“I’m the first to do this job permanent. Not sure how many reports you’ve read, but you’ll see how shitty it was before. We needed a permanent boatman and I’m it. Continuity,” he said.
He was in his mid-forties but seemed much older.
Apart from being boatman, he watched the coastline, kept the beach clear of litter, was a self-appointed lifeguard. If he’d saved a couple of young women who didn’t really need saving, if he’d squeezed tits, run his hand over arses, then he’d saved others for real and perhaps it was a pay-off. He never did it out of the water, nor did he touch the children. And he wasn’t bad-looking, so maybe they didn’t mind it, but he’d never admit it, not even at confession. He never did it to me.
“Best advice I can give; don’t listen to their weasely words.”
“I’ll keep my headphones on so I can’t hear.”
The boatman nodded. “Good plan. They’ll whisper to you. They’ll whisper whatever they think will set them free. By which they mean, kill them. Or tuck them in the boat and take them home. Can you imagine? Who would look after them?”
He looked up at the top of the tower. “Well, I’d do it. I’ve got the space. Shame my missus’d never allow it.”
Did he want a response from me?
“Burnett would be glad of the company.”
“Yeah, nah. They’re where they belong. Punishment’s what they deserve. They’ll tell you stories. We don’t repeat them. If you never repeat them, you will forget them. That’s one good thing. Remember that.”
I understood punishment. As a child, I’d been caught once stealing a chocolate bar from the shop. I was tied, as many of us were, to a rock overlooking the Time Ball Tower. Left there past midnight. They said that if the moon shadow of the Time Ball Tower reached you, you’d be damned to eternal life, eternal wandering. The longer you spent near the Time Ball Tower at night, the longer its moon shadow.
It helped keep the teenagers indoors, or at least away from the water. Not me. I loved everything about the Tower, even its shadow.
Many’s the night I’d visited Burnett at dawn, sneaking in after a date.
The boatman began to hum to himself.
I had waited for this trip for most of my life and didn’t want to miss a second. Should I look to shore and watch it shrinking? Should I look to the Time Ball Tower, watch it getting closer? Look for the troll?
The day was very bright, the sun reflecting off the water and off the sides of the Time Ball Tower.
“You’ll go quiet in there. We all do. Wanting to be sure about them. You’ll listen when they talk. You’ll start to doubt. That’s when you read the files. There are details the general public don’t know. Only we get to know. Then you’ll be sure.”
The crimes of the prisoners were well known to us all. I was looking forward to these details, to having information others didn’t have.
“Keep reading the reports as well, so you’ll know you’re not alone. Keep busy.”
“I’m a photographer,” I said, holding up my camera. ‘I’m going to be doing that most of my spare time.’
“Good to have a project.”
“What was yours?” I asked.
“Cataloguing. Keeping a record. I’m not very creative.”
I’d seen a lot of the projects, on display in the Club.
One had read the so-called Great Books of the Western World and produced an artistic impression of each book.
One had counted the number of sins committed in the Bible.
There was a framed needlework; amazing detailed stuff, a remake of the Bayeaux tapestry.
There was a ship’s model and a model of the Time Ball Tower itself.
There were heaps of books, mostly self-published, some quite successfully and there were animal prints and carved things made of ivory. Not the sort of thing you’d see elsewhere.
We traveled in silence. Then he said, “Before people sailed over the edge of the world, the sea horizon seemed endless. Eternal. If you sailed your whole life, you would never reach the end. Even if your life was eternal.”
Too soon we were there. Up close, I could see white bones, caught in the rocks. Sticking up like tiny masts, seaweed caught on them. He maneuvered the boat through the whirlpool like water.
“Last chance,” he said. “I can take you back if you like. But don’t. This is an experience only a few ever get a chance to live. You’ll never forget it.”
“Of course I’m staying,” I said.
We unloaded my boxes, and he handed me a silver bag. “Just something to help.” Inside were large supplies of painkillers and sleeping tablets. “Don’t overdo it or it’ll be on me, but you might need these.”
