Read Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) for Free Online

I’d
demolished a Volvo while creating the ‘Leaning Tree of Fenderton’, as the Bugle dubbed it. Not that it leaned anymore; last January, having decided enough was
enough during a storm, it had lain down across the main Fenderton Road, holding
up the rush-hour traffic for several hours while the chainsaws reduced it to
bite-sized chunks. Hobbes had since offered me driving lessons, but I’d
declined. It seemed wisest.
    Pulling
his mobile phone from his pocket, he handed it to me. ‘See if he can pick us
up. His number’s in the menu under “D”.’
    ‘OK.
“D” for dwarf.’
    ‘No,
“D” for driver,’ said Hobbes and attempted a smile. ‘You’re under “D” too.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘No,
not “A”; “D” for don’t let him drive.’ His attempted chuckle turned into a
soggy cough. Those pensioners didn’t know how lucky they were to be out of
earshot.
    As
I phoned Billy, who was available, didn’t sound as if he’d been drinking and
reckoned he’d be with us in about half an hour, Hobbes slumped in the shade of
a tree, groaning that he wished to be left alone.
    As
we waited, I chucked the ball round the field, keeping Dregs entertained, mostly
thinking about the wonderful woman, kicking myself for not asking her name,
though my father would, no doubt, have pointed out that she was way out of my
league. I had to admit he might have been correct, but I could dream and hope,
which are two things I was rather good at. After all, there was no accounting
for taste and, one never knew, she might have fallen under a curse, compelling
her to fancy an out-of-work, crap journalist. I might have been just her type.
These things can happen … really. In fact, at the very same moment, she might
have been feeling similar regret at not having asked for my name and telephone
number. My hand feeling the smoothness of my chin, I was grateful for Hobbes’s Christmas
gift of an electric razor, something I used nearly every day. I wished I’d
managed to buy him a little more than a bumper bag of walnuts, which had been
all I could afford. Still, he’d appeared rather pleased and had eaten them all,
though I would have preferred it if he’d removed the shells first.
    The
image of the woman’s loveliness, having burned into my brain, I knew I’d never
forget her face, her eyes, her hair, her figure, her clothes, her everything. She’d
smiled at me and moved with such grace, her voice as warm and soft as a kitten’s
purr, and I realised with stomach-churning certainty I’d never see her again, unless,
of course, I could persuade Ellen Bloom to give me her name and number, an act
of bravery that would risk embarrassing myself further. Remembering the old saying
that faint heart never won fair lady, time and again, in between throwing the
ball for Dregs, I tried to revive my fainting heart and had probably nearly
succeeded when Billy’s hearse showed up.
    He
waved, sitting atop the pile of cushions he needed to see over the steering
wheel, operating the pedals by means of long wooden extensions. It must have
been illegal but no police officer had ever brought him to book, which I
suspected was something to do with Hobbes’s influence. Even so, Billy was an
excellent and careful driver, who retained enough sense never to try when he
was on a bender. On those occasions, he might sometimes be seen flailing down The
Shambles on a pair of roller blades that scared him silly when sober. I had
long suspected that at least part of the reason for his headaches after a night
on the booze was because he’d fallen over so often, but at least he didn’t have
far to fall.
    He
chugged towards us, stopped and jumped out. Dregs bounded up to him, an old
friend, greeting him exuberantly, jumping into the front seat, chewing his
ball.
    ‘Hiya,’
said Billy, in his high-pitched, piping voice. ‘How ya doing? You don’t look so
good.’
    ‘Thanks,’
said Hobbes with a grimace.
    ‘Have
you been messing with camels