The Lamplighters (13 page)

Scott rolled his eyes. If he looked like he’d heard this from Brett a thousand times before, it was because he had. All the dude did was complain about something or other. If you gave him a beer, he wanted a glass of champagne—if you passed around a joint, he wanted a damn bong hit instead. There was just no pleasing the guy. Throw him overboard, toss him a lifesaver and be done with him. Scott fought not to lose his temper, an argument was probably what Brett wanted, a pathetic way to ease his boredom.

“Look, we have to earn our keep here, this is the real deal not some package tour. We’re crewmembers and we have to do our share mate, fair and square.”

Crewmembers. Brett scoffed at this. It had been Scott’s wet dream to work on a boat like this since they’d met at school. Only he wasn’t allowed to refer to it as a boat, it was a yacht. Just like he wasn’t allowed to bring any dope or pills along with him. In case The Skip found out and made them swim home. Who the fuck called himself “The Skip” anyhow? Fucking asshole. Brett snarled with amusement at the memory of a kid’s TV show from his youth,
Skippy the Bush Kangaroo
. Oh, wait a minute though, Scott hadn’t quite finished.

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

But Scott was leaving the galley now, he’d said his piece, leaving Brett to bitch and whine in there all on his lonesome. Best place for him.

Brett threw the peeling knife into the sink in disgust. The only reason he’d gone along with Scott’s idea of a pleasure cruise anyway was so he could get to know Idoya a little better. She was a ripper—beautiful tanned skin, long dark hair, deep hazel eyes. She’d given him all the signals too, back at the marina over cocktails, but since boarding she’d developed a kind of superiority complex, as if she knew that she could have any guy on the yacht whenever she wanted. Which was probably the truth of it of course, but if so then why on earth give him the come-on? Wasn’t bloody fair. Now he was stuck on this shitty fucking boat for the best part of a week when he could be living it up on the mainland. Frustrated, he decided to go topside for some air. Maybe she’d be up there in her bikini—at least his eyes could get lucky today, even if none of his other organs could.

He arrived on deck to find everyone crowded around the cabin. A fair bit of commotion too—what the heck were they all so excited about? He ambled over, his steps slowing as he spotted Idoya’s ass. The supine curves of her butt cheeks framed the dark line of her G-string and he felt himself salivating at the sight, then getting hard at the thoughts it was provoking. He reached into his shorts to try and adjust his erection, make it less obvious. Right on cue, a couple of the crew turned and caught him in the act, hand down his pants tugging at his penis. He flushed as Idoya turned and looked, fixing him with an indifferent look that made him feel all of ten years old.

“What’s going on?” his voice squeaked involuntarily as his heavy Australian accent made a steep curving ascent of the question.

“Distress call,” The Skipper said (sorry! “The Skip”—asshole), “Gonna have to change course, check it out.”

“Looks like you’re in some distress there yourself, mate,” Scott bellowed, pointing at Brett’s crotch. The others fell about laughing.

A pleasure cruise. Relaxing. What a fucking joke. Brett felt his face burning red as he retreated back to the galley to peel some more bloody bastard potatoes.

Self-loathing was closing in on Marla like the clouds that gathered high above her. She’d fled the scene of the crime while her hair was still wet from the shower, unable to face him after their ill-advised tryst. She traced her shitty day backwards in her mind’s eye, through the drunken tumble with Pietro, past seeing Jessie and Adam together in the summerhouse and back to her impromptu disciplinary in Fowler’s office. Yes, a shit-tastic day. She cursed herself for not having the presence of mind to steal Pietro’s cigarettes. As her pace slowed to a brisk walk, her mind drifted grumpily to the handbook Fowler had been so determined she read and digest. He could shove it up his ass. She’d only been on the island a few days and she’d already screwed everything up. Better to just go jogging on the jetty again, and let Fowler’s “security operatives” assist her gently to the floor, guns pointed at her head.

