by Paul Berry
‘You want to go paddling after seeing that?’ I ask. ‘What else might be slithering under the waves?’ I imagine the giant squid that has the Nautilus in a lethal embrace waiting in the sea to drag me to the freezing bottom.
‘Forget for a moment about gods and monsters and running for our lives and pretend we’re on holiday.’ She rolls up her trousers and water swirls around her ankles. She beckons. ‘The water’s lovely.’ Her teeth chatter slightly.
‘It’s freezing, isn’t it?’
‘It’s like a warm bath.’ I sigh and take off my shoes and socks, laying them next to hers. The wet sand squishes between my toes, the cold penetrating upwards into my calves. I stagger slightly and she grabs my hand. I feel myself becoming calmer and gaze at the horizon, the sea disappearing into infinity.
We stand in silence, staring, until the wind picks up and the waves grow higher, splashing against our knees, then wade back and walk across the shore, shaking water from our feet. Something prods against my right sole. I lift my foot and see a metal object glinting in the sun. I bend down and pull it from the sand. It’s the silver cap from the hip flask that my dad gave me, the initials ‘SB’ engraved in cursive letters.
‘Did you find a nice shell?’ Rachel asks, deftly balancing on one foot while she tries to slide a sock onto the other. I hold out my hand towards her. She looks at the cap and her mouth opens.
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Somebody or something knew we were coming.’ I throw it angrily into the sea.
‘Maybe someone with the same name lost an identical flask,’ she says without conviction.
‘I think I’ve been here before. That morning when I woke up with the shell, I think it was this beach.’
‘The picture you drew was a warning. We shouldn’t have come here.’
The wind whips our faces and we hurriedly brush damp sand from our feet, put on our shoes and socks, then follow the sea wall back to the stone steps.
The seagulls feeding on the tentacle have gone, leaving only a dark smudge on the sand, our sets of footprints curving away from it. In the distance, dark storm clouds are gathering on the horizon, and the sky echoes with thunder.
We turn off the promenade and head down one of the roads marked on the map, a tiny red arrow indicating the way. Sand grinds against the soles of my feet and I wish I’d remembered to clean between my toes before putting my shoes back on. The afternoon roads are deserted and we take a couple more turnings before realising we have strayed beyond the boundaries of the map. Crooked streets sprout off in every direction.
‘We should have brought a real map,’ I say irritably, suspecting Ruby was trying to lead us away from the church when she drew it. We turn down Shaggoth Street and I shudder, the name conjuring up images of dark nameless things writhing in murky ocean depths.
A desperate squawking pierces the air and an old woman pushes a pram along the pavement towards us while a young girl trails after her.
‘Sounds like a cross between a baby and an angry seagull,’ Rachel says, scrunching her eyes against the noise. The woman stops the pram when she reaches us.
‘What’s the quickest way to the church from here?’ I ask.
The baby inside the pram has stopped crying, as though it’s trying to eavesdrop. The woman cackles then covers her mouth. She motions her head to the right.
‘Take the second turning and follow Crouch Street until you reach a crossroads, then turn left up Sentinel Street into the town square. Someone will point you in the right direction from there.’ She moves off before we have the chance to thank her, but the young girl stops and stares at us.
She makes a slashing movement across her throat before skipping after the woman.
‘That girl makes the twins from The Shining seem friendly,’ I say.
‘And that old woman was wacko. If there’s nothing at the church, we get the hell out of here. There must be other ways of finding your dad.’
‘She said to go to the town square. Ruby said to avoid it.’
‘I think Ruby’s been sniffing too much of her hairspray. The only thing that’s going to happen is we’ll be bored to death.’ Rachel laughs nervously.
We turn up Crouch Street, which is lined with shops, most with boarded-up windows, their weathered signs the only indication of what they sold.
We’re trapped in the Minotaur maze, slowly and inevitably walking into the jaws of the beast.
