Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (18 page)

I
nodded and yawned. Escorting me upstairs, he evicted a resentful Dregs from my
bed. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, closing the door behind him, going back downstairs.

I
undressed, put on my pyjamas and got into bed, certain sleep was out of the
question, yet unable to keep my eyes open.

It
felt as if I’d hardly lain down before I awoke. Getting up, I drew back the
curtains, finding it was dull and grey outside, drizzle spattering the window.
As usual, clean clothes had been laid out for me. I assumed Mrs G was
responsible, though I’d never caught her at it. One day, I thought, I should
thank her.

The
stink of disinfectant was all over me, bringing the events of the previous
night back into my head. I was still haunted by the panther’s green eyes, again
feeling the helpless terror as it had stalked me through the darkness. Worse
memories returned, vague memories, almost as if I’d dreamt them: Hobbes emerging
from the cellar, finding me cowering under the sink, questioning me. A horrific
image squeezed back from when he’d pushed me from the kitchen and I’d glimpsed
a reflection in the shiny bottom of a copper pan hanging on the wall. A man’s
body was lying on the kitchen table. Hobbes, I feared, had killed again. I wondered
who his latest victim was, what he’d done.

Though
unable to understand why he’d felt the need to bring the corpse home, it made
me think of Whisky, the cat, who’d always done the same, usually keeping a
little something for later; I’d once found a half-eaten rat under my pillow. Perhaps,
I thought, Hobbes, too, liked to eat at leisure. The idea made me feel quite
ill, yet I realised that, if he stored his leftovers behind the mysterious
door, it was no wonder he didn’t want me to see.

Yet,
life had to go on and I was starving. So, steeling myself, rising above the
ghastliness, I headed downstairs into the kitchen, where Dregs, bounding
towards me with his usual morning enthusiasm, struck me as being a little wary,
perhaps fearing I’d hug him again. Mrs Goodfellow, smiling, said ‘Good morning’,
as I took my seat at the table.

Hobbes
wasn’t there. Neither was the corpse. Everything seemed so normal, I might have
believed I’d dreamt the incident, had it not been for the lingering scent of
disinfectant, nearly masked by the enticing aroma of the mushroom omelette Mrs
Goodfellow was making. When she fed me, I found it as light as a cloud and utterly
delicious, my appetite only slightly restrained by a nagging worry that Hobbes might
not have scrubbed the table. It occurred to me, as I finished off the last bit
of omelette and reached for the marmalade, that exposure to Hobbes had
desensitised me. I doubted I’d have been so cool before my life in Blackdog
Street.

After
finishing breakfast, I helped Mrs G dry up, a rare event, but successful in
that I didn’t break anything and managed to locate the cutlery draw without
prompting. We were chatting about the weather and pork chops when she told me
she was going out to visit a dear old friend, who’d broken a leg falling off a
trampoline.

‘How
old is she?’ I asked.

‘Eighty-eight.’

‘Should
she have been doing that at her age?’

‘Well,
dear, she’s been doing it since she was sixty. Why stop when she enjoys it? I
think her big mistake was jumping out the bedroom window to get a bigger
bounce.’

‘That
sounds dangerous.’

‘I
suppose it does now you mention it, though it wasn’t the big bounce that hurt
her, but hitting the shed and landing on a pile of bricks. She’s a silly old fool
sometimes, I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to get a proper landing
mat, but she always knows best.’

As
often occurred in conversation with the old girl, I was soon out of my depth. I
tried a change of subject. ‘Where’s Hobbes this morning?’

‘At
work. He was out very early and had Sugar Puffs for breakfast again. I’m worried
he’s not eating enough.’

‘I’m
sure he won’t starve,’ I said, suppressing a grimace.

‘You’re
probably right.’ She sighed. ‘Still, I’ll get him a good, big, juicy rib-eye
steak for his supper. You like a steak, too, don’t you?’

I
nodded.

‘That’s
alright, then. Thank you for your help and I’d better be off to the hospital.’

Having wiped her hands on her pinafore, she put
a lead on Dregs and left me on my own.

