The Lamplighters

by Frazer Lee

  The walk back to her room was a blur. Marla sat down on the bed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, her face a tragicomic mask of both reactions. She rolled a celebratory cigarette and breathed the smoke in and out deeply.

  Only then did she notice something else was missing from her room, something that had definitely been there when she left to answer the phone. She’d seen them only moments ago. Her used panties, from yesterday. She dropped the cigarette into the ashtray and scrambled around on the floor for them. Gone. A sick feeling hit her stomach. Anger building inside her, Marla left the room, cursing the latch. She crossed the hallway and stood in front of Mr. James’ door. Loud pornography bellowed from inside his room accompanied by his unmistakably urgent grunts and groans.

  Marla returned to her room and started packing her rucksack. It was time to get away, far, far away, from this rat hole.

  Chapter Seven

  Welland was waiting for Marla outside Nice airport arrivals in a sleek black open-topped car. He grinned at her as she approached, those perfect white teeth gleaming in the morning sun.

  “How was the flight?”

  Marla smiled her thanks as he helped with her bag.

  “It was Business Class.”

  He laughed in recognition as he put his sunglasses on. Marla hadn’t flown for a while and had clearly never flown Business before. She looked so much more relaxed than she had on the day of her interview.

  “Only the best for our employees, Marla. And you’d better start getting used to life’s little luxuries. The island has more riches to offer than Business travel. Think of it as First Class,” he winked slyly. “You’re about to get an upgrade.”

  “My second today,” giggled Marla.

  The car’s powerful engine throbbed as he hit the accelerator. Marla grabbed her own sunglasses as they drove out into the bright sunlight. The breeze blew through her hair like a cleansing breath. London and her depressing bed-sit already seemed to be a million miles away. Good riddance. She kicked back in the comfort of the leather passenger seat and looked at the passing cars.

  “Comfy?” asked Welland.

  “Oh yes,” Marla said as she stretched a little, catlike.

  “Good. We have quite a drive I’m afraid, so just relax and enjoy it. There’s a boat waiting that’ll take you to the island. The exact location has to remain…”

  “Confidential, I know.”

  Back in London, Marla had looked Meditrine Island up on every website she could find. It simply didn’t exist—not on any map. Even Google Earth couldn’t find it. Doubt had begun to set in, so Marla asked about it when The Consortium had called to confirm travel arrangements. “Meditrine Island” was merely a name, the friendly voice had assured her; the island could only actually be identified by its registration number, latitude and longitude. “Please understand The Consortium’s need for secrecy,” the friendly voice had implored. “The assets of our clients would be under considerable risk if every Tom, Dick and Harry knew where the island was located.” If Marla had any doubts, the voice went on, they could cancel her flight at any time. Reassured, Marla had told them that wouldn’t be necessary. Let them keep their secrets, she thought, and I’ll keep mine.

  Through her sunglasses, Marla watched the gray airport warehouses and car parks give way to green countryside. For a moment, the sun slipped behind a cloud and Marla shivered, remembering her vile neighbor Mr. James. Then the sun blazed back into the blue sky, warming away the gooseflesh on her arms and bathing her face in its warming glow. She vowed that would be last time she’d think of that horrible man, or her horrible past.

  The past. She had considered calling her “mother” before jetting off, of course. She’d found herself standing at the payphone at her bed-sit, calling card in hand, scrap of paper in front of her with the number written on it in fading ink. Marla had even picked up the receiver, just for a second, before returning it to its cradle. From the cradle to the grave, Marla had thought bitterly, recalling a song she’d once heard at a club with Carlo. No, relations with her final pair of foster parents had ended very badly. Best to leave them that way rather than re-establish contact and then make them end even more spectacularly. What would she have said anyway? Hello Mrs. Gore, it’s Marla, remember that fuck up of a foster daughter you couldn’t wait to get rid of? Well, I got a job. A job on a faraway island… They would just assume she was high again, or finally being sent to jail for her latest heinous crime. No, it was better to lock up the past and throw away the bloody key.