‘This place just gets more appealing,’ Rachel says. ‘We should come here for a glamorous getaway every year.’ We pause next to the ‘New Innsmouth Fashion Emporium’, which has also been long boarded up. ‘I guess I’ll have to postpone buying a new outfit. Maybe Ruby will let me borrow one of her polyester pinafores if I ask politely.’
On the corner of a road leading off Crouch Street is a stone building emblazoned with ‘New Innsmouth Museum’ in burnished gold letters. I wipe the grime from a window with the sleeve of my jacket and cup my face against it, straining to see what’s inside.
‘This has to be my favourite disturbing place of interest so far,’ she says. ‘What can you see?’
‘I think there’s a dinosaur skeleton hanging from the ceiling.’ My eyes start adjusting to the darkness. ‘Actually, it looks more like a whale interbred with a unicorn … it’s a narwhal.’ Glass cases containing various stuffed animals line the walls, most of them unrecognisable.
Rachel presses her face against the window. ‘It’s a perfect place to visit if you’re a family of serial killers.’
‘The museum is closed today.’
We both jerk round in surprise. A woman with straggly grey hair smiles at us, her tiny sausage dog straining on its leash and wagging its tail.
‘Great, another loony of zombie town,’ Rachel whispers in my ear.
‘He likes you,’ the woman says. Rachel bends down and strokes the dog’s smooth back, and it licks her hands enthusiastically.
‘His name’s Arthur,’ the woman says. The dog growls at me and I step back nervously.
‘Careful, Sam, he might lick you to death.’ I squat and gently stroke a finger on its head. It whimpers and runs between the woman’s legs.
‘You’re not from around here,’ she says.
‘Is it that obvious?’ I ask.
She grabs my wrist and clutches it tightly. ‘You two should stay indoors today. It’s not safe.’
I gently try to pull away, but her grip is firm. ‘Why is it not safe?’
‘Don’t let them take you.’ Her eyes are wide with fear and she lets go.
‘Can you point us to the town square?’ Rachel asks. The woman shakes her head and hurries away, the dog straining on its leash as it pulls her.
‘What was all that about?’ I ask.
‘This whole town is populated with weirdos. And they’re all old ladies. Menopause must be a bitch here.’
‘There’s definitely something off with this place.’
‘Really?’ Rachel laughs. ‘It’s actually starting to grow on me. Like toenail fungus. I have a sudden urge to join their knitting circle and make an octopus tea cosy.’
The dog howls mournfully in the distance. Rachel holds the map above her head like a tiny parachute.
‘This thing is useless.’ She drops it on the pavement and the wind cartwheels it down the road.
‘We can find the way by ourselves. It’s not like we’re lost in a megacity.’ We carry on up Crouch Street until we reach the crossroads.
‘Did she say left or right?’ Rachel asks. ‘I think right.’ All the road signs are blackened with rot, the names completely obscured.
I shrug. ‘Your sense of direction is worse than mine. Remember how you got lost in the college every day for the first week.’
Rachel licks her finger before holding it out. ‘Wait a minute, my pigeon instincts tell me to tak
e that street.’ She points to her left. We examine the sign and make out a faint grey ‘N’ and ‘L’ through the layers of crud.
‘It must be Sentinel Street like the first crazy woman said. Never doubt my powers again.’
‘Remember that dog licked your homing finger.’ She grimaces and wipes her sleeve across her tongue.
The street ends at a cobbled town square. There are a few ramshackle stalls, one selling fruit and vegetables, another with strange chimeric fish laid out on faded newspaper. Shambling dolefully around are groups of townspeople, all of them with weathered faces. Surrounding one stall are clothes hanging from sets of rails.
Rachel nudges me and points at it. ‘Before we save the world, I don’t want to keep smelling like a stale dish towel.’
‘You usually smell like an ashtray.’
‘Don’t remind me of cigarettes. I’ve been gasping for one all morning.’ The stall next to the clothes one sells jewellery made of some incandescent metal laid out on black velvet, wrought into a chaotic morass of fins and tentacles.
