The Lighthouse at Devil's Point

by Gary P Moss

  I’ve a right to him.

  She looked to her left. She realised she was standing only yards from the cottage. There were no lights on. She was beginning to get cold from standing still. She walked around the cottage’s street entrance. She pressed her ear to the front door. Nothing but the roaring wind.

  Maybe she’s not here? Maybe, he’s on his own, fast asleep in the lighthouse. In the bed that we shared. Our bed.

  She decided not to disturb him, didn’t want him to see her unkempt, brandy- breathed, dry mouthed.

  She walked away. Sweat ran down the back of her neck despite the frigid air.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we’ll be together. A family. Just the two of us. Everyone else can go to hell.

  The woman walked purposefully along the main street. It was now or never. No time for nerves. She barely noticed the few shops and the occasional dog walker. She stared past the point where she knew the causeway would be. At the top of the headland, way beyond the road where she’d enjoyed a drink with the lighthouse keeper, the rocks were black as pitch. She’d never noticed them before. Or if she had, they’d been pushed aside by her subconscious. She looked up. Black clouds gathered. Like a gang intent on mischief, or worse. Past the lighthouse, Devil’s Point rock looked as if it were projecting its darkness to the headland. They were similar shades of black. The deepest.

  Her stride never faltered as she stepped onto the causeway. What had he said that time? Yes, that was it. Your timing’s impeccably tide-conscious. She’d thought it was a clever thing to say. Intelligent, sexy, laced with a little admonishment perhaps. Well, she was doing it again, but it was a coincidence. She couldn’t check the tide tables, timing her visit, allowing herself time to dawdle. Allowing the lighthouse keeper time to change his mind.

  The woman hardly heard the roar of the waves crashing around the lighthouse. It was her knock at the door that she heard. It echoed through her ears. It sounded like a demand, as demanding as Black Rod at the State Opening of Parliament. She’d already had her rebuttal. Now was the time to let her in.

  She banged on the door again. Nothing. She stared at her knuckles. They were red now. The waves were getting higher, more insistent. She could feel water seeping into her right shoe. A woman’s voice made her turn around. She couldn’t see properly through the spray. And then she could.

  The woman’s lips pursed in anger. Marie was heading down the causeway, trying to warn her about the tide, how she would be cut off, swept out to sea, cut up on the rocks.

  ‘I’m looking for Mike,’ the woman shouted.

  ‘He’s not there.’

  Furious, the woman headed back along the causeway. Marie waited in the middle before retreating a little as the water rose.

  ‘I wanted to talk to Mike, to thank him,’ the woman shouted.

  ‘What for?’ Marie shouted back.

  ‘He helped me when I slipped, in a storm.’

  Marie’s eyes seemed to freeze. She blinked out water but didn’t let her icy stare drop.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I heard all about it. There’s no need to thank him. As long as everything’s okay now.’

  The woman heard a man’s voice. It bellowed through the roaring waves. He waved an arm. Marie answered him, looked towards the woman, then turned back. The woman heard him shout, ‘Come on, Marie, get yourself away from her!’

  Away from me? No, I need to talk to you!

  Marie was running.

  Go on, slip, you bitch.

  Marie didn’t slip. She reached the end of the causeway as waves rolled across. The woman’s lower legs were soaked. The lighthouse keeper rushed Marie towards the cottage. He stood there, arms folded, scowling. Waiting for the woman.

  She smiled. She was out of breath.

  ‘Hello, Mike.’

  ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘I’m pregnant, darling. You’re the father.’

  The colour drained from his face.

  ‘You’re insane, woman. In case you hadn’t realised, that’s my fiancée in there. Now get lost and take your fantasies someplace else.’

  Marie reappeared.

  ‘What’s going on, Mike?’ She sounded nervous, frightened even. He didn’t look round, instead carried on staring at the woman.

  ‘Nothing. She’s just leaving. A misunderstanding, is all.’