He settled the last of my things on the rocks. “I can help you carry it all upstairs. Help you get settled in. I’m in no hurry.”
They’d warned me.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.”
“Get your things inside away from the weather, but take your time getting it upstairs. Don’t kill yourself. You’ll be bored shitless in a while and this will seem like a useful thing to do. Get yourself settled before you see to the prisoners. Put your things away, make yourself a cuppa tea. There’s always whiskey under the sink. All being well, I’ll bring over some fresh goodies for you in a month. Keep a list, they reckon. Of the stuff you like. Other than that, you’ll be heading back with me in a year.”
“Or sooner, if I decide I need a break!” I was sick of his voice. Dreaming of quiet.
He shook his head. “If you have a break, you’re done. No one ever goes back.
“You’ll love it there. All your favorite foods waiting for you, a bit of peace before the media onslaught begins.” I’d seen this, the excitement to get a keeper’s story when they returned from the tower. “Gives you that time to acclimatize. Because you’ll be a bit crazy when I pick you up and it takes a while to wear off.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Everyone thinks so. And it’s nothing permanent. But I haven’t picked up one single soul at the end of a shift in the last twenty-five years who wasn’t gone with cabin fever.” He hung his head slightly. “I’ll tell you what I tell everyone. I’ve seen ’em in and I’ve seen ’em out again. I know who copes the best. You’ll be right.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve got the right nature.”
Later, I would understand what he meant by this.
I waved him goodbye and watched as he sailed away. I wanted to experience this alone, in isolation. I didn’t even want to hear his boat motor.
Then I turned and faced the tower.
The base was mosaicked, as were the steps leading to the door. I wonder who’d done that one, or who inspired it.
Painted across the door was, “Never Forget.” There was also a sign saying, “The Breatharian Institute.” Funny!
I pushed the door open. It was stiff on its hinges but swung open okay. I raised my hands protectively, in case they’d gathered themselves and were ready to attack, but nothing. The front door was shiny on the inside. This was one of our duties, to keep the metal shining.
The ground floor was grimy, with leaves around the edges, dirt up the walls. Watermarks? It had once been tiled, but most of these had long since lifted. There were glorious patterns left behind that I’d photograph once I got settled. A broom sat by the door and I quickly swept the worst of the mess out before I found the generator and set it going. The last job would be to fill that generator with fuel, ready for the next keeper.
I followed the boatman’s advice and dragged all my things inside. I’d suss out the place before taking it all upstairs but grabbed the small suitcase which held the things to fulfill immediate needs. Food. Drink. Toothbrush. My camera.
The stairs were steep. I wouldn’t want to climb them too many times a day, although it’d definitely improve the leg muscles.
The original plan was for two or three keepers at a time to stay in the Time Ball Tower, so three tiny bedrooms were
built. With only one keeper, most kept clothing and other belongings in one, and used the second as a study or storage room. There were suitcases in the storage room, and boxes with names on them. I’d been told to only take what I planned to carry home, that there was no more space, and that was clearly true. So much crap left behind. A stuffed cat with a name tag (“Mittens”, which made me laugh) and a vase painted with roses and a plate with Queen Elizabeth II, raised, in faded paint. Piles of books, boxes of collected shells, broken furniture and some old electrical things I could not even identify. A pressure cooker? A bread machine? The floor was carpeted, thick, expensive, slightly sodden.
Most keepers had slept in the third room, kept clear and uncluttered.
I unpacked some clothes. Laid my grandmother’s scarf on the end of the bed. I stroked it a couple of times, then I took my supplies to the kitchen. I had a freezer bag full of food, including plenty of dried chili, and lemons and limes in all varieties. Fresh, juiced, preserved.
“You don’t want to get scurvy,” my mother had said. She sniffed each lemon before she packed it. “Make sure you eat them. Lack of vitamin C can lead to weird visions.”
