay behind it, putting the fear of Hobbes into me when I’d pressed, I’d
surmised, since he had no compunction in exposing me to the most nightmarish of
situations, that something beyond averagely horrible was there.

The
footsteps drawing nearer, terror rising, I suppressed a whimper and scrambled into
the cupboard beneath the sink, lying there on my front, a scrubbing brush
pressed into my soft bits. As I pulled the cupboard door to, I knocked over a
bottle of disinfectant, the fumes soon stinging my eyes, making my nose run. Though
the animal part of my brain was urging the need to make less noise than a
sleeping mouse, I was sure my heart sounded like a kettledrum pounded by an
enthusiastic gorilla, sure anyone could hear it two streets away. The door from
the cellar to the kitchen opened and shut; footsteps entered the kitchen; there
was an unearthly grunt as if from a wild beast. Then a dull thud suggested
something solid had been dropped onto the kitchen table. I concentrated on not
moving, keeping utterly quiet.

A
sudden shaft of electric light stabbed through the crack where I’d left the
cupboard door slightly ajar and I could see the kitchen floor and the vegetable
rack in the corner. Despite part of me being desperate for a glimpse of what
was out there, another part recoiled, fearing what would be revealed. Even
worse, if I could see out, then it could see in.

‘Who’s
there?’ asked Hobbes.

Hearing
it, though some of my terrors subsided on the principle of ‘better the devil
you know’, I didn’t move, hoping he couldn’t have heard me, that the
disinfectant would mask my scent.

‘I
require an answer, and quickly.’

Holding
my breath, not moving a muscle, as his footsteps approached my hidey-hole, I
wanted to scream.

The
cupboard door jerking open, I looked up to see him staring down, scowling.

‘Good
evening,’ I said, forcing a friendly smile.

‘What
are you doing in there?’

‘Umm
… I don’t know … I …’

‘If
you’re worried about personal hygiene,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘I’d
suggest taking a bath rather than disinfecting yourself. Out you come.’

Squatting
down, seizing an arm and a leg, he dragged me out, lifting me, letting me
dangle while he examined me, like a butterfly collector with a dubious
specimen. Apparently satisfied, he set me down, his scowl holding me as firmly
as tweezers grip a butterfly. ‘Would you care to tell me what you were doing in
there?’

I
had no choice but to tell him, my story erupting like pus from a pierced boil. ‘I
went for a walk in Ride Park but there was a panther, I think, and it patted me
on the head and I came home and stayed down here with Dregs, because I was
still frightened. I must have fallen asleep and I think he’s gone to my bed
now. And … and then I heard something in the cellar and got scared again,
scared something was coming for me.’

I
felt a little better.

He
nodded. ‘What did you expect was coming from the cellar?’

‘Umm
… I don’t know but I thought something had come through … that door.’

‘I
used the door. Now, tell me about the panther.’

I
told him what I could, feeling powerless, something in his eyes compelling me to
talk, though I had no intention of holding anything back.

His
scowl relaxed into a frown, though it still held me tight. ‘That’s very
interesting. You see, this evening, I was trailing a panther through Loop Woods
and round Bishop’s Farm. Since it couldn’t have been in two places at once,
there must be two panthers out there.’

‘Did
you catch the one you were after?’

‘No,
it gave me the slip. I haven’t yet worked out how.’

‘Did
you actually see it?’

‘I
could smell it and I must only have been seconds behind. It’s puzzling.’

His
frown releasing me, I became aware that he was trying to stop me seeing
whatever he’d lugged into the kitchen.

‘But
why did you come through the cellar?’ I asked, trying, without making it too
obvious, to catch a glimpse behind him, finding he was too close, blocking my
field of view.

‘That’s
police business,’ he said, looking thoughtful. ‘I need to examine something
urgently and I want to examine it in my own way before anyone can tamper with
it.’

‘What
is it?’

‘Evidence.’

‘Evidence
of what?’

‘I
won’t know until I’ve examined it. Now run along, you should be in bed.’

I
tried to peep under his arm but his bulk blocked me.

His
frown beginning to deepen once more, he stared into my eyes. ‘You should be in
bed. You must be feeling sleepy. Really sleepy.’