But what then? Her prospects looked pretty dire; go back to a city where she couldn’t get a job with her record, or start over in another country without a single penny in the bank. No, she’d have to stick it out here, do her chores up at the white stucco house every day and keep the hell to herself the rest of the time. What she needed, what she
really
needed was a place to clear her head—somewhere to think where there weren’t security cameras prying at her every move, where no other Lamplighters could lure her in with drinks, drugs, kisses. As the landscape turned from sandy soil and wild grass to jutting rocks and steep drops, Marla realized she’d found such a place.

A rocky promontory unwound in front of her, its spiny ridges like the backbone of some giant fossilized beast, and there at the end stood the high tower of a lighthouse. Crosswinds opened up and licked at her, invisible tongues sent by the sea to push and pull her into the depths below. She folded her arms tightly against them and walked carefully across the rocks, on towards the lighthouse. The structure seemed to multiply in size as she neared it, towering over her now. It looked drastically older than any of the other buildings she’d seen so far on the island. Patches of leprous lichen crept from the rock beneath her feet and up the peeling walls. Layer upon layer of white paint had peeled back like dead skin flaking from a corpse to reveal the skeleton of stonework beneath. She climbed up a couple of feet onto its foundation, which had been hewn from massive slabs of native rock, and began circling the base in search of a way inside. A door presented itself halfway around the building, loose on its rusty hinges and banging against its frame in the ocean wind, unlocked. Rickety metal steps stained with browning rust led up to the door and they gave a metallic groan as she walked up them. Grasping the equally rusty door handle, rough and cold against the palm of her hand, she pulled the door open and peered into the gloom.

A spiral staircase, dimly lit by tiny portholes in the exterior wall, curved upwards and into the darkness out of view. At the foot of the staircase was a wide puddle of water, green-tinged from the algae that straddled its surface. Marla stepped inside, curiosity fuelling her deep desire to take shelter from the bitter snap of the wind. As she neared the puddle of water a strong stench, of stagnant seawater, hit her nostrils. Her stomach heaved as her senses tried to adjust to the stink. To one side of the puddle beneath the curve of the stairs, a pair of wooden doors were set into the wall. It looked like a closet might be behind them. Marla walked over to the doors and her heart leapt with fright as the rusty metal outer door slammed shut, forced into the act by a strong gust of wind. Turning nervously, her composure still rattled from the shock of the noise, Marla muttered some colorful words under her breath in the general direction of the door. Returning her attention to the closet, she stooped slightly and reached down to try the wooden doors. They opened, revealing a complex spaghetti of tangled wires and cables, looping out of the great metal racks that filled the closet space. Faded electrical warning decals hung peeling off the inside of the doors—they looked ancient, as did the wiring. A blinking light deep inside the confusion of multicolored strands caught Marla’s eye and she leaned deeper into the closet to get a closer look. Her heart froze once again, but not at the door banging this time, but at the hand which grabbed her shoulder. A strong, manly hand with one hell of a grip. She whirled round in terror, reflexes already pushing her hands up in front of her face to protect her from the intruder. Losing her balance, she clattered backwards into the closet doors. Tense moments passed as she righted herself and awaited her fate.

The old man was looking at her with surprise in his eyes. He had a leathery face, with deep-set wrinkles etched around his eyes like a relief map of the rocks outside. But his eyes were somehow younger, bright, alive and thankfully completely non-threatening. Marla wasn’t quite ready to trust him yet though.

“Who the hell are you?” she said, her voice wavering despite her best efforts to sound in control, authoritative. Gone was the voice of the city girl, the one she used to use on cab drivers when she’d had too much to drink, back in the day. “What do you want?”

At this, he chuckled dryly, then said in a soft wheezing voice, “I might ask you the very same young lady. I guess you can tell me over coffee. Just brewing up a fresh pot when I heard the damn door banging again. Needs fixing. Everything needs fixing round here.”

He adjusted his oil-stained blue overalls and started climbing the stairs, beckoning for her to follow.

“Come on up. It’s warmer upstairs. It’s no problem.”

With that, he was on his way up the stairs—sprightly as a young lad, taking two steps at a time and whistling a jolly tune as he ascended to god-knows-where. Marla sighed heavily, her system exorcising the last remnants of the scare from her frazzled nerves. Hearing the howling wind outside, she decided upstairs where it was warmer didn’t sound like too bad a place to be. Following him up the stairs, Marla was greeted by the faint aroma of real coffee. It was a welcome smell after the rank stench of the seawater puddle, not to mention after the kind of day she’d had.

