The Lamplighters

by Frazer Lee

  “Where’s home?”

  “Sicily. Palermo. You’ve been there?”

  Marla winced as she remembered her ex, Carlo, and his attempts to lure her away on a dirty weekend to Rome. She’d tried to convince him to spend the money on taking her out to a good restaurant in London for once. He’d gone to Rome without her.

  “No. I’ve never been to Italy.”

  “A shame. Palermo is beautiful, full of art and history. And you can swim in the sea there. I used to, almost every day.”

  “You sound homesick. How long have you been out here?”

  “A little over nine months. Can’t swim in the sea here. It pisses me off.”

  “But you have the pool, right?”

  “Not the same, not even close. The sea is alive, a pool is just dead. Dead water.”

  “I’ve never, erm, thought of it like that myself.”

  Pietro scowled, gulped down what was left of the smoothie straight from the jug, and began methodically scrubbing it clean at the sink.

  Marla decided to break the cool silence that had crept into the kitchen. “Still, it’s a bloody lovely island, you have to admit.”

  He laughed. “Bloody lovely? Whatever you say bella ragazza.”

  “You’re making fun of me now.”

  “I just don’t see the point in being in a paradise if you can’t even swim in the fucking sea, that’s all. Then it’s like a prison. You and I can be here, in a stranger’s kitchen. I can make you a smoothie. But the instant I ask you to the beach for a swim, for a party, Fowler and his fascistas will be there with the handcuffs ready.”

  “Sounds kind of kinky.”

  Pietro snorted. She could see real anger bubbling beneath his indignation now. He was tightly wound, this one. Maybe the island life was not for him.

  “Now you are the one making fun.”

  She enjoyed the way he spoke, though. Bloddy lovvly. He had a softer voice than Carlo’s had been, but the strange clumsiness of his English was very similar. Hell, was she really going to compare the poor guy to her ex-boyfriend all afternoon? Marla chuckled as she realized that was exactly what she’d be doing.

  “No need to be so grumpy, I wasn’t poking fun, honestly.”

  She beamed at him. Pietro tried his best to maintain his scowl. Eventually, the corners of his mouth cracked into a smile and they laughed out loud together.

  Spontaneous laughter between two strangers can be a dangerous thing, thought Marla. In this case, it had led to Pietro inviting Marla to join him on the veranda. There, he had bewitched her with those hazel eyes of his and within minutes her Birkenstocks had been cast aside wantonly. And here she was, lying like a tart as he gave her the most incredible foot massage she’d ever experienced. In fact, it was the only foot massage she’d ever experienced. She giggled as his fingers skated the sensitive arch of her right foot, tickling her. Her giggle became an uncontrollable moan of pleasure as he applied pressure just beneath the ball of her foot. As his fingers and thumbs worked their magic, she relaxed into the springy cradle of the sun lounger.

  Pietro had filled Marla in on the last few months of his life, The Consortium’s job offer giving him the catalyst he needed to throw caution to the wind and do something different for a while. The monotony of tending bar night after night, followed by the bitter failure of his own business venture had made coming to island impossible to resist. Marla detected a weariness similar to Jessie’s when he spoke after that however. Pietro was clearly bored as hell out here with hardly anyone to speak to, surrounded by an ocean he was forbidden from swimming in. His mood was too heavy and her small talk wasn’t enough to lift it. Their faltering conversation had switched to her reasons for coming to the island, and about her aspirations, her dreams. She’d avoided going into too much detail, but as she spoke, Marla had realized just how much she needed to be on this island right now.

  The afternoon sun flared across the azure sky and she closed her eyes tightly for a moment, imagining herself on some endless vacation on this sun-trap island with her personal masseuse-stroke-lover literally on hand to pleasure her whenever she so desired.

  “You have very good hands for a barman.”

  The sigh that crept from her lips like dry ice made Pietro smile with pride at a job well done. His hands went to work on Marla’s left foot.

  “I took classes. There are two things most people want in this world. One is a well-mixed drink. The other, a fucking good massage.”

  Marla laughed dirtily, her own sound embarrassing her a little. Her calf muscles stiffened, their movement giving Pietro a clear signal to stop what he was doing. His fingertips felt and delivered the message and he gently ended the massage with two spiraling motions of his thumbs. Sitting erect, Marla raised her hands up to the sky yawning and stretching like a cat. The sun was dipping now, in a couple of hours it would be bedding down behind the treeline.

