by Gary P Moss
The Lighthouse at Devil’s Point
Gary P. Moss
GARY P. MOSS
The Lighthouse at Devil’s Point
by
Gary P. Moss
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Copyright 2020 Gary P. Moss. All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Editing by Melanie Underwood
https://melanieunderwood.co.uk
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Formatting by Claire Jennison
https://penningandplanning.com
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Cover design by Mariah Sinclair
https://www.mariahsinclair.com
The past is never dead, it is not even past.
—William Faulkner—
Contents
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part II
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Prologue
The swimming instructor stood two metres away, close to the edge of the Olympic-size pool. His student eyed him nervously. The instructor grinned. His relaxed posture gave no hint of his power, his expertise in the water. No puffed-out chest, no muscle flexing.
‘Ready, Tim?’
‘I think so.’
A tremble in Tim’s right hand belied his answer. His neck and shoulders ached from stress, rather than from the usual tortuous half hours of avoiding putting his face in the water.
The instructor was still grinning.
‘Where’s your mind at, Tim?’
Tim took a deep breath, tried to still his pounding heart, the racing thoughts of terror. And of embarrassment. Winter sun filtered through the leisure centre’s windows but failed to penetrate the deeper water. The water looked like a menacing, solid mass.
‘I’ll be with you, all right? Don’t surrender to it, work with it, just like we practiced. You’re in control.’
The instructor’s grin had disappeared.
‘Tim, where’s your mind at?’
Tim stared straight ahead, above the water, to the other end of the pool. Right to the edge. He imagined his hand there, gripping it tightly, his safety assured. He saw himself rise from the pool in one fluid motion, his feet placed on the ridged tiles, his arm raised, a small triumphant punch in the air. He pulled his stomach in. A little under two metres tall, he weighed a hundred and eighty pounds. He was in good shape.
But fear doesn’t discriminate, no matter how fit a person might appear to be.
The instructor’s next words vibrated in Tim’s ears; he understood what they were without hearing them properly. Tim’s lead foot crossed the edge, his body curved, his arms out.
He swam underwater for a quarter of the pool’s length. The water roared in his ears. He sensed the instructor nearby. His mind wandered. Rising panic forced him to the surface. He came up gasping for air. He opened his mouth too early. He swallowed water, haphazardly kicked his legs, splashed his arms about.
The instructor had surfaced.
‘Tim! You’re in control, okay? You own that water, don’t let it mess you up.’
Tim looked around. He was in the middle of the pool. A pool marker indicated a two metre depth. He was afloat. He took another deep breath, kicked his legs as he’d been taught. Smooth scissors.
His body bobbed. ‘I’m sorry.’
The instructor grinned.
‘You did well, first proper dive like that. It’ll get better. Look where you’re at. Can you imagine all those weeks ago we’d be having a conversation in the pool without your feet touching the bottom?’
It was true. A couple of months ago, he’d have freaked, would have panicked, on the verge of tears. This time, he’d panicked when his focus waned, but not that much.
‘No, I guess not.’
‘Okay, let’s swim to the end. Do you want to try it again? We’ve another fifteen minutes before the rabble invades.’
Tim shook his head.
‘Next week. I’ll give it another go next week.’
He climbed out, thanked the instructor, then headed to the changing area to shower. Frustration unsettled him. He’d surrendered to the water again. He needed to work with it, overcome his deep-seated fear, banish the phobia.
It was about time.
The changing room was getting crowded. Boisterous young teens whipped their towels at each other.
A young boy, aged about seven, stood crying next to a wall of lockers near to the changing room entrance. There didn’t appear to be anyone with him. Tim walked over. He crouched down to the boy’s height.
‘You all right, pal? Did you lose someone?’
The boy sniffled, then nodded. His eyes were wet with tears, his face red, his nose snotty.
‘I don’t know where she is. I’ve lost her.’
‘Ah, that I know lots about,’ Tim said. ‘I was always losing my mum when I was your age.’ He smiled at the boy. ‘I always found her again pretty quickly though. Come on, we’ll go to reception and the lady will put out a call for her.’
‘She’s…’
Tim was looking around him, didn’t hear the boy speak.
The boy brightened, nodded, then walked with Tim to the corridor leading to the reception area.
‘What’s your mum’s name?’
‘Erica, but…’
A blonde-haired woman shot out from a door marked ‘Women’s Changing’.
‘There you are!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been looking for you!’
The boy fell into her outstretched arms. She looked up at Tim.
‘I found him just inside the men’s changing. Was about to take him to reception. These changing rooms all look the same from the outside.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. She looked as if she were about to cry, too.
‘Well, no harm done; I’ll be off then.’