The old timer told her his name was Vincent. She watched as he busied himself with the promised pot of coffee, although it was less a pot and more of a can, an old catering tin filled with dark bubbling liquid atop a little gas stove that spluttered angrily with blue flame. She glanced around his quaint abode, engrossed in its many little details. Seashells and pebbles lay everywhere there would have been bare space, and driftwood, nets and other beach debris gave the impression the tide had recently come in and gone back out again—inside the room. The room itself was surprisingly large. It was the control room for the lighthouse, but it looked as though it had not been used as such for quite some time. Ragged blankets hung over portions of the three-sixty-degree windows that encircled them, moving slightly in drafts as they struggled to keep the elements at bay. Beyond the windows, Marla could see the remnants of a flag fluttering pathetically outside in the growing wind. The flagpole was attached to a gantry, accessible via a metal door—or would have been accessible if not for the huge stack of books leaning up against it. She crossed to the books and scanned some of the spines, many of which were torn, moldy and ruined. Vincent’s library was in a poor state of repair, but contained everything from old encyclopedias to pulp fiction, literary classics and well-thumbed puzzle books. Marla felt like a child in an Aladdin’s cave up here, peering out beyond the treasures at the dark clouds that danced dramatically above the high seas.

“Got another mug around here somewhere,” Vincent muttered, half to himself, as he clattered around in the cupboards.

Marla watched him reflected in an exposed section of glass as he located a second mug and gave it a good scrub at the sink. She remembered the night she’d watched Jessie making coffee for her in the summerhouse kitchen, the same night she’d seen those cold, hollow eyes watching her through the window. Marla shivered.

“Soon warm up. Have a seat.”

Vincent gestured to a beat up chair next the stove. He placed the steaming mug on an upturned tea chest that served as a coffee table. Next to it was a plate of dry crackers. Marla sat down and picked up the mug with both hands, enjoying the heat as it throbbed into her icy hands.

“Thanks.”

He took a cracker from the plate, bit into it and created a little shower of crumbs.

“Help yourself.”

“I’m okay thanks, coffee will do me fine.”

She looked around the room again. It was a stark contrast from the mansions of the rich on the other side of the island, even from her “servant’s quarters” with their sturdy shutters and home comforts. The dilapidated chair she was sitting in now was much more comfortable than her crappy wicker furniture though, she had to admit. Overall, this place had an earthy charm that appealed to Marla perhaps more than any opulent mansion house ever could.

“Cozy place you have here,” she ventured.

“Ain’t much, but she’s home,” he said, blowing vapor from the surface of his coffee. “Wouldn’t much know how to live anywhere else.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“My whole adult life, feels like. Figured I could get my head clear in a place like this. Met my wife soon after I took the post as lighthouse keeper. But she got sick, died young.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. Ancient history now, all that. My boy lived out here with me for a spell. Good place for a kid to be, I figured, all that fresh air.”

“Your son? He’s on the island.”

The old man snorted. It was a bitter, unhappy sound. “Nope, he left long ago.”

“Back to the mainland you mean?”

His eyes twinkled, as fluid as the puddle downstairs. “He died too, here on the island. Turns out I was wrong. No place at all for a young lad.”

Marla stiffened and took a gulp of coffee, not knowing what else to say or do. The liquid was darker than freshly dug earth and stronger than anything she had ever tasted before. She took another gulp.

“Took his dog out for a walk. Damn thing ran into the ocean, chasing lord only knows what. My boy ran after him, caught hold of the beast, but then they got swallowed up by the waves. Both drowned.”

“How awful. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

The old man sighed. He took a sip of his coffee and blinked the memories from his watery eyes. “No matter.”

“What was his name? Your boy?”

“No matter,” he replied.

Awkward silence clouded the space in the room. Marla looked over to the exposed glass as a shaft of light cut through it. The clouds were breaking.

“Looks like it’s brightening up a little. I’d better get going.”