The Light Keeper

by Cole Morton

  ‘—for disturbing you. It is what we have to do. You understand that. Better to be safe than sorry.’

  He doesn’t want to reply, or talk at all. Not to this guy. He wants her.

  ‘Mate, speak to me. Where are you from?’

  ‘Here,’ says the lighthouse keeper, despite himself.

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that.’

  Fine, he thinks, rolling the rubber tips of the earphones between a finger and thumb of each hand, then pushing them back into his ears, feeling heavy bass notes drop.

  ‘Hey, would you mind turning that off so I can speak to you?’

  The music stops and he nods but keeps the buds in. The Guardian breathes hard, nearer now and struggling to get down on the ground, belly shifting as he goes. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. It has been a hard day. Let’s try again. I’m a Guardian. We’re here to help.’

  ‘I know. I don’t need any.’

  Hair whips into the lighthouse keeper’s eyes as he lowers his hood, then the Guardian’s face changes. ‘Hang on, I’ve seen you before. You’re a runner, aren’t you?’

  Very observant. His legs are bare and threatening to cramp. But he might as well answer, this guy won’t go away otherwise. ‘I live in the lighthouse.’

  ‘You’re the one they call the Keeper. Magda says. From the pub.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Funny. They call me the Chief. Taking the mick, mostly, but I don’t mind. Used to be a chief constable in the Met, now I’m sort of the leader of the team up here. Player manager, if you like. Got a name though: Michael.’

  He offers a hand and the Keeper shakes it, but doesn’t give his own first name, or say anything else in response.

  ‘You’re doing it up then? Big job.’

  ‘Yep.’

  They sit together in silence, except for the fussing of the wind and the gulls turning circles close overhead. A lobster boat is making its way through the bumpy sea far below. The Guardian takes off his sunglasses, squints and smiles. ‘Not suicidal then?’

  ‘I wasn’t.’ The Keeper pulls a zipper up to his throat and tucks his legs in under himself, rubbing the tops of his thighs. The wind is gathering, he should go.

  ‘Okay, fair enough. Sorry to disturb. We have to ask. I know you’re not one of the main ones we’re after today anyway, you don’t fit the descriptions from the police: Asian man, late fifties, in a parka; white lady in her twenties, white puffa jacket, pushing an empty buggy. Had to give the baby up. Let me know if you see them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Here’s my card. Hard to get a signal up here, sometimes text is better. Or just call the police, you know? We work with them. People don’t usually come up to this bit by the lighthouse, I grant you. They mostly go to Beachy Head itself, because they’ve heard of it and the bus stops there, by the pub. Early in the morning or in the evening, often. No crowds. Your place puts them off, like a watchtower.’

  ‘Should you be telling me all this?’

  ‘It’s okay. There’s a lot of sadness in this world, but I’ve seen hope too, believe me. We are hope. The Lord is hope . . .’

  ‘Are you allowed to try and convert people?’

  ‘No, sorry, never do that,’ says the Chief quickly. ‘I was just talking about why we do this . . . Never mind, what did you say your name was?’

  No answer. Something has caught the lighthouse keeper’s eye, in the distance.

  The Chief doesn’t notice as he wipes sweat from his face with a hankie. ‘Listen, please, don’t let me give you ideas. Not today, I couldn’t take it. Stupid of me to talk this way, but I’ve had enough. There’ve been more than usual lately. You must have seen the choppers and the cars. I don’t know why. Lads in the force are giving me grief, saying we should all keep our eyes open more, but I tell them, we have a good team, they are all well trained, we would know, we spot things. If we can just talk to people, let them know someone cares, it breaks the spell. They know that. They appreciate that. Everyone’s on edge right now. No pun intended. Listen, you haven’t seen anything unusual, have you? Anyone hanging about? Up here, on your own?’ A dark thought gathers in his mind like a cloud over the Channel. ‘Hang on, have they talked to you about this? Hey, mate, wait! Where are you going?’

  The Keeper is up on his feet, slipping past the Guardian and away.

