Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

A fortnight later, not sleeping well, drinking rather more than I ought and in a constant mither of wringing hands and regret, I suffered, in the lobby of a city-centre hotel, what my doctor called a heart seizure. Arrhythmia, apparently: the chaotic spasming of the muscle. I was rescued by the smart thinking of a receptionist who had first-aid training and knew where the nearest defibrillating device could be found.

I was in hospital for a week, and then happily discharged with a hefty arsenal of pills to take every day for the rest of whatever life I had left. I was warned, before leaving, about depression, and that a number of renowned foundations were available for me to consult, but I would not have it. I’d never felt happier. I was convinced that the seizure had marked the return of my wife as something living, and within me, to provide succour and prevent me from falling into a funk of loneliness. Any murmurs from now on I would attribute to her, geeing me up, reminding me to take my medicine, or prompting me to remember her.

Though it was my first journey through the air, it was a notable one, or so I was assured, by my fellow passengers on the flight down to Guernsey from Heathrow, and the pilot of the little Aurigny Trislander, a propeller plane that took us from Guernsey to Alderney.

The weather was atrocious—a knot or two harder and the flight, apparently, would have been cancelled. We were buffeted like a favourite toy in the hands of a clumsy child. I must say, I found it tremendous fun, like being on a fairground ride, although the three other people sitting near me—a man and woman and (presumably) their young son—were a little green around the gills and spent much of their time clutching at sick bags and groaning at each other.

The sea was a riot of white breakers and I could not see any boats braving the swells. That said, I did see something moving against the waves, but at this distance I could not be sure what it was. A seal of some sort, perhaps. Whatever it was, it was alone, and moving fairly quickly.

Then all too soon we were coming in to land at the tiny airstrip. It was a little bumpy, but the pilot knew what he was doing and within a minute we were unfastening our seatbelts and being guided out of the aircraft towards the baggage claim and the single counter that served as passport control.

Soon, trusty suitcase in hand, I was in a taxi headed for my destination. I felt excited and childish, my head twisting this way and that as I took in the sweep of the land, and the houses nestled within it. Gulls were fastened to the sky—it was as if they need never flap their wings again. I was hoping for something exotic, I suppose, but this was only the Channel Islands after all. Even my taxi driver was from Manchester!

He was pleasant enough, and I chatted with him about this and that before the road suddenly gave way to a dirt track along the coast—a precipitous drop to our right on to jags of rock causing me to lean obviously to my left, as if that might help us from slipping down. The taxi driver moved with extreme caution; there were deep potholes here, he explained, and notwithstanding the cliff, he didn’t want to damage the car, or cause it to become stuck.

It took an age, but once we’d rounded the bluff, I saw our destination for the first time: Fort Requin, a beautiful old citadel built into and, somehow, out of a series of huge rocks that were like a final attempt by the island to reach as far as possible into the sea. Built around the advent of steam power, the fort was seen as a necessary bulwark against any possible naval attack by the French. Later it was seized by Hitler as a stepping-stone in his desire for British invasion. Once more I mentally thanked my sons, Brian and Gordon, for arranging and paying for this little holiday for me. They were fine boys and I was lucky to have them.

The taxi driver steered us down an incline and across a causeway to another slight rise which took us to the entrance to the fort. He parked and retrieved my bags from the boot and wished me a pleasant stay.

As I reached the gateway, the door swung open to reveal a tall man in half-moon spectacles and a bottle-green raincoat. This was the caretaker, a Mr. Standish, who briskly showed me to my rooms and gave me a map outlining the other accommodations that comprised Fort Requin.

“Here is the communal dining room,” he pointed out, “and here is a recreation room. No television, I’m afraid. Just books and some board games.”

I told him I was here for long walks and that while I might pick up a book or two, the only other activity likely to be given its head was plenty of sleep.