Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin Page A
Authors: Wilkie Martin
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dozing.
The
car was buffeted by the pounding fist of a wind, howling in rage that anything
dared stand in its way. Hobbes flicked on the windscreen wipers, combatting a
fresh spattering of rain, sitting up abruptly as distant white headlights
pierced the sodden darkness, illuminating the grinning grey headstones. When
the lights turned away down Tompot Lane, he sighed, slouching back into his
seat.
'It's
on nights like this,' he remarked, 'that I wish I was tucked up in bed with the
wife.'
'Really?
I didn't think you were married?'
'I'm
not but I can wish, can't I? Any doughnuts left?'
'No,
sorry.' I emerged from the comforting warmth of the blanket, shivering. 'What
time is it?'
'Nearly
two. Looks like they're not coming. Hold on … what's this?'
He
leaned forward, peering in the mirror, and I turned to see the vague shape of a
car rolling down the hill towards us, lights off, vanishing now and again in
the shadows. Hobbes sank down his seat, presumably in an effort to remain
inconspicuous and, despite my fatigue and the cold, I chuckled. There could
never be the remotest chance of him hiding in such a small car; it would be
like trying to conceal a warthog in a wheelbarrow. Yet, I had little time for
amusement with the other car approaching slowly, silently, as the hairs on my
scalp stiffened. I couldn't see the driver and had a sudden horror that it was
a ghost car. Although I'd heard whispers of strangeness happening in the
vicinity of Hobbes, I'd never expected anything like this. When it drew
alongside, I nearly wet myself. It was a hearse.
My
mouth, opening and shutting involuntarily, only a feeble, stuttering whimper
escaping, I stared wide-eyed over the edge of the window as the driver's door
opened. The shriek that had been growing inside burst from dry lips and I fell
back quivering.
'Oh,
do be quiet, Andy,' Hobbes growled. 'This is supposed to be covert
surveillance.'
I'd
read books in which a character supposedly growls but, before meeting Hobbes,
I'd just taken it as a literary affectation. Dogs and lions might growl but
people didn't, except for him; he could growl fiercer than any of them.
Still,
it had its effect and shut me up. I'd discovered one of the advantages of
working with him that I failed to appreciate for some time: no matter how scary
things got, he could always be scarier.
I
heard a click, the front passenger door opened, clean night air blowing away
the greasy doughnut fug and the faint animal odour.
'Evening,'
said Hobbes.
He'd
spoken to no one. At least, to no one I could see.
'Wotcha,'
said a high-pitched voice.
'What's
the word on the street?'
I
struggled up, staring through the open door into the black night. The driver
wasn't, in fact, invisible, he was just short: very short. I'd seen him in
town, now and again, mostly at the Feathers, where, bizarrely, he seemed to get
on well with Featherlight, often working behind the bar.
'I
can't stop, guv, but I thought you might be interested in some news. You
scratch my back, y'know? Cos I'm a bit short this month.'
'Cheers,
Billy,' said Hobbes, handing him a twenty pound note.
Billy
grinning, screwed it up, thrusting it into his trouser pocket. 'Ta, guv. Right,
the guys are gonna do it tonight, like I told you, but they're gonna do it in
St Stephen's down Moorend. The rain's made it too wet to dig here and there's
better drainage at St Stephens. Plus, their bike broke and it ain't so far for
'em to walk.'
'Great
work.'
The
dwarf nodded, returned to his hearse and drove away. It seemed to dissolve into
the night.
'Good
man, that,' said Hobbes. 'He keeps his ear close to the ground.'
I
nearly remarked that he kept all of himself pretty close to the ground, but something
in Hobbes's expression suggested it might not go down too well. Instead, I
asked a question. 'Why did he come here in a hearse?'
'Because it was too far to walk.' His reply
had an unanswerable logic.
The
engine bursting into life, the acceleration flinging
The
car was buffeted by the pounding fist of a wind, howling in rage that anything
dared stand in its way. Hobbes flicked on the windscreen wipers, combatting a
fresh spattering of rain, sitting up abruptly as distant white headlights
pierced the sodden darkness, illuminating the grinning grey headstones. When
the lights turned away down Tompot Lane, he sighed, slouching back into his
seat.
'It's
on nights like this,' he remarked, 'that I wish I was tucked up in bed with the
wife.'
'Really?
I didn't think you were married?'
'I'm
not but I can wish, can't I? Any doughnuts left?'
'No,
sorry.' I emerged from the comforting warmth of the blanket, shivering. 'What
time is it?'
'Nearly
two. Looks like they're not coming. Hold on … what's this?'
He
leaned forward, peering in the mirror, and I turned to see the vague shape of a
car rolling down the hill towards us, lights off, vanishing now and again in
the shadows. Hobbes sank down his seat, presumably in an effort to remain
inconspicuous and, despite my fatigue and the cold, I chuckled. There could
never be the remotest chance of him hiding in such a small car; it would be
like trying to conceal a warthog in a wheelbarrow. Yet, I had little time for
amusement with the other car approaching slowly, silently, as the hairs on my
scalp stiffened. I couldn't see the driver and had a sudden horror that it was
a ghost car. Although I'd heard whispers of strangeness happening in the
vicinity of Hobbes, I'd never expected anything like this. When it drew
alongside, I nearly wet myself. It was a hearse.
My
mouth, opening and shutting involuntarily, only a feeble, stuttering whimper
escaping, I stared wide-eyed over the edge of the window as the driver's door
opened. The shriek that had been growing inside burst from dry lips and I fell
back quivering.
'Oh,
do be quiet, Andy,' Hobbes growled. 'This is supposed to be covert
surveillance.'
I'd
read books in which a character supposedly growls but, before meeting Hobbes,
I'd just taken it as a literary affectation. Dogs and lions might growl but
people didn't, except for him; he could growl fiercer than any of them.
Still,
it had its effect and shut me up. I'd discovered one of the advantages of
working with him that I failed to appreciate for some time: no matter how scary
things got, he could always be scarier.
I
heard a click, the front passenger door opened, clean night air blowing away
the greasy doughnut fug and the faint animal odour.
'Evening,'
said Hobbes.
He'd
spoken to no one. At least, to no one I could see.
'Wotcha,'
said a high-pitched voice.
'What's
the word on the street?'
I
struggled up, staring through the open door into the black night. The driver
wasn't, in fact, invisible, he was just short: very short. I'd seen him in
town, now and again, mostly at the Feathers, where, bizarrely, he seemed to get
on well with Featherlight, often working behind the bar.
'I
can't stop, guv, but I thought you might be interested in some news. You
scratch my back, y'know? Cos I'm a bit short this month.'
'Cheers,
Billy,' said Hobbes, handing him a twenty pound note.
Billy
grinning, screwed it up, thrusting it into his trouser pocket. 'Ta, guv. Right,
the guys are gonna do it tonight, like I told you, but they're gonna do it in
St Stephen's down Moorend. The rain's made it too wet to dig here and there's
better drainage at St Stephens. Plus, their bike broke and it ain't so far for
'em to walk.'
'Great
work.'
The
dwarf nodded, returned to his hearse and drove away. It seemed to dissolve into
the night.
'Good
man, that,' said Hobbes. 'He keeps his ear close to the ground.'
I
nearly remarked that he kept all of himself pretty close to the ground, but something
in Hobbes's expression suggested it might not go down too well. Instead, I
asked a question. 'Why did he come here in a hearse?'
'Because it was too far to walk.' His reply
had an unanswerable logic.
The
engine bursting into life, the acceleration flinging
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