by Frazer Lee
As Marla ran a cloud drifted across the sun, gray and heavy with the promise of rain. Close by, cold, watchful eyes turned their attention away from Marla, Jessie and Adam and looked skywards. A storm would be coming to the island soon…
Chapter Seventeen
The very air she breathed seemed to cool as Marla moved through it, stomping past the house where she’d been dutifully scrubbing earlier, across the track she’d jogged along in the morning and on towards the sea. She still felt disturbed by the sight of the dead bird, pinned out like that against the wall of the house. Perhaps more so, she also felt deeply resentful about Jessie and Adam’s tryst, and foolish at the same time for feeling that strongly about it. Recalling the quiet times she’d enjoyed with Adam these last few days, drinking coffee outside the summerhouse, she did feel she had good reason to feel betrayed, however. Well, perhaps betrayed was too strong a way of putting it but she certainly felt she’d been made a fool of. Rejection she could take, that was one thing, but to be humiliated like this was more than she could bear. Walking on, her foul mood clinging to her like the cold clammy shower curtain from her bed-sit, Marla found herself approaching familiar ground. The path wound its way down the rough terraces of the headland and on towards the beachfront, which lay beyond the white stucco giant and its gardens up ahead—Pietro’s place.
She’d found him in the garden sunbathing half naked beside a large palm tree, the shadow of a huge leaf creating a dark tribal tattoo on his olive skin. He’d invited her inside for a drink, and a few more drinks later (no smoothies this time, the real stuff) saw them both half naked, rolling around tipsily on the huge bed in the main house. She bit his lip drunkenly as they kissed and dug her fingernails a little too hard into the muscular flesh of his back. He knows what this is, Marla thought mischievously as she straddled him and began pulling at his shorts, he knows this is revenge sex. But he doesn’t care and neither do I. Her aggression was doing nothing to pacify him and she could feel his arousal through the drunken haze. Marla had not had sex for quite some time and Pietro’s enforced abstinence had gone on for even longer it seemed. She kissed him and bit him again, a little bit harder this time. To her delight, he began to fight back with passion more than equal to hers, as the rest of their clothing fell away. The rest was an alcoholic blur.
A sick feeling in her stomach woke her—that and the violent need to pee. She lurched from the bed, head swimming, still under the influence of all the alcohol she’d knocked back. Never mix your drinks, idiot. But Marla had already begun to blame Pietro, wishing upon him the worst hangover Bacchus could visit. The room smelled stale. Afternoon sunlight bled into the room from gaps in the blinds like a sick breath. Glancing back at the bed she saw Pietro lying there face down, one arm dangling over the side of the bed like a broken wing as he snored softly. A used condom lay on the floor near his fingers, giving the impression that a vile worm had shed its skin there. Marla’s face wrinkled in disgust at the sight. She looked back at Pietro coldly—he looked like a corpse lying on a mortuary slab, dust motes swirling around him aimlessly in the queasy yellow light. Fighting her bladder’s desire to open up the floodgates right there on the bedroom floor, Marla quickly gathered her clothes and clutched them to herself tightly, concealing her nakedness. Stealing down the hallway as quietly as possible, she closed the bathroom door behind her and relieved herself. She was about to get dressed when she suddenly smelled Pietro’s scent all over her. With the smell came memories, indecent flashes of their aggressive coupling before she’d passed out from the alcohol. Dreadful suspicions about what he may have done to her while she was unconscious sprang into her mind, but she reminded herself he had been as wasted as she was. Unless he was feigning inebriation. She felt suddenly dirty, sullied by what she’d done in anger, ashamed of making such a scene. Moments later she was scrubbing herself clean in the shower, muttering under her breath that she shouldn’t have come here, that she certainly shouldn’t have slept with him. Her tears mixed with the hot water and trickled away with it down the plughole and into the silence and black of the sewage system.
Pietro awoke at what sounded like a clap of thunder but was in reality the main door to the house slamming shut. He stretched and yawned dryly, wondering where he’d left his cigarettes before he’d gone to bed with Marla. She’d spared him from the boredom of small talk, he’d known why she had come the instant he saw her, but he hoped to God she hadn’t taken his fucking cigarettes with her. Frustration and shame wound a tight knot in his stomach as he remembered losing his erection moments before Marla had passed out on the bed. He recalled flipping her unconscious form over and trying again from behind before he too passed out from the excess of alcohol. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed the used condom off the floor, checking it to be sure. It was devoid of semen, a sad, pathetic thing shriveling up in its own spermicidal lubricated juices. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never had this kind of problem before. Not before coming to this godforsaken island, anyhow. He pictured the island now as a great sponge, slurping up all his energies greedily, leaving nothing for him except a list of tedious chores to do and long dull hours staring out at an ocean he was forbidden to swim in. Where the Hell were his damn cigarettes?
“I thought you said this cruise would be relaxing,” Brett said as he peeled his umpteenth potato. Scott just looked at him, blankly.
“It is.”
Brett hissed through his teeth. Cooking, cleaning, hoist the sail, drop the sail—none of it was relaxing.
“It’s so fucking not! I was having a great time at the resort, picking up girls, partying every night. Where’s the bloody party on this tub, eh?”
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 again
st 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.
