The Lighthouse at Devil's Point

by Gary P Moss

  He cupped her breasts, her gasps growing louder, as if she were about to cry. Her mind and body were only filled with him, and the excitement threatened to tip her over the edge into a kind of madness where nothing in the world mattered except this moment.

  The woman ripped the blindfold from her head, stared out into the sea, wanting more, needing more. She fixated on Devil’s Point rock, willing it, daring it, meeting his thrusts now with her own.

  ‘Harder now, please,’ she shouted.

  He gripped her buttocks, ripping a stocking as his long fingers explored the flesh below. He shuddered. As it surged and hit, she screamed as she came. He clamped a hand across her mouth, not moving it even as she bit into his palm’s soft flesh.

  She glared at Devil’s Point rock. It seemed to stare back, like some ancient stone warrior created from the darkness, facing off against the lighthouse, the beacon of hope, the bringer of light. She wanted the light and the dark. She led the lighthouse keeper to the bed.

  Chapter Five

  Friday

  * * *

  The woman beamed at her son as he rammed his toasted soldiers into the runny egg. Her mood was lighter than it had been for as long as she could remember.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?’

  The boy nodded. He stared through the patio doors, at a couple of large, black birds, sheltering in a tree. Crows, or rooks, the woman wasn’t sure. Gloomy-looking clouds hung threateningly close, barely moving. It was likely to be a grim day. Again. But sunbathing is not what I have in mind. A grin played on her lips before she could stop it.

  ‘Would you like to do it again, today?’

  He shrugged, licking the egg yolk from the toast, continuing to stare at the birds.

  Agnes, while still ruthlessly efficient, appeared more detached this morning. The woman rummaged in her bag, checking her wad of notes.

  She thought a couple more of these would cheer the sour face up. The woman called Agnes over, while she fingered a couple of the banknotes.

  ‘He had such a lovely time yesterday, and I wondered, if he wasn’t too much trouble, would your daughter take him again today? I’ll pay again, of course.’

  The woman’s bright smile brought an unexpected reaction from Agnes, who raised an eyebrow, sneered, then leaned down close to the woman’s ear.

  ‘She won’t be having the wee thing again, I’m afraid. The thing is, your husband telephoned from the hospital late yesterday afternoon, asking if I knew of your whereabouts.’

  The woman stared, dumbfounded. Though she tried hard to stop it, she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.

  ‘I… er…’

  Agnes raised a finger. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘And I heard you’ve been frequenting the pubs down by the seafront. Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but I’ll not have anything to do with any funny goings on. Bad for business.’ She straightened up.

  ‘And for my morals.’

  The woman’s earlier confidence had dissipated. She bit the inside of her mouth, wincing as she tasted blood.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him I thought you’d gone to see him. Poor man, to put him to such worry on top of all that’s happened.’ She shook her head before walking off.

  The woman snapped at her son.

  ‘Come on, hurry up with that. We’re going out for the day, together. Somewhere different. Somewhere exciting.’

  The boy turned his head sharply. He looked at his mother, not with indifference this time, but with wide eyes.

  ‘To see Daddy?’

  ‘No, somewhere much better. A tall tower with a huge light. You know, the one you’ve seen at night?’

  The boy slammed his spoon down on his plate, then looked away. The egg cup turned over with a crash. The woman pursed her lips, scrunched her napkin into a tight ball before throwing it down, then stood and reached for the boy’s hand. He snatched it away.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, trying but failing to keep the snarl from her voice, while eyeing the room for potential eavesdroppers. There was no one else; they were the last ones to leave the dining room.

  The boy refused to walk.

  The buggy clattered down the hill as he stared straight ahead. He turned only once, suspicion clouding his eyes.

  ‘Can I play on the beach?’

  ‘No, not today. Look at the sky. The rain’s about to come down.’

  He snapped his head back round to the front. There was no argument.

