In Deep – 18: Stan Eliot

First thing I did after they were gone, was to roll the fifteen bangles off the front lawn and into my apartment. Each was a rod about the diameter of a beer can formed into a ring about the span of a bicycle inner-tube. I figured that they were made of gold from the weight alone, and I felt better once they were all inside and out of sight. Platinum; gold: someone was extorting a huge fee for this rock, and I had just begun to work out who it was. Now I had to attend a funeral...

*****

I loitered around the Gilman estate watching the proceedings. We Innsmouth denizens are pretty old-fashioned when it comes to things like funerals: there’s a Temple service and the women-folk all attend; then the men-folk collect the body from where it’s been laid out and they carry it to the sea. Those from out beyond Devil Reef do the rest. We keep the women away from the dead; it’s an old superstition I guess, but whether it pre-dates the arrival of Dagon worship in Innsmouth or not, I’ve never been able to fathom.

Hiding in the undergrowth, I watched as Stan Eliot, Barney Marsh and the others consoled each other at the front door before going inside. Winston showed up wearing a white scarf to set off his basic black and he tearfully received the shoulder rubs and back pats of the Temple elders. There were a lot of heavies from the Order shuffling around outside, watching the shadows; when the ceremony started to get under way, they all walked uneasily inside, keeping one eye over their shoulders. Soon the ritual croakings and responses began to ring out.

I kept low and made my way for the back door. Most of the ground floor windows were either broken and patched or overgrown with wild roses, so there was only a slim chance that I would be seen dodging by. My biggest risk was with the floorboards inside: they would either creak or give way completely. I knew the place well enough to avoid the major pitfalls, but it had been awhile since I’d sneaked out late at night with Winston and a six-pack, so who knew what had changed in the interim.

I stepped out into the front parlour ducking under a portiere: Barney Marsh was the first to see me and he let out a yawp that threw everyone into a flap. At first everyone thought this was just another one of his turns, but eyes soon followed his outstretched claw and next thing there was a pile of E.O.D. goons all over me. They picked me up and dragged me across the parlour rug. Ned Pierce stepped in the way and signalled the heavies to hold up.

‘Well if it isn’t Mr. Clever-clever,’ he smarmed.

‘Whoever’s writing your material Ned, I’d sack ‘em and hire someone better.’

‘Wise guy!’ He belted me across the cheek; his claws opened up three lines of red on my face.

‘Now fellers,’ Stan Eliot cut in, ‘let’s all take a breath here and settle down some.’

‘Settle down?’ Winston stepped up to say his piece. ‘Stan! This is my grandfather’s killer! He has the nerve to show up here?’ He gestured sharply at the goons and they dragged me towards the exit. There was a sudden bang as Stan smacked his walking stick across the table.

‘Now hold on son,’ he said, ‘I’m aware of what this feller’s bin accused of, an’ I’ve heard your account o’ the proceedin’s. What I ain’t heard is his side o’ the story, since he’s bin run ter ground these last two days by all these here gangsters. Now: since I’m the ranking Elder o’ the Temple here, I’d kinda like to hear what he has to say fer ‘imself.’

There was a pause, long enough for Winston to glare coldly at Stan while pulling a cigarette from its mother-of-pearl case and light it. That done, he gestured to the goons and they let me slump to the carpet.

‘Now Benson,’ Stan turned to me, ‘you’ve bin a hard minnow ter hook. What’ve you got to say fer yerself?’

I pushed myself up to my knees and hauled my handkerchief out of my pocket. I dabbed my cheek with it a few times to try and ascertain the extent of the damage. It didn’t look as though I’d be picking up any modelling gigs in the near future. I groaned and stood up, taking all the time I needed to cast a beady eye about the room. Most of the larger furniture had been pushed against the walls: the phonograph was in the corner, and the breakfast table butted right up under the windows. All of the stuffed chairs had been moved into the entry hall. The open casket stood on a couple of saw-horses roughly in the spot where I’d first seen Abner’s body. Of course – and I smiled in grim satisfaction at this – only the men-folk had been in the house, so pushing furniture was pretty much all that had been done: nothing had been cleaned up or tidied away, beyond a perfunctory nod. I turned to look at Stan.

‘Thanks, Stan,’ I said, ‘I’m grateful for an opportunity to be heard.’ Winston made an angry sound and ground out his smoke in a nearby potted palm.

‘All I can say,’ I went on, ‘is that I’ve been falsely accused of this crime. And, although I know the circumstances look bad for me, I think Abner can tell us what actually happened.’

‘What?’ Winston’s voice chirped like a startled cheerleader’s over the excited murmuring of the gathered mourners. ‘Stan! How much more of this garbage do we have to listen to?’

Stan frowned his non-existent brows at me, doing his best to look severe and patriarchal with a face that simply wasn’t cut out for it. I gave him points for trying.

‘Now son,’ he said, ‘that ain’t no kinda talk to be goin’ on with when Abner’s body is right here preparin’ for its final swim. Dagon’s Water-Wings boy! You gotta show some respect!’

I raised my hands in apology. ‘I have nothing but respect for Abner Gilman, Stan. You of all people should know that. He was the one who saved me when my dad went on his feeding frenzy and started the fire. There’d be no Waites at all in this town if not for him. If not for Abner, I wouldn’t be here at all.’

Stan nodded. He had some memories of that bad night too.

