by Sam Short
“Reuben’s a pretty boy!” came another squawk from beneath the cloth. “Reuben’s a pretty boy!”
“Oh, you poor thing!” said Millie, hurrying to the cage. “Trapped in the dark!”
Millie slid the cloth from the cage, and gazed at the little bird. Coal black eyes burned vivid against the bright yellow of his face, and the red dabs of colour on his cheeks gave him the appearance of a jovial and feathery clown.
“I’m a pretty boy!” squawked the bird. “Reuben’s a pretty boy!”
“You are a pretty boy, Reuben,” said Millie, delighted. “A very pretty boy!”
Reuben tilted his head, and fixed one little eye on Millie. “Feed me,” he said, his voice an octave or two lower than it had been.
Millie took a step backwards. The bird had sounded almost human.
The cockatiel hopped along his perch and pecked at the cage bars. “Reuben’s a hungry boy!” he squawked, his voice a speaking bird’s again.
“Somebody trained you well,” said Millie. “You’re amazing.” She looked at the little silver food bowl attached to the bars of the cage. “You have food, Reuben,” she soothed. “Your bowl is full of seeds.”
“Not seeds! Not seeds!” screeched the cockatiel. He lowered his head and pecked at a toe which curled around his perch. “Not seeds, I beg of you, kind lady,” he said, his voice low and soft.
Millie took another step backwards, her eyes wide. “You’re freaking me out,” she said, her voice faltering. “You’re a little too well trained.”
The rumble of a loud engine outside the cottage drew Millie’s attention, and she turned her back on the bird. The rumbling grew louder, and Millie was sure the wood floor beneath her feet vibrated.
“What now?” said Millie, making her way to the open doorway.
The engine noise stopped as Millie reached the open door, and she stared at the motorcycle which had pulled up outside. She didn’t know much about motorbikes. Nothing at all really, but she associated the shining chrome and long handlebars of the bike outside with the type of machine that a Hell’s Angel would be proud to swing a leg over. The man who climbed casually from the bike and slid his helmet off, was as easy on the eye as the machine was, too. Millie ran a hand through her hair, and straightened her back. He was very easy on the eye.
The stranger placed his open-faced helmet on the bike seat, and ran a hand through his tussled black hair. He gazed at Millie with piercing eyes and flashed her a gleaming smile, the masculine lines of his jawbone accentuating his perfect lips. “Hi,” he said, his voice as deep as the sound the bike engine had made. “I’m George.”
Millie returned his smile. “I’m Millie,” she said, aware she was toying with a lock of her hair.
“Hello, Millie,” said George, “I like what you’ve done with the place.” He unzipped his black leather jacket. “The red door really stands out as you approach the cottage. And the roof windows look great. It’s a nice touch.”
Millie raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t done anything to the place. I’ve only been here ten minutes, and if I’m honest, I don’t even know why I’m here.”
George looked Millie up and down. “Oh. You’re that new. They told me you were new around here, but I didn’t realise just how new they meant.”
“They?” said Millie.
George flashed another smile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It sort of matters,” insisted Millie. “If you knew what had happened to me since yesterday, you’d understand.”
“Yesterday?” said George, the wind moving his hair. “What happened yesterday?” He smiled, and nodded slowly. “Oh! I see! Henry said he was visiting somebody yesterday. It was you? You didn’t waste much time getting here.”
“What’s going on, George?” said Millie, slumping against the heavy wood of the doorway. “Who is Henry, and why am I here? Am I being groomed for some sort of cult?”
George approached the cottage, and stood in front of Millie, gazing down at her with calming eyes. “You feel safe, don’t you, Millie? You might feel a little confused, but I’m guessing you feel safe? Especially in the cottage?”
Millie looked at the floor. George’s eyes were too mesmerising to risk staring into for too long. “Yes, but I don’t know why. It’s as if I’m in a dream. It’s as if I know I’m in a dream, and when I wake up everything will be okay — although being in the dream is confusing, and a little scary. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. I don’t even know why I came here. I’m not the sort of person to do things like this.”
