In Deep – 10: The Siren

My office sits across the main square in town from the Gilman House above the old general store building, which these days is a 7/11. The original structure was refurbished in the ‘80s and the old second storey was leased out as office spaces and studios, probably a more profitable concern for the franchise as the sales downstairs are notably low. Any supermarket where the staff are set to work dusting the Doritos packets can’t be doing a roaring trade.

Behind the shop there’s a car-park for staff and deliveries. Against the back wall of the building stand two dumpsters: I discovered early on in my tenancy that, by rolling one of these along a short distance, I could reach up to the ledge of my office window and haul myself up and in without being seen by anyone loitering near my front door. Getting down was a simple matter of a hang-and-drop, but either way, my covert comings and goings offered an interesting mystery for anyone wanting to keep tabs on my movements.

I slid the window open and rolled over the sill, landing catlike on the carpet on the balls of my feet. Inside, all seemed as I had left it a couple of days ago: desk across from the door to the outer office, swivel chair, line of five filing cabinets, only two of which had any contents, and a big old stuffed leather armchair which I had souvenired from the Waite mansion after the fire. I padded across to the wall behind the desk and took down the framed print of dogs playing snooker: set into the faux wood-panelling behind it was my safe. I began busily spinning the dial. Once opened I lifted out the stack of notes in its calico bag and the Desert Eagle .50, wrapped in its cleaning rags, and set them down on the desk.

A match popped and flared into life. Across the room, something dark and sinuous uncoiled its way from out of the shadowed armchair. The cigarette lit, smoke breezed outwards and a clawed black hand tapped a lazy tattoo on the leather.

‘You’re gonna have to change the combination on that thing, shamus,’ purred a velvet voice.

‘Remora,’ I said standing up. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

She stood up slowly and drifted across the carpet until she stood on the other side of the desk from me. She leant her hip on the edge of it and puffed smoke back over her shoulder.

‘Well, a girl doesn’t like to wait too long for an invitation,’ she said.

I straightened up, then pulled open the desk drawer. I hauled the bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses out from where they’d been filled under “A” for easy access, and plonked them down on the blotter.

‘Sorry,’ I growled, ‘but it’s been kind of a busy night.’ I handed her a glass and her gaze lingered long on mine before she knocked it back.

‘So I heard,’ she said.

I downed my shot and then topped us up once more. ‘You seem to hear a lot of things,’ I mused, ‘for someone who only just got into town.’

She smiled her pointed smile. ‘A girl’s gotta look out for herself,’ she said, ‘keep an ear to the ground and all that...’

I vaulted the desk, sending bottle and glasses flying. I grabbed Remora by her upper arms and leaned into her, forcing her back over the desktop. Her head threw back as she gasped, surprised, and beneath all that pale, inviting skin, I could feel solid steel. My gaze fell down across her throat to the nest of swelling curves and collarbones below: lying there, I saw something glittery and silver, a pendant of three interlocked crescent moons, throbbing lightly against her pulse. I raised my head locking my gaze with hers.

‘Of course,’ I said. I pushed away from her and took a step backwards. ‘You’re working for the Esoteric Order of Dagon. You’re an enforcer; an exotic, trained to do their dirty work. What are you exactly? A siren?’

She straightened up, pouting, a dangerous light building in her eyes. The claws at the tips of the webs on her mermaid’s tail, bit slowly into the carpet, leaving a ring of radiating scratches.

‘Some call us that...’ she said.

‘I had a feeling I might be running into someone like you...’

‘Oh?’ she said feigning uninterest. ‘How’s that?’

‘A little old lady with a pack of cards said we might meet. So what are you intending to do now?’ I asked, ‘now that you’ve cornered me in my lair?’

She scratched idly on the desktop with one claw. ‘My orders are to bring you in, to answer for the death of Abner Gilman.’

‘Huh.’ I fished in my pocket for my cigarettes and lit one up. ‘And if I told you that I wasn’t the one who shot him?’

