Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (17 page)

During
the following hour or so I mooched about, staring at the block, kicking up leaves
in the overgrown communal garden, thinking about Hobbes, while trying to remain
inconspicuous in case any of my fellow former residents showed up. Though I
didn't know any of them, except to nod to on the steps, I had a feeling they
might not be happy to see me.

Dusk
descended, dragging the temperature down with it, making my breath steam and
curl. I shivered, thrusting my hands into my pockets, trying to turn my mind to
Ingrid, as my feet turned homewards. Home? I was already thinking of Hobbes's
place as home. I put it down to shock.

Ingrid
was the only thing I missed from the office, apart from the pay, which reminded
me of the urgent need to see Editorsaurus Rex and force him to change my
cheque. Then I could give him a piece of my mind, if I dared, though it would
have to be a small piece: the way things had been going I couldn't afford to
lose much more.

I
was fond of Ingrid's soft brown eyes and friendly smile. I liked to think of
her hair as blonde, though I suspected an impartial observer might callously
describe it as mousy. Again, some might have considered her a little short for symmetry;
I suspected my impartial observer might even consider her dumpy, the boorish
lout. 'You, sir, are no gentleman,' I would tell the swine before thrashing him
within an inch of his life. My problem was that, since I no longer worked for
the
Bugle
, I wouldn't be able to impress her with my ardour and prove I
was 'arder than Phil. I was worried he'd be able to have his wicked way without
me to protect her.

I
wondered about her motives for going out with him. Sure, my impartial observer
might consider him good-looking – and he did keep himself fit and dressed well
and had nice manners and a smart new car – but the impartial observer was a
fool, as he'd shown with his views on Ingrid. He didn't recognise Phil was a
git. He was always smiling, feigning friendliness, ready to help anyone. He'd
be the first to dig his wallet from his trendy trouser pocket and buy a round
at the Bellman's, or to contribute to a birthday present, or to make a donation
to charity. I despised him and every little thing he did to show-off to Ingrid.

And
now he'd started taking her to the opera. Well, at least she'd had enough taste
to throw up on him, if not enough to avoid lobster. That, at least, gave me a
reason to cheer up.

A
treacherous part of my mind interrupted the mental rant with a suggestion that,
maybe, she would have gone out with me had I ever taken the trouble to ask her
and that, maybe, I should have bought her a birthday present, or, at least, a
card. I laughed it out of sight. Why should I have to act flash like Phil? I
reckoned she only liked him because he was nice to her and bought her presents
and took her to the opera. I was who I was and she ought to appreciate it. The
treacherous part rallied and whispered that I'd never even hinted that I liked
her, and asked why she should have gone out with me if I'd never asked her. I
squashed the notions with ease; we were living in the twenty-first century and
a woman could ask a bloke out perfectly easily. No, though she might be
gorgeous, in her dumpy, mousy way, the girl had no taste in men and I sometimes
wondered if she was right for me.

It
came as something of a surprise to find my feet had carried me into Blackdog
Street, for I'd hardly been aware of walking with all the turmoil in my mind.
It was satisfying to know that Hobbes planned having a word with Phil and that,
with luck, I'd be present to see him squirm. With more luck, he'd collapse like
old Biggs or, even better, Hobbes might tear out his throat. I chuckled, wondering
whether I might be able to give a little shove, something to ensure Phil dropped
right in the shit. Then I'd have a free run at Ingrid, because there was no way
a girl as pure and intelligent as her would associate with a criminal. My treacherous
part made a final effort. What made me think she was pure? A bastard like Phil
would, surely, have got into her pants at the first opportunity and, therefore,
deserved everything he'd got coming.

 Reaching
number 13, I raised my fist to knock.

'Hello,
dear,' said Mrs Goodfellow's voice.

My
stomach contracting, I spun around, unable to see her anywhere, yet sure I'd
heard her. I couldn't have imagined it.

'You'll
be wanting to come in I expect.'

