Review: "Crimson Peak"

del Toro, Guillermo, “Crimson Peak”, Legendary Pictures, 2015.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a del Toro fan. When I heard that there was a new film in the wings I started itching to see it: given that I live miles from anything that could be considered a big franchise cinema, I had to wait until it screened here at Mt. Vic. Flicks, a month after its initial release. That’s no problem as far as I’m concerned: I can do without the crowds, the assigned seating (a new thing which is supposed to be an extra mark of customer care but which is just crap), the stench of popcorn (which makes me puke) and the inevitable tools who update their Facebook feeds all the way through the screening:

“Dudes! I’m like, watching ‘Crimson Peak’! It’s just started!”

“Dudes! It’s five minutes later and like, nothing’s happened yet!”

“Dudes! I’m starting to wish I’d gotten some popcorn. Mia Washacowski is HAWT!”

“Dudes!...” Well. You get the idea.

I had just had afternoon tea with friends at a cafe in Mt. Victoria and since rain prevented walking, we decided to ramble over to the cinema and see what fare was on offer. Encountering other ramblers who’d had similar ideas, we saw that “Crimson Peak” was about to start and so, sauntered in. A much more civilised way of going about things.

(Mind you, my recent “Rocky Horror” experience at this same venue was anything but civilised; however, I’m prepared to call that a blip rather than the norm!)

119 minutes later and I realised something had happened which I never thought I’d ever experience: a bad Guillermo del Toro film! Inconceivable! I mean “Pacific Rim” was touch-and-go, although it managed to rally itself in the third act, but this...? I’m still shaking my head. Let’s tear it apart...

The film falls into two halves: the first half is pure Edith Wharton, a sundrenched, steam-powered excursion to Buffalo in New York where Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) lives with her father, widower Carter Cushing, played by Jim Beaver (my favourite actor from “Supernatural”). Edith aspires to be a writer but faces rejection from her publisher due to her sex – she obviously hasn’t thought about changing her name to ‘George’ yet. Into their lives stalks the tailored silhouette of Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston) seeking financial backing for a mining device that he has invented and keen to get Mr Cushing and his cronies as backers. With him stalks his equally-menacing sister Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain). Sir Thomas woos Edith, tearing her away from her childhood amore Dr. Alan McMichael (Charlie Hunnam of “Pacific Rim” fame), but Carter smells a rat and sends in a private investigator to sniff about the errant nobles. Evidence of foul play is unearthed: Carter pays off the miscreants and sends them packing; however, before they depart, Carter Cushing is horribly murdered and Edith falls upon Sir Thomas’s plighted troth in her time of grief. They depart to Scotland, newly-wed.

As I said, this half is pure Edith Wharton, or maybe Henry James. It’s a society ball wrapped in a comedy of manners and social propriety, lavishly tailored with corsets and Gibson-girl hairdos. It’s practically a John Galsworthy novel in précis. There are many references to butterflies and moths all through the film and Mia Wasikowska’s Edith is the symbolic butterfly, pinned by nefarious inclinations: her gowns have incredibly puffy sleeves which are designed to give her a winged silhouette and sometimes they’re just plain distracting, although not as bad as the zippers that marred the costuming of Scorsese’s “Age of Innocence”. If this was the extent of the film, I’d be happier with it, especially Leslie Hope’s catty portrayal of Dr. McMichael’s society mother. Unfortunately, there’s the second half.

Scene change to Crimson Peak in the Scottish Highlands, so called because the red clay on top of which the house is built bleeds through the snow turning it red in Wintertime. Edith finds her new home somewhat less than welcoming: it’s dark; it’s dreary; there’s no heating; there’s a massive hole in the roof which lets in all kinds of weather; the place is subsiding into the boggy ground below; and Lucille has become less friendly and, in fact, downright sniffy overnight. Once we’re settled in, we begin to unearth the secrets that the grim manor is hiding. From here on in, it’s a railroad ride through a custom-made haunted house that was evidently del Toro’s visual hook for the movie, but away from which the story had wandered at some point, finding other rationales and purposes quite apart from the need for an open-house at the Addams’ Family Mansion. It’s frankly a mistake to drag the story back here, having made such inroads in the opening act, but del Toro does it anyway.