‘I don’t get to make those kinds of decisions,’ she said, ‘I just follow orders.’

Suddenly, all of that pent-up steel erupted, and she launched herself across the room at me, claws spread wide and tentacles flailing. I barely had enough time to dodge sideways, throwing the armchair into her path. As I bounced off the wall and ricocheted behind the desk, splinters of leather and wood went flying. I stood up pointing the gun, partially unwrapped from its cloth cocoon. A clawed black hand smacked it from my grasp raking red lines through my skin. I raised an arm to shield my eyes and several iron tentacles coiled about my wrist. A hissing maw of needle teeth descended towards my throat.

‘Nuts to that!’ I muttered, and belted her in the head with my telephone. A meaty crunch was my reward. She backed off.

I lurched upwards and threw myself at the door. I managed one step, before she wrapped me up like lightning, in that scaly black tail of hers. I fell against the wall like a mummy, left partially completed by a ‘down tools’ order. I struggled to keep myself upright, as she climbed up her coils towards my face once more. Her eyes glowed deadly in the low light and any remnant of the sultry songstress facade which she cultivated had vanished like a cement kimono into the ocean depths.

‘Die!’ she hissed and her coils tightened inexorably, trying to squeeze the life out of me. It was like being gift-wrapped by an iron girder, the pressure making my bones start to ache. My blood began to ring in my ears.

‘Seriously?’ I said, and head-butted her sharply in the face. She dropped to the floor with a grunt.

‘That’s a rookie move, tryin’ to crush me to death,’ I said picking her up by her tail and one arm.

‘Our muscles are bred to survive the deeps, sweetheart, and you obviously ain’t got the oomph in that department.’

So saying, I threw her through the window into the car-park below.

Before the ringing shards of glass had settled, I scooped up my gun and cash and was out the door. I paused to look back and winced at the damage that I would have to be clearing up sometime. Then I locked the door carefully and got the hell out...

To Be Continued...

In Deep – 9: Interlude

I thought things were looking tricky before; now they were downright dire.

I kept moving, trying to stay ahead of the pursuit, jumping over fences and laying low in neighbouring gardens; the fact that they were so overgrown made staying out of sight relatively easy. I didn’t allow myself to get overconfident: I had plenty of local knowledge to guide me, but so did the guys following me. What I knew, they most probably knew also.

I crept into old man Southwick’s glasshouse and holed up for awhile to get some kind of plan structured. I sat down on the concrete slab, brushing away pieces of broken glass and trying to ignore the heavy odour of fertiliser and potting mix. I had a strong desire for a cigarette and several times I had to consciously stop my hands going through the motions of lighting up: the last thing I needed was to signify my presence with a pall of smoke. In the end I stuck the coffin nail in my mouth and just pretended it was lit.

Off towards the ocean, a flicker of light and a distant rumble told me that another storm was rolling in. At least that was something in my favour: the cover it would provide would help me get somewhere - I just had to sort out where that somewhere was.

I figured that my pursuers would stake out every locale to which I had an attachment. That would mean my home at the “Sunny Seashells”, the old Waite mansion where I grew up, and my office in town above the convenience store. For a minute I thought of Doreen’s place, but I rejected that idea: Winston would think of it and I didn’t want to bring any grief to the Hepplethwaites. The problem of how to escape Innsmouth when the residents were looking for you wasn’t insurmountable: Olmstead did it, back in the day. However, the locals had learnt from his example: the train tracks which he had followed to freedom had been strategically torn up in places and the tunnels shut tight with heavy wooden doors. I sucked angrily at my unlit cigarette and tried to take another tack.

Alright, so getting out of town was problematic. What about staying in town? What I needed was a place where I could lie low for awhile until the heat cooled down. Again my options seemed limited. The old abandoned gold works and canneries were obviously a good choice as hiding places, but that word “obvious” stuck out a little too prominently – if I could think of it, so could they, and it would be just a matter of time before they kicked the door in and found me, in a wrinkled suit with a three day growth, shovelling beans out of a tin. Rodney’s shack was also out of the question, since I’d just seen it get kicked over by something very big with very big teeth, something I didn’t want to tangle with if I could help it.

