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.