‘You know, Stan,’ I went on, ‘when I came in here and found him – the way I found him – he was sitting there just as he always used to: in his smoking jacket doing the crossword with his favourite coral fountain pen. You know the one, don’t you Stan?’

Stan looked up at me a note of curiosity creasing his features.

‘That’s it over there, Stan. On the table over there, on top of the newspaper.’

Winston jerked into motion but was stopped by Stan’s walking stick. Two of the E.O.D. heavies put their hands on his shoulders.

Stan walked over to the table and picked up the fountain-pen. He pulled the lid off it and clicked it back on. Then he turned the newspaper around: his steepled fingers stiffened on the newsprint and his head snapped around to glare at Winston in pure piscine malevolence.

That was enough for Winston: he wrenched one arm loose from one of his captors and head-butted the other. Bolting for the exit he grabbed Barney Marsh and threw him in his wake to foil pursuit. The front door slammed behind him.

‘WAIT!’ Stan swatted the table with his cane once more and stared, wall-eyed, at the assembled mourners, his mouth gaping, showing needle teeth. ‘We’ll track down that blood-traitor,’ he snarled, ‘but first you’ll all git a load o’ this.’

He held up the folded newspaper, displaying the crossword from two day’s previous; scrawled across the page, in Abner’s trademark sea-green ink, were the words “Winston killed me”, the last word trailing off the side of the page.

When everyone had seen the evidence for themselves, Stan raised his hands for silence.

‘Abner needs seein’ to,’ he said, ‘an’ that’s sumpin’ the Temple Elders and Benson can do. The rest o’ you fellers can get out there and track this mad dog down. An’ hear me when I say, I want him wrigglin’ when you bring him in front o’ me.’

There was a flurry of dark-suited bodies and the room rapidly emptied of all but a few individuals. Stan turned to me and patted my arm.

‘I’m so glad boy,’ he said, ‘I knew it couldn’t be you done fer Abner; that jist didn’t sit right with me. How’d you know about it though?’

I rubbed my forehead. ‘Well I found the gun,’ I said, ‘and it was a .38 automatic. It takes more than that at medium range to do any kind of damage to our type of musculature. It’ll do it, but it will take some time; time enough, I figured to scrawl a note while you’re doing the crossword.’

Stan cocked his head with a concerned expression. ‘So it was a gamble? You risked a heck of a lot comin’ here like you did, boy. What if there was no note? What if Abner hadn’t left us a message?’

I winked at him. ‘Let’s just say an old bird told me she was sure the cards would fall my way.’

To Be Continued...

In Deep – 17: The One Who Came

The creature which now dominated the front yard was about twenty feet tall. It was roughly conical with skin like a jaundiced albino elephant. From the cone’s apex four tentacles sprouted: two of them terminated in orange nippers, like crab claws; another ended in a kind of four-barrelled reddish trumpet; the last supported a sphere with three large eyes spaced equally around it, topped by some antennae-looking sprouts and encircled by a myriad finger-like tentacles at its base. This last feature loomed down over me, regarding me closely.

‘I am the One Who Has Come.’ Its voice didn’t so much disturb the atmosphere as it just appeared in my head, bypassing my ears altogether. I winced: I’d had enough of telepaths to last me a lifetime. I tapped a cigarette out of its packet and lit it up.

‘You certainly have done that,’ I said, ‘I guess a welcome is in order.’

The eyestalk swayed back and forth, the eyes dodged around frenetically, taking in the surroundings. It swung back over me once more.

‘The atmosphere here is Vewwy Disagweeable,’ it intoned, with audible capitals.

I coughed, surprised. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, catching my breath, ‘but since when does a telepath talk like Tweety?’

The eyestalk reared back, looking at me askance. ‘The Question is meaningwess,’ the voice came, ‘pwease wephwase the quewy.’

I drew deeply on my smoke and squinted up through the rain. ‘Forget it,’ I said, ‘doesn’t matter. What does matter is what you’re doing here?’

The two nipper-tentacles writhed momentarily, and I noticed that each was adorned with about fifteen large metal rings, like golden bangles.

‘I have come to Enact the Twansaction,’ said the One, ‘as outwined in the Pwevious Agweement.’

I blew smoke sideways into the rain. ‘That’s all very well,’ I answered, ‘but since I wasn’t present for the Previous Agreement, what say you tell me what it was?’

The huge eyes loomed close again. ‘You don’t Know?’ came the voice in my head.

‘Sadly, no’ I said, ‘they don’t always tell me everything.’

‘That is Most Vexing. The Agweement was made excwusivewy to your kind; surewy you all share such information amongst yoursewves?’

‘Perhaps I just missed the memo,’ I said, ‘in the meantime, why don’t you bring me up to speed?’

‘How do I know this is not Some Kind of Wuse?’ The central eye stared hard, its iris quivering intently.

I rubbed my chin, thinking. ‘I promise it isn’t...?’ I offered, lamely I thought.

The bracelets on the clawed tentacles jingled as they rose upwards and crossed over the front of the conical body. The eye-adorned sphere tipped sideways while its tentacle-fingers wriggled.

‘Well,’ the One finally said, ‘since A Pwomise is made, I must surewy be able to pwace Twust in you.’

What a chump, I thought... and then remembered I was dealing with a telepath. ‘So what was this deal?’ I went on hurriedly.

