Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (13 page)

So,
she wanted my teeth? Well, she could want. I intended hanging on to them as
long as I could. I was attached to them and they were deeply attached to me,
apart from one in front that was a little wobbly since I'd fallen down the
cellar at the Feathers. Featherlight Binks, who'd been changing a barrel, had
broken my fall. A moment later he'd broken my lip and loosened the tooth with
an uppercut. I always knew where I stood with Featherlight, or on this
occasion, where I lay. He had a regrettable tendency to lash out without
thinking. He did most things without thinking.

'Excuse
me,' I said, on finishing eating, 'what do you make of Featherlight Binks at
the Feathers?'

'He
is a thoughtless, charmless, soap-less, hopeless lout, who runs a squalid
drinking hole and can't even keep his beer well. He should not be allowed to
meet the public and has been arrested more than anyone else in town.'

'Ah,'
I said, 'though I've heard he has a bad side, too.'

'That
is his bad side.' Hobbes frowned. He must have noticed my grin because he
nodded. 'I see, that was a joke. In fact, he's not all bad: he just reacts like
an animal. To give him his due, he doesn't have an ounce of real malice in his
entire corpulent frame. Yet, he can be dangerous, especially when he's full of
drink, which is most of the time.'

He
pondered a moment. 'There is some good in him. In a way, he's like a child and
genuinely dislikes hurting people, though he doesn't often remember until after
he's clobbered them. A couple of years ago he was the one who told me Billy
Shawcroft had gone missing.'

'The
dwarf in the hearse?' The memory of the silent, sinister shape rolling towards
us was imprinted on my mind.

Hobbes
nodded. 'Once again, Featherlight had been brought into the station for
assaulting a customer. This one had complained about his jacket potato having
skin on it.'

'Jacket
potatoes should have skin on them. Isn't that the point?'

'But
not cat skin. The customer put two and two together and made certain allegations
about the spicy meat stew that Featherlight took rather badly, being proud of
having once served as an Army cook. To cut a long story short, he rammed the
customer's head into the stew pot.'

'Was
he hurt?'

'The
customer? No, not much. It wasn't very hot, though the pot became well and
truly stuck and he had to go to hospital to have it removed. When they got it
off, they found a little collar and bell at the bottom.'

'No!'
I said, horrified. 'I once had his spicy meat stew.'

'The
worst part,' Hobbes continued, 'was that the customer worked for the Food
Standards Agency and happened to be a keen supporter of the RSPCA and
Featherlight ended up in court again. However, he was only prosecuted for
serving unfit food, as there'd been no animal cruelty. A dustbin lorry had run
over the cat and Featherlight was just being thrifty. He claimed he'd eaten far
worse in the Army and didn't see what all the fuss was about.'

I
grimaced, wishing I'd had the sense to keep away. 'But what had happened to
Billy?'

'I
was coming to that,' said Hobbes. 'Billy's a regular at the Feathers, often
helping out behind the bar, but hadn't been seen for a couple of days. Featherlight
grew concerned. At his trial, he claimed to have been too distracted by worry
to buy meat and had been forced to use the cat. The point is, he informed me
about Billy's disappearance and, thanks to his information, I was able to trace
the poor little chap. He'd been kidnapped and was being held in a cage. I got
him out and closed the case.'

'Who
kidnapped him?' I didn't remember hearing anything about it.

'A
kidnapper, who would have become a murderer had I not got there when I did. If
it hadn't been for Featherlight, I doubt there'd have been a happy ending.'

'So,
umm … who kidnapped him? And why?'

'That's
all I'm prepared to say. Ask Billy if you want more of the story. It was a good
thing for me that I rescued him because he's since proved a most valuable ally.
When you're in a tight spot, Billy's the sort of man you want with you, because
there's so little of him. Mind you, he can put away a surprising amount of beer,
which reminds me, if you fancy a drink later tonight, I haven't looked in on
Featherlight for a while.'

'Sounds
good to me.'

'In
the meantime, let's go through to the sitting room. The lass will bring us tea
and she says she's got me a bone to pick.' As he drained his glass, a drop of
blood-red wine ran down his chin.

I
took my place on the sofa, wondering why sheets of newspaper had been spread in
the corner of the normally immaculate room.