That left me thinking about defence. If I did get cornered, what were my options? I was unarmed, apart from my fists, and I very much regretted having thrown the gun away at the Gilman estate. Still, it was done and no use crying. That being said, my own gun was in the safe in my office in town, along with $25,000 in small bills, cash that would be useful in getting beyond the reach of the Order. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that a quick trip to the office was warranted. There was a back way in that few people knew about – handy for when irate customers or bill-collectors came calling – and maybe the guys from the E.O.D. would think that I wasn’t stupid enough to go there. Maybe.

The first few drops pattered on the glass roof above, and a white flicker of light sent gentle shadows scattering through the rotting greenery. I stood up slowly and dusted myself down. Going to the office was a bad idea, but no better than any other alternative; at the very least I might be able to arm myself if I got there first. I stepped out into the darkness and trotted silently into the storm...

To Be Continued...

In Deep - 8: Abner Gilman

I walked down to the front door and let myself out on to the veranda. Mrs Pettifer had filled my head with things to cogitate upon and I needed a smoke and the sea air to help put them in some kind of order.

There was either some kind of bad miscommunication she’d said, or else someone was setting me up. It was a binary situation – one or the other. Unless, of course, it was both. Whatever it was, it was making me cranky.

Like I said before, here in Innsmouth we take care of our own problems. We don’t have a police force – that suggests county officers, local elections, sheriffs and other legal representation. No: here we take out our own garbage, and the nearest thing to a regional government that we have is the Esoteric Order of Dagon and its Temple leaders. I’ve already mentioned that I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the E.O.D. and there’s a very simple reason for that: if I crossed them, I would walk alone. I would be out in the dark with my ass in the wind.

With this in mind, I made a rapid decision. I had discovered that the Temple hounds – in the form of Ned Pierce - were on my trail, keeping an eye on me and following my moves. I would therefore cut to the chase: if they wanted to know what I was up to, I would go to them and turn myself in. Let them ask their questions and learn the things that they wanted to know. I would be a dutiful member of the school and tell them anything that they wanted to discover. Then, once they were off my back, hopefully I could get back to the issue at hand – the Stranger and whatever the heck he was up to.

I watched the surf pounding out on Devil Reef, glowing green with phosphorescence as the breakers smashed against the hidden rocks. I flicked my cigarette out into the overgrown lawn and stalked off to my car.

The Gilman estate is part of the antebellum development on the other side of the Manuxet. These houses were built during the height of the Innsmouth gold boom, when local lads returned from the Civil War with medals on their chests and fashionably fecund young fiancées by their sides, sourced from New York, or Philadelphia, or even Atlanta. New wives taken from their home towns need suitably extravagant new houses to accommodate them and their inevitable clutches of offspring. The Gilmans were always a bit more image-conscious than most other Innsmouth families and theirs, of all the grand houses in the town, displayed a marginally more presentable aspect than most.

I drove the car right up the front carriage-way, crunching the white coral gravel with my tyres, and killed the engine at the bottom of the front steps. In the moonlight I could see the widows’ walk railing choked with runaway jasmine; the upper windows were boarded-up – as is typical with houses around here – but the look was neat and lacked the frenzied workmanship of the neighbouring buildings; what windows I could see, given the faint sources of illumination from within, were largely unbroken, or – where panes had met with mishaps – were neatly patched with taped squares of cardboard. Like I said, the Gilmans always went about their business with a touch of class.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the veranda, I could hear the sound of a record skipping a groove, the same skirl of violins on a rising swirl over and over again. The front screen door clapped a couple of times in the night breeze. I flicked my cigarette to bounce off a lichen-etched concrete cherub, sitting astride a Classical dolphin in a slime-choked fountain, and then skipped up the stairs and through the front door.