‘In Exchange for these Wings of Specified Metal,’ the One intoned, ‘The Wepwesentative was to dewiver to me a Certain Stone.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ I muttered. I flicked away my cigarette butt. ‘What’s the deal with this stone?’ I asked, ‘I mean: why is it so important?’

The huge eyes drifted down over me, regarding me sternly. ‘It holds Gweat Power,’ the voice boomed across my cortex, ‘such Power the Keeping of which is Inappwopwiate for Your Kind.’

‘Don’t think we’re up to it, huh?’ My dander was rising.

‘Demonstwabwy not,’ the One continued, oblivious to his diplomatic slip, ‘It Behoves Us to Wewieve you of It for your Own Good.’

I narrowed my gaze. ‘What makes it so dangerous?’ I asked. ‘Is there something written on it, carved into it? Is it radioactive?’

The giant eyes blinked and one of the tentacle claws made a dismissive gesture. ‘No,’ came the voice, ‘it is That Which Is Within that is Deadwy. If it is not Secured at This Time, it will be Activated and that will cause Vawious Disturbances in the Timewines, which will be Anathema to Our Schemes. Ours and...Others.’

I helped myself to another cigarette while taking this onboard. ‘The bottom line, One,’ I said, breathing smoke, ‘Is that I don’t have the stone. Someone else does, and they are the One Who Made This Deal With You.’ (Ye gods and little fishes! I thought: it’s got me doing it now!) ‘Can you recall who it was you talked with before? Their name? What they looked like?’

The One made a gesture which I interpreted as its version of a shrug. ‘I’m not sure,’ it said, ‘your Names are incompwehensible to me and you all Wook the Same. Hetewogeneity of Appeawance is something Your Kind has obviouswy not identified as an Ideal...’

‘Alright, alright,’ I cut it off. ‘Look: I’ll find this stone and I’ll destroy it for you, if that’s of any help. I’ve been on the trail of it for a day or so now, and I’m sure to turn it up somewhere. Will that be acceptable to you? Me, getting rid of the damned thing?’

It pondered momentarily, wriggling its short tentacle fingers. ‘If it is Destwoyed within a wewativewy short Time Fwame, its Impact upon the Timewines will be Negwigible, especiawwy in This Wocale. However, you must twy to see The Stone Destwoyed without actuawwy doing so Yoursewf: it is Certain Doom otherwise.’

‘Make sure the deed is done, without doing it myself?’

‘Cowwect.’ The One raised its tentacles into the air, except for one of the pincer arms. This was lowered claw-first to the mown grass where it shook itself gently. The metallic rings tumbled off the arm onto the lawn in a ringing pile.

‘This is half the Fee Discussed,’ said the One, ‘The Wemainder will be Given To You when the Deed Is Accompwished.’

I pushed my hat back off my forehead. ‘I’m mighty obliged,’ I said.

Then the One gathered all of its limbs together like some kind of sea creature closing up for the day. ‘I now Take My Weave,’ it said.

Suddenly, the air pulsed again, like a wave passing by when you’re standing in the water offshore; only not as pleasant. Where the One had been there was now only an annoying afterimage that slowly faded from view. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. When I looked up again, the Opener was busy disassembling the gizmo he had built and was placing the parts swiftly and dextrously back into the black plastic trunk. When he had finished, he snapped the lid shut and picked it up by the handle on one end, bringing the wheels on the other end into play.

I finished smoking and flicked the butt away.

‘So, this is what you do, huh? Stage appearances for time-travelling aliens?’ I asked as he began trundling away.

‘It’s a Living,’ he beamed.

To Be Continued...

In Deep – 16: The Opener Of The Way

There’s nothing as restorative as a good hot shower and a close shave. I wiped away the mist from the bathroom mirror and gazed upon myself re-born. Or re-spawned, whatever. I straightened my tie and flashed myself a razor grin. As I left the bathroom, I heard a faint whirring sound that piqued my interest.

‘Rodney,’ I called, ‘is that you?’

Beyond the bead curtain in the kitchen, Rodney’s screen blinked in to life. ‘Is that me what?’ he asked.

‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I think it’s coming from out front.’

I tiptoed through the mess in my front room and peered out through the venetian blinds. Out on the front lawn was a little fellow in a black mackintosh. He’d unearthed the lawn mower from wherever it had vanished to and was busily clearing the grass in the grey morning rain.

‘Now, what the hell is this?’ I muttered.

I wandered out onto the front porch and stood at the top of the steps. The guttering along the front of the house was trying, but not quite succeeding, in directing the flow of the rain, so I had to find a position where I could see the busy gardener without an intervening wall of water.

‘Hey buddy!’ I yelled, ‘what gives?’

By way of reply he ducked his head and gave me a quick wave of his hand. Then he went straight back to work. Grumpily, I went back inside and grabbed an umbrella from the stand just inside the door. Most of these don’t work, since we tenants tend to view the umbrella stand as a place where they go to die, rather than a convenient storage area, but I found a white, colourfully polka-dotted one that would serve.

Outside, I strode across the newly mown hay and moved in front of the mower; I put one foot on the front of it and stopped the little man’s progress sharply. From this vantage point, I took him in more clearly: he stood about five feet tall and was completely veiled in the plastic raincoat which had been designed with someone much larger in mind. The sleeves had been tidily folded and wrapped around his wrists before being gaffe-taped into place. Nestled within his hood, his face was like a cheery apple, with round ruddy cheeks and squinty eyes; a pencil thin moustache traced the line of his upper lip. A look of disappointment creased his features, and he sadly pushed at the mower a couple of times to try and get it moving again.