I made coffee (instant for now. I’d get proper stuff sorted soon) and opened up the chocolates Max gave me and ate my way through the top layer.
I climbed to the top, to see the Ball. We’d been warned not to touch it because even the slightest bit of sweat might throw it off balance, but I planned to ignore that. I did pull on a pair of gloves, though.
I opened the last small door, which was stiff with salt, and propped it open with a large, heavy rock that sat waiting. Wind blew in, but there was little to damage in the tiny foyer. I climbed the ladder, glad I was wearing gloves, because I could feel the chill of metal even through the leather.
The ball was even larger than I thought it would be. A wonder of science.
I could put my arms around it and only reach a third of the way. It was smooth but not perfectly so, and there were odd patches of warmth. The wind nearly blew me over, and I was glad of the cage up there. They needed the cage. Too much risk without it. Too easy to jump off.
It was a beautiful thing but marred with fingerprints and greasy marks so I wasn’t the only one to ignore the rules. I rubbed at one, then another, and I was lost in awe of this glorious object.
It took about two hours to clean and polish. I had a lot of breaks for warm drinks (wine) because my hands would freeze up.
I took a hundred photos. People would pay good money for shots like these.
Then I heard the whirring and realized it was about to drop, so got myself out of direct earshot. Even so, the noise of it shuddered through me like an earthquake. I had a headache, a dull one that was not quite painkiller worthy.
I wanted to sleep. To eat. This was the moment, though. The reality. So had I had a quick vodka and lime.
Then I went upstairs, to where the prisoners sat.
They were behind the door. As much as I thought I’d prepared myself by spending time with Burnett (and the oldest of them were not much younger, one hundred and eighty or so), knowing the way he smelled, the way he spoke, here there were many of them. And Burnett was cared for whereas they were neglected so their decay would be worse.
Would I see evil rising off them, like heat waves or petrol fumes?
I checked my hair, checked my clothing. I didn’t want any loose threads, too much cleavage. I didn’t want to trip or have hair in my eyes when I presented myself. They would pick up on any flaws.
I carried the bag of gifts, thinking to disarm them that way, focusing them on the gifts rather than on me, while I assessed them.
I wiped eucalyptus oil under my nose, a tip I’d taken from the Club, and pushed open the door. I did it quietly, hoping to watch them for a while before they noticed me.
It smelled like a guinea pig’s cage. They were lined up along the two walls, very little space between them, but enough walkway space that I wouldn’t trip over their outstretched legs. They had no beds, no pillows. They sat on the floor, resting their backs against the wall.
There was a buzz; the prisoners murmuring, or perhaps simply breathing.
They were dried up, like shrunken heads, tongues protruding and slightly black. Nostrils broader than they should be. Eyes dull, opaque. Arseholes? I hoped not to see those.
Their fingers were clenched over, and some of them had nails grown into the palms. I once saw a documentary about a paralyzed, dying woman, and she had towels in the palms of her hands, to stop her nails digging in. Nobody had put towels in the hands of these prisoners. I was supposed to cut the nails for them, but seeing the piles of the previous clippings made me feel ill. Yellow piles of hard calcium.
“Here—he—is!”
The voice was slow, low, grating.
I walked slowly through them. The smell was intense and made me gag. Like rancid coconut oil.
The prisoners showed signs of illnesses; some were a mess of lesions.
I felt pity and sorrow for them. I knew that wasn’t what should be expressed, that I couldn’t show the slightest empathy or emotion. Did working in the dementia ward help prepare me for their almost inhuman appearance? Possibly.
I backed away, thinking to settle myself more before engaging further. I felt unsure. I hadn’t expected to feel such an attack of pity.
“Come—back!—We—don’t—bite!” I heard. “Come—on,—mate!—Tell—us—your—name.—What—family—are—you—from?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” And I stood there and faced them. “You don’t need to know my name. You can call me Keeper. Family…none of your fucking business.” I hoped my voice sounded strong, that it wouldn’t crack.
