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

so sorry, I didn’t
know what I was doing … Umm … What was I doing?’
    ‘Perseverating
– you had a tendency to repeat yourself – a classic symptom of a concussion.’
    ‘Oh,
is that all?’
    ‘Yes.
Well, Mr Caplet, in my opinion you’ll be fit enough to go home in a couple of
hours. Will there be anyone to look after you?’
    I
nodded, cheered by the prospect of getting home for Sunday lunch, wondering
what the old girl was cooking, hoping there’d be plenty for me.
    ‘Excellent.
Remember, plenty of rest and quiet and don’t go back to work for at least five
days.’
    I
smiled, approving Dr Finlay’s instructions, the sort I could agree to follow
without hesitation or guilt. His bleeper sounding, he left me to doze.
    Just
after twelve o’clock, Hobbes stomped into the ward, his head appearing round
the curtain. ‘The hospital called to say you can come home. How are you?’
    ‘Much
better, but the doctor says I need rest and quiet.’ I was hoping to influence
his driving.
    I
needn’t have worried. On leaving the hospital, I found he hadn’t come in the
car, instead bringing Dregs and the little cart, to which he’d fitted a
three-legged stool from the kitchen. Dregs, taking it all in his stride as I
sat down, set off, trotting by Hobbes’s side. At first, I squirmed with
embarrassment, though few people were out and about in town, but after a while,
to my amazement, I began to enjoy the ride, feeling safe and comfortable, if
eccentric. The town glistened with the sprinklings of an overnight downpour,
the streets steaming under the sun’s power.
    ‘It’s
a fine cart,’ I said.
    Hobbes
agreed. ‘It is. If you’d hung around a little longer yesterday, you’d have seen
him giving rides round the fete in it. The children loved him and he raised
more money than any other attraction, though the lass might have matched him if
she hadn’t run out of ginger beer.’
    ‘She
makes good stuff,’ I said. ‘I wish I’d stuck to it. That cider was lethal.’
    Hobbes
chuckled. ‘It nearly was, wasn’t it? They’re talking about renaming it “Dozy
Headbanger” in your memory.’
    I
grimaced. ‘How did you get on in the flower show? Did you win?’
    He
shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, though they awarded me a certificate for the
most original use of delphiniums, which was nice of them.’
    ‘Shame.
Umm … by the way, have there been any more big cat sightings?’
    ‘Not
as such, but a bird watcher reported a large paw-print in Loop Woods. I took
Dregs up to have a look this morning but, unfortunately, some lads had been
motor biking and everything was churned up. There were no signs of cats and the
whole place stank of two-stroke.’
    ‘If
there really was a big cat on the loose, would they get someone to shoot it?’
    ‘Not
if I had my way,’ said Hobbes.
    ‘What
would you do?’
    ‘Catch
it.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘With
stealth, cunning and a big sack.’
    ‘Then
what?’
    ‘Find
it somewhere to live where it can’t be hurt by anyone and where it can’t hurt
the public.’
    His answer came as some relief, for I’d got
it into my head that, if he found one, and caught it, he’d bring it home.
Having a panther in the house would not be good for my state of mind,
especially when I needed to rest.
    All
went well until, reaching Blackdog Street, Hobbes, pulling the keys from his
pocket, strode up the steps to the front door. Dregs, forgetting what he was
doing, bounded after him. The cart’s wheels bounced and skipped and, though I
grasped the stool with desperate hands, I tipped out backwards with a yelp,
bracing myself for a heavy fall. I never hit the floor. Hobbes, diving full
length down the steps, caught me.
    ‘Sorry,’
he said, standing up, setting me down. ‘That wasn’t much of a start to your
course of peace and rest. Are you alright?’
    ‘I’m
alright, but what about you?’
    The
knees of his baggy, old trousers were torn and his elbows, poking through the
sleeves of his