The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse

by Jack Dey

  “Gentlemen, you know Mr Magellan Desapo from our initial meeting and may I have the pleasure of introducing his associate, Mr Edward Desapo. They are brothers and their experiences with stone buildings come highly recommended,” nodding toward the Desapo brothers, Pike handed the meeting over to Magellan Desapo.

  Desapo and Neddy stood at a small table neatly covered in paper, with each paper containing a detailed account of estimated costs for each stage of the building process.

  “Gentlemen!” Desapo began. “With the size and complexity of the project and with a worthy opponent in the presence of Black Dean, I have procured further expertise in the person of my brother, Edward Desapo. After a combined detailed analysis of your... monster, I believe it was referred to, I called in Edward to give me a second opinion. He is responsible for building the now famous Ar-Men-Beau-Frère Lighthouse off the coast of the Île de Sein on a rock outcrop not much bigger than this room, where the vicious North Atlantic Ocean often pounds the lighthouse with monster waves and I can proudly say, the lighthouse stands unabashed against the elements.”

  A ripple of approval murmured through the meeting.

  “With the help of Mr Pike, we have conducted a cost benefit analysis and it appears that the lighthouse will pay for itself in less than five years in increased trade,” Desapo handed around a paper containing his figures, watching nodded approval as the figures passed by each man. “The lighthouse will warn shipping of the location of the Barrett Passage and of course, Black Dean, but a further navigation beacon will have to be constructed on the northern tip of Contention Island to allow ships to navigate the channel at night and high tide. This has been accounted for in the details and if you will peruse these cost estimates, then we can be about building your lighthouse.”

  “How long will it take to build this lighthouse, Mr Desapo?” a voice called from the doorway to the room.

  Desapo turned to face its owner and had to fight to retain his composure. “The estimated time till completion is two years, Mr Bellaruse.”

  The small gathering murmured at the apparent mistaken identity.

  “I feel you have me confused with another gentleman, Mr Desapo. My name is Fabian Van den Guys... Captain!”

  “Your similarities to a gentleman of ill repute, Mr Van den Guys, is remarkably striking,” Desapo retorted, holding Van den Guys’ stare with equal intensity.

  “Needless to say, you are indeed mistaken, sir,” Van den Guys peered around the room, trying to gauge the reaction to Desapo’s accusation. “I must state my objections to the building of your lighthouse, Mr Desapo, on grounds of safety to your workforce and the fact that Black Dean will not surrender to being tamed so easily.”

  A disgruntled murmur of agreement echoed through the room.

  “I can assure the gentlemen gathered here that all safety issues have been addressed and indeed, my brother has proposed an ingenious plan to deal with Black Dean's powerful moods.”

  “And how do you propose to build such a structure when the tidal movements halt for less than thirty minutes a day?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss our plan as it is a company secret. I can only say that it is ingenious and my brother’s success with the lighthouse in France is testament to our combined abilities.”

  Pike could see that Van den Guys was about to continue arguing and knew his influence could seriously affect the decision made by the rest of the businessmen. “Gentlemen,” Pike took control. “You have the figures in front of you in the form of the cost benefit, and it is safe to assume each one has done their own homework already on costs and what you were expecting. I am convinced that the Desapos have done an excellent job on the estimate, and their integrity with this type of dangerous work cannot be disputed. I propose to take the decision to a vote, therefore quelling any need for further argument.”

  Pike turned his attention to the door to where Van den Guys stood, with both of the Desapo brothers following Pike’s gaze, but the antagonist had vanished. Then searching the room, Pike confirmed Van den Guys had definitely disappeared, leaving Neddy staring at Desapo with a disturbing expression.

  Bellaruse was up to something.

  With Van den Guys' departure, the mood swung toward the positive. The vote overwhelmingly endorsed the building of Black Dean Lighthouse and congratulatory overtures echoed around the room. A contract, circulated by Pike for the association to sign and accepting the Desapos' terms, was soon completed with all signatories endorsing the plan, all excepting the mysterious Van den Guys.

