by Amy Cross
***
“Culthorpe's the last working lighthouse for miles,” Matthew explains as he leads me to the wooden steps that run up and around the building's curved inner wall. “They were all sold off to some big mega-corporation that promised to keep 'em going and then shut 'em down within a decade. Except this one, 'cause even they had to admit there'd be chaos without the old bird. The rocks here are deadly, there'd be ghosts everywhere by now from all the wrecked ships.”
He stops suddenly and turns, looking down at me.
“You don't believe in ghosts, do you?”
“I...” Pausing for a moment, I realize he's serious. Still, there's no way he can know that this is a sore subject with me, so I figure it's just a coincidence that he asked. “Well, I...”
“Sorry,” he continues, “personal question. What did you say your name was again?”
“Penny,” I reply, already feeling weighed down by my backpack. In retrospect, I probably didn't need to bring so many books. The whole backpack is basically filled with three things: books, clothes and pills.
“Penny,” he says with a smile, before reaching down to shake my hand. “Nice to finally have a new face around here, Penny. I'm Matthew.”
When I shake his hand, I'm shocked by the feel of warm human flesh against my skin.
“Cold hands,” he says with a smile.
“I didn't bring any gloves.”
“I'm sure I can find some for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Hurt yourself, have you?” he asks, letting go of my hand.
I look at the broken skin on my palm. “It's nothing.”
“Are you an outdoors kind of person?” he continues. “Up with the lark, like to explore?”
I open my mouth to reply. “Um...”
He smiles.
“Don't worry,” he continues, clearly amused, “it's not that important, not round here. The whole bloody island's only a couple of miles in each direction, there's not exactly much to explore. It's probably better to be a bit indoorsy, at least that way you won't get bored.” He stares at me for a moment. “Are you shy?”
“What?”
“Eye contact.” He smiles as he points at his eyes. “You haven't been doing it much since we met. Find it hard?”
“I -” Taking a deep breath, I realize that he's right. “Well, I mean...”
“Don't worry about it,” he adds, turning and heading up the stairs, taking them two by two as I follow. “There's room for all sorts round here, just -”
He stops again and turns to me.
I almost walk straight into the back of him, but I manage to stop just in time.
“Are you the kind of shy person who opens up a bit after she gets to know people,” he asks, “or are you the kind of shy person who just stays shy?”
“I...” I pause for a moment. “I don't know,” I say finally. “I mean, um...”
“Maybe I shouldn't ask so many bloody questions, huh?”
“Uh... No, it's fine, I just...”
“I'll show you to your room.” With that, he turns and heads up the stairs.
Feeling completely out of my depth, I pause for a moment before following him, and finally we reach a doorway leading into a large room that covers the lighthouse's living area. The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I step forward and look around, and I can't help but frown as I realize that rather than being divided into individual rooms, this part of the building just has sheets pinned up to mark off various sections. There are fairy lights pinned to the walls, bringing smudges of blue and red and green to the gloom, while over at the far side of the circular room there's a rudimentary kitchen with piles of pots and pans next to the sink. To be honest, apart from the fact that it's a lighthouse, this place reminds me a little of the house where I lived as a student.
“Now,” Matthew continues, heading over to one of the sheets, “when I said your room, obviously I was using a little dramatic license. No-one's ever stumped up to pay for actual walls, so...”
He steps behind the sheet and holds his arms out, with a light picking out his shadow on the white fabric.
“You'll get used to it,” he adds, pulling the sheet aside so I can see him again. “There's just the three of us here, it can be a little...” He pauses. “Well, to be honest, we've not had a girl living here for a while, so I think we might have to make a few little adjustments to how we do things. Pee on the seat less, that sort of thing. For your sake, obviously.”
“Three people?” I reply, surprised but also a little relieved. “I thought it was just going to be -”
“Well, there's three,” he continues, interrupting me. “Me, you and Colin. He's out right now at the generator on the other side of the island but he'll be back soon enough. He's a bit more like you, kinda quiet. You know, like... reserved.”
“The company said...” I pause for a moment. “They said it'd just be two of us out here.”
“Wanted to have me all to yourself, did you?”
“No, I just... It's fine.”
“Classic case of the left hand not knowing what the right's doing,” he replies. “Even the bean-counters at that place realized it'd be a mistake to just stick one chap out here all on his own, the solitude'd be enough to drive anyone crazy. That, and when there's stuff to do, it's all hands on deck. Despite appearances, it can actually get kinda busy round here sometimes.”
“It can?”
“Although there are long, empty periods of nothingness in-between,” he adds, before pulling one of the sheets aside to reveal a metal-framed camp bed with fresh bedsheets neatly folded at one end. “This is yours. I'm sure you'll make yourself at home in no time.” He leans down and gives the bed a firm shove, causing the springs to squeak. “Might get noisy, though,” he adds with a grin.
