by Henry, Jane
“Where would that be?” I ask.
Finn clears his throat again. “I’m not at liberty to give you all the details I know,” he begins.
Boner glares at him. “Why the fuck not? Are you fucking kidding me?”
The Father holds up a hand, begging patience.
“Enough, Boner,” I order. There’s an unwritten rule in my family that we don’t press the Father for information he doesn’t offer. I suspect he occasionally relays information granted him in the privacy of the confessional, something he’d consider gravely sinful. Father Finn is a complex man. We take the information he gives us and piece the rest together ourselves.
“I can give you some, however,” the Father continues. “I believe you’ll find what you need at the lighthouse.”
I feel my own brows pull together in confusion.
“The lighthouse?” Nolan asks. “Home of the old mentaller who kicked it?”
“Jack Anderson,” the Father says tightly.
The eccentric old man, the lighthouse keeper, took a heart attack last month, leaving Ballyhock without a keeper. Someone spotted his body on the front green of the lighthouse and went to investigate. He was already dead.
Since the lighthouses are now operated digitally, no longer in need of a keeper, the town hasn’t hired a replacement. Most lighthouse keepers around these parts are kept on more for the sake of nostalgia than necessity.
The man we’re talking of, who lived in the lighthouse to the north of our estate, was out of his mind. He would come into town only a few times a year to buy his stores, then live off the dry goods he kept at his place. He had no contact with the outside world except for this foray into town and the library, and when he came, he reminded one of a mad scientist. Hailing from America, he looked a bit like an older, heavier version of Einstein with his wild, unkempt white hair and tattered clothing. He muttered curse words under his breath, walked with a manky old walking stick, and little children would scatter away from him when he came near. He always carried a large bag over his shoulder, filled with books he’d replenish at the library.
Father Finn doesn’t reply to Nolan at first, holding his gaze. “Aren’t we all a little mental, then, Nolan?” he asks quietly. Nolan looks away uncomfortably.
“Suppose,” he finally mutters.
The Father sighs. “That’s all I can tell you, lads. It’s enough to go on. If you’re to secure your arms deals, and solidify the financial wellbeing of The Clan, and most importantly, keep the peace here in Ballyhock, then I advise you to go at once to the lighthouse.” He gets to his feet, and my father shakes his hand. I get to my feet, too, but it isn’t to shake his hand. I’ve got questions.
“Was the lighthouse keeper involved?” I ask. “Was he mates with our rivals? What can we possibly find at the lighthouse?”
Inside the lighthouse? I’ve never even thought of there being anything inside the small lighthouse. There had to be, though. The old man lived there for as long as I can remember. There’s no house on property save a tiny shed that couldn’t hold more than a hedge trimmer.
My father holds a hand up to me, and Cormac mutters beside me, “Easy, Keenan.”
Father Finn’s just dropped the biggest bomb he’s given us yet, and they expect me just to sit and nod obediently?
“You know more, Father,” I say to him. “So much more.”
Father Finn won’t meet my eyes, but as he goes to leave, he speaks over his shoulder. “Go to the lighthouse, Keenan. You’ll find what you need there.”
Chapter Two
Caitlin
It’s been thirty-four days since my father passed away.
Perhaps thirty-five.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, feeling a little queasy when nausea gnaws at my stomach. I step down the small ladder that brings me to the main floor of the lighthouse, and the largest room of the home I’ve never left, holding tightly to the rails so I don’t fall.
I’m out of my mind starving.
Maybe he had food stores he didn’t tell me about.
Maybe there’s money somewhere in this tiny home, something hidden that he put away for my well-being.
Maybe…
But I’ve been going crazy trying to find anything at all that would help me survive, and I’m scraping the barrel at this point. If things were normal… if people could be trusted… I’d go into the town center. I’m taking my life into my hands doing that, though, if I’m to believe what my father told me since I was a child.
Even if it wasn’t dangerous… what would they think of me when they saw me? I know what they’d see physically. A tall, thin girl with raven black hair down to her bottom, dressed in her mother’s old clothes. Barefoot. My mother was smaller than I am, and I’ve long since outgrown her shoes. It made me sad when I did for two reasons: it gets cold in the lighthouse at night in the winter, and wearing her clothing and shoes were the only contact I had with her.
My mother died when she gave birth to me.
According to my father, no one even knew she was pregnant, and no one knows of my existence. I prefer it that way. Or at least, I used to.
Now is another story.
Though I’ve had no contact with the outside world beyond the small confines of this lighthouse, I’ve spent the past two decades reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. My mother was an avid reader, or so he told me, but after I went through all of her books, I needed more. My father would get me books from the library when he bought our groceries.
When I was a little girl, I used to beg him to take me with him into town. After reading Little Women, I longed to meet the acquaintance of another little girl, at the very least.
“It’s too dangerous,” he’d tell me. “You’re much safer here with me.”
He never told me what the danger was.
But I know now that if I stay here much longer, I’m going to die. I have no food left.
I’m so hungry, I can’t even sleep anymore. When I lie down, the hunger eats at me like moths to clothing, and I imagine my starvation has pushed me to desperation. I’d give anything for a slice of bread or scraps from a table.