We discover that the Sharpe siblings have been ruthlessly wooing rich women and stripping them of their fortunes in an attempt to prop up and then escape their ancestral home. To this end they are now slowly poisoning Edith and keeping her a virtual prisoner in the cranky house, cutting her off from the outside world. Paperwork, signing over her fortune to Thomas Sharpe, dribbles in until there is just one final piece of penmanship left before the fortune is all theirs: Dr. McMichael wanders in at this point and makes a valiant attempt to flee with his childhood sweetheart. Knives flash, blood flies and the reunited lovers stagger away from the nightmare which had threatened to consume them. Credits roll.

Like I said, it’s a train ride to the finish. Nothing is really a surprise in the second half: the Sharpes are murdering Edith; evidence of their previous misdeeds spews forth in abundance; they are discovered sleeping together; the fact that one of them murdered Carter Cushing is revealed; they both die horribly. The only thing that did surprise me was the fact that Lucille didn’t end up getting chomped by the massive mining device which takes up so much of the landscape. This is del Toro channelling Edgar Alan Poe and not in a good way: if it had just been this half as the substance of the movie, or the first half extended out and left to do its own thing, the end result would have been fine. Instead it’s a mish-mash of two separate genre pieces not working together at all. At a certain point, this story became about something quite apart from ghosts and creepy houses; it’s just that del Toro refused to do the sensible thing and let those bits fall by the wayside.

Oh, and there are ghosts. Quite incidental and unnecessary ghosts, which contribute nothing concrete to the story. I just thought I’d mention that.

I guess everyone has to make a stinker at some point; I was hoping that “The Hobbit” was going to be del Toro’s. Obviously he was winding up for something bigger. This isn’t a good film, but it’s not horrific (if you take my meaning): it’s visually stunning, without any substance. It ticks all the del Toro boxes (except for the shoe fetish) but it’s just clunky and awkward. Let us draw a discreet veil across it...

Two Tentacled Horrors.

Review: “Sleepy Hollow” – Season Two

WISEMAN, Len, et.al., (Dirs.), “Sleepy Hollow – Season Two”, Sketch Films, K/O Paper Products, Twentieth Century Fox, 2015.

Is there a self-help organisation for actors who lay on the ham? Something like “Overactors Anonymous”? Well, after this, I’m going to assume there must be. Everyone in this show is enunciating to the back row. Melodrama has come to the ‘Hollow and the cast are agonising more about their personal relationships than about the demon in the room. At least with the first season of this show there were some laughs; now, the humour is as sparse as the heating at Valley Forge.

“Sleepy Hollow” kicks off with Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills stuck in Purgatory and trying to escape, which they do, this being the first episode of the new series and there wouldn’t be much to fill in the remaining 12 episodes if they didn’t. Once achieved, they hit the ground running, eschewing celebrations of their victories for humorous fist-bumps and cheering intermittent moments of “clarity” showing them the way forward. Of course, the miasma which prevents them from formulating a clear plan of attack is one which they repeatedly generate on their own, so I’m amazed the bad guys didn’t get them on the ropes sooner.

As in the first series, this story once more generates its own rationales out of tissue-thin pretexts, mainly of the “I studied at Oxford, therefore I know everything”, or the “I’m a policewoman so normal operating procedures don’t apply to me” variety. As with the first series, if these things bother you, then you will not enjoy yourself. Having also watched “Grimm”, I’ve come to appreciate how much that show obeys the rules of the real world and creates from them a further layer of difficulty which our heroes have to work around; in “Sleepy Hollow”, our heroes do whatever they want whenever they want with no consequences. In one episode, a ten-year-old girl is whistled off by a Pied Piper and Abbie sets up a dragnet to search for her, command of which she blithely walks away from to go ghostbusting with her bestie, Ichabod. I imagine there were lots of police officers sitting around twiddling their thumbs in the background of this story. Of course, in these stories, if our heroes aren’t free to go and kick monster heads, nothing happens; but at least the rationale of how they get the opportunity to resolve things should be written into the story. “Night-Stalker” did it; “The X-Files” did it; even “Grimm” does it: why can’t “Sleepy Hollow” do it?

I have a sneaking suspicion that, for the creators of this show, it’s less about making sense and more about the visuals. In this regard there’s lots to enjoy. The monsters are effectively realised; the special effects are genuinely special; the costuming and art direction are all top-notch. None of this matters though, if the writing sucks.

