Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin

do.’ I wagged my finger in his face.
    ‘Look
mate, I can see you’ve had too much to drink, so I’m not going to make a fuss. Just
leave her alone, walk away and try to sober up.’
    He
had a dotted line tattooed round his neck above the words, ‘cut here’. It
struck me as rather amusing and I giggled.
    His
frown deepened. ‘D’you think I’m being funny?’
    It
deepened even more when my wagging finger found its own way up his nostril.
    ‘Right,
that’s it.’ He raised his fist, ‘love’ tattooed across the knuckles.
    The
realisation that I was in for a pasting almost sobered me up. I squealed like a
snared rabbit, cringing, anticipating pain as the fist drew back. The punch
never came. Hobbes was holding it in his own great hand.
    ‘Calm
down, sir,’ he said with a shake of his head, ‘there’s no need for violence. We’re
all friends here. Andy, get your finger out. And quickly.’
    ‘Sorry.’
Freeing it, I wiped it down my trousers.
    ‘Now,’
said Hobbes, ‘what’s going on here then?’
    The
woman got to her feet. ‘He knocked me over, spilt our drinks and pinned me to
the ground.’
    ‘Is
that true, Andy?’
    ‘No.
Well … umm … yes. It’s sort of true but it was all an accident. I stepped back
to get out of her way like this …’
    A
man yelped and swore.
    ‘Sorry.’ The cider still had me in its grasp.
Stepping off his foot, I stumbled, the edge of a table coming up at me.
    I came
to, lying on my side on a hard bench somewhere cool and gloomy, my head
throbbing, women’s voices echoing as I tried to sit up. It appeared I was
inside the church. I shook my head to clear the fuzziness, a bad mistake, only
amplifying the pain, slumping back as waves of nausea overwhelmed me.
    ‘How
are you?’ a woman asked.
    ‘I’m
going to be sick.’ Sitting up abruptly, I threw up.
    Someone
thoughtful had placed a bucket next to the bench. I missed, distributing my
hotdog and cider over the stone floor, splashing a pair of elegant ladies’
shoes.
    ‘I’m
sorry,’ I said, encoring with another deluge. Closing my eyes, I held my head
in both hands, hoping the pain would subside. Someone had tied a rag round my
forehead. It felt sticky.
    ‘The
ambulance will be here in a minute. How are you feeling?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.
    ‘Awful,’
I groaned.
    ‘I’m
not surprised. I’ll go and find a mop and something to wipe your shoes.’
    ‘What’s
wrong with my shoes?’
    ‘Nothing,
dear, I was talking to this young lady.’
    I
was intrigued, though everything seemed to be very distant and getting further
away. ‘Umm … good. Who’s the ambulance for?’
    ‘For
you,’ said a woman with a soft, comforting purr that made me think of rich
velvet.
    ‘For
me?’ It sounded unlikely. All I needed was a rest and maybe a new brain.
    ‘Yes.
You banged your head.’
    She
sounded like the beautiful lady at the Wildlife Park. I risked opening my eyes.
It was her. Again, I retched, the hot, sharp taste of vomit stinging my throat.
‘I’m so sorry.’
    ‘Mind
yourself, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, clattering a metal bucket, wielding a
dreadlocked mop. I lay back, groaning, as she swilled away my mess. What would
the beautiful lady think of me now? It had been bad enough throwing myself at
her feet but throwing up on her feet was such a horrible thing to do. I
wondered if I was cursed. I always messed up with women.
    The
church doors opened and a man and woman dressed in green entered. The light hurt
my eyes and blurred my vision.
    ‘Hello,
sir’ said the green man. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘It’s
…’ I said, ‘it’s on the tip of my tongue.’
    ‘How
are you feeling?’
    ‘I
have a headache but I think someone’s had an accident.’
    ‘How
many fingers am I holding up?’
    ‘Yes.
Why not?’
    ‘I
think we’d better get him to casualty,’ said the green woman.
    I
wondered about whom she was talking. ‘Has there been an accident?’
    ‘Yes,’
said the green man, untying the