  Effervescing with excitement, Pike immediately contacted Gustav. There would be a celebration tonight and he would pay, with the news quickly spreading through the hotel and to the two ladies finishing their daily duties with Pierre. It wasn’t long before the whole town was abuzz with expectation and excitement, but even if most mariners doubted the sense in trying to tame their nemesis, the plan would generate work in the harbour and on the dock.

  With the hotel in full party mode and celebrations abounding, Neddy was busting to see Tess and share his excitement. When he finally set eyes on her and recognised her attractive outline, Neddy forgot himself in the vibrant atmosphere and when Tess politely questioned Neddy about the project, he picked her up and swirled her around.

  “Oh... I do beg your pardon," Neddy immediately put Tess back down, embarrassed.

  Straightening her attire with a flush in her cheeks, she moved quickly to quell the embarrassed expression on Neddy’s face. “I am not injured, Mr Parduck, so do not trouble yourself. Indeed, I share your enthusiasm and excitement.”

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 42

  Majiv’s writing had created some interest at the dinner table. The Liebermans knew he was working on something dedicated to his parents but had left him to his privacy, yet Marguerite’s exuberant praise of the unfolding work, shared with excitement at the dinner table had embarrassed Majiv. She was his critic, helping him with grammar and guiding the placement of the many events contained within.

  “It really is very interesting, Ima,” Marguerite effervesced.

  “Can you read it to us?” Katarzyna bubbled, matching Marguerite’s enthusiasm.

  “I..It really isn’t that good. Marguerite was just being kind and trying to encourage me,” his eyes implored Marguerite to get him out of this present situation.

  “It is good, Majiv, and I think you should read it to everyone,” Marguerite defended.

  Majiv stared at the floor, feeling like he was trapped, but after another pleading gesture from Marguerite, he conceded. This was his family and if anyone would listen and encourage him with the truth, they would. “Okay, but you must tell me the truth about my ideas.”

  Marguerite beamed. “They are good ideas, Majiv, and your parents would be proud.”

  It was early evening when the four people gathered around Majiv’s desk. Chairs had been brought in from the kitchen and with Ima’s help, Marguerite lowered herself down, seated next to Majiv.

  “Start from the beginning again,” she advised, panting heavily.

  Majiv nodded and nervously flicked the pages back to the start, cleared his throat and almost began.

  “Ow...!” Marguerite exclaimed, holding her stomach.

  Ima laughed. “The little one is getting comfortable, too.”

  *~*~*~*

  Adam Willis, dressed in full ceremonial uniform along with the rest of his troop, marched forward with great pomp in military-like precision. It was his turn, and coming to attention in front of his superior officer, Willis saluted and then relaxed into the at ease position as his commander addressed the cadet. The auditorium was packed with family members of the other cadets, but no one was cheering for Willis.

  The commander handed Willis his graduation certificate and announced stiffly to the crowd, “Police Constable Adam Willis.”

  Willis saluted his superior, took the envelope containing his certificate and shook his hand, followed by a polite patter of disin
terest trickling from the audience as he marched back to join the ranks of other graduating cadets.

  He’d also heard from a prospective commanding officer attached to the department Willis had applied for—pending his graduation and graduation results—he would be accepted as a rookie detective in an area of criminal justice he’d dreamed of working in since joining the cadets six months ago. In time, Willis would be assigned to a senior officer and he was keen to learn and earn the commander’s recognition, but other cadets had been told horror stories of rookies attached to this unit of the police force and had tried to talk him out of it, but Willis wouldn’t have any their tales. Willis had no misgivings and he knew his experiences within the Criminal Investigation Bureau would be tough and he would most definitely start at the very bottom.

  *~*~*~*

  After being inducted into the CIB facility, Willis was assigned to Senior Police Constable John Roy of Missing Persons. Roy showed Willis to an empty desk in a disused interview room and thumped a huge pile of manila files down and then beside it, a thick official looking Police Missing Persons file.