One of the things I liked about Season One was the random outrage that Ichabod displayed at discovering the world for which he had fought had seemingly abandoned its once-sacred principles. In the second season, these irruptions also occur, but there’s a staginess about them now, as if consumer polls were taken and this feature was identified as something the fans particularly liked. Now it’s formulaic. The rant over chaining pens to desks in banks is amusing in and of itself, but bizarre in that there are more important things going on which should be occupying Crane’s attention. Too, there are many moments in which Ichabod reveals a growing familiarity with the modern world that cuts across this outrage disconcertingly, his addiction to reality TV shows being one of these.

As to the other characters, Abbie seems to be the only one with any real focus throughout all of the mayhem. Unlike virtually anyone else in the mix, she identifies the baddies and focuses her efforts on taking them down. Along the way however, she has to juggle Ichabod’s wavering over fighting his son or rescuing his wife, Katrina’s “is she? Or isn’t she?” motivations, and her own sister Jenny’s mistrust of her position as a representative of Authority. Wrangling her so-called allies is what she spends most of her screen-time doing; the only other person in the cast as focussed as she is, is Henry, the Horseman of War, servant of Moloch and son of Ichabod and Katrina. Her default character tic is to roll her eyes a lot, and it’s not hard to fathom why.

A new semi-regular character is Eric Hawley, a louche dealer in supernatural artefacts, bounding out of Jenny’s past. His role is clearly designed to facilitate magical trinkets and ancient texts into the plots, but his attraction to Abbie, while fending off Jenny’s desire to reignite their old relationship, makes for some interesting character wrinkles.

Former sheriff Frank Irving becomes the tragic muppet of evil Henry in this season, tricked into signing his soul away and ultimately becoming War’s unwilling instrument. Some of his interactions smack of simply finding something for him to do (now that he appears in the opening credits) but there’s very little of that. His replacement as sheriff, hard-nosed latina police career-woman Reyes, suffers from ‘needs of the moment’ plotting as well: she busts Abbie’s balls, then lets her get away with murder in alternate waves, which make little sense in the scheme of things. Once again, the writers' need to let their stars out to play takes precedence over any kind of structural logic.

By means of a magic bauble, our Headless Horseman appears fully intact and no longer sans tete, a nod, I’m guessing, to the time and money it takes to digitally remove it in every scene in which he shows up. Sadly, there’s a glitch: Katrina is the one wearing the emerald, allowing her to see Abraham’s head, so why is it that Henry can see Abraham fully incarnate also? Hmm. It’s these little slips that start to let the show down. Another instance: Ichabod’s evil twin appears to Abbie in Purgatory and tries to seal her doom (punching out the real Ichabod en route). She spots the ring-in and decapitates him after he calls her “LOO-tenant” rather than Ichabod’s usual “LEFF-tenant”, thereby avoiding destruction. However, from this point on, Ichabod vacillates between the two pronunciations for the rest of the season – I was wondering if it was actually a cunning plot point on the writers’ part, and that the real Ichabod was quietly decomposing in Hell all the while. But no: just a continuity error, folks. Nothing to see here.

(Do continuity people actually do anything on a film set nowadays? Or are they as unnecessary as writers are rumoured to be?)

As to the historical background, the warping and perversion continue apace. Did you know that Benedict Arnold only became a traitor because he pocketed one of Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver? Or that Benjamin Franklin – an early naturist – only went kite-flying in the rain in order to try and destroy the Key to Purgatory? This show takes the same line as that god-awful series of films starring Nicolas Cage called “National Treasure” (which I have re-named “Notional Treasure” in my head) and runs in the same direction. I mean, it’s history people; how is it not interesting anyway, before you start to mangle it beyond all recognition? This is why there are people out there who think Game of Thrones is real...

In the final analysis, where I was hoping that the first season jitters would be overcome and the show would lift its game in the second outing, it seems that complacency has wandered through the district instead. Maybe things are a little too sleepy in the ‘Hollow and some laziness has crept in? Like last time, to enjoy this show, you need to leave your brain at the door and just run with the visuals: don’t try to analyze, and certainly don’t bring your master’s degree in American history – you will just start foaming at the mouth.

All the anti-intellect around this vehicle makes me think that the fans of this show, rather than being called “Sleepyheads”, should rather be termed “Hollow-heads” instead.