  ‘Come back! Oi! Get back here!’

  The Chief’s hand goes to the radio in a holster at his hip. ‘Frontline Zulu, come in! Frontline Zulu! Alert our friends. Suspect running.’

  ‘Roger, Alpha, repeat please. Mike, did you say “suspect”?’

  ‘Roger that. Blue lights go. White male, hoodie, shorts.’

  ‘Suspect for what?’

  ‘What do you think? Why would he run? Quick! Am in pursuit!’

  But it’s not a fair race. By the time the Chief has hauled himself to a standing position with his Elite Alpine walking poles, the man in the hoodie is yards away and moving fast. Running up the slope, pumping hard, past a young couple eating a picnic on a rug a safe distance from the edge. The man and the woman are waving their arms and pointing fingers at each other and having a great big row, although the words are taken on the wind and they have not noticed that the one thing they agree on – the one thing that is good about this bloody relationship, the one precious person who has made life bearable these last three years, even when he’s being a lazy bastard or she’s a moody cow – is no longer sitting in the buggy having a snooze. Their little daughter Poppy is going for a stroll. She’s tottering like a drunkard towards a rabbit, which is sitting in the sun, twitching its nose, nibbling the grass, looking up again, near the brim of the cliff. The toddler in her pink padded playsuit and pink woollen hat laughs and stretches out her hands to this bewitching creature, who stares back, blinks and bolts for it, leaving Poppy just a few baby steps from a very long fall.

  ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ shrieks her father, rooted to the spot, flapping his arms while his wife is already on her way. But she will never get there, she is too late. ‘Poppy!’ Alarmed by the speed of the rabbit, confused by the sudden sight of the drop, the little girl stumbles and falls.

  Fifteen

  Sometimes, death is ordinary. Sometimes death comes in the middle of the day, without warning and just like that, between the boiled eggs and Müller rice pots of a picnic on a rug in a beauty spot. Sometimes you take your eye off what matters most to you and indulge in yet another argument – because everything else in the world is okay in an ordinary sort of way and you’ve got to fight to keep interested – and while you’re naming names and telling lies and making claims, the person you really love just drops out of the world. Gone. Without a whimper or a cry, that you could hear anyway. Vanished.

  But sometimes life wins. Sometimes, a man you have never met – and whose name you will never know – comes running out of nowhere with all his strength, flies past you like an Olympian and gets there – he gets there – just in time. He is just in time. He scoops her up as she is falling over her feet – your daughter, your precious little girl – and with one arm he scoops her up and holds her close and stumbles on the uneven ground but regains his balance and still has her as he slows, and stops. He has her, safe.

  Poppy screams, red and furious and magnificently alive, letting the world know that she is not done yet and she will be heard. Who is this man and what is he doing? Where did the rabbit go? I liked the rabbit! Mummy! The Keeper kisses the child on her woollen hat, ignoring the screams, catching her scent. For him, this is suddenly a good day. A great day. He feels like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman all at once. Nothing can stop him now. Nothing.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put her down!’ The father, flushed by panic, lashes out. ‘What’s your game? Stop! What’s your name? Stay there.
Don’t you move.’

  The Keeper does set Poppy down gently, close to her mother, who grabs her hood immediately and pulls her close. Dad glances at a mobile phone, which has no signal even for an emergency call. Top of the range, of course, but useless here. He’s a Bodenista, one of the tribe of affluent Londoners who descend at weekends to cottages in the picture-book villages of Alfriston and Jevington, places that have been in the family for generations, since Virginia Woolf was renting, or else have been bought lately for extra­ordinary amounts of money. They come in their Range Rovers and their Hunter boots, their red trousers, their green Barbour jackets, like this man with his weekend beard, his tweed cap and his swagger, barking an order: ‘Don’t you run!’