  “It’s getting late. I’d better get going. Thanks so much for the foot rub, Pietro.”

  “No problemo. Anytime.”

  She stole a look at his muscular arms as he crouched down by the pool and rinsed off his hands in the clear water. His skin really was flawless, save for a beauty spot punctuating the point where his right bicep ended. Suddenly, Pietro looked at her over his shoulder. Marla quickly pretended to be looking beyond the pool, into the skyline. She stood up and slipped her tingling feet back into the now rather harsh reality of her sandals. Pietro stood up too and leaned in to air kiss her goodbye, once on each cheek.

  Marla didn’t exhale until she reached the gate, turned and closed it. The breath seemed to shiver from her body. She’d felt sure Pietro had meant to kiss her full on the lips, but had decided against it at the last minute. Looking up to the house over the gate, she watched as Pietro ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He was gazing at his own reflection in the glass of the French windows. Then she remembered what Jessie had said about Pietro. Totally loves himself, that one. Her amusement at this lasted the entire journey back to her summerhouse. As she flopped down on the wicker furniture, she realized she hadn’t given another thought to the lack of reading material on the island. Tomorrow she’d find a pen and some paper and write some damn reading material of her own. Marla hadn’t felt this alive for months.

  Chief of Security Fowler glared at his men. All these patrols, all this manpower and still they couldn’t get it together to find Anders. He asked questions and his men recapped the answers. Last radio transmission? Just before nightfall, sir. Nobody thought to check in before daybreak? Anders specified radio silence unless in the event of an emergency, sir. Last known coordinates? The dark side, sir. I know he was on the goddamn dark side, where exactly on the dark side? Don’t know, sir. May as well get out there and do it your fucking self, sir.

  Imbeciles. Sir, yes, sir!

  Fowler snapped his pencil angrily. They would now have to patrol the island in search of two targets—an unauthorized interloper and Anders, who could be injured and stranded somewhere. Anders, his best man. What a fucking mess. They’d better get some results or there’d be Hell to pay. He dismissed his men, tossed the pencil in the trash. When they were gone, he headed for his private sanctuary. The Snug was where he needed to be right now. While his men scoured every inch of the island in search of Anders, he’d locate that bastard interloper. Even if he had to keep watch twenty-four-seven, he’d find him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Finding a pen and paper in the main house had proven as fruitless as trying to locate a book and Marla had very nearly quit out of sheer frustration. Then she’d remembered the closet under the stairs, where a basket containing spare light bulbs had borne buried treasure in the form of a small jotter pad and a pencil. Only a few sheets had been torn from the pad, and Marla could just make out the indentations of what looked like a shopping list on the first page. She wondered who had made that list and when, imagining the house full of flowers and laughter—kids excited about a shopping trip to the mainland.
Marla had the sudden urge to look over her shoulder into the hallway behind her and the kitchen beyond that. The house suddenly felt very cold and vast, swathes of gooseflesh erupting across her arms in agreement. Mansions were like mausoleums without the movement of their families to warm them, quiet as graves without the voices of children to give them life, to give them purpose. Marla shut the closet door and headed outside into the sunshine, escaping the chilly silence.

  She spent the rest of the day on the porch of her little summerhouse, scribbling furiously in the notepad. Her hand ached from writing so much and more than once she had to duck inside to sharpen the pencil using a paring knife from the kitchen drawer. The knife’s little wooden handle fit her fingers perfectly and the act of sharpening the pencil became just as satisfying as writing with it. Page after page she wrote, her handwriting becoming scruffier the more she accessed her thoughts. It was all there, her disastrous career as an au pair, her subsequent nosedive in London and the unexpected providence that had brought her here to the island. Stream of consciousness reportage flowed out of her and she even found herself noting down in minute detail the plants and insects she’d seen since her arrival. Only when the sun was setting was she spent. Her wrist ached from the repetitive strokes of pencil on paper and at the front of her head, the beginnings of an eyestrain headache. Marla looked up at the house, as if becoming aware of it for the first time. She had barely done any chores today. But they would still be there tomorrow, and who was really bothered if she’d mopped the floors, watered the plants? No one came the answer, in the gentle breeze that whistled through the tree branches and in the lilting songs of the birds that perched among them.

