The Innsmouth Syndrome (2 page)

There was no response, just the scraping of the blinds being turned down, and a pop as the sign above her head was switched off.  

The car alarm was still blaring away on the other side of the road.  Fuming with anger, Carla stabbed the button that deactivated it, and stormed over to look at the damage.  The passenger-side window had been smashed, and there was glass all over the seat.  The GPS was on the floor.  She guessed that the would-be thief had fumbled it when he started running.  Nothing seemed to be missing.

She swept as much of the glass out onto the ground as she could, using her handbag in the absence of anything more appropriate, but rueing the scratches to the expensive Italian leather.  A church clock somewhere began to strike the half hour.  She ought to report the incident to the police, get a crime number.  Hertz would be expecting one.  On the other hand, the car was booked on a CDC credit card, she was already late and it was freezing.  She’d be damned if she was going to wait around for the local cops to show up.  She just wanted to get out of this dump, and find Innsmouth and her hotel.

She had calmed down somewhat by the time she was back behind the wheel.  Anticipating the bitter draught through the shattered window, she had unpacked her overcoat from the trunk.  On the plus side, she supposed, the constant fresh air would help to keep her alert at the wheel.

The GPS was working, at least.  After a couple of turns she found herself on the main road out of Newburyport.  A mile or so later it directed her to take a much smaller fork that branched off towards the coast.

The Handel on the radio had finished and been replaced by Bartok, but violent bursts of static began to interrupt it as the channel faded.  The auto-tuner eventually lost its lock on the signal altogether and began helplessly cycling through the frequencies.  Carla turned it off. 

This was definitely estuary country.  What little scenery she could make out in the gathering darkness beyond the headlights consisted mainly of marshy pools and tall tussocks of tough grass.  The icy air that roared in through the destroyed window reeked of nitrous, tidal peat.  Carla even suspected that, above the bellowing wind and the muted howl of the VTEC, she could hear the distant pounding of the Atlantic.

After a few miles the road began to rise quite steeply.  There was no doubt now, she could definitely hear waves breaking somewhere below.  At the top, the road snaked through several sharp corners and then drifted gradually down towards the lights of what could only be Innsmouth.

Not that there were many lights.  Carla could make out a few obvious streets, and a couple of long chains of hanging bulbs that swayed in the breeze along the seafront.  Somewhere out to sea she thought she saw a flickering, fiery glow.  Too low and too large for a distress flare.  It looked more like a bonfire, but by the time she tried to get a fix on its position she had travelled too far down the hill, and it was lost among the wavetops.

She was on the outskirts of town now.  The flat-roofed, boxy bungalows were relatively new - probably sixties vintage - but cheaply made and suffering greatly from exposure to the sea air.  Most had been painted white originally, in some laughable pastiche of Mediterranean coastal architecture.  They were water-stained and flaking now, with crumbling brickwork and rotting sills.

The climate didn’t seem to have been any kinder to the cars that were parked haphazardly on the street, some of which looked as though they might be older than the houses.  Carla sighed.  When she’d read that she was coming to Essex county, she’d fondly hoped that the assignment might have been in a place like one of the absurdly wealthy and picturesque little seaside towns further down the coast.  As it was, this made even Newburyport look like the Hamptons. 

The GPS guided her faithfully down increasingly dishevelled streets towards the town centre.  The number of houses that were boarded up and completely vacant increased as she progressed, mute testimony to the failure of whichever chipper urban regeneration scheme had led to their construction in the first place - and to the seemingly endless recession which had destroyed property values, businesses and communities throughout the entire region.  The entire country, really.

The town centre was markedly different.  Most of the houses loomed to three narrow storeys, and were dark and ancient.  In places, newer constructions were sandwiched between them where an intervening structure had finally succumbed and been pulled down.  The sagging roofs and subsidence cracks in most of the old buildings suggested that this architectural predation was ongoing, and likely to accelerate.  It was just unfortunate that the new houses looked almost as gloomy and uninviting as the old.

A final turn, past the ruins of a burnt-out church, brought her onto what must have been the main street.  It was a broader, U-shaped thoroughfare, with a tattily overgrown stretch of grass running down the middle.  Whatever had stood here before had been demolished and replaced with dreary concrete boxes to serve as shops.  Carla noticed a pawn shop, a betting shop, a barbers, a liquor store, a couple of charity shops, all protected by locked, steel shutters. 

There was a bar that looked open, its windows streaming light onto the pavement outside.  Looking through them as the car sidled past, the only customers that Carla could see were two young men playing pool. 

“Follow the road ahead, and in – twenty – yards pull over.”

Sure enough, the end of the road was occupied by what looked to be a hotel.  She could tell, because it looked like every other `Exec Lodge’ chain hotel she had ever stayed in.  Built to format, with a facade of pale, yellow cement and a big, brown porch, with automated sliding doors.  God, she hated the places.  Unfortunately, they enjoyed the status of official “preferred provider” to CDC employees.  Meaning they were cheap.