I
glanced at Hobbes, who, all of a sudden, seemed twitchy and tense.

Mrs
Goodfellow came in, carrying a huge bone in both hands. Raising it above her
head, she tossed it towards the newspapers.

Hobbes
growled like a dog. The sofa jolted backwards.

I
jerked my head to see what he was up to. He was a blur on the edge of vision.
My eyes focussed just in time to see him roll with the bone into the corner.
He'd caught it in mid-air. In his jaws.

Slavering,
he crouched over the bone on all fours and the crunching began. His teeth, tearing
off great lumps of bloody, raw meat, he swallowed without chewing. The feral
smell grew stronger, wilder and more predatory. His eyes flashed red and his
upper lip pulled up in a snarl, like a hyena's. I couldn't stop myself from
hugging my knees. A strange whimpering filled the room, as if a frightened
animal had come in, and it was a few seconds before I realised I was
responsible. Though within a minute or two he'd stripped the bone of meat, he
continued gnawing until he'd cracked it open and could slurp the oozing marrow.

'Cup
of tea, dear?' She was back.

My
normal, civilised inhibitions taking fright, I cried out in horror. What had I
let myself in for? Why had I ever considered that staying in this madhouse
would be a doddle? I must have been mad. What the Hell was happening?

Mrs
Goodfellow, placing a steaming mug at my side, glanced at me, then at Hobbes,
and shrugged. 'Don't you go letting the old fellow worry you. It's just his
way. He'll not hurt you … probably.' She patted my shoulder.

I
nodded feebly, understanding how a lamb must feel inside the lion's den. Yet
lambs don't drink tea. That's what an Englishman does in a crisis. Reaching out
with unsteady hands, picking up the mug, I took a sip and turned to thank her
but she'd already gone. The tea was hot and sweet, ideal for cases of shock. The
old girl knew what she was doing. I tried and failed to ignore the crunching
and sucking from the corner. I drank and concentrated on not spilling any,
though my whole body was quivering. In times of stress, say the experts, our
physiology prepares us for fight or flight. Mine didn't. I couldn't force any
bits to move at all. I couldn't even look away. It made no sense whatsoever.

Aeons
passed. At some point Mrs Goodfellow materialised and refilled my mug. I didn't
jump and hardly even noticed, though conditioned reflexes kept me sipping. By
then, my vision was narrowing and I felt as if I was cowering, trembling and
sweating, in a long, narrow tunnel, with Hobbes at its mouth, shattering raw,
white bone with his teeth. From behind, unseen demons urged me to retreat into
the blackness and hide forever. Then, I could no longer see him and the dread
grew that he was creeping up, preparing to spring. My breathing grew rapid and
shallow and the blood pounded in my head like tom-toms. Darkness folded around
and embraced me.

'Are
you alright, Andy?'

 I
recognised the rumbling voice.

'Wake
up.'

I
opened my eyes to see Hobbes frowning down at me, his eyes dark, his teeth
concealed behind bulldog lips. I gasped and flinched and found I was still on
the sofa. My mug was empty.

'Are
you alright?' he repeated.

I
decided his frown was one of concern and nodded, while striving to rediscover
my power of speech. The room was bright and warm. There were no tunnels or
demons, just a heap of torn and scrunched newspaper in the corner. Something
small, warm and soft patted the back of my hand and Mrs Goodfellow gave me a
gummy smile.

'Good
lad,' she said. 'All this excitement's been too much for you. You just sit a
while and you'll feel better.'

'Thank
you.' I shut my eyes. The animal odour faded.

I
did begin to feel better. I don't know how long it took, yet when I opened my
eyes again the newspapers had been removed and Hobbes was sitting beside me,
engrossed in
The Times
.

'What
happened?' I asked.

'You
had a turn. Don't you remember?'

'Yes,
of course. What I mean is, what happened to you? I mean the bone and … and everything?'

He
shrugged. 'I just enjoy a bit of a chew sometimes. It's good for the teeth and
exercise for the jaws. It stops me getting a double chin.' He peered at my face
and grinned. 'Maybe you should give it a try.'

'But,
you went strange.'

