Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (8 page)

'Yes,'
said Gravel Voice. 'And we 'ave our reputations to fink of. We wouldn't want
anyone to fink we're just a couple of ghouls who can't say no.'

'So,
we're gonna 'ave to bury you again,' said Creepy Voice. 'It's for the best. I'm
sure you'll understand. No 'ard feelings, eh?'

'You
can't bury me again. I haven't been buried at all.'

'Then
what are you doing in a grave?' Gravel Voice was mocking. 'Now, enough of your
nonsense. Lie down and get buried before this 'ole fills up with water and we
'ave to bury you at sea.'

Mud
began to thud around me as the ghouls set to work with shovels. No matter that
I screamed for help and sobbed for mercy, they shook their heads and carried
on. Black despair and terror took me, madness seemed my only escape, and I was
considering taking that dark path when I heard two metallic clangs, two grunts,
two soggy thuds. A massive hand engulfed mine and before I knew what had
happened, I was dangling over the open grave while Hobbes inspected me for
damage. He set me down on solid ground, the two ghouls stretched out at his
feet.

'Thank
you.' My voice quavered. 'That was horrible.'

'Was
it?' He shrugged. 'Well, it's all over now, so you can help me tidy up.'

He
set to work, filling in the grave, stamping down the black, oozing mud,
refitting the toppled headstone. I helped as much as my trembling body would
allow. One of the ghouls groaned.

'What
are they?' I asked at last.

'Just
a couple of local ghouls. They eat old skeletons and they're quite harmless really,
providing a valuable service to the community. Otherwise, we'd be knee-deep in
bones and no one would like that, except for dogs. Still, I like to make sure
these lads tidy up afterwards. If they don't, folk get upset and I won't stand
for bad feelings between them and the ghoul community. Not on my patch.'

'Old
bones? Aren't they rather hard?'

'They
grind 'em up and make a sort of ghoul hash.'

I
nodded. 'Do you know their names?' I reached for my non-existent notebook,
believing I'd got a major scoop on only the second night of my assignment. With
luck, it would make Editorsaurus Rex forgive me.

'They
don't have names like you and I, though you could call them Doug and Phil.'

'Why?'

'Well
that one,' he said, pointing at Creepy Voice with an inappropriate snigger,
'dug the grave and this one,' he poked Gravel Voice with his boot, 'was going
to fill it.'

I
sighed. 'What are we going to do now?'

'Take
them home.' Bending, he hoisted both of them over one shoulder and straightened
up. 'Then I'll make my report and we can call it a night. By the way, tonight's
little escapade will not be appearing in the
Bugle
. As far as that's
concerned, we had a quiet night, apart from having to take a couple of drunks
home. Understand?'

'But
…'

'Understand?'
Hobbes repeated, standing a little closer than was necessary.

'I
understand.' Self-preservation had asserted itself. I wanted to ask questions,
wanted to know so many things, yet I was afraid, as if I'd fallen into a
nightmare. My perception of Sorenchester as a nice, cosy, little town had been
blown to pieces, I'd seen things I shouldn't have, and had a terrible sickly
feeling my life had changed forever.

My
old anorak proving no match for the storm, icy water trickled down my back,
making me shudder. Though the rain was as heavy as a tropical downpour, the
cold and a wind, too powerful to even consider going around me, blew that idea
away.

Hobbes
loped to the edge of the churchyard, the limp ghouls bouncing on his shoulder.
'Follow me. We'll take care of these two and then we're done and can head back
to the station.'

As
I jogged after him, a worrying habit I had no intention of forming, the effort started
giving me just a little wonderful warmth. Still, my feet skidded and squelched
inside my shoes, while my trousers, clammy and stiff, flapped whenever they
took a break from clinging to and squeezing my poor legs. I wasn't used to the
kind of activity to which I'd been subjected in the last few hours and every
muscle was aching. I muttered to myself about what I'd do to Editorsaurus Rex
should I ever chance upon him in a darkened churchyard – not that I could
imagine him ever allowing himself to fall into such an awkward or uncomfortable
situation, never mind into an open grave. Besides, I wouldn't really have done
anything: I wasn't like that at all, and not merely because he was bigger than
me.

We
passed through a covered gateway into a deserted street, where sad cars dripped
into oily puddles, glinting under orange streetlights. A shredded plastic
carrier bag, pale and ghostly, flapped into my face. Flinching, I beat it off, watching
it skid along the gutter, twirling in eddies, vanishing as it rose over the
rooftops. Crossing the street, we plunged down an alley that funnelled the wind
into such a full-frontal gale I found it a struggle to get through. Hobbes,
oblivious, turned left along a pot-holed back lane, ducking beneath a broken
fence into the overgrown backyard of a decayed terraced house. He proceeded
without problem. I, however, in following, snagged my trousers, my anorak and
my skin on the sickle thorns of the brambles that infested the yard. I sucked a
scratch on the back of my hand, while he opened the rotting door, lugging the
two ghouls into the darkness within. A gut-turning stench billowed out and only
Hobbes's urging made me enter.

