“Are we telling Des yet?”
“Betty’s right, we’ll have to soon.”
“Can’t wait to see his face.”
“I remember how yours looked, Mary.”
It wasn’t only their words that froze him—it was that, exhausted perhaps by singing, both voices had given up all disguise. He wouldn’t have known they weren’t meant to be men except for the names they were still using. If that indicated the kind of bar he’d strayed into, it had never been his kind. He did his best to appear unaware of the situation as, having managed to swallow hard, he ventured into the bar.
More had happened than he knew. Joe had transferred his bulk to the stool that blocked the street door. Jessop pretended he hadn’t noticed, only to realise that he should have confined himself to pretending it didn’t matter. He attempted this while he stood at the table to gather the score and return it to his briefcase. “Well,” he said as casually as his stiffening lips would allow, “I’d better be on my way.”
“Not just yet, Des,” Joe said, settling more of his weight against the door. “Listen to it.”
Jessop didn’t know if that referred to the renewed onslaught of the gale or him. “I need something from my car.”
“Tell us what and we’ll get it for you. You aren’t dressed for this kind of night.”
Jessop was trying to identify whom he should tell to let him go—the barman was conspicuously intent on wiping glasses—and what tone and phrasing he should use when Daniel said “You lot singing’s put Des off us and his supper.”
“Let’s hear you then, Des,” Joe rather more than invited. “Your turn to sing.”
“Yes, go on, Des,” Mary shrilled. “We’ve entertained you, now you can.”
Might that be all they required of him? Jessop found himself blurting “I don’t know what to perform.”
“What we were,” Joe said.
Jessop gripped his clammy hands together behind his back and drew a breath he hoped would also keep down the resurgent taste of his bowlful. As he repeated the question about the sailor, his dwarfed voice fled back to him while all the drinkers rocked from side to side, apparently to encourage him. The barman found the glasses he was wiping more momentous than ever. Once Jessop finished wishing it could indeed be early in the morning, if that would put him on the ferry, his voice trailed off. “That’s lovely,” Betty cried, adjusting her fallen breast. “Go on.”
“I can’t remember any more. It really isn’t my sort of music.”
“It will be,” Daniel said.
“Take him down to see her,” Betty chanted, “and he’ll soon be sober.”
“Let him hear her sing and then he’ll need no drinking,” Mary added with something like triumph.
They were only suggesting lyrics, Jessop told himself—perhaps the very ones they’d sung. The thought didn’t help him perform while so many eyes were watching him from the dimness that seeped through the nets. He felt as if he’d been lured into a cave where he was unable to see clearly enough to defend himself. All around him the intent bulks were growing visibly restless; Mary was fingering her red tresses as though it might be time to dispense with them. “Come on, Des,” Joe said, so that for an instant Jessop felt he was being directed to the exit. “No point not joining in.”
“We only get one night,” said Tom.
“So we have to fit them all in,” Daniel said.
All Jessop knew was that he didn’t want to need to understand. A shiver surged up through him, almost wrenching his hands apart. It was robbing him of any remaining control—and then he saw that it could be his last chance. “You’re right, Joe,” he said and let them see him shiver afresh. “I’m not dressed for it. I’ll get changed.”
Having held up his briefcase to illustrate his ruse, he was making for the rear door when Mary squealed “No need to be shy, Des. You can in here.”
“I’d rather not, thank you,” Jessop said with the last grain of authority he could find in himself, and dodged into the corridor.
As soon as the door was shut he stood his briefcase against it. Even if he wanted to abandon the case, it wouldn’t hold the door. He tiptoed fast and shakily to the end of the passage and lowered the topmost crate onto his chest. He retraced his steps as fast as silencing the bottles would allow. He planted the crate in the angle under the hinges and took the briefcase down the corridor. He ignored the blurred mutter of televisions beyond the door while he picked up another crate. How many could he use to ensure the route was blocked before anyone decided he’d been out of sight too long? He was returning for a third crate when he heard a fumbling at the doors on both sides of the corridor.
Even worse than the shapeless eagerness was the way the doors were being assaulted in unison, as if by appendages something was reaching out from—where? Beneath him, or outside the pub? Either thought seemed capable of paralysing him. He flung himself out of their range to seize the next crate, the only aspect of his surroundings he felt able to trust to be real. He couldn’t venture down the dim corridor past the quivering doors. He rested crate after crate against the wall, and dragged the last one aside with a jangle of glass. Grabbing his briefcase and abandoning stealth, he threw his weight against the metal bar across the door.
It wouldn’t budge for rust. He dropped the case and clutched two-handed at the obstruction while he hurled every ounce of himself at it. The bar gave a reluctant gritty clank, only to reveal that a presence as strong as Jessop was on the far side of the door. It was the wind, which slackened enough to let him and the door stagger forward. He blocked the door with one foot as he snatched up the briefcase. Outside was a narrow unlit alley between the backs of houses. Noise and something more palpable floundered at him—the wind, bearing a tangle of voices and music. At the end of the alley, less than twenty feet away, three men were waiting for him.
