Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (9 page)

In
the early evening I had a visitor. It was Ingrid. She was looking very pretty
and worried and joy erupted at the sight of her. She sat beside me, asked how I
felt, patting my hand, making sympathetic noises, finally crushing me by saying
she couldn't stay long, as Phil was taking her to the opera. What a git he was.

I
barely had a chance to say anything before she rose to leave. Then, as she
turned, she hesitated and handed me a carrier bag. 'Mr Witcherley asked me to
give you this.'

Inside
were my cagoule, and a brown envelope.

'Rex?
I didn't think he'd remember me. That's nice of him.'

She
smiled. 'See you.'

'Goodbye,
Ingrid. Thanks for coming.' I deflated as soon as she was out of sight.

A couple of minutes later, I tore open the
envelope with a warm feeling of gratitude. Perhaps Rex wasn't as bad as I'd
thought.

Dear Mr Capstan
.

It got up my nose that he'd got my name wrong,
and not for the first time.

The
Sorenchester and District Bugle has been undertaking a review. As a result of
this, and because of your continued failure to produce requested articles on
time, I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required. Please
find enclosed a cheque for one month's salary in lieu of notice. Many thanks
for your contribution and get well soon.

Yours,

Rex
Witcherley.

I'd
never exactly been a high-flyer, yet the thud of my ego hitting rock bottom
left me stunned. I had no job, no home, no girlfriend and, I realised, no
clothes, apart from a short cagoule. At least things couldn't get any worse.

Rock
bottom split apart and plunged me into Hell.

'Evening,
Andy. How are you?' asked Hobbes cheerfully, approaching.

'Not
bad,' I said. 'More like bloody awful.'

'I'm
sorry to hear that. Dr Finlay informed me you were on the mend.'

I
was ashamed. After all, Hobbes had saved my life, such as it was. Still, I couldn't
help but feel he was partly to blame for my misfortunes and that, if I'd died,
things might have been better. No matter how hard I tried to look on the bright
side, I couldn't see round the dark side. 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but the last
couple of days have been a bit traumatic. I didn't have much and now I've got
nothing. I've got nowhere to live, Ingrid's going to the opera with Phil and
I've just been sacked.'

Hobbes
shrugged. 'Don't despair,' he said. 'Adversity often brings out the best in
people. You'll be alright, your friends will help out.'

That
didn't improve my state of mind, merely bringing home the fact that I had no
friends, not real ones, anyway. Apart from Ingrid and some blokes I sometimes
talked to in the pub, there was no one to turn to.

'Anyway,'
he continued, 'you'll be out of here in the morning and you'll have to stay
with someone until you can sort out another place.'

I
tried to think. There were my parents of course. They would take me in. She'd
be delighted to have me to mother again. She meant well but it had been such a
struggle to escape her stifling affections the last time my life had gone belly
up. As for him? He'd love letting me know just how useless I was, pointing out
every mistake I'd ever made from childhood onwards. I couldn't do it to myself;
there had to be another option.

'If
you're really stuck,' said Hobbes, 'I've got a spare room.'

I
listened, considering the proposal, highlighting just how low I'd sunk. Those
were my choices: Hobbes or my parents.

'Thank
you,' I said at last. 'I am really stuck and your spare room seems my best
option.' God help me, I thought.

'Great.'
He grinned. 'I'll let Mrs Goodfellow know, so she can make up a bed.'

'Oh
good,' I said. Incredible though it might seem, I'd forgotten her. Maybe it was
self-defence, for there are only so many horrors a mind can hold. 'I've got no
clothes, or money, apart from this cheque.' I read it. It was for five hundred
pounds and made out to Andrew Capstan. The Editorsaurus had got my first name
right.

'I'll
get Mrs Goodfellow to sort you out some clothes and pick you up tomorrow.'

'Thank
you.' Despite everything, I really meant it.

Then I slept.

Shortly
after breakfast, a cheerful Dr Finlay told me I was fit to go, though he
advised taking it easy and keeping the dressing on my hand for a day or two. I
sat up in bed, wishing I didn't have to leave. It had been pleasant to lie
between clean sheets and have nurses caring for me.