“Just go with it,” said George. “You’ll understand everything soon enough. I promise.”
That was easy for him to say. Millie shrugged off his throwaway response. “Why did you come to see me?” she asked. “Did somebody send you?”
“I didn’t come to see you, actually,” said George. “It’s just a very pleasant bonus that you’re here.”
Millie’s cheeks burned. “Oh. Why did you come then?”
George pointed at the panniers attached to the rear of his bike. “To bring Albert Salmon some supplies, and to feed Reuben. I’ve been looking after him for the past week, but now you’re here I won’t need to do that job anymore. Just a visit to Albert Salmon it is,” said George.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that name today,” said Millie, “and I’ve been here for less than an hour.”
“Oh?” said George.
Millie nodded. “The lady who picked me up from the station…Edna — I mean, Mrs Brockett, mentioned him. She said she’d had a disagreement with him today.”
“Edna has disagreements with everybody,” said George, with a smile, “and Albert salmon isn’t the easiest of people to get along with. Most people find him disagreeable. Put those two together and you’ve got a tinder box waiting to ignite. Did she say why they’d argued?”
“No, she didn’t” said Millie. “Who is this Albert Salmon?”
George pointed to his right. “The old man who lives in the lighthouse,” he said. “He’s housebound, due to his age and the fact he has a false leg which doesn’t work too well. The witc— lady, who used to live in this cottage looked after him, but since last week a few people have banded together to make sure he’s okay. People he hasn’t offended, that is.”
“What happened last week?” said Millie.
“Esmeralda passed away,” said George. “But now you’re here, you can take over where she left off.”
“Esmeralda?” said Millie, warmth washing through her as the name left her lips. “I’ve heard of her. She lived here?”
George cleared his throat. “Listen, Millie. I’ve said too much. No more questions for now, okay? Why don’t you jump on the back of my bike and come and meet Albert? If you decide to stay here he’ll be your closest neighbour. You may as well get to know him. I’ve got a spare helmet in the pannier.”
Millie looked at George, and then looked at his bike. Why not? The day couldn’t get any stranger, so why not intersperse the weirdness with a ride on a motorbike with a man who looked like he should be a film-star? “Okay,” she agreed. “Let me get my jacket.”
“Do you mind if I come in and have a look?” said George, as Millie headed inside for her coat. “It seems to have changed a lot since Esmeralda was here.”
“It’s changed a lot in a week?” said Millie.
“Things move quickly around here,” said George, following her inside.
Millie considered questioning just how and why the cottage had been renovated so quickly after the previous owner’s death, but a fresh wave of calmness and acceptance flooded her thoughts. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
“It’s nice here,” said George, looking around. “I like what you’ve… I mean they’ve done with it.”
“Bloodsucker!”
Millie jumped at the sudden noise. “What did he say?” she said, spinning to face the cockatiel. “Did he say bloodsucker?”
The cockatiel studied George with bright eyes, tilted
his head, and whistled.
“What did he say?” repeated Millie. “It sounded like bloodsucker.”
George shrugged. “Some nonsense. He shouts gibberish all the time.” He looked at the cage. “He’s not the cleverest of birds.”
“Tosser!” screeched Reuben, hopping on his perch and flapping his wings. “Tosser!”
“He seems clever,” said Millie. “And foul mouthed.”
George grabbed Millie’s jacket from the back of the armchair and handed it to her. “We should get going. If Albert doesn’t get his supplies soon, Reuben’s foul mouth will seem tame in comparison to what that you’ll hear that old man calling me.”
Chapter 5
Millie clung tight to George’s waist, the smell of leather in her nose as she looked over his shoulder at the track in front of them.
