by Cole Moreton
Without waiting for yes, Jack produces a battered brass Zippo and flips it in a single movement, letting the little flame burn blue at his thumb while he finds a cigarette with the other hand. The tip glows and after a moment he exhales, clouding his face.
‘I’m the victim in all this. I didn’t do anything wrong. I could walk away, you know? Walk away. Right now. But here I am, up here with you, trying to find her. Why would she run? Tell me. I care. I do. I love her. More than I can say. So strong, it hurts. She’s beautiful. Hair like fire, face like . . . like . . . I don’t know. How do you describe one face to another? Yours is drawn, man; you need some sleep. You been crying? Looks like it. What’s the story? She’s beautiful. Everyone says so. People turn around in the street. Guys. I could kill them. I can’t kill them – I couldn’t kill anyone. I’m not a fighter. I love her. Love. She rescued me. Then she threw knives at me – has she told you that? Big kitchen knives, could have killed me. It’s the drugs, they make her dangerous. To herself, to me, to you. Have you got her? Is she here? I don’t think so, or you would have given the game away, my friend. I can tell. I know people. Where else do I go? What am I supposed to do? I’ve been to the farms, they won’t talk or they don’t know and anyway I don’t believe in that: Sarah hiding in some lousy bed and breakfast with cows and chickens in the yard; too much, what’s the word? Fecundity. This thing you got here, unmissable, sticks out like a cock on the hill. What do you want to know about
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Sarah? It doesn’t matter. I just need to find her and take her home. Make everything all right. Back to what it was. Before. Just us. She has to love me, just me. Why am I not enough? If I can get over this, why can’t she? I would be happy, just her and me, for ever. No kids. I mean, I want them, but not like she does. It’s . . . patholog-ical. Obsessive. Too much, man. Way too much.’
‘How did you meet?’ asks the Keeper, because the only way he can think of to stop him coming back again is to let Jack talk it all out.
‘I was high when I met her – did you know that? How could you know that? Spinning round in the park and she was like a vision, couldn’t believe it, thought she was in my head, kept talking and talking, I don’t know, but she talked me down. Talked. Me. Down. Like a guy on a bridge. Or up here, I guess. Walked me round, talked me down, sucked my face off! Ha! I was like a little puppy – her puppy, her boy, her project. A wild one. For a long time. But you know what? Puppies grow up. They get a bark. And a bite. I’ll bite you, buddy, if she’s here. It’s not my fault. I don’t have the problem. I’m good. The target’s screwed, man. I could just walk away. Who do you think I am?’
‘Who do you think you are?’
There’s a sudden almost-silence; Jack standing in the corner, in the shadow, looking at the wall. Drumming on the wall, hand at head height, as if looking for dry rot in the woodwork. Tap-a-tap-tap. Jack smiles, a distracted, disappointed smile. ‘I’m nobody. Come from nowhere. Here, there, everywhere. I’m sorry, I am a guest in your lovely home. Maybe do something about the damp? Please make allowances for my distressed condition. I’ve had a drink. Jeez. I’m lost without her. Where is she? Have you seen her? No, you say no. Of course. I’ll bite you, man. I’m a stingray!’
‘You can try,’ says the Keeper, but Jack does not hear. He shakes his head as if to clear it, tapping on a temple with his fingers.
‘She rescued me. I want to rescue her. It’s hard, you know? When they fight back, when you’re trying to put the lifebelt over their head and get them out of there, out of the sea, save them from drowning. And they fight you. Hard. We went to the hospital
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dozens of times, I was there to be the husband: stand by her, see her through. To whatever conclusion. Then it all hit home. Hospitals make me anxious. When I’m anxious my stomach gets all tied up, like cramps. I needed the john badly. You feel the blast of heat and the smell clamps itself on your face. It was such a hot day, but I think I was wearing my heavy coat. I don’t know. You don’t dress up for the doctor. We were going to have it out with him. Sarah was going to do that, I was there to hold her hand while she let rip. That’s what I thought. So here’s how it goes, right? The waiting area was not the one we had been in before, that was being decorated or something. And here’s the thing. This is the thing: all the women who couldn’t have babies and their men – and the frightened ones who hadn’t found out what was wrong yet, and the ones who couldn’t believe it was happening to them, and the ones like Sarah who were recovering from opera-tions, with battle scars to show how much they really want a baby; more than anything else in the world, more than life, more than their husbands. And all the husbands struggling to understand, who can’t help feeling crushed – they’re deeply, deeply worried, you know? Deeply. We were all put in a waiting room for kids. Paediatrics. Can you believe that? Thomas the Tank Engine pull-a-longs. Fisher Price garages. Rupert the Bloody Bear and Winnie the Pooh and Tigger too, on the walls, all looking at us through their big mad cartoon eyes, thinking, “What the hell are you doing here?” The chairs, brightly coloured plastic, red and yellow, green, like in a kids’ library and our butts were way too big for them. Like Goldilocks on Little Bear’s chair. I know the stories, I’d be great at telling them, I’d jump about and do the voices and roll on the floor and make the kid laugh. I wanted to pick up the soft octopus with the bells in his tentacles and hold it in my arms like a baby and walk back down the corridor, go to the desk and ask for the person responsible, the jerk who thought this would be a good place for us to sit and wait for hours, and I wanted to shove that soft toy down her throat.’