'Come
in,' he said, 'and mind how you come down the steps. You'd better turn on the
light. You'll find the switch by your hand … left a bit … a bigger bit … and
down.'

I
groped and turned it on. The narrow room didn't exactly flood with light,
because the grime-encrusted, bare bulb dangling above us failed to match up to
the task. Nonetheless, it dribbled out sufficient illumination to show a bleak,
damp cellar, the crude painting of a funeral on the far wall doing nothing to
improve it. Hobbes deposited the ghouls onto two filthy beds, tucked into a
corner, where they lay messily, matching everything else down there. Theirs was
a cheerless, comfortless home, black with mould, a sticky nastiness coating the
bare brick floor. All it contained was a pair of plain stools, a grubby,
slimy-looking table, apparently constructed from coffin lids, some gruesome
pans and bowls, a sink I doubted had ever been washed and, bizarrely, a stuffed
crocodile.

While
Hobbes rinsed out a pan and filled it with water, I took a proper look at the
ghouls: thin, insipid creatures, dressed in filthy overalls and muddy boots,
from which fetid white toes peeped. One was bald, while the other sported a
greasy comb-over plastered across his translucent scalp. Yet, it was their
faces that stuck in my memory and, although I'd formed an impression when I'd
been in the grave, I wasn't prepared for their full awfulness. They looked like
what would happen if some ham-fisted incompetent, having carved a pair of
pumpkin lanterns, had left them outside for a week or two to moulder and fall
in on themselves. The only parts that appeared substantial and healthy were
their small, sharp, white teeth, set in jaws a bulldog might have been proud
of. Yet, no dog had ever been cursed with breath like these two.

The
one with the comb-over groaned as Hobbes splashed water in its face. Eyes, as
cold and dark as those of a shark, opened and it sat up, rubbing its head with
its claws. Looking up at Hobbes, it laughed, its mouth open, causing me to turn
my head away as the charnel stench wreaked havoc on my stomach. Tottering
upstairs into the garden, I threw up and leaned against the wall. Strange
noises rose from the cellar as if two people were burping while a cat and a dog
fought to the death. I stayed in the clean air, glad now of the cleansing rain
and wind, until Hobbes emerged, pulling the door behind him, his brow
corrugated in deep thought.

'What
was that horrible noise?' I asked as he led the way back.

'I
expect you mean my conversation with the ghoul. I don't get a chance to
practise my Ghoulish very often and I think my accent amused him. However, the
young fellow did tell me something interesting. Let's get out of this storm and
I'll tell you. Hurry up.'

We
jogged back through the rain, Hobbes silent until we were back in the car and
on the move.

'The
young ghoul,' he said, 'denies opening the grave you were mucking around in.'

'They
must have. Who else would have done it?'

'Ghouls
may have their faults but they don't lie. I don't think they understand the
concept. No, as far as I could gather, the grave you were in was one they'd
emptied years ago after the bones had matured; they prefer them dry.'

I
winced. 'They're horrible.'

'They're
not so bad, really. Live and let live. They only eat a few old bones their
owners are done with and, mostly, they tidy up afterwards. Tonight, though,
they were delayed because someone else was digging in their pantry.'

'Another
ghoul?' I yawned, longing to be warm and dry and asleep.

'No,
not a ghoul, a man. They watched him digging, apparently rather amateurishly and
the interesting thing is that he removed something from the grave before
running off without bothering to refill it.'

'Well,
the last part's true. I really thought I was going to die down there.'

'These
things happen.' He swerved and stopped the car. 'This sort of thing shouldn't,
though.'

He
got out, dragged an enormous branch from the road, and slid back in. 'Someone
should have been taking care of that. It was rotten and could have caused an
accident to the public.'

'Yeah
… but any idea who was robbing the grave?'

The
car shot forward.

He
shrugged. 'I don't know. Ghouls aren't good at describing humans. He was
wearing a black balaclava, though.'

'Well,
that narrows it down.' My heavy irony went unremarked, so I continued. 'And
what did he take?'

'Something
small and shiny and, since it didn't look edible, the ghouls weren't
interested. They lurked in the shadows until he'd gone before starting on the
grave they wanted. Unfortunately, you blundered in and ruined their plans.
They'll go hungry tonight, poor things.'

'Poor
things? They're disgusting. They shouldn't be allowed amongst ordinary, decent
people. Aren't there laws against grave robbing?'

'You
get used to them and there are many humans who aren't pleasant: humans such as
the grave robber tonight. I hope we catch him.'

'But
you took the ghouls home. You didn't even arrest them.'

He
laughed. 'As you should know by now, most laws in this country are specific to
humans. They simply don't apply to ghouls. The law doesn't recognise them.'

'Like
it doesn't recognise gnomes?'

'You're
catching on.'

I
nodded. Since I'd met him, reality and dreams, or nightmares, had become
intertwined. 'Umm …' I said, 'do you know whose grave it was? Might that be
important?'