'Sorry.
There's a lot of stress in police work and we all have our little methods for
coping with it. It's best to let loose the beast within on a bone rather than
on a member of the public.'

'That's
true,' I said, imagining horrible things.

He
smiled. 'You've had a tricky few days too, and dealt with it by having a funny
turn. Each to his own. By heck, though, you had me worried when your eyes
turned in on themselves.'

'I
had you worried? Good.' I tried to appear nonchalant, though I was still
trembling. In all honesty, I'd never been so terrified in my life for, though
the ghouls had been horrible, they'd been strangers and I'd thought I was
getting to know Hobbes.

He
smiled, putting down his paper. 'These crosswords are getting too easy. I
remember when one might take me as much as fifteen minutes. Now, how about that
drink?'

I
don't remember much about walking to the Feathers, except feeling cold and
detached. Hobbes talked about aubergines, and I think I nodded a few times. Now
and again I wanted to cry. It was a relief when he opened the door and ushered
me into the warm, smelly fug. Featherlight lounged behind the bar, flouting the
law by smoking a stinking pipe, while taking great swigs from a pewter tankard
and snubbing any customers demanding drinks. Nonetheless, pints of beer kept
appearing on the counter and cash disappeared behind it, though no one appeared
to be serving. Featherlight, ignoring me, glowered at Hobbes.

'What
are you here for? I've done nothing.'

'Nothing?'
said Hobbes. 'I'm not sure about that. Didn't you knock out a customer's teeth
on Wednesday?'

Featherlight
scowled. 'That's a lie. I did no such thing – it was on Tuesday and it wasn't
all of them. I didn't hear the customer complain.'

'He
was unconscious.'

'He
was out of order, whinging about a dead mouse in his beer when it was only a
bit of one.'

Hobbes
raised his eyebrows. 'Well, fair enough, but this is just a social visit.'

Featherlight,
grunting, concentrated on his beer, several of his bellies resting on the
counter. At least he'd changed his vest since the last time I'd been in, though
it didn't smell as if he'd washed it and a dark patch down the front looked
rather like blood.

'What
are you gawping at?' he glared. 'D'you fancy a knuckle sandwich?'

'We've
already eaten, thank you,' said Hobbes, 'but a couple of beers would go down
well. We'll have two pints of this.' He tapped a handle.

'No,
I'd rather have a lager.'

'…
and a pint of lager for Andy.'

'Coming
right up, Mr Hobbes,' said a piping voice with no body.

I
leaned over the bar to find Billy Shawcroft grinning up at me. 'Hello, ice
cream man.' He turned on the lager tap and simultaneously pulled Hobbes's
pints.

'I'm
not an ice cream man,' I said, puzzled. 'I'm a journalist … or was.'

Billy
chuckled. 'No, I mean 'I scream, man'. You were screaming your head off in Mr
Hobbes's car the other night.'

'Oh!'
I blushed. 'I suppose I might have cried out when I saw you roll up and
couldn't see anyone driving. I was tired and it was a dark and stormy night and
it just got to me. It was nothing.'

'Well,
you gave me a laugh anyway.' Smiling, he pushed a glass of lager towards me.
'There you go.' Turning away, he topped off Hobbes's glasses and lifted them
onto the counter.

'Cheers
Billy.' Hobbes handed over some cash.

'Very
kind of you, Mr Hobbes,' said Billy, putting a little of it into the till and
the rest, including at least one twenty pound note, into his pocket.

Sitting
down at a greasy table by the bar, Hobbes drained one of his glasses in a
single slow movement. Joining him, I was about to make a comment when he raised
his hand to shut me up. He appeared to be listening, though I could hear
nothing other than the usual bar noises. Looking around the shabby pub, filled
with its usual mix of lowlifes, students and weirdoes, I doubted that
Featherlight had ever decorated the place, apart from periodically replacing the
dartboard in the corner. The pub was impregnated with decades of smoke, spilt
beer, sweat and Featherlight's cooking, the furniture was chipped, dented and
stained, the floor covered in a grey-brown growth that might once have been
carpet. It was a gruesome place with a foul-tempered landlord, yet retaining a
loyal clientele. I wondered whether they went there through choice, or bravado,
or simply because nowhere else would have them.