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

vindictive, person had dropped a
full drink from the balcony and, though I’d been fortunate a safety-conscious
management had replaced glasses with plastics, it had left a deep impression on
the bridge of my nose and a bloody mess down my shirt.
    The
acrid stink of smoke in my nose, my eyes were already running with tears as I
leapt up, running to the kitchen, where heavy, yellowish, greasy smoke was billowing
from the grill. I was coughing like a sixty-a-day man, my potato and cheese
belching fumes like a pair of miniature volcanoes, erupting into orange flame as
I tugged the pan from under the heat. I tipped the whole lot into the sink, spinning
the taps to full throttle, watching as, with a sad hiss, the fires dying, the
potato halves collapsed in on themselves, leaving a blackened, soggy mess. Throwing
open the back door and window, I flapped a tea towel to disperse the smog,
dreading what Hobbes would say when he woke up, for it wasn’t the first time I’d
nearly set fire to his kitchen and, since the reason I was staying there was
because I’d accidentally burned my old flat down, I feared he might regard me
as a liability.
    Though
I was fortunate there were two closed doors between him and the kitchen, I was
sure he’d notice the smell, unless I cleaned up as well as possible. Finding a
bucket and cleaning stuff, I scrubbed every surface I could reach until I was
dripping with sweat, and then spritzed air freshener all around; it turned out
to be fly spray but it did mask the pong quite effectively.
    Afterwards, my culinary confidence dented
beyond repair, I resorted to cold baked beans à la tin, eating in the garden,
resolving to pay much more attention next time Mrs G was cooking. Then, before
turning in, and much to Dregs’s disgust, I splashed bleach around, hoping the
pungent fumes would mask any underlying odours and that Hobbes would think I’d
merely decided to clean up.
    As I
lay in bed that night, thinking of the music festival, I hoped I’d find a way
to get there, despite what had happened at the last one I’d sort of been to as
a schoolboy. It had started when my mate Baz, spotting a poster for a free
festival, grew really excited at the bands listed and, though they’d meant
little to me, I’d allowed myself to be dragged along in the slipstream of his
enthusiasm. I’d agreed to go with him, providing I could get father’s
permission, something I’d thought unlikely with the festival taking place
during term time, albeit over a weekend. To my surprise, he’d said yes.
    Just
after tea on the Friday evening, Baz’s mum had given us a lift to the farm
hosting the event, dropping us off with our rucksacks and a tent we’d borrowed
from Baz’s sister. We’d been surprised – and not a little proud – to be the
first arrivals. Tramping across a squelchy field that had quite obviously been
home for many cows, we found what we considered a suitable spot and set to
pitching the tent. The sky was already darkening when we started the argument
about which one of us should have brought a torch and, by the time we’d called
a truce, we could really have done with one, if only to read the instructions.
Instead, opening the tent bag, tipping everything out, we used the grope,
stumble and curse method, taking an hour at least to contrive something
tent-like.
     Then,
while I held it together, Baz, picking up the rubber mallet, attempted to knock
in the pegs. Taking a massive overhead swing, he struck the first peg a mighty blow,
bending it in half, as the mallet, rebounding, gave him a fat lip. Our strained
friendship could have done without my heartless laughter. Still, in the end, we
succeeded in pegging it down. We then spent another half-hour discussing
whether we needed the flysheet; Baz, insisting that we wouldn’t since it was
too cold for flies, won the argument on the grounds that it was his sister’s
tent. We were well past the tetchy stage when, at last, we chucked our gear
inside and