The moment I got inside I knew something was fishy - and not in a good way.

The interior was decorated in the old style: lots of patterned wallpaper over a dado rail, overly-stuffed brocade furnishings and potted palms. The chandeliers pulsed their light, like the fuses were having some surge issues. Old tintype pictures of ancient Gilmans glared down at me from the walls. I slunk across to the phonograph, lifted the needle off the record and locked the spring: as the turntable slowed to a rasping halt, the sound of distant surf washed in through the open front windows. A phalanx of old-style armchairs, crowned with antimacassars, faced me on all sides.

I stepped from the foyer into the front parlour and the scent of copper and cordite in the air made me instinctively reach for the light switch. The globes banked and swelled, obviously affected by the same difficulties the rest of the lights were experiencing, but the glow was enough to show me the horror that awaited me in all its glory:

Abner Gilman sat in his favourite chair, with the daily newspaper opened to the crossword, randomly filled in with green ink from his fountain pen, lying in his lap. His normally ebullient complexion had faded to an asparagus hue and his white shirt front – bordered by his quilted, scarlet smoking jacket – was marred by an ugly black rosette of ichor surrounding the scorched entry-wound of a large calibre bullet. One of his slippers had fallen off his foot, revealing the uncut, horn-like claws on his toes.

I stood transfixed. This was an unbelievable spectacle. Imagine if you’d walked into a room to find Oprah Winfrey, or Paris Hilton, shot dead in a chair before you. Abner Gilman was like royalty for us and royalty doesn’t die like this. This man had a well-deserved eternity of life awaiting him, after the Change and beyond Devil Reef, in the glory of Yha’nthlei; his fate was not a bullet and a grubby death in a decrepit seaside village. As the magnitude of what I was seeing swelled up in front of me, I slumped to my knees on the parlour carpet.

There, on the floor, in the shadow of an occasional table, I saw an automatic pistol. Instinctively, I reached for it...

‘You bastard! What have you done?’

I turned rapidly, stumbling to my feet. There in the doorway was Winston Gilman, pointing an accusing finger. Behind him bobbed the lurking shadows of several E.O.D. enforcers. I glanced down at the gun in my hand with a rueful look.

‘Y’know, this looks bad’ I said, ‘but it’s bad enough without also looking like I had anything to do with it...’

‘You tryin’ to crack wise?’ spat Winston. Although his face was dead-fish passive, the faint pinkish tinge that had suffused the whites of his eyes told me another tale.

‘Trying and evidently failing,’ I said. ‘C’mon Winston, you know I would never do anything like this: Abner was like a second father to me...’

‘Enough!’ Winston slumped against the door frame, running his hand shakily through his hair. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but at the horror in the armchair. ‘Boys!’ he yelled shrilly, ‘take this joker into custody and, if you break him a little, I’ll remember it kindly.’

The shadows in the far room coalesced into trench-coated strong-arm men, amongst them Ned Pierce, still a little smudgy around the gills. As they surged forward, I threw the handgun into the face of the one in front and then launched myself through the nearby window.

I rolled off the front porch amid a shower of ringing crystal fragments, then barrelled off blindly into the night...

To Be Continued...

In Deep - 7: Mrs Pettifer

I let myself back in to the house and threw my keys into the half clam-shell that sits near the telephone just for this purpose, along with the holding of any change that accumulates annoyingly in my pockets.

‘I found that car,’ Rodney’s laptop chirped tinnily, ‘it’s registered to...’

‘...the Esoteric Order of Dagon, Innsmouth Mass. I kinda figured that out Rodney.’ I fumbled in my pockets for my cigarettes.

‘Well,’ Rodney pouted, ‘if my efforts aren’t going to be appreciated, I guess I might as well tune out...’ and, suiting action to words, his screen-saver cut in.

I shrugged out of my coat and dropped it over the back of a kitchen chair. Turning to the refrigerator I opened the freezer section and hauled the vodka out of its icy nest. Two pulls from the bottle later, I was deep in thought, cogitating on the day’s events.