  ‘I tell you what though. There’s a nice shop near the seafront. It’s got plenty of toys and for a special treat, because you’re a good boy, you can choose whatever you like. Would you like that?’

  The boy nodded vigorously without turning around.

  The woman’s hands gripped the buggy’s handles tighter, her heart rate increasing the closer they got to the bottom of the hill.

  ‘And if you play quietly on your own with your new toys, we’ll have another treat this afternoon, all right?’

  ‘What treat?’ asked the boy.

  ‘We’ll go on the train to see Daddy. That will be nice, won’t it?’

  The boy threw his arms into the air. ‘Yes! Daddy! Yes!’ he shouted.

  What she was going to say to her husband regarding yesterday, she wasn’t yet sure, but she’d think of something, feign an illness on the train, forcing her to turn back, perhaps. But wait. If the tide traps us in the lighthouse, it might be too late to visit the hospital. That would put it off for another day, and by then, she’d need to be preparing for them to leave the hotel on the Sunday.

  As they turned onto the main street, the sea appeared much closer. Snarling waves seemed to cajole a vast, low wall of water, egging it on to sweep aside everything in its path.

  The woman hurried along, guessing she had plenty of time to visit the shop before the causeway became too dangerous to cross.

  The boy appeared to be blinded by the good selection of toys and games on offer. The woman’s impatience grew. She checked her watch and the view from the shop window. She could feel her chest tighten, like a steel band being wound around, restricting her breathing. She glanced towards the shop counter. The young man wasn’t on this morning. A middle-aged woman sorted piles of magazines. She paid no attention to the mother and boy.

  ‘Here, look at these, aren’t these great?’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing.

  ‘Look, Stickle Bricks. Come on, let’s take these, they look like so much fun and you’ll be able to build things. You like building things, don’t you?’

  Before the boy could answer, the woman grabbed the box and headed to the counter to pay.

  She rushed the buggy outside, her nervous glance towards the sea indicating that she didn’t have much time to reach the lighthouse.

  The woman eyed the holiday cottage as the beginning of the causeway sprang into view. She hoped the beach woman and her family had gone off for a morning adventure but looking at the blackening sky, she doubted it. They looked like seasoned walkers, all-serious-no-larking-about types, so she reckoned they probably researched the day’s weather before any excursion would take place.

  The air temperature took a sudden plunge, the woman’s hands quickly turning red as they remained static on the buggy’s handles. She careered the front wheels onto the causeway, almost overturning the boy as the buggy hit a rut where concrete met wood. Small waves crept up to the base of the lighthouse, and she knew that it wouldn’t be long before the causeway was unwalkable. She also knew that she was cutting it more than fine. She glared at Devil’s Point rock, daring it to support her, daring it to be on her side. He’d said he’d be there this morning although they hadn’t said that they’d meet. And the boy? Well, after yesterday, after all they’d done, he would just have to accept that it couldn’t be helped, that she hadn’t mentioned the boy because she never thought anything would happen between them, and then her thoughts were only for him,
and now she couldn’t get anyone to sit him, and well, what was she supposed to do?

  The woman hammered on the lighthouse door as the rain came down. As she bent down and fumbled with the buggy’s rain cover, the door opened, no more than a couple of inches.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ The lighthouse keeper stared at the water creeping around the base of the lighthouse. He looked as if he’d been dozing. He jumped back as he realised who’d been knocking.

  ‘Please, let us in, we’re getting soaked.’

  The door remained only partly opened.

  ‘Well what’s all this? And whose is the bairn?’

  ‘He’s mine. Please, Mike. Let us in, quickly.’

  His eyes turned dark, narrowed. He nervously ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘You can’t, you just can’t.’ He pointed a long finger. ‘You never said!’

  ‘I’ll explain if you just let us in, please!’

  ‘And I suppose you’re married too?’

  ‘Please, Mike, not in front of the boy.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s my answer right enough. Off with you, now, quick while you can still get across.’