Though
I tried to think pleasant thoughts, I kept returning to Hobbes and the hidden
door. Sitting back at the kitchen table, I realised I had the perfect
opportunity to investigate, yet, had no idea what dangers lay behind it,
assuming there really were any. One way or another, I needed to confirm my
suspicions, or prove them false. I began trembling, torn between curiosity and
self-preservation. Standing up, I marched round the kitchen trying to dispel my
nervous energy. To my surprise, finding myself holding the handle of the door
down to the cellar, the conflict in my head still raging, I decided there could
be no harm in merely taking a quick look. I pushed open the door, turned on the
light and started down the creaking wooden steps, breathing in air as moist and
cool as a cavern, amazed as always by the extent of the cellar. On reaching the
bottom, I stood a moment, taking a deep breath, before walking onto the old
brick floor, past the enormous wine racks, noticing no dust or cobwebs on any
of the hundreds of bottles down there. Mrs G’s devotion to cleanliness and
order was soothing.

The
door, as I’d expected, was hidden behind a pile of coal that gleamed as if it
had been polished. I laughed at the very idea, before forcing myself to calm
down and to be serious. I could see that, if I really wanted to have a look at
the door, heavy spadework would be required, so, picking up the broad, heavy
coal shovel propped against the wall, I put my back into the task. Though it
wasn’t long before I was sweating, taking a moment for a breather, I saw I’d
uncovered the top of the doorframe, having shifted about a third of the coal. Taking
off my shirt, hanging it on the pedal of a penny-farthing, quietly rusting in
the corner, I set to work again. Blisters tingled on my palms and, after
another ten minutes, I had to stop to wipe the sweat from my eyes. I gritted my
teeth and kept digging.

I
was gasping for breath, a little light-headed, by the time I completely uncovered
the door. After a moment’s triumph, came a horrible moment when, cursing my
stupidity, I realised I’d have to shift the whole lot back again. My plan, if I’d
had one, was to get the coal out of the way, open the door, take a swift shufti
and get the hell out of there, leaving no trace. Things had already gone awry,
since I’d lost track of time, having no idea how long the old girl had been
away, or when Hobbes would return. However, since I’d gone so far, I reckoned I
might as well carry on and open it.

I
reached out, taking the cold brass door knob in a shaking hand and turning it.
Nothing happened and though I tried pushing and tugging, it was clear the door
was locked.

‘Bugger
it!’ I muttered, performing a stamping, fist-shaking dance of frustration, culminating
in a wild kick at the door. It didn’t help and, as I hobbled away, swearing
like a bastard, I was glad Hobbes couldn’t hear me.

‘Right,
Andy,’ I said out loud, ‘you’ve screwed this up right and proper. What are you
going to do now?’

‘Shut
up and think,’ was the answer.

Sitting
on the coal, I thought: if the door was locked, then there had to be a key, a
key that, perhaps, Hobbes kept hidden down there. Since taking a few minutes to
search for it would make little difference to the mess I was in, since my only
other option was to admit defeat, to shovel the coal back and walk away still
ignorant, I started looking. The old Andy would no doubt have followed the
second option but I’d developed into sterner stuff under Hobbes’s tutelage.

I
searched everywhere, trying to use my intelligence to work out where anyone might
conceal a key. I looked under piles of flowerpots, through a cupboard full of
ancient paint tins, even pulled a couple of loose bricks from the wall, without
any luck. At last, in despair, making a decision to give up, to abandon my
stupid plan, a feeling of utter relief surged through me. Dry of mouth, needing
a glass of water, I walked slowly towards the steps, heading for the kitchen, hoping
I’d have sufficient time and strength to shift all the coal back, to clean
myself up, so no one would be any the wiser.

I
didn’t quite make it to the kitchen, for, hanging in plain view from a nail beneath
the light switch, was a large black key. My stomach lurching, my heart thumping,
I reached for it and picked it up. It was as long as my hand, weighty and
old-fashioned. Taking it to the door, fitting it in the keyhole, I turned it. Its
motion was smooth, silent, well lubricated, unnerving since I was anticipating
a gothic creak.

The
door being heavy, I had to lean against it, shoving hard until, just as I was
about to give up, it swung open. I would have plummeted straight down the
narrow flight of worn stone steps had I not grabbed a rusting rail, which supported
me until it snapped. Stumbling forward, losing my footing, I landed hard on my
bottom and slipped into the darkness, bumping and grazing my elbows on the way.
Though I managed to regain my footing before the end of the stair, my momentum
carrying me forward, I ran into a wall, knocking the wind out of me, making me
fall backwards into a couple of inches of icy water. Gasping as it soaked my
overheated body, I stood up, cracking the top of my head on something hard, falling
back into the puddle, cursing and nursing what felt like a fine collection of
bruises and scrapes.