  “Okay, grab a manila file,” Roy demanded. “Open it, check the name and the photograph and then check the name and the photograph on the corresponding page of the MP file. I’ll show you how to do one and then you can do the rest. First, you match the photograph in the manila file to the one on the MP file page. Once you have confirmed they are the same person, then you have to read through the information and add any new data to the MP copy. You’d better make sure your writing is neat. The commissioner often calls for this file. Got it?”

  Willis nodded and watched Roy’s handwriting speed across the MP file, adding the information from the manila folder into the burgeoning Missing Person’s transcript.

  “Wow, you're fast!” Willis gushed.

  “Thirty years as a cop, Willis, and I spent twenty-five of those assigned to Missing Persons but only five as a detective. You learn to write quick, otherwise you spend all day and night in here chained to a desk. Just so you get the idea, rookie, only the cream get to be detectives and the competition is extremely tough, with some coppers still working exactly where you are—behind a desk after twenty years because they couldn’t cut it in the CIB selection process. Get my drift?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Let me know if you have any problems. I’m in the office over there,” Roy pointed to a small room sandwiched in between other small offices.

  After many hours, Willis’ eyes and hands were tired from comparing faces and copying data all day. The first shift with the CIB had dragged and he’d only managed to input a quarter of the files he was working on into the Missing Persons’ file. Checking the clock on the wall, he sighed with relief; it was 4 pm and time to go home, but he hadn’t seen Roy all afternoon to ask whether he wanted him to stay and finish his task. Deciding to check Roy’s office before he left for the night, Willis poked his head around the door and found him deep in a phone conversation.

  Roy held up his finger to the rookie, then interrupted his conversation, “Just a moment, Sarg. Yeah, what is it, Willis?”

  “I haven’t finished the files. Do you want me to stay? It’s the end of my shift.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Just close up the MP file and bring the manila files back in here. You can resume your project tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Willis’ demeanour fell, but he tried to hide the deflated sigh and wasn’t excited with the idea of another day writing on a glorified photograph album.

  Willis had just enough time to exchange his police uniform for his civvies in the officers' change rooms and then rush to catch the 4:15 bus from town back home. As he chased the bus and flagged the driver down, Willis jumped aboard and after paying his fare, found a vacant seat and then absentmindedly stared through the window, watching the old housing and apartments in the low socioeconomic neighbourhoods slowly crawling by.

  An old woman got on at a stop and took the seat next to him and tried to strike up a conversation, but he was too tired for small talk, disinterestedly nodding as she spoke. Eventually, she realised Willis was just playing with her and gave up the one-sided conversation, taking a more friendly pastime, staring through the windows on the bus’ opposite view.

  Willis’ stop finally came into range and as he reached for the bell strip above his head and pushed it, an exuberant ding! echoed through the bus and alerted the driver to stop at the next bus shelter. As the bus came to a complete stop, Willis excused himself as he pushed past the old woman and when the door opened, he acknowledged the driver with a nod and then alighted onto the sidewalk right outside Lieberman’s Bakery. As the bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel smoke, Willis could see a queue inside the bakery and the shop was extremely busy. Remembering the pregnant girl, Willis decided to invest in a pastry and try to engage her in conversation, still convinced she was far too young to be pregnant. It was an offence to be engaged in carnal knowledge in this state before eighteen.

  The little bell rattled as Willis pushed open the bakery door. In front, a long line of middle aged women stood gawking and giggling at the person serving, taking their turn in flirting with the young man, but he didn’t seem to engage, instead appearing flustered. Yet there was no signs of the pregnant girl.

  When it was Willis’ turn, the young man tiredly asked, “What can I get for you, sir?”

  He was impressed with the young man’s manners and chose a pastry and then handed his money over. “Does the young pregnant girl still work here?”

  The young man stammered and then replied, “S... she has stopped working until her child is born.” Majiv eyed the man nervously.