He strode off, thinking of the lie he’d told the boy.
I always found her again pretty quickly though.
The truth was, that he hadn’t found her, quickly or otherwise. She’d vanished, and it had happened so long ago, it rarely entered his mind.
He hadn’t thought about his mother for ages. He was surprised when tears prickled his eyes.
Part I
THEN
Chapter One
Monday
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The gloomy hotel sat at the top of a steep, rutted hill. In a third-floor room, a young woman swept long, slender fingers through her hair, flicking the auburn bob out from beneath the collar of her waterproof jacket. She stared through the window at the rocky coastline. A wall of mist cut off her view of the rocks halfway across. A faint pulse of light punctured the thick clag like a sleepy, blinking eye.
'Well, it's rugged all right.'
Her husband, slumped in an armchair next to an unlit fire, didn't reply. One long arm dangled over the chair's wing while with the other he fumbled in his coat pocket. He popped tablets from a blister pack, swallowed them dry. A sheen of sweat lay across his forehead; lugging a buggy up three flights of stairs had exhausted him. The boy, three and a half years old, had refused t
o walk. He was still strapped in, slurping from a cordial drink, paying no attention to either parent.
The woman shot the man a quick glance before turning back to the window.
'I remember when you were rugged, solid as those rocks over there.'
The man blew his nose into a handkerchief, his voice a nasal whine.
'I'm sorry. Typical this, looking forward to a holiday for months then down with a cold soon as we set out.'
'Yes, typical.’
She placed a hand on the huge radiator below the sash window. Warmth seeped through. Light rain pattered the gleaming glass. She sighed. Late September, usually trying to squeeze out the last drops of summer. This year, it hadn't worked.
'We should have come two weeks ago,' she said.
She retrieved a small bottle from her handbag. Two quick sprays, one each side of her neck, released a fresh, flowery fragrance, neutralizing the solid gel air freshener standing lonely and out of place on a side table. The artificial lavender stood little chance of competing with the Parisian scent.
The man sneezed, the sudden explosive sound making the child look up.
'I'll go and find a shop, get you some lemon powders.' She scowled. She stared at the boy.
'You'll have to watch him.’
The man dipped his head, shrinking his neck into his body as he tried to attract the boy’s attention. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we, son?’
The boy stared at his juice. After a few seconds of the boy’s indifference, the man stared over the boy at a cheap countryside wall print, pursing his lips. The woman rolled her eyes.
The woman tried to avoid the attention of the reedy proprietor, but the combination of solid heels and granite gave her away. The fussy woman scooted out from a room next to the front desk, wiping long fingers on a chocolate-stained apron. The stains matched the uninspiring brown tiled lobby.
'You're not going out so soon, are you, dear? And in this rain, too; you'll catch a death!'
'Ah, Mrs Murray. Hello. I just need some lemon powders for my husband; he’s decided to come down with a cold. Typical man, straight away he says it’s flu.'
'Well, I can let you have a couple of Beechams, save you the trouble of getting wet. And call me Agnes.'
Agnes had a long face, with eyes that seemed to pierce the woman’s soul.
'Thanks, Agnes, but with the long train journey, I need to stretch my legs.'
Agnes looked disapprovingly at the woman's feet.
'But your shoes!'
The woman’s smile stopped short of her eyes.
'I know, Russell and Bromley. They cost a fortune; best put them to some use.'
Agnes nodded curtly, then scuttled off.
Before the woman had completely descended the hill, the stiff breeze that buffeted her as she left the hotel had rapidly grown into a threatening gale. She watched a container vessel on the horizon; imagined it rolling in a swell. She mimicked its imaginary actions then felt unsteady, and let the wind jostle her as she tip-tapped her loafers on the slick cobbles. This concentration, the bottom extremities locked in rhythm while her arms flailed around in the salty gale, confused her. She laughed, and whooped, and then felt sick and cried, but only for several, intense seconds.
Her mind filled with a dread she could taste. A coppery tang of blood seemed to add an extra layer inside her mouth, but when she swirled her tongue around then licked the back of her hand, there was nothing there, the wind drying the thin streak of saliva in a second. She turned around, already bespattered and bedraggled, and looked back towards the hotel.
She thought of her useless husband, knocking himself out all year for a week at a mid-priced hotel in a little-known town. Well, hardly more than a village really. And then ill, his body rebelling against the sudden freedom, missing its beloved shackles. And did the boy even like her? Juice to lips as if she bored him, as if such company was beneath him. The feeling was mutual. They got on well, those two; father and son in silence, each regarding the floor, or a spot on the wall, content to waste the hours in stubborn non-compliance of an expected little and large relationship. But perhaps when she left them, they became animated, excited in each other’s company, sharing their little joke that Mummy was incapable of understanding such clever games.