Two Tentacled Horrors.

Postscript:

The Lovecraftian references are thick on the ground here: apparently the Alhazred couplet ("That is not dead...") is a spell for animating dead bodies and Robert E. Howard's character Solomon Kane gets re-worked as an evil warlock named "Solomon Kent". I passed over these in the main body of my review because they're cheap and tawdry borrowings that just further show how lazy the writing behind this series truly is...

In Deep - 22:Epilogue

The Feds came to give us the once-over. It wasn’t an obvious check up on the community’s health – they didn’t declare themselves openly – but the only people around here who wear Hawaiian print shirts and sunglasses, do so with a sense of irony. Not so these guys. Obviously, whatever they were looking for, they didn’t find, so after about a week they vanished as quietly as they came.

There was a fair mess to look at though. The lower storeys of the Gilman House Hotel’s north wing were completely gutted by fire and the boathouse had slumped into the ocean. There had been deaths and mysterious disappearances on top of it all. However, all the subtle and discreet questioning you like will get you nowhere when the local population gives you a unified, blank, wall-eyed stare in response. You don’t get micro-expressions in Innsmouth; you get ‘mackerel expressions’.

I spent some time in bed after the boathouse demolition. I woke up at the “Sunny Seashells Holiday Home” and Mrs Pettifer poured as much chicken soup into me as I could comfortably choke down. Apparently, I’d been found on the beach a couple of days after the wave hit, unconscious but fundamentally intact. Still, a fishing-spear through the shoulder is not something that even I walk away from lightly. I spent a couple weeks sitting around the apartment watching “Flipper” re-runs.

Stan Eliot and the rest of the Elders of the Esoteric Order of Dagon set to work putting the town back to rights. The Order took over the running of the Gilman House Hotel after no other Gilmans could be found living topside to inherit. Re-building of the damaged wing is underway and is set to be finished within the year. They offered me the position of manager for the place, but I turned it down: that kind of responsibility is a headache I don’t need.

I’ve made a few other changes to my lifestyle. For starters, I bought the “Sunny Seashells” from the owners who – I believe – were glad to be free of the white elephant and clear of the reminder of their entrepreneurial failure. The only tenants living there now are me and Rodney on the ground floor and Mrs Pettifer has the upstairs to herself. Other than that, the place is once more overgrown and continuing its fall into desuetude. The rent-free existence is something we’re all starting to get quite used to. As to work, I’m prepared to pick up a case if it’s interesting enough; but, for now, I have enough gold and platinum to keep me comfy for the time being.

The other day I was sitting on the beach with Rodney. We had a banana lounge each: I had perched a sombrero on top of Rodney’s brain tank and his laptop was playing a selection of Beach Boys favourites. We had fancy drinks with little umbrellas in tiki mugs (although I drank his) and the Chaucha Black Dragon Noodle House was just a short shuffle away through the sand whenever the munchies hit. I had discovered that Madame Klopp and her chop-socky boys operated this joint and, in the spirit of maintaining a steady flow of White Pork specials in my direction, I extended the hand of friendship, waived the issue of my 25K and buried the hatchet. Madame Klopp was sheepish initially, but soon considered herself the winner in the deal. That is, if we were talking about the same deal at all from her perspective...

The sky was slate grey but the day was warm. I eased myself into the complaining lounge and began popping onion rings in my mouth with my chopsticks. Before me the wide Atlantic rolled away to spill over the edge of the world. I belched loudly; life was good.

Rodney paused momentarily from updating his Facebook status.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you think it was that night? That thing you saw get Winston.’

I hunkered back and pushed my Ray-Bans back up my nose. ‘Dunno,’ I said, ‘I’m guessing whatever it was it was set to attack whoever let it loose. At least, I figure that’s why The One Who Came told me to make sure I got someone else to destroy the stone, and not to do it myself.”

‘So getting Winston to hit it with the bang-stick was your master plan, huh?’

‘There was no master plan, Rodney. I was just gonna deck Winston and let Stan and the other Elders sort the whole thing out. It was a complete accident.’

‘Sure it was,’ said Rodney. ‘Say! Do you wanna know how many calories there are in an onion ring?’

‘Pass,’ I said throwing the last few at a trio of loitering seagulls, who immediately started squabbling over them. ‘Say, Rodney – can you see something over there by the water’s edge?’