  The woman almost sank to her knees, clasping her hands together. The buggy swayed in the wind. The boy remained quiet, watching the drama, oblivious to the water getting nearer.

  ‘Please, Mike. I’m begging you. Everything will be all right. I promise. If you’ll just let me explain. There was no one to take him. I’m sorry!’ She was crying now, water running off her face, blackened by her mascara.

  The lighthouse keeper looked around the door, as if to gauge the speed and depth of the encroaching sea. He was wrestling with the decision. Her eyes pleaded with him. She was desperate, at his mercy. His lips tight, the words came out strangled, laced with anger.

  ‘Get… Away… Now!’

  He slammed the door shut, and for the pain it caused her, the woman felt as if she’d been hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

  The wind buffeted the woman, salty spray whipping her face as she shoved down hard on the buggy’s handles, her hands gripping so tight that she thought at some point either the handles, or her hands, would break. The boy’s head moved from side to side, as if he were enjoying the spectacle; he didn’t appear to be bothered at all. A small wave leapt up and over the causeway, knocking the woman to the other side; she held out a hand to grip the rail. It was slippery, as it was underfoot. Water sloshed over her shoes, soaking her stockinged feet.

  As she attempted to recover her balance, the woman swung to her left, her bleary gaze settling on Devil’s Point rock, its mighty blade pointing to the sky, defying her, taunting her, angering her.

  The woman heard a roar behind her, which was too loud to be human. She pushed on, seeing through stinging eyes that there was only a dozen yards or so to go. Her anger seemed to push down on her shoulders, forcing her arms down and lifting the buggy’s front wheels.

  She steered it wildly, from side to side, upending one wheel, then the next, front, then back. The sea was black, white foamy teeth crashing up the sides of the causeway. She gritted her teeth. A light shone in an upstairs back room of the holiday cottage. The woman squinted up. It was the beach woman’s boy, staring down, face impassive, outlined by the room light, stark against the black day. Her anger surged, driving her on, slowly now as she realised that she was wet through.

  Her hood had long since given up staying on her head, the water now pouring down her neck. A roar again, and she shoved the buggy onwards, veering off till only its rear wheels had traction. She let go. Grabbing the rail, she stopped herself from falling in, leaned back. She looked down at the swirling water, the buggy partly submerged, on its side. She looked around her, searching through the blackness and the roaring wind.

  I’ve lost the boy.

  Her hands and feet stuck to the causeway and the rail. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She turned, tried to see Devil’s Point, roared through the wind.

  ‘Happy now?’ she screamed.

  A loud splash brought the woman to her senses. She steadied herself, looked down to see a figure in the water struggling with the buggy, straining to lift it. There were people shouting now, a man and a woman’s voice. The woman from the beach. She felt a blanket thrown across her shoulders. The lighthouse keeper, unbalanced in the water, managed to heave the buggy up and onto the causeway, the beach woman’s husband unclipping the straps. He hauled the boy out, wrapped him in a blanket, then hurried off the causeway to the safety of land. The woman shivered with cold, the beach woman leading her, following her husband, the boy in his arms. The woman couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. She allowed herself to be led, like a prize cow at a show, but there’d be no prizes today. She’d lost the boy.

  The lighthouse keeper dumped the buggy by the side of the house before running back along the causeway. The woman turned and watched as he ran, stumbled, then ran again, trying to reach his door before the sea made any kind of passage impossible. The day had grown so black that the woman lost sight of him as he was three-quarters of the way across. The beach woman steered her towards the front door, the heat from the house engulfing her, coating her like a second skin.

  The boy was sitting on a rug close to the fire, his wet clothes strewn across the floor, water running across the flagstones. He shivered underneath some blankets, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

  The woman stared, dumbstruck as the beach woman’s son brought an eiderdown with two more blankets on top. The pile was as big as him, covering his face.