‘Look pal,’ I said, ‘I appreciate the handiwork, and Dagon knows the lawn needed a trim, but who are you and why are you doing this?’

He beamed up at me and waggled an admonishing finger. ‘No, no, no,’ he said chirpily, ‘I’m not the One You Need To Talk To. Treat me as though I’m Not Here.’

I blinked at him. ‘Not possible buddy,’ I said, ‘you’re demonstrably present and engaged in mowing my front lawn, a task for which, if you’re expecting payment, you’ll be sadly disappointed.’

Again with the finger-wagging. ‘The Task is necessary,’ he said, ‘in order to facilitate the Arrival. I am merely the Opener of the Way, not the One Who Comes.’

I was getting a headache; the beneficial after-effects of a hot shower and shave were rapidly fading into the past.

‘Who’s coming?’ I asked; ‘Why are they coming?’

He shrugged and flashed me a sad, commiserating smile. ‘These things are not Mine To Know,’ he said, ‘I am merely the...’

‘...Opener of the Way. I heard.’ I looked around, ‘Can I ask you why this has to happen here?’

He nodded excitedly and twiddled his fingers on the lawn mower’s handle. ‘Ooh yes,’ he said, ‘that’s easily answered. It is at this point that the Veils between this reality and the Akashic Record are at their most permeable. It might have served our Purpose to be closer to the centre of this settlement, but the forces here create a Certain Expediency...’

I clenched my jaw and glared up at Mrs. Pettifer’s window. ‘Okay, so it has be here. But this One...’

‘...The One Who Comes...’

‘Yeah that guy: who’s he expecting to see when he gets here?’

‘Ooh! That’s easy,’ the little fellow beamed again, ‘a Representative of Your Kind.’

‘A rep...? You mean just anyone who lives in Innsmouth?’

‘No, no, no,’ he contradicted whilst wagging, ‘specifically, one of. Your. Kind.’

The emphasis was not lost on me. I rubbed my face with my free hand. This was yet another bizarre link in an ever-growing chain of crazy that seemed to be intent on enveloping me no matter what I did to try and avoid it. I took my foot off the front of the mower.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘Whatever. At the very least I get my lawn mowed, so there’s the upside.’ I stepped aside and the little man twinkled at me before launching into his work once more. I stalked back inside and ransacked the kitchen until I found an unopened pack of cigarettes.

‘What’s going on?’ queried Rodney as I got ready to go outside once more.

‘I’m negotiating with the gardener,’ I growled

Rodney whistled. ‘Wow: servants. Aren’t we swanky?’

‘Go surf the Deep Net, Rodney,’ I snarled and barrelled my way through the bead curtain.

Outside, I was surprised to see that the Opener had completed the mowing. Now, he was setting up some kind of intricate apparatus, a device of wheels, tubes and mirrors that emerged piece by piece from inside a black plastic trunk. I smoked grumpily as I watched him and then saw him give his work a self-satisfied nod. Turning to me, he walked up the front stairs and handed me a type-written sheet of paper, in a plastic sleeve to keep it out of the rain.

‘You should look this over before the One To Whom It Refers arrives,’ he said. He moved to one side and stood contentedly with his arms behind his back, humming quietly and swaying gently up and down on the balls of his rubber-booted feet. I clamped my cigarette in my mouth and squinted through the smoke at the page before me. It went like this:

“We hereby notify the Receiver of this Missive, of the impending Arrival of its Issuer, in accordance with the Arrangement previously discussed.

‘You guys sure like to capitalise, don’t you?’ I looked over at him; he simpered by way of an answer.

The Purpose of this Meeting, as outlined in that previous Conference, is the enacting of a Transaction for Mutual Benefit between all Parties. The Issuer’s Good Faith in this matter can be inferred by the Difficulties experienced in manifesting their Arrival.

It is earnestly to be hoped that there shall be no Reneging of the Bargain, or Waiving of the Agreement by any of the Parties united under this Contract, as such Activity will generate Ill Will and General Consternation.

Given the Haste in which this Arrival has been organised, the Issuer cannot be held responsible for any Activity by the Hounds of Tindalos which may result.”

‘“Hounds of Tindalos”?’ I looked over at the Opener. He mildly shrugged his shoulders and kept on humming.

Suddenly, there was a bright flash and an enormous cracking sound. The air above the front yard warped and pulsed and disgorged an enormous writhing thing before me. The eruption blew my cigarette out of my hand and rattled the dead hydrangeas.

‘This day is just getting better and better...’ I muttered.

To Be Continued...

In Deep – 15: Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy-Jig.

I put my hands on my knees and pushed myself upwards into a standing position. Sliding the tested bar back into the cylinder with its buddies I turned to Alphonse and held out my hand.

‘Thanks Alphonse,’ I said, ‘is there anything I can do to repay you?’

He held up a finger and then held up the five hexagonal plates with the other hand. ‘Thethe would go much of the way towardth compenthating me for my time,’ he said, ‘if that’th okay with you?’

I narrowed my gaze, then waved a dismissive hand. ‘They’re yours, friend,’ I said, ‘with my compliments.’

