Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin
Authors: Wilkie Martin
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feel on a snowfield, where any false
move or noise might set off the avalanche. I'd been terrified half the day, yet
I'd come to no actual harm, though I feared for the state of my nervous system.
I guessed that with luck, in time, assuming I survived, I would get used to
him. Oh God! I hoped I wouldn't have time to get used to him. I raised my
hands. They appeared steady and for a moment I felt good about my nerves of
steel, until I realised my whole body was trembling in time.
Finding
my way to the bedroom, lying on the bed, burying my face in the pillow, I let
loose the fear that had been growing throughout the day. It emerged as a long,
long, long scream, from the soul, from the guts and most of all from the lungs.
I counted myself fortunate I'd had the foresight to muffle it, just in case
anyone heard and called the police, for Hobbes might have been sent round to
investigate and might have been angry I'd disturbed his supper. He might … in
fact, what might he do? In truth, and in his own way, he'd looked after me. He
was an enigma. He was a monster. He was a policeman. He was someone I ought to
be writing about.
A sharp crackle of rain on the window and the
wind humming and whistling drove me to snuggle under the duvet. It sounded as if
we were in for a fine storm and my tatty little flat had never felt so cosy or
so safe.
Not
meaning to fall asleep, I awoke to the storm rattling the windows and beating
against my front door. As consciousness slowly returned I wondered how that
could be, for my flat was upstairs and down a corridor. Raising my head, I
glanced at the alarm clock, which showed 2200 , ten o'clock, triggering
an alarm in my brain that resulted in an attempt at a vertical take-off. I'd
been lying on one arm, which felt all big and clumsy and useless, as far as I
could feel it at all. It tingled back to life as I ran, jerking open the front
door. Hobbes was standing there, his fist again raised for knocking and, though
I'd been expecting him, I gasped and cringed.
'Evening,'
he said. 'Good chips?'
'Oh
… umm … yes. Very good.'
'Excellent.'
He smiled. 'D'you fancy the graveyard shift?'
Not
really, I thought, the rain pounding down with renewed vigour. Nevertheless, I
nodded, for the evening might lead to a fantastic article, assuming I ever got
down to writing anything.
'Great,
get your things and we'll be off.'
Grabbing
a thick jumper, the front curry-stained, stinking a bit of sweat under the arms,
yet the warmest top I'd got, and pulling it on, I looked around for my cagoule,
before remembering it was still in the office. I disinterred a dusty old anorak
from under the bed and, before I'd really woken up, found myself back in the
car, hurtling through the darkness. After a short while we turned onto the
Fenderton Road.
'Are
we going to Mr Roman's house again?'
'No,'
said Hobbes, sounding puzzled, 'we're on the graveyard shift.'
'Yeah,
so you said, but where are we going?'
He
gave me a glance and replied slowly, as if to a simpleton, 'To the graveyard.'
'Umm
… the cemetery?'
The
night was very dark and very stormy.
'Precisely.
We're going to be doing some surveillance.'
'In
the cemetery? Why?'
'I
have received information that a person, or persons well-known, might attempt a
little grave robbing. We're going to watch and ensure no harm is done.'
I
wished I were back in my flat.
'It
might be a long night,' he said, turning onto a side road with a squeal of
tyres.
After
a short distance, he stopped on the kerb in a spot offering a panoramic view of
the cemetery, if it hadn't been so dark, and, reaching into the back, pulled
out a paper bag. 'Have a doughnut. Mrs Goodfellow made them.'
I
took one, though I wasn't hungry. It was rather good and cheered me up a little.
Then we sat and stared into the darkness, the windows steaming up, time crawling
into the bleak, small hours. When I couldn't take any more, I flopped into the
back, huddling beneath a musty old tartan blanket and
move or noise might set off the avalanche. I'd been terrified half the day, yet
I'd come to no actual harm, though I feared for the state of my nervous system.
I guessed that with luck, in time, assuming I survived, I would get used to
him. Oh God! I hoped I wouldn't have time to get used to him. I raised my
hands. They appeared steady and for a moment I felt good about my nerves of
steel, until I realised my whole body was trembling in time.
Finding
my way to the bedroom, lying on the bed, burying my face in the pillow, I let
loose the fear that had been growing throughout the day. It emerged as a long,
long, long scream, from the soul, from the guts and most of all from the lungs.
I counted myself fortunate I'd had the foresight to muffle it, just in case
anyone heard and called the police, for Hobbes might have been sent round to
investigate and might have been angry I'd disturbed his supper. He might … in
fact, what might he do? In truth, and in his own way, he'd looked after me. He
was an enigma. He was a monster. He was a policeman. He was someone I ought to
be writing about.
A sharp crackle of rain on the window and the
wind humming and whistling drove me to snuggle under the duvet. It sounded as if
we were in for a fine storm and my tatty little flat had never felt so cosy or
so safe.
Not
meaning to fall asleep, I awoke to the storm rattling the windows and beating
against my front door. As consciousness slowly returned I wondered how that
could be, for my flat was upstairs and down a corridor. Raising my head, I
glanced at the alarm clock, which showed 2200 , ten o'clock, triggering
an alarm in my brain that resulted in an attempt at a vertical take-off. I'd
been lying on one arm, which felt all big and clumsy and useless, as far as I
could feel it at all. It tingled back to life as I ran, jerking open the front
door. Hobbes was standing there, his fist again raised for knocking and, though
I'd been expecting him, I gasped and cringed.
'Evening,'
he said. 'Good chips?'
'Oh
… umm … yes. Very good.'
'Excellent.'
He smiled. 'D'you fancy the graveyard shift?'
Not
really, I thought, the rain pounding down with renewed vigour. Nevertheless, I
nodded, for the evening might lead to a fantastic article, assuming I ever got
down to writing anything.
'Great,
get your things and we'll be off.'
Grabbing
a thick jumper, the front curry-stained, stinking a bit of sweat under the arms,
yet the warmest top I'd got, and pulling it on, I looked around for my cagoule,
before remembering it was still in the office. I disinterred a dusty old anorak
from under the bed and, before I'd really woken up, found myself back in the
car, hurtling through the darkness. After a short while we turned onto the
Fenderton Road.
'Are
we going to Mr Roman's house again?'
'No,'
said Hobbes, sounding puzzled, 'we're on the graveyard shift.'
'Yeah,
so you said, but where are we going?'
He
gave me a glance and replied slowly, as if to a simpleton, 'To the graveyard.'
'Umm
… the cemetery?'
The
night was very dark and very stormy.
'Precisely.
We're going to be doing some surveillance.'
'In
the cemetery? Why?'
'I
have received information that a person, or persons well-known, might attempt a
little grave robbing. We're going to watch and ensure no harm is done.'
I
wished I were back in my flat.
'It
might be a long night,' he said, turning onto a side road with a squeal of
tyres.
After
a short distance, he stopped on the kerb in a spot offering a panoramic view of
the cemetery, if it hadn't been so dark, and, reaching into the back, pulled
out a paper bag. 'Have a doughnut. Mrs Goodfellow made them.'
I
took one, though I wasn't hungry. It was rather good and cheered me up a little.
Then we sat and stared into the darkness, the windows steaming up, time crawling
into the bleak, small hours. When I couldn't take any more, I flopped into the
back, huddling beneath a musty old tartan blanket and
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