As
the shock and pain receded, I started to make sense of wherever I was. I groped
back to where I could stand up safely, the reek of ancient stone and damp all pervasive,
the only light, the feeble and distant remnants that made it down the narrow
steps from above. I was in a tight, bare passageway, leading, so far as I could
tell, towards the town. Since I’d got so far, self-esteem insisted on
investigating a little more. I took a few steps forward, my hands held out like
a mummy from a horror film.

I
was sopping wet, my trousers clinging to my skin, shivering, more with nerves
than with cold. Although the floor was smooth and regular, occasional
projections from the wall proved dangerous and painful to my elbows. After no
more than a dozen steps, finding myself in utter blackness, having gone far
enough to satisfy honour, if not curiosity, I glanced back over my shoulder to
reassure myself that I could still see the faint light from the cellar.

Unable
to see anything, anything at all, my nervousness multiplied. Though reason
suggested the passage was not quite straight, or, maybe, that the door had
swung shut, I was gripped by a sudden horror that I might wander off into a
maze of passages. Turning round, taking a step forward, I smacked straight into
a solid wall. Sliding down onto my side, I lay stunned on the rocky floor and,
by the time my head cleared, I’d lost any sense of direction.

Since
the total silence amid the blackness was oppressive, I spoke out loud to myself.
‘C’mon, Andy, stay cool and think. There are only two ways to go: backwards or
forwards. If you take about twelve careful paces you’ll be back at the steps,
or if not, you’ll be twelve paces further into the tunnel. If that’s the case,
all you have to do is turn again and take twenty-four paces and you’ll be out.
It’s quite simple.’

I
did my best to ignore the small voice in my head saying, ‘What if there’s more
than one tunnel down here? Then you’ve had it. It’ll serve you right, too; he told
you not to come down here.’

The
small voice made me forget to count. ‘No problem,’ I said to myself. ‘Just
count to twelve and, if there’s still nothing, turn around and count up to, let’s
say twenty and then we’ll be out. No problem.’

Having
counted out twelve steps, all I could see, or rather, couldn’t see, was
darkness. The tunnel feeling like it might have widened, I made sure to keep my
left hand against the wall. In the distance, a long way off, I thought I could
hear running water.

‘Oh
well, that was the wrong way,’ I said in a brave voice. ‘About turn and you’ll
soon be out.’

I
turned, groping along the opposite wall, counting out each step with a cheerful
boy-scout optimism I didn’t feel. I’d counted to fifteen when, reaching a dead
end, my heart went into a frenzy of pounding, my breathing growing harsh and
rapid. Trying to force myself to stay calm, I tried to think, aware that blind
panic was lurking, ready to overrun any remaining good sense.

‘There
must be another tunnel,’ I said. ‘If I work my way back, I’ll be able to find
where I went wrong.’ The trouble was, I didn’t believe me.

Sometime
later, I realised I’d been right not to believe me. Having no idea where I was,
or to where I was heading, I just kept walking, on the dubious grounds that,
sooner or later, I’d find a way out. The small voice in my head said, ‘You’ve
really done it, you’ve got yourself well and truly lost and I hope you’re
satisfied. Well done. You’re in the labyrinth and you didn’t even bring any
string.’

Snippets
of Greek mythology, learned at school, in particular, something about a Minotaur
that lived in a similar place, devouring human flesh, kept flashing into my
mind, the sort of memories I could have done without, for my imagination was
already in full swing. The thing was, Hobbes, though warning of dangers behind
the door, hadn’t specified what they might be and I was conjuring up monsters,
the sort previously only seen in nightmares, to scare me half to death. Since
running was out of the question, I sat down on the hard stone floor, taking a
breather, regretting my failure to get that glass of water for, by then, I
would have been glad to drink from the puddle at the bottom of the staircase. Even
in the midst of my terror and despair, I recognised that was a stupid idea,
because, if I found the puddle, I’d be able to go to the kitchen. I listened
for the running water I thought I’d heard, however long ago that had been, yet
all I could hear was my own breathing.