Stepping over to join him, I realize that three sheets have been hung up from hooks in the ceiling, to section off a part of the room that's about ten feet in each direction. I guess this is my area. As well as the bed, there's a chair set against the curved wall and a desk that looks like it wouldn't support much weight, and there are a few old wooden boxes stacked on a shelf. There's also a narrow slit of a window set into the brick wall, although when I head over and look out I immediately find that the outside of the glass is too dirty for me to see much.
“We share a wardrobe,” Matthew explains with a smile. “Don't worry, sounds weird but we make it work. We share a lot. Kitchen stuff, bathroom stuff... Well, like I said, we'll definitely need to make a few changes on account of you being a girl, but don't worry, your privacy will be respected. Colin and I are neither boorish or loutish, and we intend to treat you with gentlemanly care for the entirety of your stay at this fine establishment.”
“It's fine,” I reply, feeling a little embarrassed.
“So do you wanna see her?” he asks.
I set my backpack down onto the bed, and I swear the muscles in my shoulders feel as if they're on the verge of agony. “See who?” I ask, turning to him.
“Who do you think?” he asks with a grin. “The old girl up top.”
Chapter Two
One month earlier
It's great being the only sober person at the party.
Slipping through the nightclub crowd, trying not to spill the drinks I just bought at the bar, I have to duck several times to avoid being smacked in the face by drunk dancers. Strobe lights are constantly sweeping across the room, picking out the sea of faces in blue and green and red, and music is pounding out of the speakers set up around the edge of the DJ box. I try to find a route that takes me closer to the wall, but the crowd is surging in the opposite direction and I have to walk right past the speakers, which almost blow my ears out as I make my way up a set of steps and then down another set.
Finally I find Mel and the others, and I set the fresh drinks down.
“My hero!” Mel screams drunkenly, leaning up and kissing the side of my face.
Smiling, I turn and glance back the way I came. All I c
an see is a sea of dancing figures, but I keep expecting to see her again, the girl who seems to have been watching me all evening. Something about her gaze has been bugging me, it's as if the club's lights never quite pick out her eyes, leaving then as dark, filled-in pits. I wait, but there's no sign of her, and I can't help breathing a sigh of relief.
Maybe I need to get my dosage increased.
Feeling someone grab my hand, I turn just as Mel gets to her feet and starts pulling me toward the dance-floor along with the others. I try to tell her that I can't dance, but she already knows that. Instead, I'm pulling deeper into the crowd and finally we're spat out at the dance-floor's edge, where the music is even louder and the lights are so bright, it's almost as if something is coming down to land on top of us.
Chapter Three
Today
“Isn't she beautiful?” Matthew asks as we stand in the room at the top of the lighthouse, looking up at the lamp itself as it slowly turns above us, powered by gears that emit a steady rumbling sound. “That's a real old Fresnel lens you're looking at, none of your modern strobe rubbish.”
I nod, impressed but feeling a little lost.
“Imagine being a boat out there in the wild Atlantic,” he continues, “with nothing but darkness all around, and you're heading right for the rocks of this little island. They might be small, they might barely even show up on radar, but they can easily cut the hull of a boat open. So you're on course for absolute disaster, and then suddenly the light of this old beauty beams out through the darkness, warning you to change course. Can you even imagine how many lives this lighthouse has saved over the years?”
“It must be a lot,” I reply.
“Thousands,” he adds. “Lighthouses have been around since mankind first started exploring the world. There's something almost primal about these beauties.”
“Huh.” I stare up at the lens as it turns, and I can't help noticing the detailed patterns on the surface, with grooves running through the glass like fingerprints. The set-up is far more complicated than I ever imagined, with metal struts supporting the lens and a series of filters and grids in place, presumably to ensure that the light beam is focused at all times. Anything I say would feel inadequate, but I'm certain Matthew's waiting for me to say something. “It's really... nice.”
“Nice?” he says with a smile. “Is that the best word you can come up with? Nice?”
“Um -”
“This thing is bloody magnificent, girl!” he continues. “Top order focal length, luminosity and range off the charts, installed when the lighthouse was built in 1891 and never swapped out since. They built things to last back then, they had pride in their work. Not like today, when everyone's just trying to do the bare minimum. No, this beauty is a work of art, and she's never even shown a hint of unreliability. That's a real achievement, yeah? The old lady's been warning ships to keep away for more than a hundred years, and do you know what? There's never been a major accident in the area. How about that?”
“It's very impressive,” I reply, feeling as if nothing I say can quite match his enthusiasm. I guess, with not much to do around here, he's come to really love the place.
“Do you know what a Fresnel lens is?” he asks.
“Um... No...”
“Didn't do any research before you came?”
“A little,” I reply, “but... It was kind of hard to understand without having seen it in person.”
“I've got some books on the subject,” he continues. “Don't worry, there's plenty of time to read up. Before I came here, I didn't know anything about lighthouses at all, I thought they were just, like, a big light on top of a pile of bricks. I had no idea of the grace or elegance. Now Colin thinks I'm some kind of obsessive but, well, I mean, when you're doing a job properly, it's natural to get into the history of it all.” He pauses for a moment, eying me with a faint smile. “So what's the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Twenty-one,” I reply, feeling uncomfortable as I realize he wants to know more about me. “I really just -”
“Why'd you wanna come out here, then?”
