Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

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.