Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Until he glanced in that direction he wasn’t sure how much of a joke this might be. Almost within arm’s length was a door so unmarked he’d taken it for a section of wall. When he pushed it, the reluctant light caught on two faces gouged out of the wood, carvings of such crudeness that the female was distinguishable from her mate only by a mop of hair. Beyond the door was a void that proved to be a corridor once he located a switch dangling from an inch of flex. The luminous rotting pear of a bulb revealed that the short passage led to an exit against which crates of dusty empties were stacked. The barred exit was shaken by a gust of wind and, to his bewilderment, what sounded like a blurred mass of television broadcasts. He hadn’t time to investigate. Each wall contained a door carved with the rudiments of a face, and he was turning away from the Gents before the image opposite alerted him that the man’s long hair was a patch of black fungus. He touched as little of the door as possible while letting himself into the Gents.

The switch in the passage must control all the lights. Under the scaly ceiling a precarious fluorescent tube twitched out a pallid glow with an incessant series of insect clicks. There was barely enough space in the room for a pair of clogged urinals in which cigarette butts were unravelling and a solitary cubicle opposite a piebald slimy sink. Beneath the urinals the wall was bearded with green mould. High up beside the cubicle a token window was covered by a rusty grille restless with old cobwebs. Jessop kicked open the cubicle door.

A watery sound grew louder—an irregular sloshing he’d attributed to the cistern. He urged himself to the seatless discoloured pedestal. The instant he looked down, only the thought of touching the encrusted scabby walls restrained him from supporting himself against them. Whatever was gaping wide-mouthed at him from the black water, surely it was dead, whether it had been drowned by someone or swum up the plumbing. Surely it was the unstable light, not anticipation of him, that made the whitish throat and pale fat lips appear to work eagerly. He dragged one sleeve over his hand and wrenched at the handle of the rickety cistern. As a rush of opaque water carried the mouth into the depths, Jessop retreated to the first urinal and kept a hand over his nose and mouth while he filled the mouldy china oval to its lower brim.

He dodged out of the fluttering room and was nearly at the door to the bar when he faltered. A confusion of angry voices was moving away from him. A clatter of furniture ended it, and a hoarse voice he identified as Betty’s ordered “Now stay there.” He was wishing away the silence as he eased the door open a crack.

The bar seemed emptier than when he’d left it. Two considerable men who’d been seated directly ahead no longer were. The stool hadn’t moved from in front of the exit. Could the men be waiting out of sight on either side for him? As he grew furious with his reluctance to know, the barman saw him. “Food’s on its way,” he announced.

Mary leaned into view, one hand flattening her scalp, to locate Jessop. “Aren’t you coming out? This isn’t hide and seek.”

When embarrassment drove Jessop forward he saw that Daniel had changed seats. He was penned into a corner by the men from the abandoned table, and looked both dishevelled and trapped. “He was trying to see your papers, Des,” Betty said.

“Good heavens, I wouldn’t have minded. It isn’t important.”

“It is to us.”

As Jessop resumed his corner Tom said “Got a sweetheart abroad, have you? Was she the lure?”

“His bonnie lies over the ocean,” Mary took to have been confirmed, and began to sing.

“No he doesn’t,” Jessop retorted, but only to himself while he busied himself with his tankard, which had been topped up in his absence. Once the chorus subsided he said guardedly “No, they’re over here.”

“How many’s that?” enquired Joe. “Bit of a ladies’ man, are you?”

“A girl in every port,” said Tom.

“Not in any really,” Jessop said, risking a laugh he hoped was plainly aimed at himself.

“Same with us,” Daniel said and gave his fellows an ingratiating look.

The microwave behind the bar rang as if signalling the end of a round, which let Jessop watch the barman load a tray and bring it to him. Once the bowlful of grey stew had finished slopping about, Jessop had to unwrap the fork and spoon from their tattered napkin. He was spooning up a blackened lump when Betty said “What do you make of that then, Des?”

This struck Jessop as the latest of several questions too many. “What would you?”

“Oh, we’ve had ours. We gobbled it.”

“Sup up, Des,” Daniel advised. “You’ll get plenty of that where you’re going.”

Was the dish Irish, then? Jessop seemed to have no option other than to raise the dripping lump to his mouth. It was either an unfamiliar vegetable or a piece of meat softened beyond identification, presumably in whatever pot had contained the communal dinner. “Good?” Mary prompted as everyone watched.