Winter Falls
By Eddie Skelson
For mum and dad.
During the winter of 1927-28 officials of the Federal government made a strange and secret investigation of certain conditions in the ancient Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth. The public first learned of it in February, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred, followed by the deliberate burning and dynamiting--under suitable precautions--of an enormous number of crumbling, worm-eaten, and supposedly empty houses along the abandoned waterfront.
H.P Lovecraft – The Shadow Over Innsmouth
Prologue
The seasons change quickly here. The most noticeable being the sudden, almost shocking shift from autumn to winter. Mountains and hills hold back the most severe rains unless they blow in from the coast, though one or two of these sea-borne squalls always break through. When these powerful fronts breach the hills and move inland, they do so with sufficient rainfall to bloat the lochs beyond their tolerance. In turn, once they have reached their fill, the excess water is spewed back towards the waiting sea and as it returns to the ocean dry beds refill, sedentary brooks become temporary rivers and the homes of unfortunate animals are picked up and carried along with the surge.
Occasionally, when the torrent is strong enough a tributary will form and cut through fields and dense forests. Following an old path it rushes towards the northeast, away from the coast. It brings with it the detritus of the countryside, rotten plants and fallen trees, victims of the nature of the forest, dead things, until finally the rushing flow encounters a ridge that drops suddenly onto the low-lying basalt plain.
Here the torrent smashes against rocks lining the edge of the ridge and begins to pool behind them, allowing only a steady flow to cascade over, its volume and speed overcoming the barrier. The flotsam and jetsam which was ripped and torn from the forest is pushed and pulled in the current and ultimately this too is cast over the edge.
And suddenly, as though the mountains have agreed to allow the blistering cold air that drives at them to pass their bulk, winter arrives with a singular intensity. It is a blast of such low temperature that as it sweeps across the ridge it freezes the water as it falls, capturing its essence in a crystalline prison.
‘We should have come in the fucking car.’ Jonas said.
He was repeating what he had said ten minutes earlier but this time a little more emphatically. He was joking, as usual, but he hadn’t slept well at the pub and this long walk was working at his patience regardless of the natural beauty of the scenery.
‘Jonas, nok. Du gir meg en hodepinedette,’ Trond replied, his tone gruff but that wasn’t unusual, as his mood leaned towards sombre more often than not.
‘I thought we were speaking in English for this trip.’ Jonas continued, gently pushing at his friend.
‘You can be real pain in the ass, you know.’ Trond replied, ‘how's that?’
‘Ha!’ Jonas laughed. ‘That’s better though. You need the practice, your accent is awful.’
‘Dick head.’ Trond replied.
Trond would be the first to admit that his English, although grammatically good, was heavily laden with his Norwegian dialect. Jonas however, having spent twelve years of his thirty two in the UK had only a slight lilt, his accent had been stretched and diluted through his travels around the island.
They continued walking. Jonas relinquished his ribbing and the two fell silent for a while. He had hoped that by poking fun at Trond he might lift his friend’s mood and that he would become a little more talkative, but since they had left the last village behind Trond had withdrawn into his own thoughts.
Jonas figured they had travelled about five miles with Trond’s contemplative silence before coming to a halt at a point close to an escarpment. It was a steep drop to the lower area of land and he could see why no-one in their right mind tried to cross the highlands at night or in poor weather.
‘I need to check our location.’ Trond said and from his thick Berghaus jacket he withdrew an ordnance survey map sheathed in clear plastic. Jonas watched silently as he opened it up and folded it back on its self to make it a manageable size.
They were on the edge of a considerable stretch of land broken up only by dry stone walls. He hadn’t seen a single field of crops or livestock of any sort since they had travelled about a mile from the village. It wasn’t unusual, not in these circumstances and he had certainly experienced it’s like before. It was a corruption that radiated through the air and the soil, a wrongness was how he described it to Trond. This meant that they had to be close, the signs were everywhere now.
The weather was turning too. Jonas had an intuition where the weather was concerned. The proximity of the wrongness of this place and the violence he perceived in the atmosphere was what had disturbed his sleep last night.
‘Nearly there.’ Trond said as if in response to Jonas’s thoughts.
‘Good, my fucking feet are killing me.’ Jonas turned to see Trond looking at him with a concerned expression.
‘Ok, yes I know. I am taking it seriously. I’m just trying to work though this man, y’know. I didn’t sleep well.’
Trond nodded. Understanding. Jonas was sensitive to these places and it upset his well-being. He tapped the map.
‘According to this we are close to the boundary.’
‘If it’s right.’ Jonas said.
‘Yes, if it’s right.’ Trond returned the map to the inside of his coat. ‘And if the key fits.’
‘Ja.’ Jonas nodded and frowned realising he had dropped into his mother-tongue as he occasionally did with short statements.
‘You gave one to the villager?’ Jonas added. Mild accusation in the question.
‘Ja, I did.’ Trond replied.
‘How come?’
Trond turned his attention from Jonas and looked ahead. ‘In case we don’t come back.’ He fixed his gaze upon a dark line that met the sky on the horizon.
‘You told him?’ Jonas asked genuinely surprised.