He smiled a smile that was like that of a dog; a very big, very savage, toothy dog. He picked up the hurricane lantern and escorted me up the stairs to the floor of the tomb.

‘Here’th where I take my leave,’ he said holding out his hand, which I shook warmly. ‘Do you know what your nextht move will be?’

I pulled my hat down on my head and squared my shoulders. Looking out into the rain I said, ‘Yep - I have a pretty good idea.’

‘Then the very betht of luck to you, thir.’

‘“Sir” was my dad,’ I said. ‘You call me Benson.’

He clapped me on the shoulder and nodded, his golden eyes alight. I hoisted my load of platinum and took a few steps towards the tomb entrance, before turning suddenly:

‘And if I need to get in contact with you again, Alphonse...?’

But he was gone. Stairs, door, crazy laboratory and all.

*****

The day was dismal. The rain had slackened off somewhat, but the wind had picked up. Out on the coast road heading south for Innsmouth, sand flew inland from the dunes and it felt like I was walking forwards through a sandpaper sky. Mournful gulls wheeled overhead before driving back out to sea. My clothes had dried a little in Alphonse’s company, but they had also stiffened with salt: I felt like I was wearing a suit made out of damp cardboard.

I began to think about how I was going to do what lay before me. Whenever the town was threatened by the presence of someone from outside, who was showing a little too much interest in the place and its inhabitants, the Order would arrange to get them out of town with a minimum of fuss. Often it meant just getting the interloper drunk and dumping them outside the city limits in a compromising state. Sometimes drugs were a more effective intoxicant. Occasionally, an accident was staged and – alas! – the poor soul was never heard from again. Everyone in town had had a hand in one or two of these staged events during their time growing up here; it was par for the course; a rite of passage. The town’s integrity needed to be protected.

The belongings of these intruders all went to the same place – the Temple. Much of this stuff was either used to stage accidents, got destroyed, or was converted into cash by E.O.D. members willing to travel to Arkham or to Boston to pawn it. Some of it was stockpiled for use as blackmail material, or simply because it was valuable. If this guy from up north had foolishly holed up in Innsmouth with this stone, then it would now have to be in the Temple strongroom. And the single key to that strongroom was with...

I stopped suddenly and thought very hard about this. There was only the one key to that vault. And it was in the possession of Abner Gilman. Now deceased. The spinning cogs in my brain had started to mesh and I didn’t like what they were chewing on...

I started walking again. Before I did anything, I was going to need a new set of clothes. I felt like nine miles of coral reef under an oil spill. That meant going home. I was pretty sure that I would be looked for, but I figured I could sneak in the back way as easily as I had sneaked out to catch Ned Pierce off guard... I stopped walking again and reached into my coat pocket for a smoke. The cigarette packet was empty, so I idly crushed it and tossed it to the edge of the road. Why exactly was Ned following me? Was it because I’d done something – as I’d assumed – or was it because someone else needed to know where I was? More cogs came into play.

‘Huh,’ I said aloud to no-one in particular.

I started moving again. Up ahead, the old Garrison place came into view, the tumble-down farm which marks the northern limits of Innsmouth. I moved to the side of the road and began to dodge from one area of cover to the next, trusting to my skills and the nasty weather to keep me hidden. At the first opportunity, I turned right at the next junction and moved deeper into the grid of streets: the coast road was too prominent a thoroughfare for the likes of me. When you’re as welcome as Zadok Allen at a Temple picnic in Innsmouth, you stick to the back roads. In short order, I was letting myself in through the back door of my apartment.

I closed the kitchen door as quietly as I could, but Rodney’s laptop flared into life as the bolt faintly clicked home.

‘Benson! Dude! Where’ve you been? You look like eight types of shit!’ His pixelated face flared into brilliant life.

‘Rodney!’ I hushed, ‘Fer Chrissakes! Keep it down!’

‘Oh! Sorry dude,’ he said in a slightly more conversational tone, ‘but you’ve been gone for so long! I didn’t think you were ever coming home!’

I scanned the room and the apartment beyond. There was a lot of mess – it looked like someone had tossed the place in my absence. Fortunately it looked as though they’d left the kitchen alone; I grabbed a tea-towel and draped it over Rodney’s brain cylinder, shielding it from view.

‘Aw, you don’t have to do that,’ he said, ‘Mrs Pettifer already had a good look.’

‘Mrs P.?’ I said, ‘what’s she been doing down here?’

‘She left you a message,’ Rodney said. ‘Funny though, I didn’t know you’d given her a key to the place.’

‘Mrs P. has a gift,’ I said, ‘if she needs a door to be open, it will be. She calls it Reiki.’

‘Whoa! Cool!’ said Rodney.

‘Who else has been here?’ I asked.

‘Buncha guys: Winston Gilman and some fellers in trenchcoats. They ransacked the place after Mrs Pettifer paid her visit. They didn’t come in here though.’

‘Probably would’ve taken you away with them if they had,’ I said. ‘Look Rodney: let me fill you in...’ I proceeded to tell him all that had happened to me after we had parted company.

‘Wow!’ he said when I was done, ‘and I always thought that Innsmouth was such a quiet little place.’

‘You said that Mrs P. left me a message,’ I said, ‘what was it?’

‘Yeah, right!’ he said excitedly. ‘Check it out: I recorded it for you!’

