Philip Hemplow - The Innsmouth Syndrome

He sounded so crestfallen, and so pathetic, that Carla found herself relenting. She closed the laptop. “Alby!” He looked over his shoulder, uncertainly. “So… what do you sell?”

Alby brightened instantly. “Protection, Miss.”

“Protection? Like the Mafia?”

He sauntered hesitantly back towards the table. “The Mafia? No, Miss, protection from the Mafia! Or any criminals! We sell mace, and alarms, and tasers, and stab vests, and money belts, and safes… all kinda things to keep a person safe. I like to say that we sell peace o’mind.”

“Right.”

“Folks – well, a lotta folks – are thinking that crime’s gettin’ to be spirallin’ outta control these days. Want some extra security. Well, we can help with that.”

“Right. And is it?” asked Carla, slightly condescendingly. “Spiralling out of control, I mean.”

“Oh, sure it is! Everywhere ya look! Guy I met last month, some punk murdered his kid just to get his music player, if ya can believe that! Things on the streets is crazy! Now, if that kid had himself one of our vests on, he’d still be alive. Think about it.”

“Do many people want to walk around in a bulletproof vest all the time?”

“Well… not as many as I’d like.”

Carla laughed at that. Alby smiled, encouraged. “Sorry Miss, I didn’t get your name?”

“Carla.”

“Pleased ta meetcha, Carla. Mind if I ask what you’re doing in town? Not a competitor, I hope!”

“No. No, I’m in town on… business.”

“Jus’ what line o’ business would that be? If ya don’t mind my askin’?”

“Government work. I work for the federal government. So, are you selling much mace in Innsmouth?”

“Government work, eh?” Alby seemed impressed. “Well, can’t say as I am. Been going door to door, offerin’ folks to add some security to their houses, but there ain’t no money in Innsmouth. Least, not’s far as I can tell. No-one can afford to have alarms and fancy locks. Don’ have much worth stealin’ anyway. Don’t s’pose you’d be int’rested in reinforcin’ yer dwellin’ Miss?” he added, hopefully.

“Er, no. No thanks. My car maybe, but not my house.”

“Car? Bin havin’ trouble, huh?”

“No, no. Well, yes, but it’s not very serious. Some kids broke into my hire car and tried to steal the GPS earlier tonight, is all.”

Alby seemed positively distraught at the news. “Well, ain’t that just the pits? It’s gettin’ to the stage where decent folk can’t go anywhere in safety. We don’t do cars, Carla, but I’ll tell ya what… ya can have one o’these here freebies. Just in case. Got dozens in the car.”

He pulled a small canister from inside his jacket, and put it on the table in front of her. Carla picked it up, gingerly. It was pepper spray.

“Why, thankyou Alby! I’ll, er… I’ll keep it in my handbag.”

“You do that! Ya can’t be too careful. Not these days. That sticker has the number of our shop on it. You just mention my name if you need anythin’ else in the security line.”

“I certainly will. Thankyou, Alby. Here, let me buy you a drink.”

“No thanks, Carla. It’s time I was turnin’ in now anyway. Never been much of a night-owl. Mebbe I’ll see ya tomorrow though. Gonna make some house calls early, hit the road again in the evenin’.”

“Well, maybe we’ll bump into each other. It’s been nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. G’night now.”

“Goodnight, Alby.”

The ruddy-faced salesman nodded – almost bowed – and waddled towards the door. Carla turned the mace over in her hands. She had a cupboard full of mugs given to her by drug reps back in her hospital days, and most of her pens had someone’s logo and phone number on them, but this was the first time a rep had given her a chemical incapacitant. Times just kept changing.

Back in her room, Carla brushed her teeth and took to the bed with her laptop, plugging it in to charge so that it wouldn’t die on her in the morning. Having removed her contact lenses she was forced to resort to spectacles to resume studying the Innsmouth files.

The medical examiner’s scanned photos were arranged in subfolders by body part, and then again by victim. She started with Lfoot_EllisK.jpg.

It wasn’t the most attractive appendage she’d ever seen. The toes were stubby and – she zoomed in for confirmation – yes, slightly webbed. All but one of the nails were missing, leaving painful-looking welts, and the one that was left was badly ingrown.

Rfoot_RamsgateW1.jpg looked even worse. Unless it was some weird trick of perspective, the toes looked to be about half the length they should be and were connected by livid, bloodless membranes. The skin between and around them was discoloured, cracked and flaky. Some kind of fungal infection? She tabbed back to the M.E.’s report. No microscopic evidence for any infection.

The other feet pictured were all similarly deformed, though none as badly as Wayne’s. She opened the ‘hands’ folder. Same thing. Most of the fingers were webbed – two of Wayne Ramsgate’s were completely fused together – and the only one with any fingernails was Kara Ellis, who had three.

‘Arms and Torso’ was exclusive to Wayne Ramsgate, and full of close-ups of deep, savage-looking scratches, blisters and scabs on his skin. Carla zoomed right in and peered closely at the screen. They looked self-inflicted, as if he’d been gouging and burning his flesh. One on his forearm was deep enough to have exposed a vein.

She’d never seen self-harm quite this dramatic in someone so young, but maybe it could be explained away by his meth habit. Tactile hallucinations, bugs under the skin, compulsive picking…

‘Hair’ was a little less grotesque, but was filled with pictorial evidence of premature balding. It looked like Wayne had shaved his head, maybe in an effort to hide it. He must have grazed his scalp horrendously in the attempt, judging by the lurid sores and peeling skin. The girls had large patches of hair missing, as if clumps had just dropped out.

The next folder was filled with photos and X-rays of the children’s teeth – or what was left of them. Bad dentition was a classic result of crystal meth addiction, but for someone as young as Wayne to have lost all but three teeth already was staggering. His step-siblings were almost as bad, and the X-rays seemed to rule out it being any consequence of the accident.

Carla had been putting off clicking on the ‘Eyes’ folder. She wasn’t good with eyes, it was the one thing that she was still squeamish about after her eleven years in medicine.

Shaznay Parker’s face had been pulverised beyond any hope of recognition, but the other three had been photographed with a short ruler placed across their foreheads, to quantify the immediately obvious abnormality in their facial proportions. In all three pictures, the distance from the bridge of the nose to the corner of the eyes was unusually large, just over an inch in Wayne Ramsgate’s case. The eyes themselves looked smaller and rounder than normal, and none of the children had lashes or brows.

Carla closed the laptop with an involuntary shudder. The rest could wait until morning. She flicked off the bedside lamp and drew the duvet up to her chin.

She awoke the next day to the sonorous, bassoon note of a foghorn, and a headache. The thin hotel curtains glowed with milky light, and when she drew them back it was to reveal a thick blanket of early morning mist. She washed and dressed groggily, then headed for the hotel dining room.

The Exec Lodge definition of a continental breakfast was a barely unfrozen lump of papery, machined pastry, a tiny foil wrap of butter and an individual pot of runny conserve. Carla chewed tiredly on it, washing it down with gulps of bitter, stewed coffee. While she was eating, Oliver trotted up to deliver a message.