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

the knock up. At last they
started. He served, tossing the ball high into the air, raising his racket, swinging
like a professional, giving his opponent no chance; the match was over before
the ball even hit the ground. He’d won by a knockout. Raising his massive, mottled
arms to the sky in triumph, picking up the ball, he lumbered to the other end
of the court to retrieve his racket. It was lying beside his fallen opponent. Squatting,
he removed a ten pound note from the man’s top pocket, grunted and strode away,
without looking back.
    As
I hurried to the victim to see if I could be of assistance, he sat up, spitting
blood and groaning. We made a fine pair.
    ‘Umm
… Are you alright?’ I asked.
    ‘Do
I look alright?’
    ‘Sorry.’
    He
held out his hand and I shook it.
    ‘Actually,’
he said, ‘I was hoping for a hand up.’
    I
helped him to his feet. ‘Why were you playing Featherlight?’
    ‘For
a bet.’
    ‘You
should never bet against him,’ I said. ‘You can’t win. One way or another, even
if he loses, he comes out on top. I once got lucky and beat him at darts and
won a fiver. When he actually paid up, I felt pretty pleased but, when I was
taking my darts from the board, he threw one of his, and pinned my hand to it. Then
he charged me ten pounds for cleaning off the blood.’
    The
man snorted and packed his kit away into a smart leather bag bearing a crown
symbol and a King Enterprises logo. ‘Binks might have won the bet but he won’t
win in the end. Mr King wants to take over his pub and Mr King always gets his
way.’ With a curt nod, he walked away, holding a tissue to his mouth.
    He
left me with a puzzle. Why would anyone wish to buy the Feathers? It had a
reputation as far and away the nastiest, most dangerous pub in Sorenchester,
though it retained a loyal clientele. In addition, Featherlight, to the despair
of the council, had become a sort of unofficial tourist attraction, with people
visiting the Feathers because they couldn’t believe the rumours. Few left
disappointed, for Featherlight really was the vilest slob of a landlord you
could hope never to meet. He kept his beer badly, refused to serve wine or soft
drinks and his spirits were ‘interesting’, and I knew of one customer who,
having asked for a glass of his best malt, had been given malt vinegar. The fun
really began if anyone complained; few dared and fewer dared a second time. The
really intrepid even ate there. No one had died yet.
    By
then my nose had stopped bleeding, so I decided to head home and clean up. Though
the sun had dipped well into the west, the afternoon’s heat continued to build.
If I’d had any lager money I would have visited the Feathers to find out about
the take-over. However, I was broke and it wasn’t wise to ask for credit. There
was a hand-written sign over the bar with the legend, ‘If you ask for credit,
you’ll get a punch in the mouth’. It wasn’t a joke.
    When
I got home, it seemed very still, so I assumed Mrs Goodfellow had gone out and
that Hobbes and Dregs weren’t back. I went upstairs, washed my face, came back
down and poured myself a glass of Mrs G’s ginger beer, which she made in the
cellar but stored in the fridge. I made a point of avoiding the cellar, because
the old girl had a tendency to lock me in. According to Hobbes, this was a
result of a childhood trauma and I wasn’t to take it seriously. It was, he claimed,
just a sign of affection but it didn’t stop him moaning whenever she did it to
him. Besides, there was another reason for avoiding the cellar: it contained a
hidden door that Hobbes had warned me against opening. He gave good warnings
and my stomach still quaked when I remembered it. I reasoned that, if I kept
away, I wouldn’t be tempted to explore, but sometimes, waking at night, I lay
and wondered about its secrets.
    The
ginger beer, tingling on my tongue, cooled my throat. Emptying the glass, I refilled
it and sat at the kitchen table with the