Free Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin Page B

last time my life had gone belly
up. As for him? He'd love letting me know just how useless I was, pointing out
every mistake I'd ever made from childhood onwards. I couldn't do it to myself;
there had to be another option.
    'If
you're really stuck,' said Hobbes, 'I've got a spare room.'
    I
listened, considering the proposal, highlighting just how low I'd sunk. Those
were my choices: Hobbes or my parents.
    'Thank
you,' I said at last. 'I am really stuck and your spare room seems my best
option.' God help me, I thought.
    'Great.'
He grinned. 'I'll let Mrs Goodfellow know, so she can make up a bed.'
    'Oh
good,' I said. Incredible though it might seem, I'd forgotten her. Maybe it was
self-defence, for there are only so many horrors a mind can hold. 'I've got no
clothes, or money, apart from this cheque.' I read it. It was for five hundred
pounds and made out to Andrew Capstan. The Editorsaurus had got my first name
right.
    'I'll
get Mrs Goodfellow to sort you out some clothes and pick you up tomorrow.'
    'Thank
you.' Despite everything, I really meant it.
    Then I slept.
    Shortly
after breakfast, a cheerful Dr Finlay told me I was fit to go, though he
advised taking it easy and keeping the dressing on my hand for a day or two. I
sat up in bed, wishing I didn't have to leave. It had been pleasant to lie
between clean sheets and have nurses caring for me.
    'Hello,
dear.' Mrs Goodfellow was standing by my bed, her eyes bright as a cat's in the
morning sun. My body jolted with the shock and my heart thumped like a drum
roll. Somehow, I found myself standing on the floor with the bed between us.
    'Did
I shock you?' she beamed. 'That's a nice frock you're wearing. I didn't know
you liked women's clothing or I'd have brought you some.'
    'I
don't normally wear this sort of stuff,' I explained. 'This is just a gown they
put on me because I lost all my clothes, man clothes, in the fire.'
    'Have
it your own way, dear. I don't mind. The old fellow says we have to live and
let live and I reckon he's right. I hope these suit you.'
    Hauling
a battered leather case onto the bed, she opened it, pulling out a carefully
folded tweed suit in rusty-herringbone, a gleaming white shirt, a silk tie with
a subtle flower pattern that matched the suit exactly, a pair of thick black socks,
white cotton underwear, a pair of glossy brown brogues and a white linen
handkerchief. Everything looked old-fashioned and I was more a jeans and
sweater person, yet they were all I'd got and, until I could get Rex to change
the name on the cheque, all I seemed likely to get. It struck me I really was
penniless and destitute and reliant on Hobbes's charity.
    'They
look OK, thanks,' I said. 'Umm … would you mind turning your back while I put
them on?'
    'Bashful
are you, dear?' she twinkled but turned around and sat on the bed.
    I
dressed, surprised how everything fitted perfectly, though it felt stiff and
heavy compared to my usual garb. I noticed the faint odours of cigar smoke and
lavender and wished I could see myself.
    'Very
smart, dear, now, come along and I'll take you home.'
    'Thank you.'
    She
led the way from the hospital at a surprising pace, down the hill, past the
supermarket, up Goat Street, along Rampart Street, Golden Gate Lane and finally
to Blackdog Street. Though, she'd swapped her wellingtons for a pair of
trainers, the rest of her, apart from the absence of a pinafore, was as I
remembered: a green headscarf that didn't quite match her woolly, yellow cardigan
and a voluminous, brown and cream checked skirt. The sun shone on my arrival at
Hobbes's.
    'Here
we are.' Unlocking the door to number 13, she stepped inside.
    Taking
a deep breath, I followed as she led me upstairs, opening the door into the end
room. I was pleasantly surprised, if puzzled. It was a good size, with bare
white walls, low black beams, a polished wood floor, a dressing table with a
stool and a small wardrobe. What it lacked, was a bed.
    'The
old fellow,' she said, 'asked me to make up