The Innsmouth Syndrome by Philip Hemplow Read Free Book Online

Honda, but it had come loose almost as soon as she set off.  Dr Khalil was waiting for her on the medical admissions ward.  He greeted her warmly as she peeled off her wet gloves.
     
    “Dr Edwards.  You look frozen.  Would you like a cup of coffee?”
     
    “Yes!” exclaimed Carla, gratefully.  “Tea, coffee, anything!  Is he here?”
     
    Khalil led the way through to a small kitchen area behind the receptionist’s desk.  “He is.  After you called, the police found him unconscious in the street.  He was given an emergency transfusion, but they have been unable to do any more for him.”
     
    “Why?  I gave the finger to the police.  Were they able to reattach it?”
     
    “The finger was ... badly disfigured.  I doubt it would have been possible.  It is speculative in any case.  The parents would not allow more intervention than necessary to stabilise the boy.”  His tone was almost apologetic.
     
    “What?  Really?”
     
    “Indeed.  They are on their way here now.  The police are bringing them.  I think they will take him home.”
     
    “Can they do that?   Is he well enough to leave?”
     
    “There are arguments for keeping him here, certainly, but not against his will.  The child protection services do not wish to pursue the case.”
     
    “He cut off his own finger!  Surely that points to some kind of intervention!” 
     
    Khalil shrugged.  “He says it was an accident, playing with knives.”
     
    “Bullshit!  Accident, my foot.”  She moved closer to him, dropping her voice to an urgent whisper.  “Did you see the finger?  It was deformed.  Hardly any skeletal tissue in it, missing a proper nail, overgrown with cartilage ... did you see it?”
     
    Dr Khalil spooned instant coffee into hospital mugs, not looking at her.  “Yes, I saw it.  I agree.  It was most strange.  Like the others, wouldn’t you say?”
     
    “I would!” agreed Carla, earnestly.  “Have you looked the boy over?  Has he had a full physical?”
     
    “He does have other injuries consistent with a pattern of self harm.  Also with ... the abberations we have seen elsewhere.”
     
    “Like what?” asked Carla, taking a cup of steaming black coffee from him and warming her hands with it.
     
    “His other hand, for instance, shows fresh wounds between three of the fingers.”  Khalil turned back to her and held his own hand up to illustrate.  “It is as if he has cut between them.” – drawing the index finger of his right hand between the second and third fingers of his left, then between the third and fourth – “You remember the syndactyly we saw in the Ramsgate boy?”
     
    “You mean, as if he cut through – ugh, as if he cut them apart?  Jesus.”
     
    “That is not all.  There is – forgive me, but there is only a wound where one of his nipples should be.  He has very bad abrasions on his legs, as if he has scrubbed them obsessively, until they are raw and scarred.  Part of his earlobe is missing.  A large part.  And he has burns all over, quite deep.  Perhaps a soldering iron or similar implement?  Either this boy is very careless and accident prone, or he is hurting himself very savagely.”
     
    “Well then, surely CPS can step in, have him taken away, hospitalised, put in care, anything!”
     
    “I am afraid it is not so.  There is no suggestion that the parents are hurting him.  As long as they agree to take him to talk to a psychiatrist, the social worker thinks to move him would do more harm than good.”
     
    “Well, the parents may not be the ones doing the cutting but they clearly aren’t doing a very good job of stopping it!”  Carla massaged her forehead in frustration.  “How long have we got until they arrive?”
     
    “The parents?  Probably twenty minutes.  Half an hour maybe.”
     
    “If he’s awake, I’d like to talk to him before they get here.”
     
    Khalil nodded.  “I’m sure that can be arranged.  Come.”
     
    He