  “Does she live around here?” Willis ventured.

  “Why do you want to know?” Majiv was suspicious.

  Willis shrugged. “She isn’t eighteen, is she?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Majiv replied decisively.

  “Is there a problem, Majiv?” Mr Lieberman asked from behind him.

  Willis tried to smooth over his clumsy questioning, “No, sir, not at all. I was just curious, that’s all.” Willis turned to leave and the doorbell rattled again as he left the shop.

  “That man is trouble, Majiv. I’ve seen his type in the camps during the Nazi occupation.”

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 43

  Gripping at the mattress with stiff, straining fingers, Becky stifled a moan as a sudden stabbing pain tore at her stomach and violently shook her awake. Holding her breath with the pain, she tried to move, repositioning her body to ease the agony and hoping it would go away. But her rigid, breathless movements woke Brett, transferring her rippling distress through the shared mattress.

  “Becky, are you okay, honey?” Brett whispered, realising something was wrong.

  Becky tried to answer, but her speech came in short and breathless stutters. “M... m... my tummy, I can’t breathe...” Then as quickly as it came, the pain disappeared, leaving Becky panting with relief. “Oh...! That was horrible,” she groaned.

  Pulling her into his arms, Brett could feel her temperature falling from a fever pitch and slowly cooling to normal. “Maybe we should get you checked out,” Brett urged.

  Becky nodded in agreement, worried what the pain could mean to the health of her baby. “I’ll make an appointment with Doctor Munroe in the morning,” she replied, trying to sound calm.

  “Let me know when you have an appointment and I’ll come with you.”

  “He’ll only send me for an ultrasound, Brett. There isn’t any need for you to interrupt your busy schedule,” Becky tried to be brave, but she was hoping her husband would read the uncertainty and be her support.

  “I want to be there with you. We’re a team, Mrs Redden, remember.”

  Becky cuddled into Brett. ”Thanks. I was hoping you would say that.”

  *~*~*~*

  Brett and Becky anxiously awaited their
turn in the busy doctor’s surgery, with Becky holding Brett’s hand nervously, willing the whole ordeal with the doctor to be over. Becky warily surveyed a patient, watching as she exited the doctor’s room and then Doctor Munroe followed, handing a piece of paper to the receptionist and offering a whispered instruction before turning to a list of papers on the end of the reception counter, taking the top one and calling, “Rebecca Redden!”

  Becky and Brett greeted Munroe and followed him into his office.

  “Okay, Rebecca, what can I help you with?”

  Becky explained the sudden sharp pain and while she did, Munroe prodded and poked her and then typed his thoughts onto the computer facing him on his desk. Seconds later, his printer coughed and blipped, sounding like a typewriter on steroids, before spitting out a document which Munroe handed to Becky.

  “I need you to go for an ultrasound, however, it is my opinion that it will be just a formality. There are a number of reasons this may have happened and I want you to consider very carefully the probability of a serious problem with your pregnancy and the very real prospect this foetus will be a continuing drain on your finances and the country’s insurance system. Therefore, you should consider an abortion and try again for a healthy baby.”

  Munroe raised his hands in defence as both Becky and Brett echoed incredulously in unison, “Abortion?!”

  Munroe explained that the baby may have this syndrome or that disease. Callously hoping to convince the young couple, he argued, “Think of the financial burden on the health system and yourselves if you proceed with this pregnancy.”

  Becky stood indignantly and almost shouted at Munroe, “You haven’t even seen the results of a single test and you are advocating killing my baby! I think I need a proper doctor. Excuse us... Mister Munroe!”

  Brett and Becky flounced out of the surgery and outside, Becky broke down and wept bitter tears. Brett pulled her into his arms, trying to consol his furiously trembling wife and attempting to remember the address of a clinic he’d read about in one of his news teams’ reports. The clinic had been painted as discriminatory and ideological, but as Brett remembered, they were furiously in support of the unborn and the unborn rights as miniature human beings.