‘Over where?’

‘Never mind.’ I got up and trotted over the warm sand. The cool waves sluiced deliciously over my toes as I neared the object burying itself slowly beneath the grains. I reached forward quickly and snatched it up: it was my Desert Eagle, a little rusted but no worse for wear. I scanned the distant line of Devil Reef, knowing I would see nothing but the far-off breakers. I held up the gun and gave the thumbs-up sign with my other hand. I tucked the firearm into the waistband of my shorts and walked back towards Rodney. When I got there, there was a familiar little man in black standing next to our campsite, with a dapper moustache and a wheeled black crate by his side. He bowed as I drew near.

‘What’s this?’ I said.

‘There is One Who is Coming,’ he intoned, all sparkly-eyed, ‘to Discuss the Matter of your Final Payment.’

‘How ‘bout that?’ I said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

The little fellow waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘but may I Borrow your Lawn-Mower?’

‘It’s right where you left it,’ I said, ‘help yourself.’

He beamed and toddled off to get set up. I sank back onto my banana lounge and pulled my hat down over my eyes. As the sound of grass mowing filtered in from the distance, I snoozed and dreamed beautiful dreams of the Change...

Fin.

In Deep - 21: Winston Gilman

Beyond the trellis lay a twisting trail of artfully arranged stone paving that meandered down a cliff-face to a trim little boathouse built amongst the rocks at the lower end of Innsmouth’s mile-long beachfront. At one time, the pretty little walkway was dotted with landscaped gardens nestled in the turns and switchbacks; now it was just choked with salt-crusted greenery. Some long-departed Gilman had built the boathouse for his private yacht, but over time it had been expanded to accept various pleasure craft for hire to hotel guests and it had been accessorised with a walled-off swimming area and poolside bar, for those inclined to bathe. I hadn’t been there in an age but I remembered that it had become a dumping-ground for old furniture and other refuse which the Hotel generated on an annual basis. However, the main feature of the locale – and one I figured would be of pertinent interest to Winston right about now – was the fact that it had a mooring berth for a seaplane.

I jogged off down the path, trying to avoid the broken pavers and sections that had turned to bog. At the second bend I stopped: below me, the lights of the boathouse blinked on and I could hear the distant throbbing of a generator as the wind turned my way. I lifted my gaze to stare out to sea: the waves dashing against Devil Reef were iron-grey and cold as judgement. The sky above started to blur about the edges as the rain began to pour down once more. I turned up my collar and picked up the pace.

As I reached the boathouse a boom rang out from above. I looked behind me to see flames rising upwards from the Gilman House Hotel’s north wing. Orange light flickered off the boathouse windows and the steadily lapping waves around me. Here, the sound of the generator was almost deafening and it could mean only one thing – Winston was fuelling the ‘plane for take-off. I hefted the Desert Eagle in my paw and tried the doorknob: it turned and I gently pushed the door open.

Inside the place smelled of damp rope and dust. The sound of the generator drowned out the roar of the rain on the roof, but not by much. About me stood piles of broken furniture stretching their broken legs and vomiting horsehair through splits and tears. Glittering darkly in the corner was a massive mirror-ball left over from the 70s. Oars and lobster pots created obstacles on the floor, while the ceiling swung with canoes and dinghies. Through the floorboards I could feel the throb and punch of slapping waves below.

I tiptoed forward to the doorway opposite. Through it I could see the long pier which constituted this side of the boathouse, stretching perpendicular to the horizon. The seaplane sat at berth against this, the gasoline tubes gurgling fuel into her side. I began to turn to survey the entrance to the building opposite when something hard smashed against my hand knocking the Desert Eagle from my grip and sending it off the edge of the pier into the water below.

‘I think I like you better unarmed,’ said Winston, dropping the boathook and stepping out of the shadows.

I rubbed my hand. ‘Well, there’s a big difference between “unarmed” and “not dangerous”,’ I said.

He hefted a loaded speargun for me to see. ‘That’s why I’m carrying this,’ he sneered. ‘Why don’t we stroll over to the ‘plane, hmm?’