The stranger had crept into town disguised and had then started poking around looking for something. He’d said that he was looking for a “museum” somewhere and I’d blatantly encouraged him in that regard, not sure if we actually had a museum in Innsmouth but being prepared to fake it until I knew what the guy’s deal was. My only interest in this character was the fact that Winston Gilman was paying me my standard fee to keep an eye on him; but obviously the Pelagic Knights of Y’ha-nthlei were also trying to understand what he was up to. Ned had said that there was something that the guy was after which – ordinarily - he would not be aware of, and that the Order thought that I was the one who had let the sardines out of the tin about it. Being on the wrong side of the E.O.D. was not a place I particularly wanted to be.

I took another pull from the frosty bottle. I had the distinct impression that my big-picture view of the situation had a blind spot and that left me feeling antsy. I needed outside help, someone who could bring perspective to the fragments I had to hand. I needed...

‘Mrs Pettifer,’ I said out loud.

‘You mean the crazy, screaming bitch upstairs?’ Rodney’s screen flared into life once more.

‘Really?’ I said wincing, ‘You’re gonna be all huffy and then keep listening-in to everything I say?’

‘Probably. I’m fairly new to this.’

I banged the bottle down on the table. ‘She’s not a bitch: she’s a genuine lady. And besides, she hasn’t screamed for almost a week now.’

‘But crazy though...’

‘The jury’s still out,’ I said standing up, ‘nevertheless, I think I need her insight on this.’

I took another swig and checked my reflection in the kitchen window: it doesn’t pay to be slovenly when it comes to Mrs Pettifer.

I snaffled my keys and headed to the door.

‘And Rodney?’ I said over my shoulder, ‘don’t raid the fridge while I’m gone.’

‘Ha. Ha.’ He said. ‘Get f-’

The balance of his comment was obscured by the shutting door.

*****

I knew Mrs Pettifer was in because there was a thick pall of incense outside her door. Three days after I moved in, she confided in me about her fear of dying in a house fire started by her lighting incense - or possibly candles - and then falling asleep. From what I learned about her later, I figured this was just her way of giving me a “heads up”.

I knocked sharply on the door; the intercom next to it crackled and emitted the words:

‘-ter, O seeker of wisd-’

I duly turned the doorknob and walked on in.

The door opened onto a living room, exactly the same layout as my apartment directly below. In this home though, there was a more Bohemian and decidedly less functional aspect. Tiffany lamps maintained a low mood; gypsy scarves were arrayed in abundance; a palmistry chart decorated one wall while an astrology chart occupied another. Cushions were a theme; the more tasselled the merrier. In centre position was a small round table, topped with a fringed cloth and a crystal ball. Standing up from the far side of this was a small, elderly woman in black, with a centre part and an air that bordered upon the Emily Dickinsonian.

‘Benson?’ she quavered, ‘what the Hell are you doing here?’

‘I was just wanting to grab a few moments of your time, Mrs P.,’ I started.

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she held up her hand. ‘What’s the date today?’

‘It’s the sixth,’ I said.

‘Damn. I thought it was the seventh. Never mind...’ she sat herself down on her balloon-back chair, ‘...since Mr. Hill won’t be here until tomorrow, how can I help you, Benson?’

‘I’m in a spot of bother, Mrs. P.,’ I said, ‘and I was looking for your usual perspicacity...’

‘Now, there’s a sixty-four dollar word I like the sound of,’ she said, pulling a bourbon bottle and a shot glass out from under the table, ‘let’s talk turkey.’ She filled the glass and pushed it over towards me, then took a pull straight from the bottle.

I told Mrs. Pettifer everything that had happened that day. She tilted the bottle around on the paisley tablecloth a bit and then said:

‘Either, someone’s setting you up, or there’s been one Hell of a miscommunication. You think Winston told his grandfather about hiring you to check out this stranger?’

