Read Online Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wilkie Martin
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Frankly, the whole procedure turned my stomach and I couldn’t rid
myself of the fear that, one day, having run out of bones, he’d start on me.
I
shuddered, turning my attention to tea: hot, sweet tea being unbeatable in
times of stress. Sitting down at the table, clutching my mug, I pondered where
Hobbes put it all, for he’d polished off three large steak and kidney pies and
within half an hour he was stuffing his face with cow tails. Yet he wasn’t fat,
though there was a hell of a lot of him. I put it down to his unhuman
metabolism.
He
was still a mystery. I’d only known him a few days when I came to the unlikely,
if undeniable, conclusion that he wasn’t actually human, yet I’d never quite
worked out what he might be. Sometimes, on waking in the night from disturbed
dreams, I’d felt close to a great revelation but it always slipped away before
I could grasp it. One thing was certain, I’d never met anyone like him, even in
Sorenchester, a town with more than its fair share of individuals who were
different, though none of them seemed different in the same way that Hobbes was
different. During my time with him I’d nearly been buried alive by ghouls, had
tea and crumpets with a troll and been told about a witch, but what other types
of being might be lurking on the edge of perception, I couldn’t guess.
Sometimes I feared the vague, hazy images that haunted my nightmares might not
be far from the truth.
I’d
just finished my second mug of tea when I heard Hobbes’s footsteps walking
upstairs and, a couple of minutes later, the new shower starting. He was very
proud of the shower, having installed it himself, like most of the plumbing in
the house. Never before had I seen anyone crimp copper pipes with his fingers,
but it appeared to work, for nothing dripped. Having only used the shower once,
coming within an inch of drowning as alternate blasts of icy and boiling water
flattened me, I now stuck to the bath, in a manner of speaking. Though he would
roar as the hot and cold torrents found their mark, he always emerged from the
bathroom with a happy grin.
It
wasn’t long before he strolled into the kitchen, clean and glowing, dressed for
work, as if nothing unusual had happened. ‘I ought to go into the station for a
couple of hours,’ he said, helping himself to tea, ‘I have some paperwork to
catch up with, worse luck. Do you want to come?’
I
shook my head.
‘OK
– I’ll get a takeaway on the way back. What d’you fancy?’
‘Fish
and chips, probably.’ After the cow tails, I didn’t fancy burgers.
‘Right.
Oh, would you mind clearing up?’ Pointing to the sitting room, he quaffed his
tea. ‘Cheerio.’
He
strode away, Dregs walking obediently to heel, behaving well as he always
behaved for Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow, while doing what he liked with me. Not
that I really minded, for we were on friendly terms, quite accustomed to each
other’s roles, and I’d come to enjoy taking him for walks, his zest for living being
infectious. Walking with him in the park or out in the countryside offered a
rare kind of freedom, allowing me time to think and reflect on life, though,
for the most part, my brain ticked over in pleasant idleness. Apart from that,
his exuberant behaviour meant other dog walkers, even women, sometimes talked
to me. It was as if I’d joined a club, with the advantage of not having to pay
for the privilege.
Taking
a bin liner from a cupboard, I went to clean up the sitting room, which didn’t
look too bad, considering; apart from the torn and bloodied newspapers and the
occasional cow hair, little evidence remained of what had gone on in there. As I
stuffed the papers into the bag I shuddered, with a sudden fear that Henry
Bishop could go the way of the cow tails, should he dare to transgress Hobbes’s
law again. I don’t know what put that in my mind, for Hobbes had not, to my
knowledge, killed anyone, apart from those in the First World War, who didn’t
really
myself of the fear that, one day, having run out of bones, he’d start on me.
I
shuddered, turning my attention to tea: hot, sweet tea being unbeatable in
times of stress. Sitting down at the table, clutching my mug, I pondered where
Hobbes put it all, for he’d polished off three large steak and kidney pies and
within half an hour he was stuffing his face with cow tails. Yet he wasn’t fat,
though there was a hell of a lot of him. I put it down to his unhuman
metabolism.
He
was still a mystery. I’d only known him a few days when I came to the unlikely,
if undeniable, conclusion that he wasn’t actually human, yet I’d never quite
worked out what he might be. Sometimes, on waking in the night from disturbed
dreams, I’d felt close to a great revelation but it always slipped away before
I could grasp it. One thing was certain, I’d never met anyone like him, even in
Sorenchester, a town with more than its fair share of individuals who were
different, though none of them seemed different in the same way that Hobbes was
different. During my time with him I’d nearly been buried alive by ghouls, had
tea and crumpets with a troll and been told about a witch, but what other types
of being might be lurking on the edge of perception, I couldn’t guess.
Sometimes I feared the vague, hazy images that haunted my nightmares might not
be far from the truth.
I’d
just finished my second mug of tea when I heard Hobbes’s footsteps walking
upstairs and, a couple of minutes later, the new shower starting. He was very
proud of the shower, having installed it himself, like most of the plumbing in
the house. Never before had I seen anyone crimp copper pipes with his fingers,
but it appeared to work, for nothing dripped. Having only used the shower once,
coming within an inch of drowning as alternate blasts of icy and boiling water
flattened me, I now stuck to the bath, in a manner of speaking. Though he would
roar as the hot and cold torrents found their mark, he always emerged from the
bathroom with a happy grin.
It
wasn’t long before he strolled into the kitchen, clean and glowing, dressed for
work, as if nothing unusual had happened. ‘I ought to go into the station for a
couple of hours,’ he said, helping himself to tea, ‘I have some paperwork to
catch up with, worse luck. Do you want to come?’
I
shook my head.
‘OK
– I’ll get a takeaway on the way back. What d’you fancy?’
‘Fish
and chips, probably.’ After the cow tails, I didn’t fancy burgers.
‘Right.
Oh, would you mind clearing up?’ Pointing to the sitting room, he quaffed his
tea. ‘Cheerio.’
He
strode away, Dregs walking obediently to heel, behaving well as he always
behaved for Hobbes and Mrs Goodfellow, while doing what he liked with me. Not
that I really minded, for we were on friendly terms, quite accustomed to each
other’s roles, and I’d come to enjoy taking him for walks, his zest for living being
infectious. Walking with him in the park or out in the countryside offered a
rare kind of freedom, allowing me time to think and reflect on life, though,
for the most part, my brain ticked over in pleasant idleness. Apart from that,
his exuberant behaviour meant other dog walkers, even women, sometimes talked
to me. It was as if I’d joined a club, with the advantage of not having to pay
for the privilege.
Taking
a bin liner from a cupboard, I went to clean up the sitting room, which didn’t
look too bad, considering; apart from the torn and bloodied newspapers and the
occasional cow hair, little evidence remained of what had gone on in there. As I
stuffed the papers into the bag I shuddered, with a sudden fear that Henry
Bishop could go the way of the cow tails, should he dare to transgress Hobbes’s
law again. I don’t know what put that in my mind, for Hobbes had not, to my
knowledge, killed anyone, apart from those in the First World War, who didn’t
really
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