  “We’re here.”

  Welland’s tones cut through her thoughts like the very voice of reason. He slowed the car to a halt and half-stood, pointing over the windshield into the distance. They’d arrived at a small harbor. The faint ding-ding of bells rang their greeting. Sun kissed the water, twinkling into the ocean’s distance.

  Marla looked out to where Welland was pointing and saw the speedboat, huge, sleek and black like his car. He had to be kidding.

  “Your chariot awaits.”

  She looked wide-eyed at the impressive vessel. Its name had been painted on the front side, Sentry Maiden.

  Welland took Marla’s rucksack from the boot of the car and handed it to her.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said. “Island Security will look after you now.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” said Marla, “You’re not tempted to take some time off? Sunbathe?”

  “Oh, believe me I am sorely tempted,” he replied, “But alas, duty calls. Catch a few rays for me, will you?”

  Marla nodded. He turned back to the car, then paused.

  “And have fun. But work hard.”

  His eyes shone for a moment before he replaced his shades. As the car roared away, Marla heaved the rucksack onto her shoulder and made her way over to the boat.

  A heavy-set man dressed in a black, almost military, uniform waited for her at the foot of a steel ramp leading to the deck area. Rather uncomfortably, Marla clocked the holster on his belt. He was carrying a pistol. She’d been in London for so long, this was the only gun she’d seen outside of the airport.

  “Miss Neuborn, I’m Anders, security operative over at Meditrine Island. I’m here to ensure your safe passage to the island. Your safety is my priority. My other priority, of course, is to safeguard the island. So, I’m afraid I’ll have to take you through a quarantine procedure before you board.”

  “No problem. No problem at all,” said Marla. This was getting kind of surreal.

  Anders led Marla to a low building adjacent to jetty where the boat was moored. Stopping at a thick glass door, he took a plastic card from his belt and swiped it through a reader. The little LED light on the reader turned from red to green, there was a loud click and the door opened. Marla followed him inside and down a dimly lit corridor to another door. He used his swipe-card again and led her into a clinically white room. A long bench ran the full length of the wall at waist height. Anders closed the door behind them, then produced a pair of white rubber gloves from some secret pouch attached to his belt and snapped them on.

  “If you’d like to place your bag on the bench please.”

  It was more of an order than a request. Marla did as she was told and watched as Anders leaned over the bag as though he was going to launch into an impromptu exercise routine. Instead, he loosened the straps and drawstrings and began rooting through Marla’s rucksack. She averted her eyes with awkward embarrassment as he hit a deep seam of underclothes. Unflinching, Anders continued his search of the main compartment until all her clothes and belongings were lined up on the bench in a parade of shame. Making his way through the side pockets and buckled top compartment, he stopped and pulled out her toiletry bag, then her personal music player. He stood and held both items aloft in his hand. Marla suddenly felt like she’d been caught with a full bag of drugs at some seedy border crossing. Tiny headphones dangled in front of her, conspiring with her toiletries against her.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to con
fiscate these for the duration of your stay, Miss,” snapped Anders, “The rules state that no liquids, gels, or other cosmetic items are allowed onto the island.”

  “But—how will I wash? What about my make-up?”

  “Toiletries will be provided from the island’s stores. You will have no need for make-up,” said Anders, “In addition no personal electronic device is to be taken onto the island by any employee, no matter how innocuous.”

  “I thought the rule only applied to phones, laptops, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s fine. Your belongings will be returned to you on completion of your contract.”

  That’s fine. Easy for you to say when you don’t use eyeliner. One thing was certain—she’d be going on a spending spree as soon as she got paid. She watched Anders take her music player and little toilet bag, separating them out and placing them into a plastic storage box a little further along the bench. She was going to miss her music almost as much as make-up. Thank God I didn’t pack an electric razor, all Hell would break loose.