She
couldn't have become invisible. I looked behind me, along the street and even
up the side of the house, as if she might be hanging there like a monkey.

'Down
here, dear.'

A
wizened face, pale in the streetlights, winked up at me from behind the bars
covering the cellar.

She
grinned. 'Just seeing to the mushrooms. I'll be up in a minute.'

'Oh,
good,' I gasped. 'Mushrooms. Very nice. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there.'

She
chuckled. 'I expect you thought I was invisible, or hanging around like a
monkey?'

'No,
of course not,' I lied, laughing, but she'd gone. I stared into the black hole
by my feet.

'Come
in, dear.'

I
hadn't heard her approaching the front door and my jump wouldn't have disgraced
the Olympics. I forced a smile, stepping into the warmth.

She
pushed the door to. 'The old fellow's not home yet, but he's normally back in
time for his supper. By the way, dear, he asked me to give you this.'

Reaching
into the pocket of her pinafore, pulling out a key, she handed it to me. 'He
said it was best if you had your own, so you aren't locked out if no one's
home. He said to treat the house like your own.'

'Thanks,'
I said, touched that he trusted me.

'Mind
you, he also said how you wasn't to go burning the house down, like your last
place.' She chuckled.

I
grimaced.

'Would
you like a cup of tea, while you're waiting?'

'No
thanks. I didn't know you'd got a cellar.'

'Oh
yes. All the houses down the street had cellars, though most have been turned
into basements or filled in. The old fellow sometimes likes the peace of being
underground and it's where he keeps his wines and where I grow my mushrooms and
force my rhubarb.'

I
wondered what on earth she was forcing it to do. There had been, I remembered,
a frisson when venturing into Granny Caplet's cellar, all dark and mysterious,
when I was very small. 'Can I see the cellar?'

'Of
course, dear.' Taking me into the kitchen, she opened what I'd assumed was a
cupboard door. 'Down there. Will you be wanting the light on? The old fellow
fitted an electric one.'

'Oh
no,' I said, intending humorous sarcasm, 'I'd much rather flounder around in
the dark.'

'Suit
yourself,' she said. 'Just beware the pit of doom. They do say it's
bottomless.'

'What?'

'Oh
sorry, dear. Did I say the pit of doom? I meant to say mind your head. The
ceiling's a little low in parts.'

Smiling,
she flicked a light switch and let me descend the creaky, narrow, wooden
staircase. It was cool down there, yet dryer than I'd expected, with a
pleasant, earthy odour and just a hint of damp, coming from trays of compost in
a corner, some covered in mushrooms as big as cauliflowers. Beneath the grille,
next to where I'd seen Mrs Goodfellow, was a pile of coal and against the near
wall stood a great rack loaded with bottles. Unable to see any rhubarb, I
guessed the old girl must have forced it into hiding. I'd been down there some
minutes before it struck me just how cavernous it was. It appeared far wider
than the house.

I
was considering returning upstairs when I noticed what appeared to be another
door, partially concealed by coal. It puzzled me because, if it actually was a
door, then it led in the direction of the road.

Hobbes's
voice rumbled from above. 'Who's that down there?'

'It's
me, Andy.' I peered up through the grille at his face, cratered like the moon.

'Oh
dear,' he sighed. 'I thought the lass had given up on locking men in the cellar.
She hasn't done it for ages. I'll come and let you out.'

'It's
alright. I asked to come down.'

'Really?'
His face ascended as he straightened up. I heard the front door open and shut
and his heavy footfall as I headed back to the stairs. She had locked me in.

He
released me, rolling his eyes skywards. 'Sorry. She's got a thing about locking
men in the cellar. I wouldn't worry about it though. I'm sure she means well.'

'But
why?'

'I
think it's because her father went away when she was a little girl and she
reasoned that if he'd been locked in the cellar he wouldn't have been able to
go. She only does it to men she likes. It's a compliment really.'