My father hadn’t planned on dying.
And though I’ve torn this place apart looking for hidden stores of food, I know it’s no use. It’s such a small place anyway.
I’ve found other things, though. Curious things. Books and notes, a diary of sorts with strange things written in its pages. A metal box I can’t find the key to.
But no food. And no money.
If I were to walk into town, where would I go? How would I get there? Would my bare feet hold up to the two-mile trek? In the stories I’ve read, churches will often take in the hungry, and feed them. Or perhaps a kindly widow would. Or… something. I can see the spire to the church behind the mansion that overlooks the cliffs. I’d have to get past the mansion to get to the church, and what if no one at the church could help me? Maybe the rich people at the mansion could spare some food.
Surely someone has food they’re willing to give me. Maybe I can find some if I forage behind restaurants, or… something.
I sit on the little loveseat on the bottom floor. In front of me is the white circular staircase that leads to the second floor, a spiral gateway to the rooms above. There’s the base floor with our plumbing and tiny kitchen, the second floor where we keep our books and my little bed, and the floor above which functioned as my father’s bedroom. He slept on the top floor on the sofa so that he could access the topmost floor where the light was kept. He said that he didn’t want an extra bed in the house, for if anyone ever came by unannounced, they wouldn’t suspect anything amiss.
About a week ago, the water started acting weirdly, though, and I’m not sure why. And a few days after that, someone came by. I hid on the bottom floor, the way my father taught me to, in the tiny closet behind the stairs.
It’s strange being nonexistent.
I saw them before coming up the walk
way from the basement level, and I barely made it to the closet before they entered. I could see just a sliver from my hiding place. Two men. One in a pressed policeman’s uniform, the other wearing black pants and a striped shirt.
“Could give it over to the town’s property,” Striped Shirt said meditatively.
Give what over?
“Right,” the police officer said. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I heard him pick up the cup of tea I left on the little table. I closed my eyes tightly. Would they know someone was here?
“’Tis cold,” he said. “But doesn’t look days old, does it?”
My heartbeat quickened, when I heard footsteps approaching the closet.
“Eh, I imagine the fresh air from the ocean changes the climate in here,” Striped Shirt said. “Locked up tighter than a drum. Who’d come here?”
I held my breath until they left.
Now, I pace the bottom floor, kneading my hands on my belly. I can sneak out. I have to. I’ll have to leave, though, I’ve literally never left this little haven I call home. I can walk out into the garden when night falls, then go into town…
But what then? How will I see at night? And what if someone sees me?
No. That’s a terrible idea. Not only would that mean waiting all day, I wouldn’t have enough light to see where I need to go. And darkness scares me.
My only other choice is to stay here and starve to death. I shake my head and peer out the tiny window on the bottom floor.
Would he have kept anything in the shed? I wasn’t even allowed to go out that far, but now it seems I have no choice. It’s worth looking, at least.
My hand trembling, I unfasten the latch that leads outside and formulate a plan. I’ll go to the shed and stay there, investigating to see what I can find. I’ll look at anything and everything, and if I don’t find either money or food, I’ll… I’ll do something else.
What else? I have no idea.
But first, the shed.
I walk to the top floor, far away from the windows so no one who happens by could see me, as if my vantage point from here will help me make a solid plan. I haven’t been up here in years, even after I saw them come and take my father. I crept down to the first floor and could hear them loud and clear through the window.
“Dead,” one officer said. “Looks like a heart attack.”
It killed me to see his body taken away. I have no idea where they took him, or what they did after that. My father always told me, no matter what, not to leave the lighthouse. That they’d find me. That my life would be forfeit.
They.
They.
If only I knew who they were.
I suspected, when I grew to be a young teen, that my father had some type of mental illness that made him suspect anything and everything. It didn’t seem normal that I was tucked away like this, with no contact with the outside world. From my reading, I knew of such things as schools and villages and shopping areas. Neighbors and officers, political officials, and… friends.
But they’re foreign concepts to me. My only contact was my father, my only companions my books.
I haven’t even spoken a word out loud since he died. Even when he was alive, words were minimal, conversation sparse. Today’s the first time I speak aloud.
“How could you?” I whisper to the sun. “Why?”
How could he leave me like this? Starving, without a crust to put in my belly or a penny in my pocket?
How could he have left me so isolated from anyone and everything that I’m bereft with his passing?
How?
I shake my head and straighten my shoulders. That’s it. I’m going. I’m going to the shed to see what I can find, and if I can’t find anything of use, I’m going into town. It doesn’t matter if they hurt me. I’m already dying a slow death here.
So, with determination, I walk back down the stairs to the first floor, moving quickly so I don’t lose my resolve. I turn the latch, careful to check to be sure my father’s ring of keys sits in my pocket still. I open the door, take a deep breath, and step outside.
It’s funny what people take for granted. The way they fall to sleep, their breathing slowing and bodies stilling. The way their heart beats, pumping blood through their veins. The way they blink, and swallow, how our limbs move in rhythm when we walk, sit, or stand.