  The mother’s shouting too, inventing a threat like him to hide their shame at having lost sight of their daughter for one terrible moment. ‘I saw you!’ She’s holding Poppy tight, the girl’s face buried in her chest. At least they’re working together on this, their differences forgotten. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, buddy,’ says the father, lunging for the alleged child snatcher. But he’s out of shape, out of breath and dizzy with anxiety and embarrassment, and misses completely, stumbling dangerously towards the edge.

  ‘Okay! That’s enough! Both of you.’ The Chief has caught up at last. ‘I saw everything that happened, sir. This man was trying to help. Your daughter was in danger.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m in charge here. Look.’

  The red sweater, the badge that says Guardian-in-Chief, the impressive radio and the commanding voice are persuasive: this man represents authority. The father deflates, with one last gasp: ‘He tried to snatch her!’

  ‘Then why did he give her back?’ The Chief turns and winks secretly at the accused, who suppresses a laugh – adrenaline still sweet in his blood – and starts to walk away, until the big voice sounds again. ‘Come with me. I need to talk to you.’

  The Chief catches up and walks with him. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t just go around interfering up here like some kind of self-appointed policeman.’

  ‘That’s a bit rich.’

  ‘All right, listen, I can’t have you acting like this. People might get hurt, you might get arrested. Leave it to the professionals!’

  ‘For God’s sake. You’re amateurs.’

  ‘I’m paid to do this. Respected for it, I might add. We work with the police. The others are highly trained. I lead them. You get my point?’

  ‘Not really.’ The adrenaline has given way to a sadness. The lighthouse keeper just wants to be back in his tower. ‘If you’re not going to leave me alone, can we sit down?’

  He plonks himself on the grass.

  The Chief does the same, more slowly. ‘It is, by the way,’ he says. ‘For God’s sake. Otherwise I wouldn’t be up here, let me tell you. Scares the living daylights out of me sometimes. You’ve got to have faith. Guts, too. Determination. Patrolling this place in all weathers, day and night. I’m full-time but the others are all volunteers. Thirty or so we’ve got. A teacher, solicitor, brickie, retired, whatever, they come up here for a shift – once a week, usually – in pairs, on foot or in one of the Land Rovers. We’ve got the lot: heat-seeking cameras and really powerful lamps that cut right through the dark – they’re amazing.’

  ‘I’ve seen them. What good can you do really? If they want to jump . . .’

  ‘They will. Yeah. Hard to stop someone who really wants to. So many are not sure, though: they’re trying to get up the nerve or they want to be stopped or they’re lost to themselves through grief or anxiety or medication, whatever it is. So we try to have a word. You know: “You don’t have to do this, mate. Somebody cares.” If they say anything in response – even if it’s just to tell us to get lost – there’s a chance they’ll come away. Have a cup of tea back at our hut. Then maybe make a call, get someone who loves them to come and collect them. Or the police.’ It’s been a tough day. The Chief feels like talking. Something about this guy makes him think it’s okay. ‘Some poor souls come here again and again because they’ve got nobody else to talk to. It’s so sad. Nothing gets funded. Nobody wants to know. So they end up here, with us. That’s okay. We’re called Guardians because we’re here for everyone, as long as we can meet the need.’

  He leaves a silence, hoping for the question. It comes.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hundreds come here, every year. The number is going up all the time, but until now the number of people actually going over has stayed the same, at about thirty or so a year. We must have been doing something right. There’s a line I use to churches and so on: we stand in between life and death and insist that life is better, however much it hurts. And it does, let me tell you. For them, of course, and their families. For us, too. But the last couple of months, there have been more than anyone expected getting through; it’s heart-breaking. And baffling. We lost one this morning . . .’

  The Chief is glad to get this off his chest, but he isn’t just rambling, he’s also got a plan: share a bit, watch for a flicker in the eyes to suggest he might know about the death already, or is excited by the thought. Anything that might implicate him.

  ‘My colleague Magda was on patrol. She was in pieces. It’s harder on the ladies, but she is remarkable. I told her, “It’s not your fault. You were doing what is right.” She went home after that, but I couldn’t keep away. I’m in charge, you see? This is my place. There is nowhere else I can go. I mean, nowhere else I should be. The Lord sent me here, He will keep me safe.’