Wiry Paul was foremost, flanked by Joe and Tom. He’d pulled his bobble hat down to his eyebrows and was flexing his arms like thick stalks in a tide. “You aren’t leaving now we’ve given you a name,” he said.
A flare of rage that was mostly panic made Jessop shout “My name’s Paul.”
“Fight you for it,” the other man offered, prancing forward.
“I’m not playing any more games with anyone.”
“Then we aren’t either. You won.”
“Won the moment you stepped through the door,” Tom seemed to think Jessop wanted to hear.
Jessop remembered the notice about a competition. It was immediately clear to him that however much he protested, he was about to receive his prize. “You were the quiz,” Paul told him as Joe and Tom took an identical swaying pace forward.
Jessop swung around and bolted for the main road. The dark on which the houses turned their backs felt close to solid with the gale and the sounds entangled in it. The uproar was coming from the houses, from televisions and music systems turned up loud. It made him feel outcast, but surely it had to mean there would be help within earshot if he needed to appeal for it. He struggled against the relentless gale towards the distant gap that appeared to mock his efforts by tossing back and forth. He glanced over his shoulder to see Paul and his cronies strolling after him. A car sped past the gap ahead as if to tempt him forward while he strove not to be blown into an alley to his right. Or should he try that route even if it took him farther from the main road? The thought of being lost as well as pursued had carried him beyond the junction when Betty and Mary blocked his view of the road.
They were still wearing dresses that flapped in the wind, but they were more than broad enough to leave him no escape. The gale lifted Mary’s tresses and sent them scuttling crabwise at Jessop. “Some of us try to be more like her,” Mary growled with a defensiveness close to violence. “Try to find out what’ll make her happier.”
“Lots have tried,” Betty said in much the same tone. “We’re just the first that’s had her sort on board.”
“Shouldn’t be surprised if her sisters want to s
ee the world now too.”
“She doesn’t just take,” Betty said more defensively still. “She provides.”
Jessop had been backing away throughout this, both from their words and from comprehending them, but he couldn’t leave behind the stale upsurge of his dinner. When he reached the junction again he didn’t resist the gale. It sent him sidling at a run into the dark until he managed to turn. The houses that walled him in were derelict and boarded up, yet the noise on both sides of him seemed unabated, presumably because the inhabitants of the nearest occupied buildings had turned the volume higher. Why was the passage darkening? He didn’t miss the strip of moonlit cloud until he realised it was no longer overhead. At that moment his footsteps took on a note more metallic than echoes between bricks could account for, but his ears had fastened on another sound—a song.
It was high and sweet and not at all human. It seemed capable of doing away with his thoughts, even with his fleeting notion that it could contain all music. Nothing seemed important except following it to its source—certainly not the way the floor tilted abruptly beneath him, throwing him against one wall. Before long he had to leave his briefcase in order to support himself against the metal walls of the corridor. He heard the clientele of the Seafarer tramp after him, and looked back to see the derelict houses rock away beyond Mary and Betty. All this struck him as less than insignificant, except for the chugging of engines that made him anxious to be wherever it wouldn’t interfere with the song. Someone opened a hatch for him and showed him how to grasp the uprights of the ladder that led down into the unlit dripping hold. “That’s what sailors hear,” said another of the crew as Jessop’s foot groped downwards, and Jessop wondered if that referred to the vast wallowing beneath him as well as the song. For an instant too brief for the notion to stay in his mind he thought he might already have glimpsed the nature of the songstress. You’d sing like that if you looked like that, came a last thought. It seemed entirely random to him, and he forgot it as the ancient song drew him into the enormous cradle of darkness.
THE TRANSITION OF ELIZABETH HASKINGS
by CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
E LIZABETH HASKINGS INHERITED the old house on Water Street from her grandfather. It would have passed to her mother, but she’d gone away to Oregon when Elizabeth was six years old, leaving her daughter with the old man. She’d said she would come back, but she never did, and after a while the letters stopped coming, and then the postcards stopped coming, too. And now Elizabeth Haskings is twenty-nine, and she has no idea whether her mother is alive or dead. It’s not something she thinks about very often. But she does understand why her mother left, that it was fear of the broad, tea-coloured water of the Ipswich River, flowing lazily down to the salt marshes and the Atlantic. Flowing down to Little Neck and the deep channel between the mainland and Plum Island, finally emptying into the ocean hardly a quarter of a mile north of Essex Bay. Elizabeth understands it was the ruins surrounding the bay, there at the mouth of the Manuxet River—labelled the Castle Neck River on more recent maps, maps drawn up after the late 1920s.
She’s never blamed her mother for running like that. But here, in Ipswich, she has the house and her job at the library, and in Oregon—or wherever she might run—she’d have nothing at all. Here she has roots, even if they’re roots she does her best not to dwell on. But this is only history, the brief annals of a young woman’s life. Relevant, certainly, but only as prologue. What happened in the town that once ringed Essex Bay, the strange seaport town that abruptly died one winter eighty-four years ago, where her grandfather lived as a boy.