  The woman’s cold stare made him flinch. She looked at Marie.

  ‘There’s no misunderstanding, Marie.’

  ‘What?’ Marie nervously brushed a hand through her hair.

  The woman nodded in the lighthouse keeper’s direction.

  ‘He took me to bed, in the lighthouse. While you were away.’

  Marie’s horrified look made the lighthouse keeper raise his arms. He looked as if he were about to bring both fists down on an imaginary foe.

  ‘You’re lying. Mike’s tenant said you were a bit odd, a bit mad maybe. Mike, tell me, she’s lying, isn’t she?’ It was more of a hopeful statement, but her look portrayed a woman whose world was about to undergo a seismic shift. For the worse.

  ‘Tell her!’ the woman screamed. ‘Tell her how many times you had me that afternoon!’

  He emitted a mighty roar of anguish. He pulled at his hair before he turned the woman roughly around.

  ‘Go on, get tae fuck woman. Before I call the police.’

  The woman stumbled but didn’t fall. She turned around, her face a wall of fury. But she didn’t shout this time.

  ‘You should treat me better than that, Mike.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I’m carrying our baby; keep the rough stuff for the bedroom, eh darling?’

  There came a high-pitched scream, as if it were vying for dominance over the roar of the incoming tide. It came from Marie, crouched on the ground, her hands clasped over her ears.

  The woman turned one last time. She ignored the lighthouse keeper trying to put an arm around Marie’s shoulders. She stared out to Devil’s Point rock.

  Is it for me, or against me? The woman couldn’t decide. She shrugged her shoulders, began to walk back towards the couple. Marie rose, shaking.

  ‘That’s it, I’m calling the police,’ she said. She ran towards the cottage.

  The lighthouse keeper looked to the woman, and then to the sea.

  ‘You wouldn’t do it,’ the woman said. ‘I know you love me. I’ll come back, darling, when you’re in a better mood.’

  The woman walked off.

  Three days later

  * * *

  ‘We did some tests, but everything seems to be all right,’ the doctor said. ‘Apart from the broken hand, of course.’

  The woman tried to push herself up the hospital bed. Her neck twisted awkwardly as she attempted to rest against the huge pillow. The sling debilitated her, prevented her natural movements. She scowled. She moved her head from side to side, to relieve the pain caused by the spasm in her neck, but also as if she was searching for something.

  ‘My bag, and my case. Where are they?’

  ‘Hold on a minute. I’ll fetch a nurse. They might know.’

  A smart young woman arrived at the woman’s bed.

  ‘Your case is safe, and your bag’s in the locker next to you. I’ll bring you the key. An elderly lady kept hold of them on the street, made sure nobody took them.’ The nurse went off to get the locker key.

  ‘What happened to me?’ the woman asked. She wasn’t sure if the doctor’s sympathetic look implied bad news or bad luck.

  ‘You passed out, in the street. A car ran over your hand. Driver scarpered. Metacarpal, alongside PIP and DIP joint damage. Not a great place to do it, central London, but anyway, you seem fine now.’

  ‘Apart from the hand,’ the woman interjected.

  The doctor continued. ‘Perhaps it was exhaustion that caused you to fall; we can’t find anything else wrong with you.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Stressful time, recently?’

  ‘You could say that.’ She paused.

  ‘And what about the ba
by?’

  The doctor looked suddenly flustered.

  ‘You had a baby with you? No one mentioned anything—’

  ‘No,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There’s no sign that you were pregnant.’

  ‘But I missed, you know. At least once, maybe twice.’

  ‘Definitely no pregnancy, Mrs…’ he looked down at her chart to remind himself. ‘Collins. Probably stress that’s caused your missed periods. You need to make sure you get some rest now. Is there someone we can call to take care of you?’

  ‘No. There’s no one.’

  ‘Well, I’ll arrange for someone to have a chat with you, see if we can be of any help getting you back on your feet again.’