A little window opened up in the centre of his screen. It showed a view from the kitchen table out into the living-room. A dark figure made its way forward into the light, pushed through the bead curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the place, and revealed itself to be Mrs Pettifer. She looked to one side and, obviously taking in the sight of Rodney’s brain, recoiled in apparent horror. Then she stood looking around uncertainly, as if awaiting someone to materialise out of a cupboard.

‘Benson?’ her voice quavered.

Suddenly Rodney’s recorded tones cut in:

‘Welcome to the automated message system of Benson Waite. Benson is unavailable right now, but if you have a message, please speak slowly and carefully into the screen after the beep. Beep!’

‘Did you actually say “beep”?’ I said.

‘Don’t hate: I was improvising,’ he whined. I tuned in to what Mrs P. was saying:

‘Benson? I’ve never liked these message thingies... Okay. Well. After our session I decided to do some crystal-gazing. Benson, I think Abner Gilman is dead. I’m getting a very strong sense of him up in my rooms. He has a particularly intense presence in the Akashic Record – it’s really quite irritating. He wants me to tell you something, and – it’s unusual, and I’m not sure I’m getting it correctly – he says that there are “clues in the crossword”. Does that sound correct to you? Well, I hope it’s of some use. Anyway, Best wishes, Dolores Pettifer. Do I press something now?’

‘No.’ Said Rodney’s recorded voice.

‘Oh, okay then. Bye-bye.’ She straightened up then turned and wandered back the way that she had come in. The window on the screen froze, then closed itself down.

‘There was a fair bit of screaming after that,’ said Rodney, ‘it really put the wind up those guys who came later.’

‘Lucky for her,’ I said. ‘“Clues in the crossword”? Why does that ring a bell?’

“No idea,’ Rodney contributed. ‘What now?’

‘Now,’ I said, ‘I’m gonna have a shower and get changed. Then I’m gonna sort out this crap...’

To Be Continued...

Review: The Dream World of H.P. Lovecraft

TYSON, Donald, The Dream World of H.P. Lovecraft – His Life, His Demons, His Universe, Llewellyn Publications/ Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd., Woodbury, MN, USA, 2010.

Octavo; paperback; 313pp. (with 8pp. of adverts) with a monochrome portrait frontispiece. Very minor wear. Near fine.

Lovecraft’s popularity derives from many different sources and we live in a world where each of these facets is abundantly catered for. Those who admire his writings have a wealth of material to troll through; for those who take an interest in his life and other biographical details, there are works which focus on his personal life; his works, and those of his peers and later imitators, are always in print; and for those who want to believe that Cthulhu is actually out there somewhere, dreaming under the Pacific, there is Donald Tyson.

From what I can gather, Tyson would have us think that the Old Ones are actually a manifest part of the universe, and that HPL tapped into their presence by being a “lucid dreamer”. In this work he grinds away at this thesis providing biographical details to support the notion that HPL was in fact dispensing some kind of half-glimpsed truth disguised as “weird fiction”.

Now, having grown up, myself, looking for some kind of reality behind the supernatural/paranormal/magical legendry that suffuses the planet, I feel I know where Tyson is coming from: it would be nice to know that there was something extraordinary and wondrous out there in the cosmos; however, reality is as HPL repeatedly painted it: soulless, indifferent, and uncaring. Wanting Cthulhu and Co. to be real does not, in fact, make it so; this hasn’t stopped Tyson from earning a buck out of the Mythos.

It breaks down like this: HPL was a lucid dreamer – i.e. an individual who is able to take control of the elements of his subconscious narratives and alter them to suit. Such dreamers are frequently known to experience flying sensations within their dreamscapes and are able to vividly recall the visions they receive. So far, so good: textual evidence shows that HPL dreamt at an extraordinary level of comprehension and has left behind fragments of his detailed dreams which he passed on to others to incorporate in their own tales (see Belknap Long’s Horror from the Hills, for example). It is known that he also suffered from night terrors – this is a condition where the normal neurological functions which disconnect muscles from fight or flight responses during REM sleep fail to cut in, and the subject thrashes and otherwise moves violently about whilst dreaming. It’s not a stretch to think that lucid dreaming and night terrors might be somehow associated with each other, but I’m prepared to leave sleep researchers to work on that one.

Tyson uses this premise to imply that the Necronomicon actually exists on some extradimensional level, and is able to be contacted by subconscious individuals capable of manipulating their dreams. He pulls this notion from the fact that HPL couldn’t definitively pin down from where he coined the book’s title and was never completely satisfied with the various attempts to translate the word into English. Having created this “origin story”, Tyson then goes on to lay out his notion that HPL’s writings were all attempts to warn humanity of Things Better Left Alone. To this end, he petulantly disposes of such terms as “Cthulhu Mythos”, and even HPL’s own preferred term “Yog-Sothery”, and champions his own invention, “Necronomicon Mythos”, thereby accurately – to his way of thinking – identifying the source of the malevolence.

To me, this reads as something akin to those early Egyptological researchers who looked at the Pyramids and said ‘no human being could have moved those blocks, let alone put them all in place’. These days, we know that human beings are creative and ingenious when forced to come up with a solution to a problem. The ‘von Däniken Assumption’ (if we can call it that) leads to all kinds of wacky theories about ‘Aliens’ and ‘forgotten magic’ and relegates humanity to a herd-like status; further, it’s a patronising position which holds that all of our forebears were clueless idiots incapable of discovery or innovation. Our species is no smarter because we have iPads and Facebook; arguably, we are more stupid as a result.