He glances at his audience, to check he still has one. Or that he is believed.
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‘I didn’t do anything. I just sat. Like Sarah, like all the rest. The fight gone out of us. And I got this pain ripping through my stomach. I didn’t want to say anything, she had pains of her own, this was nothing. I had to find the john. I just managed to sit down in time. Then I fainted. Hmm.’
The cigarette has burned down in his cupped hands; he looks around for a way to get rid of it and sees the window open just a crack, so pushes it wider and flips it out through there. It lies on the windowsill for a moment, lifts a little in the wind, a worm with its head raised, then disappears.
‘Sarah got worried. Of course she did. Her calling out brought me round. I made myself decent, got dressed, but my legs were shaky. I fell into a chair. I was thinking, “This ain’t right, I’m let-ting her down.” The nurses let me out the back, at the end of the ward where there was a little grass area, and made me sit in the sun with a breeze on my face, sipping water, until I was ready. The nurses both smoked. They took that chance. They couldn’t believe someone had decided to put us all there, make us wait in the kids’ room. They didn’t know who was responsible. It was an hour before somebody called us in to see the doctor. And you know what he said? “Forget it. This hospital won’t give you a baby, the system’s broken. It ain’t happening. Unless you go private . . .” And he slid his card across, cool as you like. Private clinic.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘I thought it was just her problem, I guess. She talked about nothing else. I thought she was exaggerating, she couldn’t really be hurting that much, she was getting obsessed and it was making things worse. I had to hold in my feelings, keep whatever it was I felt (and I really didn’t know what that was) inside, and be strong, look after her. I thought everything would be all right in the end, if I could just do that. Stay in control. For both of us. Nice to have the chance. Felt good. Strong. But that day . . . I knew, deep down, that everything would not be all right. A bit late, I know. If I was going to spend the rest of my life with her, then it would be just us. No kids. I had thought that didn’t bother me, it was all her problem. I was wrong. The truth gave me a great big poke. Red
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hot poker. Joke. We were walking past the ambulances. I sat down on the sidewalk just like that, one step
and sit, on the concrete, up against the wall, with her shouting at me, ‘What are you doing?’ This little girl stepped over me as her mom pulled her away from the crazy guy, and I sat there, just crying my bloody eyes out.’
Yeah, thinks the lighthouse keeper. That’s how it goes. But he’s had enough of this, so he says what he’s thinking for a change: ‘What do you want, a bloody medal?’
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Thirty
The helicopter clatters overhead as Jack goes storming out, curs-ing the lighthouse keeper, who is glad to see him go. The Keeper longs to be wrapped up in silence again in the weary light of after-noon, when the chopper has gone. He watches Jack stride away, out of the gate, down the slope. He’s heading down past the bench and into the dip where the coaches stop.
Oh no.
The black and yellow helicopter is like a huge wasp hanging just beyond the edge of the cliff. People are standing on the grass and in the lay-by looking at it, some daring to step forward and try to see down over. Careful now. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. They must have found another body. Three this week. What’s happening? Not Frank, surely? He was going home.
The Keeper begins to jog down the hill. He sees a police car, and recognizes the two officers from the pub, standing with the Chief. Jack is there too, shouting at them: ‘Is it her? Is it Sarah? I told you, why didn’t you believe me? You could have saved her!’
‘Sir, please!’ The male officer steps in front of Jack, both palms up, trying to calm him down. His female colleague intercepts the Keeper and diverts him by a few paces, turning so they both have their backs to the others. ‘Sir, could I have a word? The gentleman says you were talking to someone on the cliff here earlier. Is that right?’
‘A lot of people come here.’
‘This person, in particular, was distressed.’ ‘What did he look like?’
‘I only have a description at the moment, sir. A smallish gentle-man, shorter than average. Slim. He was wearing a white football shirt, I believe.’
Frank. The helicopter is still hovering over the edge, the down-draught whipping into faces. A few people push against it and
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dare to lean forward and look over. It’s a long, long way down. If the chopper goes, the wind will drop and they’ll fall.
‘He was fine. I don’t understand.’
‘Sir, the Guardian says—’
‘He was really angry.’
‘People sometimes are, sir, when the time comes.’
‘Not Frank. The Guardian was angry. He said I should keep my nose out of it. I just talked to him. Frank, that is. He seemed fine. Better.’
‘Look, sir, can I be honest with you? These Guardians, they’re not police officers. But they are trained, sir.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘They know what they’re doing. It’s best we let them get on with it.’