  Anders dropped suddenly into a squatting position, again looking like he might launch into an impromptu workout. He rooted beneath the bench and pulled out a cylindrical container, like a fire extinguisher but smaller. Returning his attention to the bag’s contents, he pointed the nozzle of the cylinder at Marla’s clothes and began to spray them with a fine white mist.

  “Hey! What the hell?”

  The mist smelled awful, like neat bleach. Marla had no desire for her clothes to smell of bleach. Anders continued spraying, like an automaton in a factory.

  “What are you doing to my clothes? That stuff smells horrible!”

  Only when he had sprayed every single garment, did Anders put down the cylinder and turn to address Marla.

  “Apologies—strict regulations.”

  “Regulations about what?”

  “Meditrine Island is home to more than just human beings. Dozens of rare species live there too. Plants, insects, birds. You’ve traveled from an overpopulated city, rife with contaminants. We have to disinfect everything you bring with you to the island to safeguard the island’s natural resources. I’m afraid I’ll have to treat your shoes.”

  Marla climbed out of her shoes. As he got to work spraying them, she took in what Anders was saying. The environmental message sounded rather strange coming from such a militaristic man. I’m being lectured on ecology by an armed policeman. Better listen up or he might shoot me.

  “Someone could have explained…”

  “It’s done now, miss. Just the clothes you’re wearing to do now.”

  “The clothes I’m wearing?”

  He gestured at another door.

  “Showers are through there. Please use the disinfectant gel provided. Leave your clothes on the bench just outside the door and I’ll process them while you shower.”

  Marla scowled at him.

  “The smell fades eventually,” said Anders brightly.

  Marla turned and headed for the showers before she could say something she might regret.

  A faint odor of bleach trailing behind her, Marla lugged her rucksack up the ramp and onto the deck of the sleek black vessel under the watchful eyes of Anders’ deckhands.

  “Welcome aboard the Sentry Maiden,” saluted Anders.

  Anders’ men retracted the ramp and hauled in the docking ropes. The boat’s engine started up in an excitement of white foam and, drifting forward and to one side, the craft began to pick up speed. Marla was on the final leg of her journey to Meditrine Island. She felt clean.

  Stratum corneum

  The huge man looked at Vera’s lifeless body, coldly. Now the kill was over, his real work could begin. He always preferred them when they lay like this—silent and still, not raving and wriggling.

  Selecting his finest scalpel from the workbench, he pressed a restraining hand down firmly on the girl’s chest and cut into her, just below the neck. His hand as steady as a tiller’s, he made yet more cuts in beautifully straight lines. Each one was a crimson ribbon, each one intersecting in his perfect design. Soon the girl’s skin was divided up, like tectonic plates floating above the lava of her viscera.

  Satisfied with his pattern making, he put the scalpel down and picked up the flesh-comb. He marveled for a moment at its sleek design, surgical steel head, ivory handle. Inserting it into the first intersection, he began to peel back the skin carefully. The red ribbons became folds of velvet meat, which he folded lovingly and placed in the basin next to the gurney.

  The hardest part was always around the nails, and the face. His mouth locked into a grimace of concentration. The greatest care was required to lift these layers of derma without tearing them. Softly, softly, he worked the skin upwards from her face.

  Then, disaster. He caught sight of his reflection in one of the girl’s eyes. The dead black pool of her pupil revealed him at once. Why had he looked? Why was she looking? The connection broke the spell, and his concentration, at once. Before he could halt his movements, he felt the skin tear at the corner of her eye socket.

  Clenching his teeth against the rage, he put aside the flesh-comb and put her eyes out. Both of them. With his thumbs. There, she could mock his mistake no longer. He tore the scalp from her head with a violent wrenching motion. Plunging her blood-slicked hair into the metal waste bin, he struggled for a moment to regain his composure.