It’s a Saturday night in June, and on most Saturday nights Elizabeth Haskings entertains what she quaintly thinks of as her “gentleman caller”. She enjoys saying, “Tonight, I will be visited by my gentleman caller.” Even though Michael’s gay. They work together at archives at the Ipswich Public Library, though, sometimes, he switches over to circulation. Anyway, he knows about Elizabeth’s game, and usually he brings her a small bouquet of flowers of one sort of another—calla lilies, Peruvian lilies, yellow roses fringed with red, black-eyed susans—and she carefully arranges them in one of her several vases while he cooks her dinner. She feels bad that Michael is always the one who cooks, but, truthfully, Elizabeth isn’t a very good cook, and tends to eat from the microwave most nights.
They might watch a DVD afterwards, or play Scrabble, or just sit at the wide dinner table she also inherited from her grandfather and talk. About work or books or classical music, something Michael knows much more about than she does. Truth is, he often makes her feel inadequate, but she’s never said so. She loves him, and it’s not a simple, platonic love, so she’s always kept it a secret, allowed their “dates” to seem like nothing more than a ritual between friends who seem to have more in common with one another than with most anyone else they know in the little New England town (whether that’s true or not). Sometimes, she lies in bed, thinking about him lying beside her, instead of thinking about all the things she works so hard not thinking about: the river, the sea, her lost mother, the grey, weathered boards and stone foundations where there was once a dingy town, etcetera & etcetera. It’s her secret, and she’ll never tell him.
Though, Michael knows the most terrible secret that she’ll ever have, and she’s fairly sure that his knowing it has kept her sane for the five years they’ve known one another. In an odd way, it doesn’t seem fair, the same way his always cooking doesn’t seem fair. No, much worse than that. But him knowing this awful thing about her, and her never telling him how she feels. Still, Elizabeth assures herself, telling him that would only ruin their friendship. A bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, and in this instance it really is better not to have one’s cake and eat it, too.
They don’t always play board games after dinner, or watch movies, or talk. Because there are nights that his just knowing her secret isn’t enough. There are nights it weighs so much Elizabeth imagines it might crush her flat, like the pressure at the bottom of the deep sea. Those nights, after dinner, they go upstairs to her bedroom, and he runs a porcelain bowl of water from the bathtub faucet. He adds salt to it while she undresses before the tall mirror affixed to one wall, taller than her by a foot, and framed with ornately carved walnut. She pretends that it’s only carved with acanthus leaves and cherubs. It’s easier that way. It doesn’t embarrass her for Michael to see her nude, not even with the disfigurements of her secret uncovered and plainly visible to him. After all, that’s why he’s returned from the bathroom with the bowl of salty water and a yellow sponge (he leaves the tap running). That’s why they’ve come upstairs, because she can’t always be the only one to look at herself.
“It’s bad tonight?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer straightaway. She’s never been one to complain if she can avoid complaining, and it’s bad enough that he knows. She doesn’t also want to seem weak. After a minute or half a minute she answers, “It’s been worse.” That’s the truth, even if it’s also a way of evading his question.
“Betsy, just tell me when you’re ready.” He always calls her Betsy, never Elizabeth. She’s never called him Mike, though.
“I’m ready,” she says, leaning her neck to the left or to the right, exposing the pale skin below the ridge of her chin. But I’m not ready at all. I’m never ready, am I?
“Okay, then. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
He’s always as gentle as anyone could be.
“You’ve never hurt me, Michael. Not even once.”
But she has no doubt he can see the discomfort in her eyes when the washcloth touches her skin. She tries hard not to flinch, but, usually, she flinches regardless.
“Was that too hard?”
“No. I’m fine. I’m okay,” she tells him, so he continues administering the salt water to her throat, dabbing carefully, and Elizabeth Haskings tries to concentrate on his fingertips, whenever they happen to brush against her. It never takes very long for the three red slits on ea
ch side of her throat to appear, and not much longer for them to open. They never open very far, not until later on. Just enough that she can see the barn-red gills behind the stiff, crescent-shaped flaps of skin that weren’t there only moments before. That never are there until the salt water. Here, she always loses her breath for a few seconds, and the flaps spasm, opening and closing, and she has to gasp several times to find a balance between the air being drawn in through her nostrils and mouth, and the air flowing across the feathery red gill filaments. Sometimes her legs go weak, but Michael has never let her fall.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “Don’t panic. Take it slow and easy, Betsy. Just breathe.”
The dizziness passes, the dark blotches that swim before her eyes, and she doesn’t need him to support her any longer. She stares at herself in the mirror, and by now her eyes have gone black. No irises, no pupils, no sclera. Just inky black where her hazel-green eyes used to be.
“I’m right here,” he says.
He doesn’t have to tell her that again. He’s always there, behind her or at her side.
Unconsciously, she tries to blink her eyes, but all trace of her lids have vanished, and she can only stare at those black, blank eyes. Later, when they begin to smart, Michael will have the eye drops at the ready.
“It’s getting harder,” she says. He doesn’t reply, because she says this almost every time. All his replies have been used up, Elizabeth thinks. No matter how much he might want to calm me or offer surcease, he’s already said it all a dozen times over.
Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth Page 28