‘Did you make these yourself?’ Rachel asks the owner. He has a long black beard streaked with grey.
‘The sea and all its creatures inspire me.’ His lips don’t seem to move, as they’re hidden behind layers of beard. She picks up a ring of three tentacles woven together and looks at it admiringly.
‘Try it on,’ he says.
Rachel pauses, then shakes her head. ‘Then I’ll end up buying it, and our budget doesn’t stretch to accessories.’ He nods and we go to the clothes stall. The bald man behind it smiles at us weakly as Rachel flicks through the hangers. She pulls out a faded pair of jeans and holds them up against me.
‘They’ll fit you more or less. Might have to hitch in your belt, though, Mr Skinny.’ She selects a couple of plain t-shirts, another pair of jeans, which she holds up against herself, and a couple of shapeless sweaters. She hands them to me as she pays, and I look at the faded embroidery on one of them: three interlocked snake circles, the logo for Vega College. Rachel stuffs the change into her pocket, dropping a couple of pennies.
She looks at my shocked face and grabs the sweater from me. ‘Why would anyone from Vega come here?’
‘Perhaps someone from New Innsmouth was a student there in the past,’ I say, unconvinced. The man behind the stall stares at us blankly. His middle finger is missing, knobbly scar tissue around the first joint. I recall how easily I bit through Dr Stone’s finger and grimace at the thought of ever eating chicken drumsticks again.
‘Do you have any more sweaters like this?’ Rachel asks. The man shrugs his shoulders.
‘I only got what you see here.’ Her jaw tenses in irritation and I imagine her pulling the gun from her backpack and demanding in her American accent that he tell the truth unless he wants to scoop up his brains.
Her face relaxes as she faux smiles. ‘Can you tell us how to get to the church?’ He nods and points to a street leading off the other side of the square.
‘Follow Pickman, then turn right onto Membrous. You can’t miss it.’ I know Rachel is about to question him more about the sweater, so I pull her away.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Have a good day.’ He snorts derisively and starts straightening the hangers.
‘We were right. Something’s not right with this place,’ Rachel says. ‘Can’t you feel it? It’s in the air, like evil has just left a house but its influence is still hanging around like an electric charge.’
‘Sounds like you’ve seen Ghostbusters too many times.’
‘You know what I mean, Sam.’ We cross the square, the townspeople giving us furtive looks. ‘And what’s with these street names? It sounds like the town was built by Satanists.’
As we walk up Pickman Street I glance back at the square.
Everyone is standing still and staring at us.
Chapter 34
We turn onto Membrous Street and the light dulls as it turns misty. Rachel points to a doorway set deep into an abandoned terrace.
‘That’ll do as a makeshift changing room. Keep a look out for perverts or monsters.’ I stand in the doorway with my back to her while she changes into the new clothes. She taps me on the shoulder and I turn around. ‘What do you think? Will I grace the catwalks of Paris soon with Cindy Crawford?’ Her jeans hover above her ankles while the sleeves of the Vega sweater spill over her hands.
‘You’ll be the envy of every bony supermodel.’ I change into my clothes while Rachel keeps watch, the jeans hanging loosely on my hips, the woollen jumper itchy against my neck. We stuff our dirty clothes into the backpack and walk to the end of the street.
‘What was the clothes stall man talking about? You can’t see the church …’ Her voice trails off as we stare over the roofs. The pall of mist has cleared to reveal a church steeple piercing the sky like a black fang. Faintly visible at the top is the twisted outline of the octopus weather vane, squeaking as it turns in the breeze. We turn off Membrous and follow the streets in the direction of the steeple.
We reach the street with the church and see it unimpeded. The steeple is surrounded by sharp pinnacles, giving the church the appearance of a fractured snarl, the rest of it constructed at bizarre, almost impossible angles that seem to shift and slide like the internal geometry of the crystal. Perched on a buttress is a squid-shaped gargoyle, its tentacles snaking down like engorged veins.