Tyson, in effect, is saying that HPL was simply a rather dull recluse with a yen to scratch out some fiction in his spare time: without the Cosmic Revelation from Beyond the Wall of Sleep that is the NECRONOMICON(!), he wouldn’t have amounted to much. Personally, I find this position untenable and insulting. Mr Tyson probably didn’t intend for it to be; I’m assuming that he just didn’t think it through. HPL was a gifted writer with a tremendous imaginative force which he brought to bear on his creations. He was also a troubled individual with a whole bunch of unfortunate and debilitating quirks, but to take away his creative power is to rob him, I think, of his legacy.

I have read Tyson’s Necronomicon – The Wanderings of Alhazred and I found it diverting: as a riff upon a book that doesn’t exist (despite the author’s eager contention that it does) it was amusing enough. Was it the real Necronomicon? Not at all. Let me reiterate: the Necronomicon does not exist outside the writings of HPL and his circle. Taking any other position is just wishful thinking, and earns you the right to attend UFO Festivals and Cryptozoology Conventions with impunity.

Tyson falls into the camp of desperate believers who feel that a “system of magical working” can be built out of any coherent body of symbols with an integrated process of manipulation. This is, essentially, taking the standard concepts of “Magick” and dressing-them up with new faces. You can do it with vegetables; you can do it with comic book characters; you can – obviously – do it with the Great Old Ones. We’ve been doing it since at least the Renaissance with the Commedia del’Arte characters and – of course – as early as people have been able and inclined to daub splotches on cave walls. Those of you who are Mythos orientated will recall that August Derleth tried something similar when he tried to codify HPL’s “Yog-Sothery” into a system of Good and Evil entities bound by the Ancient Greek concept of the four elements. Tyson hasn’t forgotten this and he denigrates Derleth for taking this route; however, I notice that he has developed his own “Necronomicon Tarot”, so it looks like he enjoys having his cake and eating it too.

The Mythos is out there for anyone who cares to, to turn their hand to it creatively – it’s like open source horror material. I don’t begrudge Tyson for making a buck; but don’t take this stuff seriously, folks. At its fundamental level, it’s antithetical to everything that HPL was writing about, so that’s got to give you pause; but it’s also based on a whole bunch of tenuous and unsupportable fairy-floss. Tyson gives a solid reportage of HPL’s life and peculiarities and – it has to be said – he deals out this stuff with skill and a measured hand. He establishes a format whereby he provides a chapter of biographical detail followed by a chapter of wishful-thinking along the lines outlined above. In this way he serves those fans who are fascinated by The Man as well as those who crave The Mystical Possibilities – like I said, you can’t fault him for wanting to make a quid. But HPL’s life and peccadilloes aren’t hard to find – many authors have provided biographies, from L. Sprague de Camp, to S.T. Joshi, to Michel Houllebecq – and arguably, those other authors aren’t as enamoured of the ‘cut-and-paste’ function on their computers as is Mr Tyson.

Still, if you’re convinced that the Great Old Ones are only a dream away, and that by using magic you can get them to reveal the Lotto numbers to you, then this book is probably for you. And also the Tarot deck; and the Grimoire of the Necronomicon; and the 13 Gates of the Necronomicon magical workbook; all at reasonable prices!

Two tentacled horrors.

Review: "Avengers – Age of Ultron"

Whedon, Joss (Wri. & Dir.), “Avengers – Age of Ultron”, Marvel Studios, 2015.

Writing reviews of superhero flicks might seem a little out of place on this blog but I’m a Marvel fan from way, way, way back. There’s another reason which makes this review apropos and that is the theme of ‘monsters’ which underlines this story. Whedon is playing with fire in doing this, and throws himself inadvertently into some very hot water along the way, but the notion of what makes something ‘monstrous’ is the question that this show asks us to ponder.

Firstly, let’s get something clear before we hook in: if you’re not a Marvel fan and you haven’t been paying attention to the movies which preceded this one, then you’re in trouble. Stuff happens that you won’t understand and people will show up and then exit whom you will not recognise. This film squarely asks you to pay attention and to do your homework. If you’re not prepared to do the hard yards then you will probably not enjoy watching this. Go and see “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”; you’ll have a much better time. The other option is to watch the following films in this order:

“Iron Man”

“The Incredible Hulk” (the Edward Norton one)

“Iron Man 2”

“Captain America: The First Avenger”

“Thor”

“Avengers”

“Iron Man 3”

“Thor: The Dark World”

“Guardians of the Galaxy”

“Captain America: The Winter Soldier”

...And you’ll need to pay attention. You’ll also need to watch all of the post-credit sequences and, if you’re so inclined, the TV shows “Agent Carter” (starting after Captain America 1) and “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.” (after Avengers 1), although these options are probably for completists only. Then you’ll be ready for this mighty wedge of awesome!