  ‘You need to get those clothes off and get yourself warm. You don’t want to get hyperthermia now, do you? You can have some of my clothes for now, we’re a similar size,’ the beach woman said. ‘I know you’ve had a shock but look at your son; he’s absolutely fine. Made of strong stuff, that one!’

  The woman managed a weak smile, shrugged off her coat, then looked for somewhere she could change. The beach woman pointed up the stairs.

  ‘Use the bathroom to change. Are you all right to climb those stairs on your own? Legs must be a bit wobbly; heaven knows what you were doing on the causeway with the tide coming in, and a storm to boot.’

  ‘I, er, wanted to show the boy the lighthouse but it wasn’t open. I mistimed it, that’s all.’ The woman glanced at the boy. He stared at her briefly, then dropped his eyes.

  Is he accusing me?

  ‘Well,’ the beach woman said, ‘you were awfully lucky. That could have been a real tragedy if Mike hadn’t been so quick off the mark.’

  The woman looked again at her boy. She couldn’t think which expression would be appropriate, so she kept her face blank.

  ‘Mummy?’ Perhaps she was wrong before, she thought. The accusatory look had disappeared.

  ‘Yes?’ she whispered.

  ‘Can I still have another toy?’

  The woman smiled, a sad smile for herself rather than for the boy.

  ‘Yes, of course you can.’ She headed up the stairs to change out of her wet clothes. The smile had vanished; only a grim reality remained.

  Chapter Six

  Six weeks later

  * * *

  The lesson had not gone well. The woman had snapped at the boy when he’d messed up a simple practice. The C, F and G had turned into a C and two Fs. The boy, barely six years old, had winced as her acid tongue chastised him. She’d cut the lesson short. She doubted he would be back. Young boys easily riled her. After the boy had gone home with his suspicious mother, the woman’s chest had tightened. She hadn’t felt well for days. She’d been sick twice, both times in the morning. She tried to take in deep breaths but ended up hyperventilating instead. She eventually cured the pain by necking a couple of fingers of whisky, kept in the back of the sideboard, and usually reserved for visitors, not that they had many. She held the bottle up to the light and realised she’d have to replace it soon.

  She needed to see a doctor but her own GP was out of the question, confidentiality assured or not. The w
oman grabbed her diary; she had no lessons booked for the next day. There was a surgery a couple of miles away, in a large village where she was sure she didn’t know anyone.

  The next day, she hopped on a rickety old bus, part of an ageing fleet that served the outer conurbations and villages. The chill November wind offered up a good excuse to pull a winter woollen hat down low till it touched her eyelashes. On entering the doctors’ surgery, she was surprised at how large the waiting room was, and how there were not one, as she had expected, but two middle-aged women manning a curved reception desk. She took a deep breath and approached the one farthest away. A quick sweep of her eyes told her the few waiting patients were all strangers. The woman tried the most convincing smile she could muster.

  ‘I was wondering if I could see a doctor here, please?’

  The silver-haired woman peered down her half-moon spectacles.

  ‘Are you registered as a patient here?’

  ‘Well, no, but you see it’s rather confidential and I wanted an opinion from someone who doesn’t know me at all. An objective opinion.’

  The receptionist’s stare didn’t falter.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  The woman couldn’t help but emit a deep sigh.

  ‘As I said, it’s confidential.’

  A woman in her thirties wearing a cleaner’s tabard over a rough-looking shirt dusted shelves in the background. She flitted in and out of the back offices.

  ‘Even if a doctor were to see you, they wouldn’t agree to it without knowing at least the basics of the problem. And I, like everyone else here, am bound to a confidentiality agreement. So, you’ve no need to worry.’

  The woman looked up. The cleaner had disappeared.

  She leant over the counter, whispered to the receptionist.

  ‘I think I’m pregnant, and I need a test of some sort.’

  The receptionist raised an eyebrow. It quivered on its way up, as though she were attempting to restrain it.

  ‘One moment, please. I need to consult with a doctor. You may have to wait a little while, as I cannot disturb him while he’s with a patient.’