Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

David croaked at him. “You got a problem with me?”

He’d noticed when talking to the cop that last night’s over-indulgences had coarsened his voice. Crashing out on the beach had turned the huskiness up another big notch.

“Nothing that needs resolving right now,” the boy said, mildly. He turned back to his friends, none of whom had appeared to pay David any attention at all, as if he wasn’t even visible.

Turning imperiously from them, David accidentally got his feet caught on a piece of driftwood, and fell over, full-length in the sand.

Nobody laughed, or jeered.

He got up and lurched away.

* * *

By now, if the truth be told, David was starting to tire of the game. He’d established that the residents and visitors of Carmel didn’t much care for down-and-outs. Big deal. He could have predicted that without the rigmarole. He wandered back into the centre, deciding to milk the effect one last time before going back to the cottage. A few people stared. Others crossed the street to avoid him. Nobody shouted, nobody called the cops.

Time to go home, have a bath. Reboot. Probably not work—with a hangover like this—but get an early night instead. Tomorrow’s always another day, potentially the start of a new chain. He still liked the idea of a drifter’s shadow in his painting. It worked. He could be up and at it bright and early. Have it blocked out by the afternoon, put the canvas to one side and start another. Have a civilised dinner at a restaurant in the evening, get back on course.

It might even have panned out like that, too, if his route hadn’t happened to take him past the grocery market, and if he hadn’t found a forgotten twenty in the back pocket of his jeans.

They may not like down-and-outs in nice stores, but they’ll always take their money for a big bottle of wine.

* * *

She came out of the alleyway just after eight o’clock, by which time it was the other side of twilight. David had been waiting across the street by the side of a gallery that had shut some time before. Galleries in Carmel didn’t have to work long hours.

He walked quickly across the street toward her. He nearly tripped on the curb—over half of the outsized bottle of wine was inside him now, and he was feeling much better for it. The barista girl from Bonnie’s looked up and saw him, and her face fell.

“Why’d you call him?”

His voice came out louder than he intended.

She took a step back. “What?”

“Why’d you call the cop? I was just sitting at a table. I’d paid for my coffee. I wasn’t getting in anyone’s face. So why’d you call the fucking cops?”

The girl started backing toward the alleyway that led to Bonnie’s, seeking safety in the work environment she’d just left. David followed.

He pressed her. “Can’t you see who I am? The guy who’s been coming in your place every day for a fucking week. I must have dropped fifty bucks in there. I asked you yesterday if you liked living in Carmel, remember? We had a conversation. Yet today, just because I look a little different, suddenly you’re all over 911.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still backing up the alley.

“Big deal. The point is I’m the same guy. Actually, that’s not the point. Who even cares whether I’m the same guy? I’m a guy. A man. I had every right to sit there. I wasn’t causing trouble. So what the fuck?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll tell you. There’s a chain between everything you do, what you did last, what comes next. There’s a chain between people, too, him and me—and there should be one between you and me, too. Get it? There’s a duty of care. Person to person to person. If not care, just simple politeness. We’re all part of the hundred percent.”

She shook her head, looking miserable and scared, and kept backing up the alleyway, toward the courtyard.

David was aware this wasn’t coming out as clearly as he’d hoped, and his frustration started to run away with him. “If you break the chain nothing makes sense. You stop picking up the brush and doing something with it, anything’s better than nothing, then the paintings don’t get done. And if you stop respecting me just because I look like shit, society doesn’t work. We’re back to being animals. Do you get what I’m talking about now, you stupid bitch?”

She turned and ran the last yards into the dark courtyard. David, unsure of what he was doing, or why, strode enthusiastically after her. It struck him, in a corner of his soul he’d known was there but had always refused to visit, that breaking the chain might have interesting consequences.