Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

And starting up the car Jamieson answered, “Oh, people are prone to all kinds of strange infections and infestations. I’ve heard it said that AIDS—a disease caused by immune deficiency—came from monkeys; and there’s that terrible CJD that you can get from eating contaminated or incorrectly processed beef. And how about psittacosis? From parrots, of all things! As for that poor boy: well, what can I say? He likes to swim.”

“It’s very strange,” she said, as Jamieson drove out of the village, “but my father... he didn’t like the sea. Not at all. He had those books about it—about the sea and other things—and yet was afraid of it. He used to say it lured him. They say he killed himself, suicide, and perhaps he did; but at least he did it his way. I remember he once said to me, ‘If a time comes when I must go, it won’t take me alive’. Toward the end he used to say all sorts of things that didn’t make a lot of sense, but I think he was talking about the sea.”

“And what makes you think that?” Jamieson asked her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, and aware that she was watching him, probably to gauge his reaction.

“Well, because of the way he did it... jumped off the cliff at South Point, down onto the rocks. He washed up on the beach, all broken up.”

“How awful!” The old man swung the car onto the lonely road to Jilly White’s house. “And yet you and your mother, you continue to live right here, almost on the beach itself.”

“I think that’s because she needs to be sure about certain things,” the girl answered. “Needs to be sure of me, perhaps?”

Jamieson saw Jilly standing on the doorstep and stopped the car outside the house. He would have liked to carry on talking, to have the girl clarify her last cryptic remark, or learn more about the books she’d mentioned—her father’s books, about the sea. But Jilly was already coming forward. And now Anne touched the old man’s arm and said, “It’s best she doesn’t know we were at the Fosters’. If she knew about Geoff’s fish-lice, it might only set her off again.”

Then, lifting her voice a little as she got out of the car, she said, “Thank’s again for the ride.” And in a whisper added, “And for what you did for Geoff...”

* * *

The winter dragged on. Jamieson spent some of the time driving, visiting the local towns, even going as far afield as Falmouth and Penzance. And to break the boredom a little, usually there would be a weekly “social evening” alternating between Jilly’s, the Tremains’s, and Jamieson’s place. The old man even managed to inveigle Jilly into joining him and the Tremains in a visit to the dilapidated Sailor’s Rest one night.

On that occasion Anne went with them. She was under-age for drinking—even for being in the pub—but the proprietor knew her, of course, and served her orange juice; and in any case it wasn’t as if the place was about to be raided.

Their table was close to a great open fireplace where logs popped and hissed, and the pub being mainly empty, the service couldn’t be faulted. In an atmosphere that was quietly mellow, the country food bought fresh from the village bakery was very good. Even Jilly appeared clear-headed and in good spirits for once, and as for the Tremains: putting their customary, frequently unwarranted snobbery aside, they were on their very best behaviour.

That was the up-side, but the down-side was on its way. It came as the evening drew to a close in the forms of the fisherman Tom Foster, and that of his ward the shambling Geoff, when the pair came in from the cold and took gloomy corner seats at a small table. It was doubtful that they had noticed the party seated near the fire on the far side of the room, but Foster’s narrowed eyes had certainly scanned the bar area before he ushered his ward and companion to their more discreet seats.

And as suddenly as that the evening turned sour. “Checking that his enemies aren’t in,” said Tremain under his breath. “I can understand that. He’s probably afraid they’ll report him.”

“His enemies?” said Jamieson. “The other village fishermen, you mean? Report him for what?”

“See for yourself,” said the other, indicating the barman, who was on his way to Foster’s corner with a tray. “A pint for Tom, and a half for that... for young Geoff. He lets that boy drink here—alcohol, mind— and him no older than Anne here. I mean, it’s one thing to have that... well, that poor unfortunate in the village, but quite another to deliberately addle what few brains he’s got with strong drink!”

Anne, visibly stiffening in her chair, at once spoke up in the youth’s defence. “Geoff isn’t stupid,” she said. “He can’t speak very well, and he’s different, but he isn’t stupid.” And staring pointedly at Tremain, “He isn’t ignorant, either.”

The headmaster’s mouth fell open. “Well, I...!” But before he could say more:

“John, you asked for that,” Doreen told him. “You’re aware that Anne is that youth’s friend. Why, she’s probably the only friend he’s got! You should mind what you say.”