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

rag round my head. It came away red.
    ‘Someone’s
cut themselves,’ I said. ‘You’d better make sure they’re OK.’
    My
recollection after that is fragmentary. They wheeled me to an ambulance and a
pigeon flew overhead, while a man with a bald head said ‘sorry.’ I couldn’t
imagine why. When they loaded me into the back, the beautiful lady looked in, looking
worried. It felt good until Mrs Goodfellow’s voice impinged.
    ‘I
wouldn’t worry about him too much, he’s got a good, thick skull. Do you think
they’ll give him a brain scan? I wonder if they’ll find anything?’
    ‘Poor
man,’ said the lady.
    The
doors closed.
     
     
6
    The
rocking motion would have put me to sleep had the green man, who seemed to
think he was in an ambulance, not insisted on talking to me. When, at last,
everything went still, the door opened and they wheeled me into an echoing
building with a white ceiling. Now and then something bumped and pain jolted
through my head, making it spin, yet, on another level, everything seemed a
long way away, as if I were drifting like a balloon. A Casualty sign hanging
from shiny chains above my head, it dawned on me that there’d been an accident
and, since my head was hurting, I wondered whether I might have been involved.
    A
thin lad in a white coat, a stethoscope dangling around his neck, appeared
above me. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t I know you?’
    He
was familiar, though last time I’d seen him he’d been less blurry and there’d
been only one of him. My head throbbed, throwing up a memory. ‘You’re Dr Finlay
and you’ve heard all the jokes.’
    ‘That’s
correct and you’re Mr Andrew Caplet. I remember meeting you after the fire.
Nice to see you again. Now, I want you to lie still while I take a look at you.
A nasty bang on the head, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll soon be on the mend.’
    Flashing
a torch into my eyes, he asked loads of questions. I answered those I could but
he seemed to think I should know something about a fete, when all I wanted to
talk about was a beautiful woman. Apparently, I spent the afternoon and evening
under observation, though I slept through most of it when my headache allowed,
for they wouldn’t let me take anything for the pain. I was told I also
underwent a CT scan and that I cheered when Dr Finlay said it showed absolutely
nothing wrong with my brain that a couple of days of rest and quiet wouldn’t
cure. I asked him to let Mrs Goodfellow know.
    Next
morning, still delicate, though feeling much better, I lay in a white bed
behind curtains, a pretty nurse with a sympathetic smile and a scent of soap, checking
up on me from time to time. At some point, with a clattering and a nauseating
smell of burned grease, my breakfast, charred bacon and leathery eggs, with
bread that had been toasted just enough to dry out, without browning, arrived.
I made an attempt at it but didn’t much fancy staying for lunch. However, Dr
Finlay, looking in, allayed my worries.
    ‘Good
morning,’ he said. ‘How are you today?’
    ‘Not
too bad, apart from a sore head and feeling a bit confused.’
    ‘That’s
perfectly normal after a minor head injury, though I expect it feels like a
major injury from your side. Tilt your head, please … good. You have a
magnificent goose egg on your forehead, or it would be magnificent if we hadn’t
put a couple of stitches in – they’ll drop out in a few days.’
    Nodding,
I yawned. I couldn’t remember being stitched, which was good because I’d always
feared needles. The lump, beneath a sticking plaster, was very tender.
    ‘You’ll
probably notice that you tire easily in the next week or so. Listen to your
body and take plenty of rest. How’s your vision?’
    ‘It’s
… umm … fine now. It was all fuzzy yesterday, I think. Like my memory.’
    ‘Excellent.
And your speech patterns are normal. You were perseverating yesterday.’
    The
blood rose to my cheeks. ‘Oh God, I wasn’t, was I? I’m ever