  The Keeper’s silence is taken for approval. It encourages the Chief to go on, still watching for a reaction. ‘I miss the force, I’ve got to be honest with you. Camaraderie. Mates. The kids have all grown up too and gone away, they’re doing well for themselves. I tried retirement but it wasn’t really for me. Shirley, my better half, said I didn’t know what to do with myself all day. She was busy with the church and the golf, so I offered my services to the Lord in prayer. He saw fit to answer in this way. Long hours, low pay but good work. I have been running the show for a year now; it’s going okay.’

  The Keeper’s calm, unfazed gaze invites him again to carry on. He’s not to know that this is instinct kicking in, a legacy from the Keeper’s past: the habit of keeping quiet and looking sympathetic, nodding to show he’s interested, letting the story unfold.

  ‘I reorganized the whole thing, of course. The two pastors who started the patrols were sincere, willing men of prayer, but we needed organization. Proper training. It’s not for everybody. We have torches, but when the moon goes behind the clouds and you stumble, then you think you’re a goner.’

  ‘I know. I live here.’

  ‘Yeah. Course. Okay. Well, discipline and training help and the Lord gives me courage. There are times when I have to break the rules. Grab ’em and pull ’em back. It’s dangerous but the Lord protects me. As long as I am doing his work he will protect me and no harm will come to me.’

  The Keeper looks away, disturbed now. Not going along with it any more. He runs a hand through his hair, glances back at the Chief and mutters irritably: ‘No.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not having it. God, I really don’t want to do this.’ The Keeper stands up, stretching his legs and arms, looking the Chief right in the eyes. Staring, almost. ‘That’s not how it works, is it? Do you really believe what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘And it’s not just you – the same protection goes for everyone?’

  ‘If they love the Lord and they’re doing his work, then yes . . .’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’

  ‘It’s easy to hurl abuse—’

  ‘I lost someone. She had a faith. So strong. Put yours to shame. It didn’t save her.’ The Keep
er is aware of his legs juddering; he could lose it now, not having talked to anybody about this in a long time. ‘Right. So. This is bullshit.’ Keep it all in, he tells himself. Keep it all in. ‘Will he save you now, if I push you over?’

  ‘You threatening me?’ The Guardian struggles to his feet, but when he gets there meets only a smile.

  ‘No need. You’re a danger to yourself. God help you. I’m going home.’

  ‘I can’t let you walk away. I am in charge here!’

  The Keeper puts his earphones back in, pulls up his hood and turns on the music, not Satie now but Curtis Mayfield again. Move on up. He slips easily past the Chief and runs up the hill towards the tower, his lighthouse, his sanctuary. Running for home.

  For half a mile he runs, fast. The tower appears over the hill and grows larger in his sight, but when he is almost there, almost home, his eyes are drawn to a white shape, away to the right. It’s a man, a little man, sitting right on the edge where the lighthouse wall ends, where the ground is dusty with loose scraps of chalk and flint, and he is afraid to go. Very afraid. There’s a white number six on the red England shirt hanging from the little man’s bony shoulders. The back of his neck is glistening below the buzz cut. Long white pedal-pusher shorts flap around the knees. His feet are actually over the edge. Bloody hell. He’s kicking off a sandal by the heel, flipping it from his stubby feet with their blackened toes. Watching the sandal turn and fall. His lips move. He is trying to count the seconds until the splash. It’s too far to hear that and there are too many ledges that might snag it on the way down. Now the other sandal is going the same way. Why stop to talk to him? Why care? There is a faint shush from the waves below. The little man twists around.

  ‘What’s your problem, mate?’

  Bloody good question.

  ‘Come on, what is it? “Why are you sitting there? What are you gonna do, kill yourself?” Ha!’ The laughter is hollow. ‘“Why would you want to do that, eh? You’ve got so much to live for, aintcha?” Listen, pal, you think I wanna top myself, just ’cos I’m having a nice sit down?’