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

once.’
    ‘I
will do no such thing,’ said the man in the brown cardigan.
    ‘You
are laying yourself open to a charge of assault and false imprisonment if you
choose to continue this ridiculous charade.’
    Twisting
free, I turned to face the voice.
    ‘He
damaged this book and refuses to pay for it,’ said the man in the cardigan.
    ‘No,
he didn’t. I chanced to see what really happened,’ said a tall man, with sleek,
dark hair and striking, green eyes, parting the mob. ‘You took the book from
this unfortunate man’s hand and damaged it yourself before putting the blame on
him.’
    I
nodded. The man in the cardigan, his face as red as I imagined mine was, backed
away. ‘That’s a lie. He did it.’
    ‘No
doubt you have security tapes,’ said the tall man. ‘Can we perhaps examine them
and see who’s telling the truth?’
    ‘Oh.
Well, perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps it would be best to say no more about it
then,’ said the man in the cardigan, retreating behind his counter, breathing
hard, his face now white.
    The
crowd dispersed, disappointed.
    ‘Thank
you,’ I said to my rescuer.
    ‘Don’t
mention it,’ he replied, turning away, walking towards the exit.
    Although
I knew with absolute certainty I’d never seen him before, for some reason he
seemed extraordinarily familiar. I watched him leave the shop, impressed by his
easy walk, the cut of his black suit, how he looked so cool despite the heat
and, most of all, by his confident manner. I envied his elegance, something to
which I could never aspire, for even if the cream of Savile Row tailors had poured
their expertise into a suit for me, I’d still have looked like a sack of
potatoes with a belt round the middle. Then, since the man in the cardigan was
giving me the evil eye again, I walked out before he could rally and launch a
fresh, unprovoked attack.
    My
feet, with little input from my brain, carried me to the recreation ground just
off Moorend Road, where, sitting on a bench in the shade of a conker tree, I
watched two guys knocking a ball around on the tennis court. I paid them little
attention, since my mind was circling in a galaxy far, far away, trying to work
out why my benefactor in the shop had seemed familiar. I returned to earth with
a bang as a tennis ball struck me on the nose, exactly where the car keys had
hit earlier. Putting my hands to my face, I felt no surprise at the smear of
blood as I pulled them away.
    A
harsh voice bellowed from the tennis court. ‘Oi, Caplet, you dozy git! Wake up
and chuck the ball back.’
    There
was no hint of apology and though my eyes watered so I could only see blurs, I knew
it was Len ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the gross landlord of the Feathers public
house. I would never have suspected him capable of playing tennis, or of
engaging in any physical exertion, other than raising a glass or brawling with
his customers; Mrs Goodfellow had picked much of her tooth collection from the
floor of his establishment. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I clamped it
to my nose.
    ‘Come
on Caplet, shift your lazy arse.’
    My
vision clearing, I found the sight of Featherlight in pink, flowery shorts
almost as disconcerting as the blood pumping from my nose. I picked up the
ball, throwing it back, staring in horror. His shorts, obviously designed for a
person of considerably inferior girth, had perhaps fitted him a quarter of a century
ago, when such garments had briefly and inexplicably achieved fashionable
status. In addition, he was wearing a pair of mildewed plimsolls and his
habitual stained vest, through which gingery chest hairs protruded. His
opponent, by comparison, was a young, athletic man, clad in the sort of
gleaming whites that detergent manufacturers often promise but rarely deliver.
    If
ever there was a mismatch, this was it. Featherlight, his belly swinging low,
twirling a warped wooden racket between sausage fingers, was puffing and
wheezing, looking done in even before they’d completed