I wonder if people take the outdoors for granted. When they step foot outside their doors, do they ever think of those who haven’t? Who can’t? Of those who’ve never seen the light of day?
Or am I the only who never has?
Gingerly, I step on the wobbly stone step that leads to the lighthouse. I half expect someone or something to come and attack me, he had me that riled up about danger outside these walls. Not surprisingly… no one does. Nothing happens.
A gentle breeze kicks up, and though it feels vaguely familiar—I do sit by open windows and let the wind rustle my hair and kiss my bare arms—it’s still wholly different. Kept hidden away behind the walls of my tiny home, I’ve never felt the wide-open expanse of the entire world around me. For a moment, I can’t breathe, I’m so giddy with the freedom this affords.
Oh, my, the sky is deep and breathtaking, blue sky as far as the eye can see. I swivel around to look behind me and cast a glance at the tumultuous ocean behind me. Waves crash on the shore, and I take in a breath. The magnificent blue of the ocean looks so much more vivid from here, like gems cast in spotlight. Glimmering. Shining. Radiant. I inhale deeply, salty air hitting my lungs, and open my arms wide before me. The world outside those walls is so vast. So beautiful. So endless.
Why did I wait so long to do this?
I close my eyes. It’s sunny and warm, with a delicate breeze that rustles my skirt and hair. I feel the kiss of warmth on my cheeks, and spin around slowly. Living so close to the ocean means we frequently get frigid air, and this winter was brutally cold, but today is near perfect. Like a little slice of heaven. I almost forget how starving I am, and my lightheadedness clears just a little.
The stones feel cool under my bare feet as I walk toward the shed. There’s a spring in my step now that I’ve gotten some fresh air. I don’t know why my father never let me out. It’s glorious out here.
When I reach the shed, the nervousness I felt earlier returns. I don’t much like creepy, crawly things, and I hope spiders and the like don’t come flying out at me. What if there’s a… person? Someone ready to hurt me, like father promised?
But I’ve already combed the entirety of the inside of the lighthouse. This is my last possible chance to find anything.
I go to turn the handle, but find it locked. I frown. Why would he lock it? Then I remember the keyring in my pocket and take it out. I look back at the shed. There isn’t just one, but a series of locks barricading this door. What on earth was he hiding in here that was of so much importance that he had to lock it up so tightly? Even our home wasn’t quite this secured.
I fumble with the locks and try various keys. It’s clumsy business, because I’ve only ever read about unlocking doors in books before. Finding the small keys to fit the right locks on the door is slow, tedious work. Finally, the last lock falls open, and I pull the door outward, bracing myself for a bat or spider or something to come flying out at me.
Fortunately, there’s nothing but dank, musty air. With a deep breath, I step inside.
Chapter Three
Keenan
I don’t know what I’ll find at the lighthouse, but I’m familiar enough with Father Finn’s knowing look that I decide to prioritize my visit. I take Cormac with me. Though I can hold my own in fist-to-fist combat, it doesn’t hurt to have his hulking presence with me.
“You sure you don’t want a third?” Nolan asked, his frown making him look a bit pouty. At twenty-one years old, he’s not a lad anymore, though I can’t help but think of him as the baby in the family. When I was his age, I’d already sealed the deal on multiple loans, had half a million dollars socked away in savings, a
nd contracted my first hit. But even though Nolan’s a man now, at twenty-one years old, it’s hard for me to see Nolan as anything more than my knock-kneed teenaged brother.
“You sober yourself up,” I order, fixing him with a serious look. “I don’t need you to work with us today, but you need to be sober at the weekend.”
He frowns. “Why?”
Why? My palm itches to smack some sense into him. Of all the fucking cheek...
“Because I said so,” I answer curtly. Christ, I sound like my father. But as his superior, I don’t feel the need to explain myself to him.
His green eyes flash at me like a bolt of lightning before he checks himself.
“You’ll fit those shoes well, Keenan,” he says tightly. I don’t need to ask him which shoes. I take a step toward him, but Cormac grabs the back of my shirt and holds me back while Nolan stalks off.
“Not worth it, brother,” Cormac says, shaking his head.
“The boy needs a proper beating,” I say between clenched teeth. “Never had one, and he’s gotten too fuckin’ big for his britches, he has.”
“Not gonna deny it,” Cormac says with a sigh, as if it pains him to say it. We both know mam spoiled him rotten, and the future of our organization lies in our hands. Lack of discipline and focus will be Nolan’s downfall. “But we have a job to do.”
That we do.
“I’d honestly like his help,” I confess to Cormac, as we exit the house and head to the garage. “But for this particular job, it’s best it’s just the two of us.”
“Agreed.”
We walk in silence until we get to the garage. I click the lock on one of the cars in our fleet, choosing a Jaguar because I need a sleek, quiet ride. I slide into the driver’s seat as Cormac folds his massive body into the passenger seat to my left.
“What do you reckon we’ll find there?” he asks.
“No feckin’ clue,” I mutter. “I wish to God Father Finn wasn’t so tightlipped. He says just enough to cause vague suspicion, but not enough to go on.”