“She.—She.—It’s—female.”
“Yep, female,” I said. My voice echoed in the room, felt impossibly loud, and they cringed.
“You—look—like—a—man—from—behind.—Muscly—bitch.”
I’d been warned often enough not to let them know how I felt about anything, so I kept my smile to myself. I hate being identified by gender and enjoyed this confusion, even if they thought they were insulting me. One of them masturbated constantly; he always would. Keepers called him the Greyhound.
“What—year—is—it?”
Over their heads were written the dates of their birth and their arrival, with a hyphen between, like the dates on a tombstone. Beside that, each one had a small picture. In the retirement home, the residents’ pictures showed them with their favorite thing. A boat, a cat, a horse.
These pictures depicted the prisoners’ terrible acts.
“No need for you to know,” I said. “You don’t need to know about time. Unless you’ve been counting the ball drops.”
One wall had I REPENT written over and over many times, by many hands. I REPENT.
“What—family?—Who’s—your—father?—Your—mother?—Are—you—married?—Are—you—a—virgin?”
Questions coming at me so slowly that I lost track of them.
“I have gifts. Who deserves a gift? I’ve heard that none of you do.”
They were disappointed. The gifts were bland, meaningless. A packet of tea. A plain notebook. A squeezy stress ball.
“We—used–to–get–real–presents.–Nude–photos. —Underpants.–Carved–things.–Real–treasures.–Now.–Crap.–We–used–to–get–messages–too.–Letters.”
“Those people are all long dead. Anyone who cared about you is dead.” My voice came out sharp, hard. I had worried it would come out a whisper.
And while they knew this very well, still it made them cry. The men had few items beside them, things perhaps once meaningful but now disintegrated, pointless. A small book. A dried rose. A rusted tin.
“All–our–good–things–are–in–boxes.–Away–from–us.–Ring–of–three–golden–metals.–A–silver–serving–dish.–A–prayer–bowl.–All–gone.”
Later, I explored the storage room, looking for the treasures the prisoners
spoke of. But anything of value in the named boxes was long since stolen or lost and replaced with bottle tops, scraps of paper, plastic toys, small broken pieces of stone.
This was hypocrisy writ large.
I found a box of the nude photos and underwear that women had sent in for the prisoners, but didn’t delve into that; it was clearly collected for masturbation purposes.
The keepers would never admit to this. But I’d seen some of the stuff they described; under the portrait of Keeper 1872. I knew that’s what it was.
I also found stacks of porn in a cupboard, going back seventy years. I wasn’t too keen to touch the magazines themselves, but it was fascinating to see the changes and the similarities over the years. I considered adding a Photographer’s Weekly to the pile.
Time passed.
The Ball dropped. It sounded so different from the inside. On shore, it was a hollow thud, a distant reminder, as regular as the tide.
Here, it was like my heart dropped with it.
Each time it dropped, I jumped and that never changed. Time passing. Time passing. Time passing. And so loud, so mind-numbing loud.
I felt a weird gnawing hunger, but the idea of food made me feel sick. Still, I climbed to the kitchen to raid my supplies. I opened a packet of biscuit-and-dip, ate that staring out the window. Quick couple of brandies on the side.
I hadn’t touched any of them, but I felt filthy.
I showered, water tepid, a lot of soap.
That night, I slept badly. It was the noises. I didn’t know good from bad, and kept imagining them crawling up to me.
The Ball dropped.
I spent three hours scrubbing the kitchen. It wasn’t really dirty, but there was a memory there of others. Then I sat down with coffee and biscuits and reports. I left the originals alone, not wanting to damage them. Plus, I liked Burnett’s snarky notes. I tried to make an index, so I could look back on it. Surprised no one had thought of this before.
I listened at the door for the prisoners. They were mostly quiet, with the occasional call of pain. They felt nothing, we were told, but had the memory of doing so.
Tide of Stone Page 16