  ‘I might need help finding somewhere to stay. And a new job. Considering I’m a piano teacher.’

  The doctor nodded then left.

  The nurse returned with the locker key.

  ‘You want me to pass you anything, lovey?’

  ‘Just my bag, please.’

  After the nurse had gone, the woman fished around in her bag with her good hand. She peered inside, prising open the envelope with her fingers. All the money was there. She reached down to slide it away before secreting the key under her pillow. Pain surged through her hand.

  She decided that Mrs Collins would have to go. She wanted nothing to drag her down. She thought of the lighthouse keeper, allowed the fury to bubble away for a minute before she quenched it with a new resolve.

  Next time, I’ll be the one leaving with everything.

  She turned her face to the pillow and willed her heart to still its maddening beat. As sleep claimed her, the last image her mind saw was Devil’s Point rock. It seemed to have grown a face.

  The face was laughing at her.

  The woman had an appointment with a specialist housing officer from the local council. It was as good a place as any to live, she supposed. And she needed a base. It had been arranged by the hospital prior to her discharge. She was early, had some time to kill. Her palm felt as if it were on fire.

  She spotted a restaurant on the high street. Nicosia Café, the sign proclaimed. She peered through one of the large plate glass windows to the side of a central glass door. It was well lit, its warm sand-coloured walls decorated with bright prints of pretty dancers and medieval villages. Some were of the sea. Her gaze lingered on those.

  She shoved her case towards the door, using its weight to open it. It swung wide, almost knocking her to the ground. Two youths were being shouted at by a young waiter. Mediterranean? Cypriot, probably. The youths landed on the street, jeering at the waiter but heading off. The waiter stooped down to help the woman, gently lifting by her good arm.

  ‘So sorry about that, madam.’

  His eyes were brown liquid, like chocolate.

  She winced but managed to smile. ‘It’s all right. What did they do to get kicked out?’

  ‘Oh, usual stuff. They come in here eating our food, drinking our drinks then decide we shouldn’t be in their country.’

  ‘I thought you were going to bop them.’

  The waiter grinned, showing pure white teeth.

  ‘Not in front of the customers.’ She steadied herself, upright at last. ‘And especially not in front of a pretty lady like you.’

  The woman studied his face.

  Is he teasing me? Or does he mean it?

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded if you’d banged their heads on the pavement.’ She stared into his eyes. Challenging. Daring.

  After a silent few seconds, the waiter burst out laughing. He mimicked breaking something in two. ‘Or snap them, like branches.’

  The woman’s eyes shone. She was enjoying this exchange. ‘No, like twigs; they’re weaklings.’

  He nodded, grinned again. ‘Like twigs then. Come on, I’ll take your case, find you a table. On the house…’ he pointed towards the door. ‘For your inconvenience.’

  ‘All right. I won’t be greedy.’

  This time, it was the waiter who held her eyes with his. She couldn’t seem to, no, didn’t want to, look away.

  ‘I like greedy,’ he said. A name was called. Andreas. The waiter headed to the counter to speak to an older man. The older man, looking harassed and sweaty, glanced over to the woman’s table then said something to Andreas. There were a few terse words between them. A young woman came out of the back. Long dark hair. Pretty. She scowled at the woman. The woman glared back then ignored her.

  The woman finished her meal and her coffee.

  Andreas bounced over to her.

  ‘Heading somewhere nice now?’

  ‘Just sorting out somewhere to live. I recently separated from my husband.’

  Andreas grinned.

  ‘Unlucky for him, I guess. Listen, I’m due a few hours off. Want me to help you with whatever you’ve got to do? I could carry your case for you. Call it an extra apology. For earlier.’

  The woman looked him up and down. He was a bit cocky. Lean and lithe but muscled. Rugged beneath the charm. Maybe a risk taker. Dangerous even. All the things she liked. She smiled.