But what if these games were to define her life? Time’s sweeping hand, rushing the minutes, hours, days till she could no longer keep up, till the watch face of her life became a blur while those around her watched her descent into loneliness and madness with an air of amused detachment. She’d show them she wasn’t merely the part-time piano teacher who for the rest of her precious time was expected to be at their beck and call. This present situation did not define her, would not define her. When she played the piano, she lost herself. Sometimes, while her fingers danced across a keyboard, she entered a world that might have frightened some people. But it never frightened the woman. It intrigued her.
She pursed her lips, played with the building rage instead of fighting it, letting it dance, then settle, then hide itself away. Somewhere secret.
The woman brushed fat drops of rainwater from her hair. She felt behind her. She regretted not using the weighted hood, which instead of protecting her head, now rested against her neck, its lined interior sodden, impotent. Now the rain had reduced to a drizzle, the sea revealed its true self.
Waves roared as they shoved great lines of white foam high into the air, on their relentless march towards the shore. She imagined they possessed large, jagged teeth, intent on devouring the land, much like her marriage, munching away at her soul, one day at a time, hardly noticeable at first, until it started to crumble, big chunks dropping away, caught unawares like a poorly positioned seafront chalet.
Salt, hurled through the air, carried by wind and rain, stung her eyes. She rubbed them, her vision a little clearer, her knuckles smeared a dirty dark grey, like freshly burnt charcoal.
At the foot of the hill, a sickly-green cast iron post sported various signs, including the direction of the shops. She squinted at another pointer, directly above: Devil’s Point Lighthouse. Heading right, she focused on finding a village store.
She stared at her legs; her stockings were a grey-black splotchy mess, mostly obscuring the original colour of American Tan. After walking for several hundred yards, her attention was drawn to two protruding brass lamps that illuminated a rectangular peeling sign. She hurried towards the shop.
A young man counted newspapers behind a long counter. Crammed shelves holding foodstuffs competed for space with large round baskets filled with children’s beach toys. She stopped in front of a tall display of sunglasses, its mirror the perfect height. Emerald-coloured eyes sparkled back at her. She stayed trance-like for several seconds, as if the run mascara and smudged lipstick belonged to someone else. She patted her hair, smoothing out the tufty horns that had sprung up, one on each side.
'Can I help you, miss?'
The woman jumped, startled.
'I'm looking for tights, well stockings, actually.'
She pointed to her legs, as if the man had never heard of stockings. He directed her towards a rotary rack.
'Here, knee highs, that what you're after?'
'No, I need full-length stockings, for a suspender belt.'
His face reddened.
'Well, I'll leave you to it then. Everything we have is on the rack.'
She found what she was looking for as the shop's bell clanged. In walked a blonde-haired woman, dressed in a Barbour oilskin jacket, corduroy pantaloons, and walking boots. The woman kept a covert eye on the newcomer. She conceded that underneath the sensible, oversized clothing lived a lithe, attractive young woman. A sharp pang of jealousy mixed with a begrudging admiration made her catch her breath. She lingered as a conversation began between the blonde and the shop assistant.
‘Heading off already, Marie?’
‘Aye, well, he’s let the cottage out for a week.’ Her neat ponytail swished as she thumbed in the directio
n of the sea. ‘There’s no way I’m staying in that blasted thing.’
She patted a soft briefcase. ‘And anyway, I’ve a ton of work to do; catch you later, Donald.’
She picked up her newspaper and a bottle of water. She sidled past the woman on her way out. Expensive scent permeated the air. The woman breathed in deeply, her head tilted back in ecstasy. The fresh smells of bergamot and lemon assaulted her senses; she wondered if she’d ever smelled anything so wonderful in her life. She decided she hadn’t.
‘Ah, you found what you needed, then, miss?’
‘Yes. Er, I overheard that woman mention a cottage for let near here. I wish I’d have known, better than that hotel up the hill.’
‘Aye, well, it’s Marie’s other half that owns the cottage. He stays in the lighthouse whenever he rents the house out. Marie doesn’t like staying there. Can’t say I blame her. She’ll be off now for a week or two.’ He stared wistfully through the window towards the sea. ‘If I were Mike, I’d listen more to what she wants.’
The woman leaned in closer. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, I sometimes think he loves that lighthouse more than he does Marie. I mean, I know it’s on its last legs but it’s automated, no need for him to sleep in the thing. Anyway, none of my business. He should be careful though, she’s a bonny lass.’
He snapped out of his musings, aware perhaps that he was giving away too much information.