I shrugged. ‘I kinda thought that the Gilmans ran a tight crew. If Winston hired me, it would be with the family’s blessing.’

‘So you’d think’ she said, ‘but does the right hand ever really know what the left hand’s doing? We should look at the cards...’ she reached beneath the table and produced her tarot deck.

‘Is that really necessary?’ I asked.

‘Sure it is,’ she replied, ‘you wouldn’t think you were getting your money’s worth without them. And besides, there are nuances that they can reveal which would otherwise elude me...’

‘I’d be surprised if anything got past you, Mrs. P.’ I downed my drink.

She held out the deck to me and I patted the top of it. Then she shuffled them vigorously and began to lay them out one by one.

‘The first card is you,’ she said, ‘Ubb, Knight of Storms. You’re a seeker in dangerous times, a ship beset on all sides looking for safe harbour.’

She lay a second card across the first one. ‘You are crossed,’ she said, ‘by Nyogtha, Knave of Shadows: a hidden enemy playing a false hand.’

The next card went above the first. ‘Ten of Shadows: you are watched by a cabal of secretive agents, but their intentions – to help or to hinder – are unclear.’

‘Great,’ I muttered.

The fourth card went below the first. ‘The Uncaring Void,’ she intoned, ‘that’s good: it means that you’re playing a home game – you know the lay of the land.’

The Crumbling Cliff went to the left of the first card. ‘You’ve had a narrow escape,’ she said, ‘but not without some kind of loss or setback.’ I thought of Rodney below on my kitchen table.

‘Coming up,’ she said, placing the Two of Flames to the right of the first card, ‘is a test, or battle: an engagement of champions in a test of wills.’

‘Excellent,’ I grumbled, meaning anything but.

She quickly dealt out four cards in a line from the bottom to top to the right of the first arrangement of pasteboards. In order they were the Two of Storms, the Seven of Flames, the Ace of Stones and The Final Death. I leant forward apprehensively.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Death pretty much means what it says on the box,’ she said.

‘Seriously? You wouldn’t wanna sugar-coat it for me just a little bit?’

‘Why would I do that? You’re a straight-talking guy and you wouldn’t want me to waste your time. If it’s any consolation, it might not be your death.’

‘Hmm,’ I hmmed. ‘What about the rest of it?’

‘Well there’s a bit about self-doubt causing hesitation, decisive action coming from unexpected quarters, and something about a rock, or a stone. Could be metaphorical.’ She began sliding all the cards back into a stack.

‘So what’s your final prognosis?’ I asked.

‘Make sure your affairs are in order,’ she said, ‘and try to get the drop on the bastard that’s playing you.’ She stood up quickly.

‘Now you have to leave,’ she said, ‘I feel a screaming fit coming on...’

To Be Continued...

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...

In Deep - 5: Darkness

Getting the cylinder and the laptop out into the car without either being affected by the inclement weather was a laborious undertaking; however, with a backpack and a roll of bubble-wrap, I managed to get it done. I stowed the brain-jar in the footwell behind the front seats and trailed the cable up and over to the passenger side seat. Pulling the computer out of the backpack, I cracked it open and the screen flared to life, displaying the now slightly creepy electronic features of Rodney Parker. While he became adjusted to the new surroundings, I fiddled with the rear-view mirror.

‘Watcha doin, Benson?’ he asked.

I sat back to let him see the rubber squid now dangling from the mirror. I gave it a flick then punched the cigarette lighter, tossing my sodden smoke out into the wet night.

‘Is that one of my lures?’ buzzed the tinny voice.

‘Yep,’ I answered, lighting a new cigarette, ‘I’ve been meaning to come out and get one of these for ages.’

‘But...!’ I cut Rodney off before he got on a roll.

‘Yeah, buddy,’ I said ‘I know: I owe you $12.95. Consider me in debt.’