A sign directed her through an archway to a small car park at the side of the building.  There were three or four cars there already, but no shortage of spaces.  Carla lost no time in grabbing her case from the trunk and making her way inside, keen to warm up after her freezing journey.

She already knew what the clerk was going to say before he opened his mouth.  “Good morning / afternoon / evening, sir / madam.  Welcome to the [insert branch name] Exec Lodge hotel, [town name].  How may I help you today?”  It must be taught by rote to all new employees of the company. 

The clerk was a wide-eyed boy in his late teens, with bowl-cut, sandy hair and halitosis.  His name tag identified him as ‘Oliver’.  Her parroted the trademark welcome, Carla produced the booking receipt that her boss’s secretary had supplied, and he laboriously keyed the reference number into an unbelievably decrepit computer that Carla was pretty sure was running Windows 95.

“There you go.” he announced at last.  “Your room is on the second floor, to the right of the elevator.  Breakfast is from seven `til nine.  Enjoy your stay in the Gilman House Exec Lodge Hotel and do please let us know if we can help to make your visit with us more comfortable.”

“Is the dining room closed?” was all Carla wanted to know.

“I’m af-f-fraid s-s-so, Miss” he blurted.  It seemed that once he left the corporate script Oliver had a wild stammer.  “D-d-dinner is from six o’clock `til half past seven.”

“Is there any way I can get a sandwich or something?”

“N-n-n-no, Miss.  It’s against th-th-the rules.  There are some s-s-s-snacks available at the bar.  You know.  P-p-p-peanuts and th-things” he added helpfully, though not without a light shower of spit.

“Fine.  Thankyou.”  Carla turned and headed for the elevator before he could muster any more wet plosives. 

There was a tacky plaque by the elevator, mock bronze with a mock wood surround.  Carla read it while she waited for the car to reach the lobby. 

The Gilman House Exec Lodge Innsmouth

is constructed on the site of the original Gilman

House hotel and prides itself on the legacy of

hospitality and heritage which the Exec Lodge

Group seeks to protect and promote going forwards.

Carla read it twice, trying to parse some sense into it, before giving up.  She
really
hated these places.

*****

Her feet almost sighed when she took her shoes off.  She was ravenous, but she wanted a shower more. 

The room was sparse and functional – and rather cold – but it was at least clean.  The curtains and upholstery were a bit drab, in muddy, 1970s colours, but she’d stayed in worse.  Even the phone was an analogue, rotary dial model.  There was a radio, but the only station she could find featured some angry, right-wing demagogue calling for war with Syria, so she turned on the television to get some music instead.

Ten minutes under the shower woke her up a bit and left her feeling more positive.  Maybe she would walk across to that bar she’d seen, see if they did food.

She let the laptop boot up while she brushed her teeth, and looked for a wireless signal while drying her hair.  There wasn’t one.  Not to be defeated, she plugged her cellphone in and used it as a modem.  It was slow, but better than nothing.

E-mails trickled steadily into her inbox.   Nothing from the guys in Colorado, or her boss.  Just routine notices about car parking, mugs disappearing in the office, a reminder to sign-in all visitors ...  There were a few forwarded e-mails with titles like `Beat the midweek blues!’ and ‘Ten reasons why are terrorists like cats!!!’ which she deleted without opening.

The only thing of any possible interest was a message from her mother.  How many times had she told her not to send things to her work address?  How had she even got her work address?  Carla thought about bouncing it back, but in the end morbid curiosity overcame reluctance, and she double-clicked.

dearest child!  GOD grant that u b well in yourself and in HIS eyes.  HE has a plan 4 us all that is part of HIS great and blessd plan and knows what is in r hearts.  i need u 2 ring ur sister 2 talk about CHRISTMAS and were u will b 4 it.  she talking about gettng a divorce.  ayla is not well and expects 2 b called 2 HIM soon.  i say she will last longer than all of us!  i expect u are busy.  GOD bless.

Not too bad.  At least it was short.  Ignoring the usual religious claptrap - and the rather snotty jibe about her being busy (challenging her not to reply) - there was nothing that required an immediate response.  Tomorrow.  She could reply to it tomorrow. 

A few minutes driving around brought her to a Macdonalds, where she grabbed a burger and fries.  She took it to eat in the car, despite the chill from the missing window – the local kids horsing around in the eatery hadn’t exactly regarded her lovingly, and she’d already had enough trouble for one night.  Normally Carla would have hated herself for being so easily intimidated, but on this occasion she figured she had an excuse.

Back at the hotel, she decided to get a nightcap at the bar.  Oliver was serving now.  Carla had already had unpleasant experiences with the house wines in Exec Lodge bars.  She ordered a gin and tonic, figuring that even Exec Lodge couldn’t spoil that.  She was wrong.  Too much gin, too cheap gin, and the only tonic they had was Slimline.  

There was one other guest drinking in there.  He looked like a salesman of some kind, and perked up as soon as Carla walked in.  Carla wasn’t sure whether he was envisioning some illicit romantic encounter, or just pleased at the prospect of someone to talk to, but was determined to disappoint him just the same.