'Hello,
dear.' Mrs Goodfellow was standing by my bed, her eyes bright as a cat's in the
morning sun. My body jolted with the shock and my heart thumped like a drum
roll. Somehow, I found myself standing on the floor with the bed between us.

'Did
I shock you?' she beamed. 'That's a nice frock you're wearing. I didn't know
you liked women's clothing or I'd have brought you some.'

'I
don't normally wear this sort of stuff,' I explained. 'This is just a gown they
put on me because I lost all my clothes, man clothes, in the fire.'

'Have
it your own way, dear. I don't mind. The old fellow says we have to live and
let live and I reckon he's right. I hope these suit you.'

Hauling
a battered leather case onto the bed, she opened it, pulling out a carefully
folded tweed suit in rusty-herringbone, a gleaming white shirt, a silk tie with
a subtle flower pattern that matched the suit exactly, a pair of thick black socks,
white cotton underwear, a pair of glossy brown brogues and a white linen
handkerchief. Everything looked old-fashioned and I was more a jeans and
sweater person, yet they were all I'd got and, until I could get Rex to change
the name on the cheque, all I seemed likely to get. It struck me I really was
penniless and destitute and reliant on Hobbes's charity.

'They
look OK, thanks,' I said. 'Umm … would you mind turning your back while I put
them on?'

'Bashful
are you, dear?' she twinkled but turned around and sat on the bed.

I
dressed, surprised how everything fitted perfectly, though it felt stiff and
heavy compared to my usual garb. I noticed the faint odours of cigar smoke and
lavender and wished I could see myself.

'Very
smart, dear, now, come along and I'll take you home.'

'Thank you.'

She
led the way from the hospital at a surprising pace, down the hill, past the
supermarket, up Goat Street, along Rampart Street, Golden Gate Lane and finally
to Blackdog Street. Though, she'd swapped her wellingtons for a pair of
trainers, the rest of her, apart from the absence of a pinafore, was as I
remembered: a green headscarf that didn't quite match her woolly, yellow cardigan
and a voluminous, brown and cream checked skirt. The sun shone on my arrival at
Hobbes's.

'Here
we are.' Unlocking the door to number 13, she stepped inside.

Taking
a deep breath, I followed as she led me upstairs, opening the door into the end
room. I was pleasantly surprised, if puzzled. It was a good size, with bare
white walls, low black beams, a polished wood floor, a dressing table with a
stool and a small wardrobe. What it lacked, was a bed.

'The
old fellow,' she said, 'asked me to make up a bed for you. I haven't had time yet,
but all the bits are in the attic.'

I
offered to go up and fetch them down but she said some of the planking was
rather ropey and might be dangerous.

 'I'll
do it, dear, and it won't take five minutes.'

She
was right. It took the best part of an hour because, having hauled herself up
the foldaway ladder into the attic, she discovered an extended family of mice
had taken up residence, and took up the pursuit with gusto and a wooden tennis
racquet. I could hear her feet thumping above, interspersed with occasional
thwacks as she found a target. At any minute, I expected to see her plunge
through the ceiling. Eventually, everything went quiet: too quiet. I waited a
couple of minutes.

'Umm
… Mrs Goodfellow? Are you alright?' Not a sound.

Hesitating
for a few more seconds, I started up the ladder. The faint light in the attic
was squeezing through the bars of a tiny window, dust dancing in its beam, and
I glimpsed wonderful things in the instant my head poked through the hatch. Hearing
a thwack and a mad cackle, I lost my grip, stretching my length on the landing
rug.

A
wizened face poked through the hatch upside down. 'Got the little devil! Are
you alright, dear?'

I
nodded, standing up, feeling a little groggy.

'Can
you catch with that bandage on?'

'Umm
… yes well, probably.'

'Good,'
she said, 'catch these.'

She
patted a small brown object with her racquet. It twisted through the air and,
despite fumbling, I grabbed it before it hit the floor. It was a limp mouse.