“Um...”
“We're miles from civilization,” he continues, “rattling around in one of the last manned lighthouses in the area, stationed for twelve months at a time with only a radio to keep us in contact with the rest of the world. Did you know that, yeah? No internet, bugger all phone service.” He pauses again, as the lamp continues to turn above us, bringing alternating light and shadow to the room. “I'm not being picky,” he adds finally, “but it takes a special kind of person to actually apply for a job like this.”
“I just... I guess I thought it sounded interesting,” I tell him.
“Liar.”
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm really not sure what to say. Damn it, why do I get so nervous around new people? I'm fine with friends.
“No-one comes out to do a job like this just because it sounds interesting,” he continues. “They come because they're running from something.”
“I'm not running from anything,” I reply quickly. Maybe too quickly.
“Liar.” He grins. “Sorry, no offense, but...” Another pause, and he seems to be eying me with great interest, as if he's studying me, trying to somehow work me out. “Sixty thousand pounds,” he says suddenly.
I wait for him to continue, but he seems to be waiting for me to say something instead.
“Sixty thousand pounds?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, sixty-one thousand, nine hundred and four. I think that's it, anyway. And a few pence. Student loan debt. I spent four years studying Philosophy at university and I walked away with a 2:1 degree, no hope of actually getting a decent job, and sixty grand of debt. So after graduation I spent three years working in bloody fast food joints while living with my parents and trying desperately to actually use my degree, and then one day I just thought... Sod it. I'd had enough, and I was sick of trying to pay back my loan, I just wanted to get the hell away from everything.”
“So...”
“I applied for this job,” he continues with a hint of pride, “and I got it. Manning a bloody lighthouse, can you believe it?”
“It does seem...” I pause, trying to find the right word. “Old-fashioned?”
“Like something people'd do a century ago, yeah?”
I nod.
“They can't automate this place,” he explains. “They've tried, and they'll try again, but the old lady resists. Anything more complicated than a crank-system and gears goes down the pan. Modern tech just splutters and fails here, almost like the old girl herself is determined to have actual people on the island. Maybe she just doesn't want to be lonely, eh?” He looks up toward the main lamp, which is still slowly rotating above us. “Gotta love her for that, yeah?”
“I guess so,” I reply.
“So what about you?” he asks, turning to me again. “What are you running from? How much debt did you rack up at uni?”
I swallow hard. “None.”
“Seriously? What, have you got rich parents or something?”
“I worked three jobs while I was studying,” I tell him. “I worked in the corner shop near where I lived, and I bought stuff at charity shops and sold it online, and I did some copy-writing as well.”
“When the hell did you sleep?”
“I got by on three hours a night,” I continue, feeling a little embarrassed. “Plus, I didn't go out much, I just... I didn't want to get into debt, not even one penny.”
“What's your degree in?” he asks cautiously.
“English Lit and Poetry.”
“Sounds...”
“Useless on a practical level?”
“Stimulating, though,” he suggests.
I nod, even though I hate the way the conversation is going. “I should've studied Marketing or something,” I reply. “It would've been more productive.”
“But books and stuff ar
e your thing?”
I nod again. Damn, I feel like an idiot.
He stares at me, and then finally, suddenly, he starts laughing.
I can't help but smile.
Stepping closer, he holds his left hand up and I realize he wants to high-five me. I oblige, and the ridiculousness of the situation feels a little overwhelming.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, he leans closer and hugs me.
“You know what we are?” he asks, holding me tight.
“Um... What are we?”
“We're the smart ones. We're part of the screwed generation. We're the generation that was told to go to uni, take on all that debt, and then we'd get proper lives. Didn't work out like that, did it?” For a moment, there's a hint of bitterness in his voice, but it quickly dissipates. “Fortunately, a few of us are smarter than the rest of the sheep. We decided to get the hell out of the race, at least for now. We came to live in a bloody lighthouse.”
“We did,” I reply, waiting for him to stop hugging me.
“Sorry,” he adds, stepping back, “didn't mean to get all up in your personal space. You're not a hugger, are you? I can tell from how tense you feel.”
“It's fine,” I stammer, not wanting to insult him, “I just -”
“Wait a minute,” he says suddenly, stepping closer again and taking my right hand in his, turning it over so he can see the cuts from the harbor wall, “where are my manners? We've got a first aid kit downstairs, I should patch you up.”
“Really, I'm fine, I -”
“Nonsense,” he adds, keeping hold of my hand and leading me back to the top of the stairs. “I'll get some swabs on this while we wait for Colin to come back. And while we're doing that...” He turns to me and smiles. “I can tell you all about the ghost.”
It takes a moment before I realize what he just said. “The what?” I stammer.
“What's wrong? Don't you believe in 'em?” He keeps his eyes fixed on me for a moment, as if he's searching for the answer in my expression. “You didn't answer earlier, that's all.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I don't believe in ghosts.”