  ‘All right then, you can help. Who’s the girl? The one with the black hair and the hard eyes.’

  ‘Out here a second ago? That’s Gülin. She just works here.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re the boss, are you?’ She grinned. ‘I don’t think she likes me.’

  He waved a hand, dismissing her comment as a triviality.

  ‘Ah, ignore her, she doesn’t like anyone. See the old man earlier? He’s the boss. Or, he likes to think he is.’

  He smiled, flashing those teeth again.

  ‘Okay, give me five minutes. Quick wash and change. I’m a bit dirty.’

  I bet you are.

  She stared at her injured hand and frowned.

  If he’s careful with me, it’ll be all right.

  The fire ran down. It settled in her groin.

  Part II

  NOW

  Chapter Eight

  The Victorian splendour of York railway station dwarfed Tim Collins. But the vast ironwork arches seemed to give him added strength. All he had to do was look up. It always made him feel better. More confident. Birds flew fast and high throughout the station’s length, the huge space beneath the roof no impediment to their journeys. His destination was Thornberry, a small rural town near Cambridge. The impending visit, a family reunion to celebrate his aunt’s seventieth birthday, filled him with trepidation and excitement.

  Something about Thornberry puzzled him. The hilly streets he’d known well as a young child held him differently as an adult, as though he were not remembered at all, as if the asphalt and stone repelled his feet. As though he didn’t belong there. There was nothing to freak him out about Thornberry at all. His most beloved memories were from the time he spent there, from around four to six years old. He’d attended Thornberry Primary school, where his grandmother taught. He remembered her well, her open smile, her film star looks. Always baking. Or teaching. Always smiling, healthy, full of energy.

  The favourite part of his childhood.

  Tim could never understand these two extremes, between his physical contact with the town, and his enduring memories. True, the school was at the far end of the town, on a road heading towards mainly farmland for miles on end. He hadn’t been over there for a couple of decades, since his grandparents’ house had been sold. The streets that felt odd, that shouldn’t feel odd, were the ones most frequented by tourists: a large Saxon church and a restored windmill bringing them in by the coachful. And the pubs, of course.

  There’d be almost all his family at the gathering, and this he looked forward to the most. His early childhood had been on his mind more often lately, and he hoped that one or two of the older family members might be able to fill in some gaps.

  The train arrived on time. He settled into his reserved seat in the quiet coach. He fished out a paperback novel, one of last year’s Book
er finalists, and read the first hour of the journey away. A greyish start to the early February day gave way to an impossibly huge blue cloudless sky. It was enough for Tim to put the book away and gaze as fields and houses sped past. Half an hour before his scheduled change at Peterborough, the fields flattened out. He’d well and truly left the north behind. Perhaps that was the problem with the detachment he felt? But it couldn’t be that. He was fine in Cornwall, and all right in London. It was only Thornberry that made him feel that way.

  At Peterborough railway station, a poster advertised speedy weekday Thameslink departures, direct to Horsham. The first stop was Huntingdon. It held no emotions at all for him. He was born in a village several miles away, but he felt no attachment there either.

  A cousin met him at Cambridge railway station. The air felt cold and thin. Steam puffed from his mouth.

  Half an hour of winding country roads later, the car entered Thornberry. They passed the church, and he remembered the nervousness he’d felt as a child, carrying huge candle holders, in service as a part-time altar boy in a frock that felt alien. Everyone had looked impossibly old to him then. He couldn’t remember any other children at all, although there must have been plenty of them around.

  He’d booked into the Old Bull, once a traditional watering hole, now part of a trendy chain. After bumping into a few other younger family members in the restaurant bar, he headed upstairs to find his room. The journey had tired him. He wanted a couple of hours rest before they were all due to meet at his aunt’s house at six o’clock. Only a short walk away, her cottage was nestled off a quiet side street in a dip that was roughly in the centre of the town. Away from his precious memories. Away from the pavements that belied his existence.