'Next
one.' She patted another.

In
the end, I had eight little bodies in my hands. I stared at them, aghast, not
knowing what to do as she slid down the ladder.

'Better
hurry,' she said. 'Let's get 'em to the park before they wake up.'

They
were already stirring when we got there, one taking a speculative nibble at my
finger. I released them and they disappeared into a hedge and began a frantic
rustling. I sucked away a bead of blood as Mrs Goodfellow took my arm.

'Come
along, dear. It's time I had you in bed.'

A
smart, young woman, wheeling a child in a pushchair, gave me a most peculiar
look. Though I tried a tentative smile, she turned away as Mrs Goodfellow
propelled me back to Blackdog Street.

Once
we were inside, I watched amazed as she disappeared into the attic and emerged
with bits of iron, slats of wood and a mattress, building the bed in five
minutes, making it up with sheets, blankets and an eiderdown. It all looked
antique, yet was clean and smelled of fresh lavender.

'There
you are, dear,' she said. 'I hope you'll be comfortable. You'll find more
clothes in the wardrobe. Help yourself.'

'Thank
you. Umm … whose are they?' I knew they weren't Hobbes's; I doubted whether
he'd even be able to pull the trousers over his arms.

'Yours,
if you want 'em.' She grinned her toothless grin. 'They belonged to my husband
but he doesn't need 'em anymore.'

'You're
very kind.' I assumed Mr Goodfellow had passed away.

'Kind?
Not really. It's more of an advanced payment for when you let me have your
teeth.'

As
I smiled, I noticed the gleam in her eyes, examining my mouth like a
connoisseur. I snapped the display shut.

'I
can't wait to get my hands on that lot,' she said as she left the room.

I
sat on the bed and tried to get my thoughts in order.

'Liver?
What about liver?'

I
flinched and leaped to my feet as she leaned towards me. 'You can't have my
liver!'

She
laughed. 'I don't want your liver, I was asking if you like to eat liver,
because not everyone does, you know. I'm planning a liver and bacon casserole
for supper and was wondering if you like good, old-fashioned food.'

'Oh,'
I said, ashamed, 'it sounds lovely. Are you sure Hobbes … are you sure
Inspector Hobbes won't mind?'

'Mind?
Of course he won't. He'll be glad of the company. He doesn't get too many
visitors, more's the pity.'

'Well,'
I said, because I had not yet given food a thought, 'in that case, I would be
delighted.' I made an attempt at a smile.

'Ooh,'
she said peering up at me, 'you do have a really lovely smile. I can hardly
wait.'

I
forced a laugh, which sounded rather hysterical. 'Well, let's hope it won't be
for many years.'

She
cackled and patted my arm. 'Lovely smile, lovely smile.' She walked away.
'Likes liver, too. Lovely boy, lovely smile.'

I
sat on the bed, trembling. In happier times I would sometimes sit and think. On
this occasion I just sat and stared at the wall, my mind cowering in a dark
corner of my skull, refusing to come out.

I
must have been there for a couple of hours when I heard the tortured whine of a
car's engine, followed by the sound of brakes, and I knew Hobbes had returned. Gulping,
taking a deep breath, I went downstairs.

'Good
afternoon,' Hobbes boomed. 'Has Mrs Goodfellow made you comfortable?'

'Yes,'
I said, 'very comfortable, thank you.' Truthfully, she made me feel exceedingly
uncomfortable, but it would have been churlish to say so.

'Good.'
He rubbed his hands together, making a sound like someone vigorously wiping
their feet on a coconut doormat. 'What are you going to do with yourself for
the rest of the day?'

He
had me there. What was I going to do? Obviously, I needed the Editorsaurus to
amend the cheque, yet I didn't feel up to confronting him just then, if ever. I
supposed I ought to sign on as unemployed, except I guessed that, being a
Saturday, the job centre would be shut, and, besides, I hadn't the foggiest
where it was or what to do. I wondered about taking myself round town to see if
there were any vacancy ads in shop windows, though I wasn't sure anyone did
that sort of thing anymore.