In Deep - 6: Ned Pierce

Believe it or don’t, there was a time when certain elements of the local community thought that we should be trying to attract a vacation crowd, holiday-makers who would enjoy kicking up the sand along the Innsmouth foreshore during the summer break. The idea floated briefly like a hopeful balloon only to get popped by the harsh realities of life amongst the Manuxet River indigenes: the Annual Esoteric Order of Dagon Clam-Bake has many summery attractions... but not, I think, for those without an intimate knowledge of what lies beyond Devil Reef. Still, some effort was made and several bungalows along the beachfront were raised out of their terminal senescence to become vacation cabins, only to once more subside into the mouldering decay that is the hallmark of Innsmouth architecture. This is how I got to live in an apartment in a small complex with the unlikely title of “The Sunny Seashells Holiday Home”.

The building is a typical 1940s bungalow with a wide porch and overhanging eaves. There are dormer windows on the upper floors and a cracked concrete pathway leading first to stairs and then the front door, through a neglected garden, choked with yew and grizzled pine and generally run to seed. The once brightly coloured “Sunny Seashells” sign hangs rustily at a rakish angle near the front gate and rattles crankily in the breeze. When I first moved in, there was one of those push-along lawn mowers lying on the front turf; now the grass has grown so high, it’s anyone’s guess where it’s gotten to.

I slammed open the screen door and fiddled with my keys, juggling Rodney and his attendant paraphernalia. Once the door was open, I turned to toss my smoke at the struggling hydrangea near the front steps and that was when I spotted it: across the road and a little way to one side, a dark car was parked against the post-and-rail fence that demarcated the beachfront, trying its hardest to blend in to the wine dark sea and the distantly glowing reef beyond. Trying, but not succeeding.

I stepped inside, waving away as much smoke as I could (Mrs Pettifer, upstairs, dislikes the habit and I try not to make waves). I unlocked the door to my unit and, leaving the lights off, dumped the cylinder and laptop and then clinked apart the venetian blind slats to stare out at the suspicious car. I watched long enough to see the telltale wobble that indicated someone was moving inside and then closed the drapes and turned to other issues.

Fortunately, Rodney was a PC-man, so finding a power cable that would fit his laptop was no problem. I set him up in the breakfast nook which serves as my office: I don’t need to mention how macabre his floating brain looked, parked on my kitchen counter. I popped open the computer and the screen bloomed to life.

‘Whew!’ Rodney gasped, ‘there’s a lotta porn out there in the world...!’

I narrowed my gaze and tapped a cigarette against its packet prior to lighting it. ‘You telling me you can surf the Internet in there?’ I asked.

‘And how!’ he answered. ‘As long as there’s a signal, otherwise I just kinda drift off into psychedelia. Hey! Did we get away from that thing in the swamp?’

‘Natch,’ I said, lighting a match on the window sill, ‘when you’re in trouble, who you gonna call?’ I flapped out the flame and breathed smoke.

‘Say, Rodney,’ I said, ‘I got a project for you. Do you think you could you get a line on the Miskatonic County DMV and check a number plate for me?’ I gave him the number and make of the car outside.

His pixelated, two-dimensional face blinked a few times. ‘I dunno,’ he said, ‘I could give it a shot, I suppose...’

I stood up, scraping the chair along the linoleum. ‘You do that,’ I said, ‘meanwhile, I have some business to take care of.’

I let myself out through the back door and crept through the backyard, now a choked jungle of Monstera Deliciosa. I jumped the fence into the laneway beyond and jogged behind the houses until I came to the next street along from my building. Where this lane hit the beachfront road, there was a Chinese take-out joint opposite, the “Chauchas Black Dragon Noodle House”: many a night I’ve come home late with a steaming container of their Bak Bon Dzhow to keep me company. I trotted over to the flickering neon facade and pretended to read one of their takeaway menus, hiding unobtrusively behind the chalkboard “specials” sign advertising their toothsome White Pork. While so doing, I scanned the parked car again, this time from behind. Finally, I decided to move in.

I may not be a small fry, but I can wriggle along quite handily when the occasion demands. I slid up behind the driver’s side window keeping below the wing mirror. Through the open window I could see the occupant’s arm and shoulder: one hand was trailing white powder from a small silver vial along the side of the other hand’s forefinger. This accomplished, the driver coughed and sniffed a few times then leant forward.

‘Boo!’ I said, right in his ear.

He squawked; there was a sudden popping noise, and the windscreen turned black. I stood up, wiping some ink off my cheek with the back of my hand. The driver fumbled with the door-handle and I stepped back to let him exit, his face and upper body obscured by black wetness.

‘Ned Pierce,’ I said, lighting a cigarette, ‘you know you’re really too twitchy for all this undercover stuff.’

‘Damn it, Benson!’ he spat, ‘what you wanna go an’ make a feller blow his ink sac fer?’

I flicked my match onto the road, then grabbed him by the throat with the same hand.

‘I think the question here, Ned, is what are you doing tailing me?’ I was purring quietly, but not in a good way.

He gulped. ‘Temple business,’ he said, black ink running down his face and into his collar, ‘ah’m jest followin’ instructions...!’

‘Why is the Order interested in me?’ I increased the pressure slightly.

‘Stranger in town,’ gasped Ned, ‘pokin’ his beak inta stuff he shouldn’t oughta know about. He’s sniffin’ around lookin’ fer sumpin’ he shouldn’t oughta know is here...’

‘You’re not answering the question Ned: what’s this to do with me?’

‘Only one person in town has been near the Stranger to talk to ‘im. Only way he could’ve found out about – what he’s after – is if someone told ‘im, an’ you’re the only one been chummy with ‘im...’ he fumbled in his blackened and dripping coat and dragged out several photographs. I bit on my smoke and fanned the pictures with my free hand: they were ink-stained shots taken of yours truly in the reception area of the Gilman House Hotel, shaking hands with a funny-looking guy who bore a vague resemblance to Roy Orbison.

‘God damn it!’ I spat, letting Ned slide down the side of the car. I turned to look closer at the pictures, then wheeled back in time to hear the car door thunk closed and the engine start. With a scream of wheels and an erratic trajectory, no doubt due to an ink-fogged windscreen, Ned disappeared into the night...

To Be Continued...