Inspector Hobbes and the Bones by Wilkie Martin

Author:Wilkie Martin [Wilkie Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

19

Although the road conditions were reasonably good around town, our return to Blackdog Street was at a leisurely pace, which was alarming, since he normally only drove responsibly when there was a real danger to people, or when something was troubling him. I kept quiet, and vowed to stay clear of the sitting room after we’d eaten, because I had no need to guess what would happen then, and knew he’d put the fear of Hobbes into me if I was too close. It was an unfortunate and deeply disturbing quirk of his to release excess stress by crunching up a pile of raw bones. At such times, which were happily rare, there was something so feral and dangerous in his manner that it gave me the shakes, as if I were a helpless little lamb in a tiger’s den, and, although he’d never actually done anything to hurt me, he’d given the impression of being out of control, of having cast off the veneer of civilisation. I’d seen the savage horror of his ‘unhuman’ self, and had been truly terrified.

On the plus side, there was lunch to look forward to.

The scent on entering 13 Blackdog Street, a heady mix of freshly baked bread and something rich and savoury, immediately set me drooling, though I had to endure a cruel wait while Hobbes updated the old girl about the dog’s condition, and lingered forever over saying grace. Still, the wait was worth it when she presented us with a magnificent golden pea soup, so thick my spoon almost stood up on its own, with croutons that were so light and crunchy that I nearly wept for pleasure. It was served with warm, buttered freshly-made garlic bread that was so toothsome it drove the forthcoming dread from my mind.

For a short while.

As soon as we’d finished, a change came over Hobbes. Mrs Goodfellow, with a nod at me, a warning to stay clear, picked up a handful of old newspapers and took them through to the sitting room. Hobbes followed, growling and twitching, his dark eyes as cold as a shark’s. She returned, took a blood-stained brown paper parcel from the larder, carried it to the sitting room door, and threw it in. I heard Hobbes snarl, and felt the thud as he pounced on the parcel.

Then, I blocked my ears so I didn’t have to hear the slathering and the shocking cracks as his great teeth crunched through the bones as easily as mine did through digestive biscuits. I could only feel relief that the fit had not come upon him at the mortuary.

After a short while, Mrs Goodfellow handed me a mug of sweet tea and it was all over. I thanked her and sipped as Hobbes’s footsteps clunked upstairs. Moments later he was roaring, only this time, there was pure exhilaration in his voice as the dangerous shower washed away the meat and bone scraps, and any residues of stress. I’d just started on my second mug when he returned, clean, in fresh clothes, and with a grin on his face.

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