‘Nei…no. Perhaps I expanded on what he already knew a little.’
‘You think he would come?’
‘No, not really.’ Trond said and started to walk. He estimated the dark line, a wall of trees, lay about two miles or so from where they stood. Their destination would be beyond them.
‘Is that the forest in the distance, is that the one?’
‘Ja, that’s the one.’
‘We should have come in the fucking car.’ Jonas said.
Despite himself Trond laughed a little.
Chapter One
Joe Clarke’s mood had been black for the whole of the trip from London Euston to Glasgow Central. Frustration, boredom and a touch of anxiety had rested on his mind as he had tried to relax in a standard class carriage where relaxation was effectively neutered by overcrowding. To compound matters an unscheduled change, revealed via a barely audible announcement, had advised him there would be a delay. To make sure that he was fully in the picture of a situation that he couldn’t do a thing about he was also told that this was due to a mechanical fault. The delay extended his journey time from a barely tolerable five hours to a soul destroying eight.
Joe’s mood didn’t improve when he finally stepped onto the platform at this part of his journeys end. Rain had begun to lightly fall as he had passed through Manchester. By the time he reached Carlisle, the point at which the unwelcome announcement had been made, it had become a heavy sleet, spitting at the window and reducing visibility to almost zero. Upon arrival at Glasgow Station a full-scale blizzard was hammering at the city.
On the platform an ice-cold wind upon which the winter storm rode cut through the station and easily overcame Joe’s inappropriate clothing. His choice of a shirt and tie, trousers, a fashio
nable but flimsy Nickelson wool jacket and a scarf no thicker than his socks had been just one in a series of bad calls.
To begin with he had chosen not to hire a car and drive to Glasgow instead. His reasoning had been that he would have to pay for it himself and then claim the cash back as expenses and this was a major hassle. Then there was the prospect of an eight journey each way, along unfamiliar roads that Joe thought were going to be mostly chock full of traffic. By taking an early train he hoped to be in and out of Glasgow within the day. There was no chance of this now. It was already four o’ clock and he still had to navigate to the hospital, speak to Christ knows who about getting the information he required and then physically check and copy the records. Granted he would only photograph the documents with his iPad but he was still looking at an overnight stay, which in turn meant more expense claims.
Joe disliked Scotland and things Scottish on general principle, although he had never visited the place before now. He carried with him a weak subconscious suspicion of the country and its people that was based on cultural stereotypes, imagining that every Scottish male was either a psychotic Begby from Trainspotting or a drunken Rab C Nesbitt waster. He also entertained a more general rejection of any society that wasn’t based within a London postcode and had summed up his feelings on his upcoming excursion ‘north of the border’ to a colleague with the sentiment, ‘as the Romans decided that Scotland wasn’t worth the effort I’m happy to trust in their opinion on the matter.’
But in truth he what he really disliked anywhere that wasn’t a balmy Mediterranean beach, or South West London, his home patch. As far as he was concerned he was being punished with this trip simply for being good at his job and so there was no reason that the whole of Scotland shouldn’t take the blame.
He tightened the pitiful scarf and cursed the fact that he hadn’t brought a hat, or gloves and that he wasn’t wearing anything close to appropriate footwear. He carried a canvas North Ridge backpack slung across his shoulder and pulled his travelling case behind him as if it were an awkward dog.
‘Exiled to the British third world’,’ he thought as he passed through the main doors of the station.
Stepping out into the storm caused him to stop and gasp as he took in a lungful of freezing cold air. The snow whirled about him frantically and the severe wind whipped it into a state of frenzy, buffeting and bashing at him. He quickly retreated back into the station.
‘Christ all fucking mighty,’ he panted.
After recovering from the shock he stepped up to the windows at the side of the door, making sure to avoid triggering their sensors so that the blizzard wouldn’t get to him. He peered outside. It was hard to make out from behind the protection of the glass but he could see there were no vehicles lined up at the taxi rank, which was indicated by a feebly lit, barely visible sign. Considering the violence of the storm the bluish glow of floodlights illuminated the parking area immediately outside well but all they revealed was that it was empty.
Joe wasn’t alone at the station, others stood near the doors. Couples deliberating venturing out or booking into the station hotel for the night, old people on telephones to loved ones arranging lifts or telling them not to worry. A brave or foolhardy few walked out into the storm as though it were no more than a light shower.
‘Natives,’ Joe thought, and sighed.
He needed to get to the Glasgow Royal infirmary, which Google Maps had stated was less than a mile from where he stood. He pulled out his phone. The signal was strong and he considered his options as they now stood. He could sit here in the station, which was only just above freezing, hoping for a break in the weather or for an insane taxi driver to turn up, which was not outside of probability as this was after all Glasgow. However there were plenty of people who had also chosen not to brave the weather and most likely had the same idea. He didn’t fancy tangling with them in the snow while trying to be the first into a cab, should one actually arrive. His other option was to defy the weather and use his iPhone to guide him to the Hospital. ‘The Twenty First Century Solution,’ Joe thought.