The man they call the Keeper sees the Chief throwing a glance his way.
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘Should I be, sir? At this stage, I’m making enquiries. Now . . .’ The clatter of the helicopter makes it hard to think, but the Keeper tries to recall the things that were said, tries to make sense of what happened with Frank. He can’t believe it. What about Billy? Go home. That’s what he said. Go home. ‘I didn’t mean
jump—’
‘What, sir?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So as I was saying, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, just let us know if you see anything out of the ordinary, living where you do. Another pair of eyes. Living up here. Here is my mobile num-ber, just in case. I wouldn’t want you to be overly concerned; it’s just there has been this increase of late, and we would like to know . . .’
Where’s Jack? He’s not by the police car. Not with the walkers and students trying to peer over the edge. It’s not Sarah they have found, thank God for that anyway, but poor Billy, poor Sophie. Poor Frank.
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‘Your phone won’t work up here,’ he says to the policeman. ‘You know that though. Will you talk to Jack? Please?’
‘Ours do. Sorry, sir, I’m not with you.’ Jack is nowhere to be seen.
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Thirty One
The wind comes up in the early evening. The shush of the sea comes with it, rushing up to the balcony around the lantern room at the top of the tower. Relieved to be alone again, he’s out here now after his shower because he can’t keep his eyes off the edge. Not since Frank, who was the seventh or eighth in the last month. That’s not normal. It’s a story; he should ring someone from the old days, but he’s not going to. Better to think of the beauty up here. Such beauty. The white horses on a gunmetal sea, the pow-der blue sky, the clouds racing each other for fun, so low overhead he can almost touch them. The gulls turning, calling. High above them the trace of a jet gives itself away. Heading west towards the sun. The wind steals his breath, wraps itself around his body like a lover in the dark, then runs off around the tower, coming back at him from behind. There’s a chill in it, an echo of what has been. The hard winter. Then a warmth in the buffeting, tumbling that says summer will come.
Now the sky is full of light as the sun breaks through again, the air itself is dazzling. Hand up to shield his eyes, he sees through the haze the figure of a woman coming towards him up the hill. Magda, in the red fleece of a Guardian, her bleached white hair trailing. She stands out against the furrowed green and brown, but that is the point. You’re supposed to notice the Guardians, if you’re desperate. Red means danger in the animal kingdom but here it means rescue, although that didn’t help Frank. Was it really his fault? They think they own this place, walking past with torches in the night like prison guards. But if they take care of the lost and the lonely, then the lost and the lonely won’t bother him.
Magda waves. She’s closer now, she’s seen him at the top of the tower. She’s smiling and waving and making some sign with her hands, trying to tell him something. Come down. No. He doesn’t want to do that. He’s safe up here in the golden sky, in the haze,
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in the sunshine dream world. I’m okay. Go away. Leave me alone.
Let me be.
‘Look at the light, the sky is so full of light,’ said Rí the first time she brought him here. ‘The air itself shines.’ You could see the sun rise in the morning and set in the evening. They watched it all once, more or less. She was reading a book about the place, the old green book he still has on a shelf somewhere downstairs. They lit a brazier in the courtyard in the afternoon and as the wood of an old pallet fizzed and crackled she told him what she had read about the men and women who once danced through the smoke and ashes of a great bonfire here on the hill, seeking the blessings of Belen, the old sun god who rode across the sky in a chariot of fire.
‘How do you know they did that?’
“Well, I don’t. It’s in the book. But there was a sun god. There was a Roman too, who threw himself off here in a bid to become immortal; and a saint called Wilfred who saw a long line of men from the settlement that was here all jump together, hand in hand, to save the last of the food for their women and children, after three years of drought and famine. Isn’t that a sad tale, now?’
‘Saint Wilf?’
‘Sure.’
‘A drought? In Sussex?’
‘It was a very long time ago.’
‘There’s a reason everything’s so green. Where’s your evidence for all this?’
‘Feel it, loverboy.’
‘Feel it?’
‘Yes. Feel. It. Do you know about Parson Darby’s Hole?’
He laughed, but she was serious. This wasn’t a dodgy movie. A priest in the village a couple of miles inland got sick of burying sailors, long ago. He spent too many hours searching in the rocks for survivors while the people from his parish filled their baskets with beach booty from wrecked ships. Those were smuggling
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times. So he carved a sta
ircase into the chalk and dug out a cave in the cliff face, high above the water line. And he sat there in the dark on stormy nights, holding up a lantern as a warning.
‘Maybe he was working for the wreckers, luring the ships? There was enough room in that cave for a load of brandy. We should go and see it.’
‘Gone. The cliff has fallen way back since then.’ ‘When?’
‘Seventeen something. I read he was just trying to get away from his wife, sitting in his cave all night. A proper man cave. Halfway up a cliff.’