I gunned the car into life and cranked the handbrake off. Rolling the wheel, I moved through the gears and backed the car through a tight circle. The windscreen wipers flapped wet atmosphere off the glass as we faced into a homewards direction. I crunched a few more gears.

Off to one side, the brick chimney that backed Rodney’s shack exploded into rubble. A piece of brickwork bounced off my hood.

‘Woah!’ I cried. ‘What the Hell was that?’

‘What was what?’ yelled Rodney.

I rolled down my window and stared out through all of the meteorology: a huge shadow moved over Rodney’s shack. Suddenly, there was a screaming of corrugated metal: the shack crumpled like yesterday’s cigarette packet and fell into the swamp with a sad spray of electronic sparks. Where it had once stood was an immense darkness that surged forward towards us like a black, tentacular wave.

‘Gotta go!’

I slammed the car into top gear and planted my foot with emphasis. The engine complained as the wheels fishtailed in the muddy lane. We gained traction as several heavy buffets belaboured the rear window. As we sped out into the night and away from the damp depression, a hideous and bestial howl tore apart the rainy night.

I tapped the rear view mirror and saw teeth fading into the distance.

‘Right,’ I said, ‘time to get back into the city limits...’

I topped the levee and gunned the motor back towards home...

To Be Continued...

In Deep - 4: Rodney

Of course, I had no intention of cooling my heels until the following morning. Watching the stranger tapping the map in the Gilman House lobby rang a few undersea bells in the octopus’s garden of my brain, so I hot-footed it over to where I parked my car and roared off into the night. My tyres squelched on the blacktop as I slammed through the gears on the column shift, while the wipers slapped ineffectually at the rain blattering off the windshield. In no time I had crossed the Manuxet River falls and was heading to the salt marshes outside of town.

This is an unsavoury-looking stretch of territory at the best of times, but it forms a useful kind of bulwark against the inquisitive prying of Outsiders. The landscape, once you’re up above the falls, is flat, boggy and dangerous clear almost to Newburyport, by which point it’s completely dried out. Meanwhile, it’s a maze of winding creeks, streams and pools that drain eventually at the coast north of Innsmouth. Dead white grass, dense thickets of thornbush and the occasional struggling tree are the only things to see. If not for the main road, built upon its own steadfast levee, no-one would ever make it into Innsmouth at all. That being said, local knowledge in this kind of landscape is everything, and I had more than enough of that to see me through.

About four miles out of town, there’s a barely highlighted turn-off that leads to a dirt trail along a creek; this in turn takes you to a gate, beyond which is a tumble-down shed of corrugated iron with a big old chimney rising up behind it. Painted on the side of this ruin, in flaking letters, are the words “Rodney’s Rubber Worx! (It Does!)”.

Rodney Parker moved to Innsmouth about three decades ago. A washed-up movie technician and special-effects artist, he had heard that the folk around here were, shall we say, of a “different aesthetic”. He came and he marvelled, and set up a small factory which made rubber Halloween masks, some of them truly terrifying, based on sculpts and casts which he took of the locals. Unfortunately, success was Rodney’s worst enemy: everything he made on the masks, he inhaled through his bong and so he missed out on many opportunities to expand his enterprise. Nowadays, he does a small mail-order business with very realistic rubber squid lures for open-sea fishing, but his main efforts lie in mending inflatable rafts, tyres and wetsuits. I hauled on my handbrake and looked up at the cartoon-y sign on the wall, ill-lit by a hooded bulb rocking in the wind and rain. In and of itself, this meant little as to whether Rodney would be at home or not, but I took it as a good omen.

Outside the car, the sounding of dreary rain pelting the landscape prickled all around in the moody silence. The car door slammed shut with a thunk and I squelched through the gate and over to the shack. As I got closer, the noise of water gurgling in the gutters and downspouts made a ruckus like a Temple meeting in full swing and I had a sudden flash of the three intertwined crescent moons that comprised the Order’s emblem. For some reason, I visualised it in sparkling silver and it seemed to mean something significant to imagine it that way... but then I was at Rodney’s factory door and pounding for admittance.