As he mulled over what to do he sought out a Tie Rack store that he had seen when crossing the station. There he purchased a pair of leather gloves that claimed to have a ‘super-warm thermal inner’ and a woollen hat. He tried to find a plain one but the best he could do was a beanie that had a colourful pattern of zigzags ringing it.
‘Another twenty quid written off for this trip.’ Joe’s mental bank statement clocked it up as he handed over his credit card.
Back at the exit to the station he pulled on the gloves and tugged the hat down over his head. Another stalwart traveller opened a door and stepped out beside him. Joe bowed his head so that his chin touched his chest and walked into the blizzard.
It took forty five minutes to complete a journey that would have normally taken ten at most. It had been hellish. The Tie Rack gloves proved useless at cold prevention and impractical for operating his Google Maps application. As he clutched his phone while following the street map his hands shook and his fingers began to lose sensation.
Joe was staggered that despite the god-awful weather people were still out on the streets and could also be seen in cafes and stores as he roamed across the city. He also became conscious of how ridiculous he must look to the natives. A poorly attired, hapless tourist wandering the streets, clutching a phone which he began to think was worth him getting mugged for.
He decided to try and memorise the route so that he could put the phone away and bury his hands into his pockets, but this proved disastrous. By the time he took the phone out again to check his bearings he had managed to walk a mile out of his way.
Respite came in the form of well-lit signs indicating the direction to the Royal Infirmary by car. Rather than trying to negotiate the confusing snow covered streets Joe followed and walked on the main roads. There were very few vehicles and those that were using them crawled along offering little threat of knocking him over.
Cold, sodden and numb he finally reached his destination. He was surprised how busy the Infirmary was. The waiting area, presumably for triage, was full, every chair taken and a few people standing idly against the walls. Porters and the occasional nurse crossed in front of the reception area. Joe walked to it conscious that his travelling case was dropping chunks of snow as it rolled along.
Despite the busy waiting area the reception desk was clear of visitors. Two nurses, one a dark skinned and amply framed woman, her cornrow hair neatly held in a bunch and the other a slim young man with close cropped blond hair and the makings of an ill-advised moustache sat, being busy.
‘Hello, I’m Joe Clarke from Dynamic Systems.’ He stated as a trickle of water ran from his beanie and down the side of his nose. ‘Could I speak to Mary Burgess please?’
He reached into his jacket for his wallet but fumbled due to the gloves. Offering an apologetic smile, he removed them and tried again. From the wallet he retrieved his company ID and held it steady for the two nurses to see.
‘Just one second my love.’ Said the female nurse whose name badge identified her as Dolores. There was no trace of a Scottish accent, instead only a strong but attractive Jamaican lilt to her voice. The male nurse, his badge indicated that he was Simon, continued to work, tapping at the monitor in front of him. Dolores squared a pile of official looking paperwork and placed it into a brown envelope. She then added this to a tray that was already piled with paper and envelopes of various colours.
‘Now my love Mary Burgess you say?’
‘Yes please.’ Joe replied.
Dolores pushed aside yet more paperwork revealing a telephone and lifted the receiver. She jabbed at the keypad and offered a Joe a friendly smile, the warmest thing he had encountered in Glasgow so far.
‘Hi Chris, is Mary Burgess there?’ Dolores asked. ‘Thanks Babe,’ she said a moment later.
As Joe waited a man wearing a green hospital uniform appeared with a cleaning cart. He dropped down a ‘Da
nger Wet Floor’ sign and began to busy himself with a mop around the reception.
‘Good luck with that,’ thought Joe.
‘Joe, I’m afraid that Mary is busy at the moment and she’s asked if you would take a seat in reception. She will come to you as soon as she can.
Despite his frustration Joe found it impossible to be sharp with Dolores. Her tone and manner disarmed and relaxed him. Joe didn’t wonder she was here on the front line although he suspected that were she to actually get angry Dolores would also be quite formidable. It crossed Joe’s mind that in movies big black women were often tough and intimidating. He then wondered if he was being racist.
‘Ah, Ok thanks.’ He said. ‘I’ll wait over there.’ He pointed to a row of vacant seats further into the hospital and near to a vending machine.
‘Ok honey, but don’t waste your money on the cat pee in that machine. I’ll have one of the porters bring you a hot coffee from the canteen.’
Joe was a little smitten with Dolores for a moment and gave her a genuine smile of thanks. He nodded, replied ‘that’s great, thank you,' and made his way to the seats.
The easy going warmth of Dolores began to lose the comfort it had given Joe after the first half hour had passed. Once an hour had gone by he caught himself muttering under his breath with boredom. A few people had entered the hospital in varied states of distress and in moments of mild excitement an ambulance would pull up outside with its lights flashing, still bright and shocking even as the snow tried to smother them.
This steady flow had kept his attention on and off but his interest was truly peaked when a number of hospital staff had moved quickly to the door and took control of a gurney as paramedics came hurrying through. On it lay a man, an old man, he wore a tatty, black knee length jacket. He was strapped down securely.
Joe caught no more of this as within seconds the gurney, the old man and the staff had vanished through a security door. Not long after the incident he asked Simon, who was walking past him ‘what was with the old guy on the stretcher,’ but when Simon stated flatly ‘Pissed.’ Joe felt a little disappointed.
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