'Not
the sort of compliment I like,' I said, though in all honesty it was about the
only one I'd ever received from a woman, except from mother. 'Is she safe?'

'Oh,
I shouldn't think so.' He grinned. 'She's only human after all. Are they ever
safe?'

I
shrugged. 'Dunno. Has she ever locked you in?'

'Oh
yes,' he said airily, 'she used to do it all the time but I kept escaping and,
since I always came back, I think she decided I was here to stay.'

'Well,
it is your house.'

'True,'
said Hobbes, 'and it's her home. Yours, too, as long as you want it.'

Again,
I was touched. 'Thank you,' I said, though I still planned to write the book
and was glad of any scraps of information about him and his crazed household.
'Umm … I noticed a door in the cellar.'

'Well
of course you did.' He frowned. 'Which is how you were able to enter and exit.'

'No.
Another door.'

'Are
you sure?' Without apparently doing anything, he seemed suddenly threatening.

'Yes,'
I said, though his reply and manner had confused me and made me unsure. 'I've
just seen it.'

'I
don't think you should have just seen it.' He leaned towards me a fraction, the
animal scent strengthening. 'It would be far better if you hadn't just seen it.
If I were you, I'd forget about it. That door is not for you. Not yet. Maybe
never.'

He
patted me on the shoulder. It felt like being cudgelled.

'Now,
come along, Andy.' He spoke slowly and emphatically. 'There is no other door in
the cellar and you didn't see one because there was nothing to see. Do you
understand?'

I
knew how Biggs had felt. I was trembling all over, my knees knocking together,
yet I managed to nod.

He
smiled. 'Good man.'

The
animal odour dissipating, my knees settled back into their accustomed
supporting roles.

'Supper'll
be ready soon. In the meantime, why not take a seat and take the weight off
your mind.' Propelling me into the sitting room, he sat me on the sofa.

'Thank
you,' I said, as he left and bounded upstairs. Though I tried to stop thinking
about the door, I couldn't understand why he'd reacted in such a way. A
horrible thought made me clutch at the lapel of my tweed jacket. What had
happened to its original owner, Mr Goodfellow? Was he locked behind the door,
walled up, never to escape? Or maybe his mortal remains were hidden there … or
was there something worse? I sat in an ecstasy of doubt and fear until supper
was ready when Hobbes reappeared, guided me into the kitchen and said Grace.

I
wouldn't have said I was hungry until I saw what lay on the table. It was what
is sometimes referred to as a spread. There was a plate of sandwiches,
generously cut from Mrs Goodfellow's still-warm crusty bread and packed with
ham and mustard or cheese and pickle. Then there was egg and cress, cucumber
and salmon, paté, cheeses, cold tongue and homemade pickles. To follow, she
produced a cream trifle, drowning in sherry, a coffee cake smelling as fragrant
as if the coffee had been freshly ground and was as light as air, a luscious
dark fruit cake and a bowl of tinned pears. The latter surprised me, yet turned
out to be Hobbes's favourite. I made myself at home. So what if I spent half my
time in a state of fear and horror? I could at least eat well. And, by golly, I
did eat well.

Afterwards,
I sat back in my chair, hands folded across a distended stomach and belched
happily.

'Manners,
Andy. Manners.' Hobbes wagged a finger at me. He looked almost friendly, yet a
glint in his eyes reminded me of Granny's cat. That evil orange beast used to
slink towards me, exuding bonhomie, purring, begging to be stroked. As soon as
I touched him, he'd roll onto his back in ecstasy, dig his claws into my hand
and bite my thumb. He'd got me every time, and I was determined to stay on my
guard with Hobbes. Though I'd once overheard a drunk in the Feathers state that
Hobbes's bark was worse than his bite, I'd bet Hobbes had never bitten him, and
my fear of being bitten was not the least of my worries about him. Even so, I
was managing to live in his house, was fit and well, and gathering material for
a book that could be the making of me, though a doubt had begun to take root; would
anyone believe it?