No answer came the stern reply. I tried the handle and the door opened up like a rummy offered a pint of bourbon. There were no lights and no noise inside.

Stepping through into the darkness, the sound of wind and rain outside became muted, although the drops panging off the corrugated roof were sharper in their delivery. The hovering light from outside waved through the flyspecked and grimy windows: as it beamed in, it illuminated rows of severed heads hanging from the wall. After my initial start, I realised this was the wall display of Rodney’s Halloween masks. There were the usual run of bygone presidents, film monsters and movie stars, but also masks that bore a distinct likeness to some of my high school buddies. A few were scattered around the floor, as if someone had had a hurried browse through the stock on offer.

A bright flash of light cut short my poking about.

‘Don’t make a move!’ barked a voice made tinny by electronic transmission. ‘I’ve got cameras wired throughout this joint and – who knows? – maybe some other surprises as well. Put your hands up and turn around slowly.’

I complied with this request and, as I pivoted slowly, I saw that the light was coming from a laptop screen, angled to face into the room. Rodney’s face peered out into the darkness, a grainy and garishly-coloured image. He squinted at me.

‘Benson? Is that you?’ he said.

‘A very good copy if it isn’t,’ I replied. ‘Can I drop the pose?’

‘Sure, sure buddy,’ Rodney’s menacing tone fell away at once. ‘Hey! Long time, no see!’

‘What’s with the hi-tech security, Rodney? You been having trouble with burglars?’

‘Naw,’ he said, ‘only aliens.’

I paused in the middle of lighting my cigarette. ‘Aliens? You serious?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘just the other night there were these big lights outside in the swamp and then this weird-lookin’ critter drifted on down and said they were going to give me the whole abduction treatment, probes an’ all.’

‘Seriously?’

‘No joke!’ he grinned, ‘I said yeah baby – sign me up!’

As Rodney started to go into details, I stepped forward and looked at the laptop. It was plugged in to the wall as per usual, but there was a lumpy, odd-looking cable that emerged from a USB port and headed towards a gunmetal grey cylinder standing on the bench to one side.

‘...And the hallucinations! Man, what a rush!’ Rodney’s enthusiasm rolled onwards.

I cut him off. ‘So Rodney, if you’re broadcasting through the computer here, where are you transmitting from? The mother ship?’

‘No,’ he replied, ‘the alien said that he was going to put my body into a state of suspended hibernation to protect it while my mind was elsewhere. He said he’d be back in a few days to reverse the process.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I said, ‘and where did he do this exactly?’

‘In the back office, I think,’ he said.

I pushed open the door to the office and stuck my head inside. Rodney was sitting in there on a short stool. The top of his head had been chopped off roughly like a boiled egg. The contents had been scooped out taking his eyeballs along with them, leaving his eyeholes and eyebrows jaunting up like those little triangular hangers that Franklin Mint plates are supposed to be hooked up by. His jaw hung slackly beneath the mess. I backed out slowly and turned around the cylinder next to the laptop: through a yellowish square of glass on the back, I could see Rodney’s brain slopping around in some thick liquid. I patted the metallic container and walked over to the display of masks.

The hooks from which the rubber heads hung were mostly full. I picked up the masks from the floor and stuck them on empty hooks until I ran out of latex faces. Two hooks remained empty.

‘Tell me Rodney, did you ever make masks of Roy Orbison or Lionel Ritchie?’

‘Sure,’ Rodney enthused, ‘The Orbison is very popular amongst a certain crowd, but the Ritchie only sells when I run out of Michael Jacksons...’

‘Can you think of a reason why your alien friend might have wanted to take one of each?’

‘No,’ mused Rodney, ‘we didn’t talk about masks at all.’

‘Well, it looks like he’s taken ‘em’ I said. There was silence.

‘That bastard!’ spat Rodney’s tinny voice, ‘he owes me $69.95!’

To Be Continued...