I raised my hands and did as I was told. As we drew up alongside the aircraft, Winston stepped up to the gas pump and switched it off. The generator racket subsided to be replaced by the hush of the rain as he drew the pipe hose back from the ‘plane, keeping a wary eye on me all the while. Through the open door of the cockpit, I could see the bluish-grey shape of the stone, locked clumsily in place on the passenger’s side with the seat belt. On the planking below was a confused jumble of gear, hurriedly assembled for loading: a creel full of candy-bars, a six-pack of beer, two bang-sticks, a wetsuit and a pair of flippers. I rolled an aerosol can to one side with my toe: whipped cream.

‘Everything a growing boy needs, huh?’ I observed.

‘Along with a very valuable stone’ said Winston, switching the pump handle off, ‘and when I get to where I’m headed, I’ll start the bidding once more.’

‘Where are you headed, Winston?’ I fished.

He snorted derisively. ‘As if I’d tell you that,’ he sneered. ‘What do you take me for?’

I let that pass: some targets are too easy. ‘Why, Winston?’ I asked instead, ‘you’ve cut yourself off completely from your people, burnt all your bridges - is that rock worth it? Really?’

‘My People?’ He threw the words back at me venomously. ‘What has this place ever done for me? Ever since I was hatched, I’ve been locked into one role, my destiny all mapped out for me. When did I ever get the chance to do what I wanted? No, it was always “when Winston takes over the Hotel”. All my brothers and sisters got to leave; they got to see the world and try other things. Me? No, Winston has to stay home and look after the family interests...’

‘That’s not that bad a life,’ I said, ‘it’s got a lotta perks...’

‘So? It still means I’m locked into this rotten town, going nowhere...’

I changed tack. ‘All your brothers and sisters came back though, right? Ephraim and Carter? Prudence?’

‘Yeah, when they were through living their lives, they came back!’

‘It’s not like Ephraim and Carter had a choice, Winston,’ I cut in, ‘they were lucky to be up-coast when the Feds attacked. They had no choice but to get to Canada and lay low.’

‘Sure,’ Winston agreed, ‘but then they went to Europe, Ephraim got into theatre and then suddenly he’s back in California and in the movies with a stage name. He even got Carter a few on-screen roles right before he Changed. They had their choices and they took them; lived large and only came back when they had to.’

‘Prudence didn’t come back for the Change; she returned to look after your mother.’

‘Yes, but until then she was living it up in New York - high society and Manhattan skylines. She could’ve stayed if she’d wanted...’

‘...but she knew where her duty lay. Isn’t it true that, if Jezebel hadn’t sneaked you and Prudence off to Arkham, you’d have all gone through the camps too...?’

‘Yes, grateful, devoted little Prudence: what a saint she was!’ Winston snorted.

I put my hand in my pocket. Instantly, Winston trained the speargun on me.

‘Careful now,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to have to perforate you.’

I rattled my cigarette packet at him, and he relaxed a bit. Pulling a smoke out with my lips I said:

‘If your siblings were going to be such a hard act to follow, why didn’t you just eat them all in the womb?’

He sneered again. ‘Not all of us are öophagous,’ he spat.

I smiled my razor smile. Reaching once more into my pocket, I pulled out the metallic orb and showed it to him.

‘What’s that?’ Winston asked warily.

‘It’s a funky lighter I got off Rodney,’ I lied, ‘You don’t mind?’

He waved his free had at me indicating that I could continue. I brought the orb up to my face and rapidly scanned it: as before, it was irregular and constructed of many interlocking plates, in the grooves between which, an intermittent blue pulse occasionally flared. On one side was a deep blue bubble of some hard, glassy material. Alphonse had said it was a weapon and to point it carefully; the only feature about it which seemed at all worthy of pointing was this glassy eye bit, so I quickly extended my arm and pointed it at Winston.

Nothing happened. I gritted my teeth and jerked my hand again. Still nothing happened.

There was a twanging sound, followed by a meaty thunk. I groaned and sank to my knees, before slumping over sideways. The spear had gone in under my collar-bone and protruded out through the fabric of my coat in back. Oozing ichor, I let go of the metal ball: it rolled awkwardly on the planking, before emitting a blast of humming, blue-white light that blew a hole in the roofing overhead.

‘Excellent,’ I muttered.

Through a brief rain of flaming splinters and molten drops of metal roof-sheeting, Winston stepped forward, picking up one of the bang-sticks as he did so. His face was pale and expressionless, rigid with determination: I imagined that this is how he must’ve looked as he plugged Abner. With a savage kick, he consigned the alien device to the waters.