The angle of the steeple makes it look like it’s bowing down, ready to gobble us up.
‘Whoever built this was insane,’ I say.
‘It looks almost alive.’ Rising from a low stone wall which encircles the church are tall railings. The only way in is through a chained and padlocked gate.
I grab the gates and rattle them against the chains. ‘Is it to stop people entering or something from leaving?’ The railings are too high to climb, and I try kicking one to see if it breaks. ‘What about shooting off the lock?’
Rachel shakes her head. ‘It’s more likely to ricochet off and hit one of us. We could wait until the congregation arrives and sneak in.’
‘I have a feeling we won’t be welcomed with open arms.’ I look at the black gothic door to the church and shudder, wondering what darkness is waiting for us behind it.
‘From our current experiences with the local populace you’re probably right.’
I kick the gate in frustration. ‘What was the point in coming here? That picture I drew has just led us to a dead end.’
‘The only other option is to wait for your mother and take the other half of the crystal from her. Then get far away from here and open a rift, try your rope idea.’
‘She’s too strong,’ I say, remembering the way she ripped through the Syncret in the carpark. ‘There might have been something at Jupiter Hill that could have helped us, something in their books, if it hadn’t burnt to ashes.’
‘And we can’t return to Preston. The Syncret, what’s left of them, will just capture us.’
‘We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, as my dad liked – likes to say.’
‘Maybe the picture is about the town, not the church. It’s obvious Ruby’s not telling us the whole story, and that crazy woman with the dog was also hiding something.’
The breeze grows stronger and spots of rain speckle the pavement. Rachel squirms against the backpack and her face screws up in disgust. ‘Sam, there’s something moving inside.’ She screams, tears it off and throws it on the ground. ‘I think it’s a rat!’
I prod it with my foot and bend down, unsnapping the straps.
‘Sam, don’t.’ I reach inside. Something quivers against my palm. I grasp it and pull out the crystal. I hold it out and it flexes rhythmically, like a muscle contracting.
‘My mother is close.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can feel its pain. It wants to be whole again.’ There is a p
istol-crack of thunder and rain starts pelting our heads.
‘Just what I need. Another shower.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Head back to the Dorchester. We can make a plan there, get Ruby to make us some coffee and slip some whiskey in hers to loosen her lips.’
We trudge through the deserted streets, torrents of water swashing down the pavements over our shoes. When we reach the town square, it is empty apart from the jewellery stall man trying to fold up a wooden pallet. He curses and rubs his palm.
‘Need some help?’ Rachel asks.
He squeezes rainwater from his beard. ‘Thank you. My feeble hands aren’t what they used to be.’ We help him fold up the stall and stack the sections of wood against a wall. He picks up the leather case where he stored the jewellery.
‘They’re very beautiful,’ Rachel says. ‘Did you also make the sculpture on the promenade?’
He nods. ‘I do whatever the sea commands me to do. Permit me to buy you both a drink before we drown standing up. I’m Baltus.’ He shakes Rachel’s hand. He then stretches his hand towards me and I reluctantly grasp it, feeling one of his joints crack against my fingers when he squeezes. He points to the yellow glow from the windows of ‘The Frying Pan and Fish’.
‘A cuppa or something stronger? You look like a whiskey drinker,’ he says, looking at me. Rachel bends down over a puddle and picks something up. It is the tentacle ring she was admiring.
‘You dropped something.’ She holds it out to him, but he shakes his head.
‘It’s yours. Payment for helping me.’ Rachel grins and slides it onto her middle finger.
Lightning crackles above our heads and balls into a violent fist.
‘Get inside before we’re burnt to ashes,’ he says. We hurry to the entrance of the pub, the rain now falling so fast that it seems to be gushing up from the flags of the square. Baltus swings the door open to a fusty atmosphere of stale beer and smoke.
A few of the townspeople stare at us from their tables and the hum of conversation peters out. An old woman with a scar down her cheek takes a pipe from her wrinkled mouth and fixes us with piercing blue eyes.