'Good
lad.' He nodded, slapping me on the back as he swung the car round a bend. 'It
belongs to a chap called Lucian Mondragon who, according to the gravestone, departed
this life on the thirty-first of October 1905. I don't believe I ever met him.'

'1905?
Why would anyone dig up such an old grave?'

'I
wish I knew,' he said. 'Oddly, the ghouls said they smelled fresh meat. And,
come to think of it, whatever you were jumping about on was still solid. What's
more, it didn't sound like wood did it?'

'I
don't know. Are you getting at something?'

'I
suspect there's more in that grave than mud, more than there ought to be.' He
pondered. 'I think I'd better take another look.'

'No,
please.' I heard the panic rising in my voice. 'I'm cold, wet and tired. I
can't do anymore tonight. I really can't.'

Hobbes
nodded. 'I understand. Tell you what, I'll drop you back at your place. You
take it easy and have a lie-in and I'll pick you up at … let's say ten
tomorrow. OK?'

'Thank
you.' I nearly wept. Fatigue was overwhelming me and I hadn't expected
kindness.

Hobbes
chuckled. 'Hang on.'

I'd barely noticed that, up to then, he'd
been driving relatively slowly, almost with due care and attention, but he made
up for it and I could hardly express my relief when he stopped and I was still
alive. As I got out, he accelerated away between the lines of parked cars
before I could even say goodnight. Trudging upstairs to my flat, switching on
the electric fire, I stripped, washed off the worst of the mud, and collapsed
into bed. It had been a horrible night.

A
crash burst into my dreams and I awoke with blurred mind and senses, squinting
at the alarm clock; it was just gone four. Why was there an orange light
glowing under the bedroom door, and why could I smell smoke?

'Fire!'
I screeched, leaping up, lurching towards the bedroom door, grabbing the handle
and letting go with a yelp of pain. The handle was red hot and I was in deep
trouble. Up till then, I'd been acting on instinct but cold terror was growing
inside, weighing down my legs and stomach. Choking fumes tormented my throat
and I began to cough uncontrollably. I pulled myself to the window, struggling
to open it. Everything began to happen too fast. My head was spinning and I
knew I was going to die. It was ironic, I thought, falling to my knees, that
I'd only just returned from the grave. The window burst inwards as I slumped
onto my face to sleep.

On opening my eyes again, I appeared to be
outside, in mid-air, looking onto the patio beneath my window. It got closer,
yet slowly. I was dropping gently, like a leaf.

I
awoke in a bed. I knew it wasn't mine because of the clean, white sheets,
though I was certain I'd crawled under my own duvet, with the familiar pong of
stale curry and socks. A screen surrounded me and a table stood by my bedside.
I groaned and a face appeared, a young woman's face, and I remembered being too
tired to put on pyjamas. As I pulled the sheets around my chin, I found I was
dressed in a sort of dress.

'Good
afternoon, Mr Caplet.' The face spoke, its smile pushing through the screen.

A
woman's body, dressed in nurse's uniform, followed the smile. It was all very
puzzling. I was, it appeared, in hospital, but how? A memory surfaced, an idea of
flinging myself from a speeding car to get away from Hobbes. Yes, Hobbes! Sitting
upright abruptly, I groaned.

'How
are you feeling?'

'Ohhhh!'

'Are
you alright?'

'Ohhhh.'

'I'll
get the doctor.' The nurse hurried away as I struggled to pull my wits within
touching distance.

Coughing
up something disgusting and acrid, brought back a hazy memory of fire. A quick
check indicated that all of me was still present, though I'd acquired a white
dressing on my right hand.

A
boy in a white coat approached. 'Hello, Mr Caplet, I'm Dr Finlay. No jokes
please. How are you this afternoon?'

My
voice came out as a croak. 'OK, but my throat and chest are sore. So's my
hand.'

'A
bit of smoke inhalation and a minor burn. You were lucky the policeman was
passing and got you out before there was any lasting harm.'

'Policeman?'

'Yes,
apparently he was going off duty when, noticing the smoke, he broke in and got
you out, before alerting the other residents and calling the Fire Brigade.'

'What
policeman?' I had to ask, though I was sure I already knew.

'An
officer named Hobbes brought you in. You're lucky to be alive but you'll be
alright. We'll keep you in for observation overnight, though I doubt there'll
be any problems. You'll probably cough a bit and you might feel a bit confused
during the next few hours.'

'I've
been feeling a bit confused ever since I met Hobbes.'

'You
know him then?' Doctor Finlay's voice registered surprise. 'He's obviously a
great bloke.'

'Obviously.
What about my flat?'

'I'm
afraid you don't have one anymore.'

'What
happened?'

'It
caught fire. You must know better than I how it might have started.'

Maybe
the doc was right but I didn't wish to think about it. Not then.

I
spent the rest of the day in hospital. Most of the time I was sleeping or
drinking pints of water to wash the smoke taint from my tubes. The rest of the
time seemed to involve me tottering round, looking for the bathroom. In my more
lucid moments I wondered where I might stay when it was time to leave.