‘I could use a hand here, Winston,’ I said thickly.

‘Have you seen what one of these can do?’ he asked, I assumed rhetorically, ‘it’s loaded with a 20-gauge shell. All I have to do is touch you with the business end and – boom! You’re seven types of mincemeat on the decking. How about that Benson?’

‘Terrific,’ I grunted, trying to sit upright, ‘you do realise that most of the sharks around here are family, so we don’t really need these kinds of deterrents?’

‘Oh we don’t use them on the sharks,’ he purred closing in, ‘they have a far more recreational use on the land...’

I heaved and kicked him across the face, sending him wheeling backwards. There was a loud bang, then I threw myself back, with both hands on the spear shaft, digging the barbed point deep into the boards beneath me. Then, I snapped the shaft off short near the entry wound and stood up, drawing the spear head through me, breathing raggedly through bloodied lips. The broken spear shaft clattered to the floor.

‘Unarmed,’ I reminded Winston, ‘but definitely far from toothless.’

However, Winston was otherwise occupied.

‘No! No! No!’ he wailed. He was fumbling with something in the front of the seaplane. The seatbelt straps flopped loosely about and several jagged, fist-sized grey lumps fell out from the cockpit, plopping into the water below. Winston spun to face me, his rain-soaked face contorted in rage.

‘You made me break it!’ he screamed. ‘I hit it with the bang-stick! It’s useless now!’

I was only half-listening. From the cockpit a shining radiance shimmered forth and grew in flickering intensity. There seemed to be something small and jewel-like lying amid the remains of the stone. My interest in it must have drawn Winston’s attention, because he turned sharply, snatched at it, and lifted it up. It illuminated his face intensely echoed by the insane gleam in his eyes. He darted a look at me then fumbled on the floor beneath the ‘plane’s passenger seat. When his hand re-appeared, it held a flare gun. Which, of course, he aimed at me.

‘Obvious, now that I think of it,’ he said, half to me, mostly to himself, ‘it’s not the stone, but what’s inside it that’s so valuable! This – this shining thing! Well, this will be much easier to slip past Customs.’

‘Winston...’ I started, but he’d had enough. He raised the flare gun and shot me point-blank with it. I was immediately blinded, choked by smoke and wracked by searing pain in my chest.

‘Good-bye, chum,’ I heard Winston say and the door to the seaplane slammed shut. The engines roared into life.

Agonised, I fell to the planking and tried to roll, but my dead arm wasn’t playing. I groaned and patted the wooden boards: knowing that they ran outwards from the building to the edge of the jetty, I orientated myself and heaved myself forward on my belly. The fading sound of the ‘plane droned away as I reached the edge of the dock and rolled myself over.

Once submerged in the cool, quiet, dimness, I made short work of wrenching the flare out of my flesh; it still burned but smoke and light were mostly cancelled out by the immersion. I let go of it to one side and then kicked my legs strongly. I landed adeptly back on the jetty, standing up to see the seaplane’s taillights lifting up over the water.

I wasted no time. I kicked my way into the boathouse and made my way to the main office. There was a radio there and it represented my last chance to try and turn Winston around. I grabbed the earphones and flicked switches: through the window I could see Devil Reef and the pinpoints of light that were Winston’s farewell to Innsmouth. There was something else too: behind the seaplane and closing fast was a fiery blackness, something like smoke and something like a tear in space. It roiled and flared and inky tendrils of dark bluish-blackness stretched out towards the aircraft.

The radio blared into life in my hands. ‘I see it!’ it was Winston’s voice. panicked, terrified. ‘Coming here – hell-wind – titan blue-black wings...’ some static cut through, then, ‘...save me – the three-lobed burning eye...!’

‘Winston! Winston!’ I pressed up to the window, one hand braced against it, the other holding the earphones, and watched as the inky cloud enveloped the aeroplane completely.

Suddenly, a mountainous object breached up out of the surf beyond Devil Reef. It reared skywards, monstrous, dark and shining, writhing in the moonlight which it rapidly eclipsed. A titanic maw, impossibly huge, opened along its leading edge and engulfed both the ‘plane and its black shroud. I saw writhing tentacles; glittering teeth; then the cyclopean bulk plummeted back into the ocean sending forth a wave which tore the boathouse apart and knocked me senseless...

To Be Concluded...