The movie begins by dumping us straight into the action: the Avengers have assembled and are throwing themselves against a Hydra hideout led by Baron Strucker (a bit-part played by Thomas Kretschmann who, frankly, is wasted here. Some might recognise him as the ship’s captain from Jackson’s “King Kong” do-over). Explosions and amusing dialogue proliferate; bad guys eat humble pie, betray each other, or escape; and Loki’s infamous sceptre is back in safe hands once more. Or is it? During the revels that follow, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner tinker with Things Better Left Alone, and they unleash the menacing sentience that is Ultron, a robotic intelligence that immediately dedicates itself to protecting the planet, mainly by eliminating the greatest threat to the planet, i.e. humanity. Newcomers Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch team up with Ultron and wreak havoc on our heroes, who are forced to re-group and lick their wounds at Hawkeye’s secret homestead, where they wrestle with issues of morality and formulate an heroic response to the villainous threat.

Foremost with the Marvel material – and something which divides it sharply from the more white-bread DC universe – are the ethical issues which drive the characters, along with the minutiae of their lives sans capes. Within this crowd of powered leotard-wearers, tensions bubble just below the surface, and characters are quick to cast blame and cry “foul!” on each other. Allegiances are tenuous and hesitant – the glue that keeps the Avengers together as a unit is not particularly adhesive. This is as it should be since, as a result, the characters appear to us as more rounded and realistic. Whedon understands this very well: he plays the contrasts between superheroism and everyday human-ness very sharply, showing that ordinary people can rise to extraordinary things, while extraordinary people may appear disarmingly human. Much pathos and humour is mined to good effect along the way.

The scene with the hammer (“Myew-myew”, or, more correctly, “Mjolnir”) is the core of the film and everything blossoms out of this single sequence. The characters are tested and state their motivations; the notion of “worthiness” is displayed to good effect; and finally, Ultron makes his entrance. Everything that precedes this moment leads specifically to this point; everything that follows is a direct result of it and the clues to the resolution of the conflict lie within. On top of all this, it’s truly hilarious: the look on Thor’s face when Cap tries to pick up the hammer is worth the price of admission alone.

The story wends its explosive way across the face of the planet from here. Trailers and other promotional material carry on about the far-flung and exotic shooting locations, but really, it doesn’t add anything to the overall effect. The confrontation between the Hulk and Iron Man in the “Veronica” outfit (there’s a test for you readers who’ve never looked at an “Archie” comic) takes place in Johannesburg in South Africa, while the recovery of Ultron’s new-made body in its cradle occurs in Seoul. Really though? They could have been shot anywhere. The moment we arrive the action starts: anything that displays local colour or ethnic distinction is immediately blown up in clouds of flame. As a contrast, the scenes that were shot in the fictional East European country of Sokovia were all filmed on a backlot in London and they have far more exotic flavour than the real world locations. Is the planet actually falling into this kind of homogeneous generity, or were the directors desperately trying to eliminate any cultural identity from these locales? Hard to say, but the end result is that it was probably money wasted.

Now we get onto monsters. The word is used 6 times in the screenplay which, in light of the fact that film scripts tend to play up visuals while eliminating verbiage, means that it’s significant (the term “circus freaks” is also used which, despite being an alternative usage, brings the final count up to 7). In every instance, the word is used to indicate that someone being identified in this way is a negative individual, set to do harm. We are asked to determine whether or not an individual is morally ‘bad’ if they are defined by this term, or if they are merely misunderstood. In the case of the Black Widow, the message is unfortunately unclear – the text seems to ascribe ‘monstrousness’ to women who are unable to procreate; the actual intent of this speech is, I think, to describe all who go through the Red Room as ‘monsters’, not every woman unable to bear children, but Whedon’s script is loose enough that a negative reading remains. And, in terms of internet backlash, he is certainly reaping the consequences of his nebulousness.

In the various “Spiderman” comics, there is much talk of power and its need to be used responsibly; also, of its capability to corrupt. In this film, powerfulness is equated with monstrousness, if the ends to which it is used cause harm. Thus, all of our heroes are forced to question the very things that motivate them – the reasons why they get out of bed in the morning. By the time the credits roll, we understand which side of the moral line our guys are standing on, but it’s a long, hard process.

(An example of actual monstrousness can be seen in Jeremy Renner’s recent remarks that the Black Widow in this film can only be described as a “slut”. At the end of this movie, when the ‘next generation’ of Avengers is paraded, I was relieved to see that Renner’s Hawkeye was absent. Renner, as his unthinking comments reveal, is exactly the kind of misogynist monster that this world has too much of, and which it can definitely do without.)

The goal of this film is to erode the notion of what we think of as wrong. Ultron is protecting the planet; the Avengers are doing likewise. Who’s version is the better one? There is an unsettling sense of ‘going with what we know’ in the end result, which may please the general comics fan – in that it maintains the status quo - but which begs the question of whether the Avengers’ goal is truly the most beneficial one. This is where Whedon really does justice to Marvel’s work: sometimes the questions produce answers that aren’t particularly palatable, and the decision to go through with them often boils down to personal taste. Just look at Colossus’s critical decision in “Secret Wars” and you’ll understand what I mean. This is Marvel at its best.

In the final analysis, despite the heroic job that Joss Whedon does to translate the material for all-comers, this is a film for fans. If you know your Marvel, you will get this – it’s a gift with your name on the tag. If you don’t, it will annoy you because you won’t know who certain people are, why other characters behave as they do, where stuff comes from, and why. But then, this movie wasn’t really made for you: it’s a mash note from one Marvel fan to all of the others. Because of this, I’m cutting a tentacled horror from its rating; that being said, I’m getting my geek on and enjoying my exclusive access!

Three-and-a-half tentacled horrors.