He’d promised to ride slowly, and he’d stuck to his promise, although Millie guessed it was because his bike was not built for the sort of track he was navigating, rather than his concern for her trepidation.
Despite her concerns, Millie found she was enjoying the ride, and was a little disappointed when they reached the lighthouse within a couple of minutes. There was always the return journey to look forward to, she decided.
Millie climbed off the bike when George brought it to a stop outside the tall building, and removed her helmet while George placed the bike on its stand and began unpacking the panniers.
“It’s quite the spot to live in,” said Millie, sucking in sea air. “It’s beautiful.”
“Albert’s a lucky man,” agreed George, removing his helmet and shaking out his hair. “It was even nicer when his wife was alive. She took more pride in the lighthouse. She even had a little rose garden near the door, and the plants climbed up the wall. Albert allowed them to wither away after Betty had gone. It’s a shame.”
Millie craned her neck to peer up at the building. The red stripes had looked bright and clean from a distance, but up close it was a shame to see peeling paint and dirty stains.
The lighthouse occupied the very last few feet of solid land, and the curved edge nearest the ocean loomed over jagged rocks and crashing waves — so close to the ocean that sea spray spattered Millie’s face when a strong gust of wind blew inland.
She wiped water from her eyes. “Does the light still work?”she asked, gazing upward, and raising her voice to compete with the roar of breaking waves.
“No. Not for a very long time,” said George, a bag of supplies in each hand. “The lighthouse was taken out of service decades ago, and the light was deactivated.”
Millie followed George to the steel door. The door needed to be heavy she supposed. She imagined that in a hard winter storm the building would need to resist a ferocious onslaught from tall waves and strong winds.
“Ring the bell,” said George. “My hands are full.”
Millie pressed the small black button set in the wall.
“Now we wait,” said George. “He’ll appear at the window half way up, look out to see who it is, and if we pass muster, he’ll throw us a key. He’s extremely security conscious for a man who lives in a fortified tower.”
“Shall I press it again?” said Millie, after half a minute had passed.
“Not if you don’t like swear words,” said George. “He can’t walk very well, but believe me, unless he’s dead, he’s heard the bell and will appear at that window anytime now.”
Sure enough, the small window half way up the tower swung open, and a white bearded face appeared. “Who is it? If it’s you, Jim Grayson, you can bugger off! I’m not letting you in! I’m fed up of people today. I’ve already told you, I don’t even like lobster! They taste of posh socks! Dirty ones at that!”
George took a step backwards so Albert could get a clear view of him. “It’s me — George! I’ve got some supplies for you. Didn’t you hear my bike?”
“Don’t infer that I’m deaf!” shouted Albert. “My ears are just fine. I was listening to music.”
“He’s hard of hearing,” said George. “But he won’t admit it.”
“Where is your bike?” shouted Albert. “I can’t see it!”
“Around the side, Albert, away from the sea-spray. I value my chrome fittings.”
“Bloody death trap anyway,” shouted Albert. “It would be better for you if the damned thing fell in the sea. Here’s the key! Catch!”
Millie shouted out in pain as the heavy metal key bounced off her head.
“Who’s that? Did I hear a woman’s voice?” shouted Albert.
“She’s standing next to me, Albert,” yelled George. “Can’t you see her?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes either, you cheeky bugger. The sun was in them! Now get inside with my supplies before I starve to death. Esmeralda used to visit me almost every day. I never once ran out of coffee when she was around. It’s only been a week since she died, and I’ve already been forced to drink herbal tea since this morning! Ghastly stuff that it is!”
“He heard me scream well enough,” said Millie, rubbing her head. “He can’t be that hard of hearing.”
“It was a loud scream,” said George, dropping the bags. “Let me look at your head, you might be cut.”
Millie bowed her head as George ran his fingers through her hair, parting it to check her scalp for wounds. “No. You’re not cut, but you have a small bruise. You’re lucky. The key’s heavy.”