  Exuding calm, deliberate breaths he vowed to blind the next one before he skinned it. He couldn’t afford the tiniest mistake. Absolute perfection was required of him, and of his prey. But the base matter before him was substandard, distracting him. For absolute perfection, he would have to wait.

  He would have to be patient.

  Chapter Eight

  The crewmembers were a quiet bunch. At the start of the journey, Marla had tried to spark a bit of small talk with one of the security guards, a particularly handsome, dark-skinned guy about the same age as her, mid-twenties. He had politely all but blanked her, explaining that conversation with employees was forbidden while he was on duty. She’d smiled as she turned away from his stony face; she couldn't help it. His eyes had betrayed him, and for a split second he definitely checked her out, which was more action than she’d had in a long time.

  Marla made her way to the head of the boat, enjoying the slightly scary incline and the rocking motion as it sped through the waves. Holding on tight to the handrail, Marla held her head high and breathed in the cool, refreshing sea air. Every now and then, ocean spray coated her skin and she luxuriated in its touch. The wind picked up a notch and the craft altered course slightly, prompting her to look aft. Beyond the rear of the boat, Marla could only see a wide expanse of blue, curving as if at the edge of the world. Turning back to the head of the boat, the same vista greeted her. She really was in the middle of nowhere, hurtling ever onwards in this black vessel to…where exactly?

  Several minutes later, her eyes finally gave the answer. In the far distance Marla could just pick out a vague landmass. Anders hollered to his men, barking orders. Within seconds, the boat was a hive of activity and Marla was ushered to the rear deck by Mr. Handsome.

  “Almost home, miss,” he said softly, out of earshot of his crewmates.

  Home. Marla leaned back against the rear rails and craned her neck out to see. The island's details were becoming clearer as the boat ploughed on towards it. She could now make out sharp craggy rocks, with waves crashing onto them dramatically. Above this steep rocky perimeter were signs of lush vegetation, and terraces cut into the cliffs and hills. Nestled there were several white buildings, huge mansions the size of which Marla had only ever seen in the pages of celebrity magazines. The boat’s engine slowed to a bass line throb and the crewmen prepared the craft for docking at a wooden jetty. A security hut stood at the end of the jetty, guarding a set of winding steps that led up to the island.

  Anders instructed Mr. Handsome to escort Marla through security clearance. He gallantly pulled her rucksack onto one manly should
er and led her to the security hut. Another quick bag check—

  This is worse than Heathrow…

  —and Marla was soon walking the length of the jetty towards the twisting steps.

  “Sorry I couldn’t really talk to you earlier miss,” said Mr. Handsome, “Anders runs a pretty tight ship.”

  “Literally. And please don’t call me miss. I’m Marla.”

  He beamed. “Nice name. I’m Adam.”

  Marla smirked, wondering if his surname really was “Handsome”. From the way the smile played across his jaw and cheeks, revealing deep dimples, she truly thought it should be.

  Steady girl.

  “Always good to see a new face around here,” he continued, “Not often I get picked to go to the mainland. I enjoy it, you know, being on the boat.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the smell of her skin, still vaguely bleach-scented. Great, she smelled like the bathrooms at King’s Cross railway station.

  “When was the last time you were off the island then? And do they make you shower in this god-awful stuff too?” asked Marla.

  He smiled. It was a nice smile.

  “A few w… Hey, sorry. I’m not allowed to talk about stuff like that. More than my job’s worth.”

  Marla laughed. A sharp, shrill cackle that echoed off the rocks and left her feeling immediately embarrassed. Adam was silent. She looked up at him and realized he wasn’t joking.

  “You’re serious aren’t you?” she said, a mixture of surprise and apology.

  “Yeah. You think Anders is strict, just wait ’til you meet Fowler.”

  “Who’s Fowler?”

  “You’ll find out in a minute. My orders are to take you to his office right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Induction,” said Adam.

  “Induction? That sounds a bit ominous.”

  She fixed Adam with a concerned look.