“You’re telling me,” said Millie, retrieving the key from the ground at her feet.
The key slid into the lock with a clunk and Millie gave it a firm twist, unlocking the door with a clicking of mechanisms which echoed through the heavy steel.
“Come on,” said George, pushing the door open with his foot. “Let’s get his coffee to him. If you think he’s rude now, imagine what he’ll be like when the caffeine withdrawal really sets in.”
As Millie stepped into the lighthouse, she envied Albert Salmon. The circular space was larger than she had imagined it would be, and the small windows offered a gentle natural light which gave the space a cosy atmosphere.
A spiral staircase rose from the centre of the room, disappearing into the wooden ceiling, and the space was filled with odds and ends. It was obviously the portion of the building used as a halfway house for coats and dirty boots. Laundry washing and drying machines were fitted next to a large chest freezer, which shimmered with a layer of condensation, and stacks of boxes reached high up the walls.
“The other floors are a lot nicer,” said George. “And you should see the view from the light-room, especially when you step out onto the balcony. Not that Albert will let anyone up there these days. He stopped using the balcony when his wife died, he says it reminds him of the meals they used to share out there, under the moonlight. He wasn’t always as cranky as he’ll come across to you today. It seems he was once a romantic at heart.”
Millie nodded, lost in the eclectic collection of pictures and ornaments which took up wall and shelf space. It reminded her of a jumble sale, and she laughed when she saw a picture of dogs playing poker. “My mum had that picture,” she said, indicating it with a nod of her head.
“I think most people have a family member who once owned one of those pictures,” said George, with a smile. “Come on, shut the door, Albert will accuse us of rifling through his belongings if we don’t get upstairs with his stuff.”
As Millie turned to close the door, she became aware of a presence towering above her. She let out a frightened shriek and took a hurried step backwards as long white teeth glinted in the light, locked in a permanent snarl.
George laughed. “It’s not the nicest of things to have in your home, is it?” he said.
“It’s horrific,” said Millie, shocked at the size of the animal’s paws. “The poor creature.”
The stuffed bear stared at them indifferently through glass eyes — its body sagging a little, as if it had given up on life for a second time.
“It’s seen better days,” said
George, prodding the beast’s limp arm. “It looks like it needs re-stuffing. It stinks, too.”
“Poor thing,” said Millie, picking a piece of rogue stuffing from the bear’s wide chest. “It needs to be laid to rest, not filled with more stuffing.”
George pushed the door closed, and made for the staircase. “Come on,” he said. “Forget the stuffed animal. Albert will be like a bear with a sore head if he doesn’t get his coffee soon.”
Millie followed George up the staircase, curious about what the next floor of the lighthouse would look like. She received a pleasant surprise.
Gone was the chaos of the ground floor, replaced with a serenity of sorts, manifested through calming pictures on the walls, and minimal furniture. The spiral staircase finished its journey on the second floor, the route to the upper floors provided by a more traditional curved flight of wooden stairs, which formed a shelter for a sofa and a sideboard.
A curved bookcase followed the contours of the wall, and a high sided leather armchair served as a throne for the man who sat in it, staring sternly at his visitors.
He narrowed his eyes and looked at George over a mass of facial hair, his long unkempt white beard displaying remnants of his last meal. “You took your time getting upstairs,” he said. “Looking through my stuff, were you? Do I need to check your pockets before you leave?”
George placed the bags of supplies on the floor. “No, Albert. You don’t. We’re not thieves.” he said. “Do you need me to take your bags up to the kitchen, or can you manage?”
Albert snorted. “I can manage.”
“There’s coffee in there,” said George, kicking one of the bags. “Bread, tins. The normal stuff.”
“Milk?” snapped Albert.
“Yes, Albert. Everything you asked for,” said George.
Albert shifted in his seat, the old leather creaking under his weight. “Who’s this?” he said, looking Millie up and down.
Millie smiled. “I’m —”