  The stench woke Anders even before he heard the sounds. Candle wax and burnt fat, rusted metal and a foul blocked drain smell. He gagged and opened his eyes. But his eyes weren’t there. He tried to put his fingers to his face, to learn what atrocities had been committed there, but he was tightly bound to a hard metal surface. His fingertips brushed the cool surface and he felt sticky dampness there. He knew instantly it was his own blood—the same blood that was now clogging his throat, making it almost impossible to breathe. His gag reflex kicked in, and he coughed up a torrent of the hot sticky stuff, thick as a fur ball. Anders’ senses then reeled at the impossible touch of his own blood spattering the pits of his raw eye sockets. His mouth formed words too painful to utter and then, only then, did he realize he was not alone.

  Anders started, his body convulsing like a sleeping animal’s at the proximity of a presence by his side. He could hear sharp, excited little breaths. The sound filled the darkness inside his head with terrors and he struggled against his bonds, every atom in his body wanting to be free of this place. The horrid breaths turned to songlike chuckles, and Anders felt sickly warm little hands on his thighs. The power behind those hands was immense, lifting and tilting his body to one side as far as his bonds would allow. Then the touch of one of the hands left him momentarily before being quickly replaced by a violent stinging sensation in his right buttock. His flesh remembered the sensation, distant memories of inoculations clouding his mind. It was a syringe, injecting him with something. Something to take the pain away. He clenched his teeth and waited for oblivion. But it did not come. His guts lurched at a new tingling, nauseating sucking sensation. The sucking grew more intense and he felt the tissues in his buttock breaking up, giving way. The syringe in his ass was being used not to inject, but to extract. The pain was excruciating now, and Anders cried out in damaged tones, begging for it to stop. But when it did stop, any inkling of relief was stamped out by the dread of what was to come. Anders felt blood and spit cooling on his chin and his face as he listened hard to what was happening around him. Nearby, he heard those vile little breaths again and the icy tap-tap of a fingernail against a hypodermic syringe. A sharp breath, louder than the rest, then a sickly moan of pleasure.

  All went silent, the rank air bloated with expectation. Then Anders felt a weight on his chest. Warm folds of fat flesh, straddling his own. He felt his bonds tighten. Something stubby and fat probing the mucous pool where his eye used to be. The warm thing thrust in and out of his eye socket, defiling him with a wet sucking sound. Eagerly burrowing deeper and deeper, searching out his brain matter. And Anders knew now he was to suffer long dark hours until oblivion would come. His lips could no longer make sense of words. If they could, he would surely beg for death.

  The same song that had lulled Marla to sleep woke her at dawn. Then, a rapping at the door. Groggily, she prized herself out of her bed sheets, pulled on a robe and plodded over to the door. Yawning heavily, she could make out the shape of a dark-skinned man through the glass. Oh shit, it was Adam. Brilliant—Mister Handsome had deigned to pay her a visit and here she was looking like crap in a crumpled bathrobe, vest and shorts. She tried to straighten her hair, then thought better of it as the tangles threatened to trap her fingers. Brushing sleep residue from the corners of her eyes, she blinked rapidly to moisten them and opened the door.

  “Oh, I woke you. Sorry ’bout that.”

  Marla made a sound that was meant to be no problem but came out more like a Japanese cartoon character—with no subtitles.

  Mild confusion registered on Adam’s face for a few seconds, like he’d forgotten why he was there. Then the weight of the cardboard box he was carrying reminded him.

  “I have supplies for you. Some fresh food.”

  Intending to say fantastic, Marla let out a massive yawn instead and stepped back from the doorway beckoning him in with a barely alive gesture of her free hand.

  Adam carried the box straight through to the kitchen, with Marla plodding behind him. He pulled out an unbranded packet of fresh ground coffee and waved it at her.

  “Guess you need some of this? It’s the good stuff, Colombian Dark.”

  “Oh, coffee, that’d be brilliant thanks.” Wonderful, she’d regained the power of speech without yawning.

  Adam filled the coffee filter and busied himself with the jug.

  “I can do that, it’s okay,” offered Marla.

  “I’ve got it.” His eyes scanned Marla’s sheet-indented face. “Why don’t you take a quick shower and we can drink this outside? It’ll take a little while to brew up.”

  Marla didn’t need to be asked twice. Ten minutes later, she was showered and refreshed, wearing her least crumpled clothes. They sat together just outside the summerhouse. The coffee was gorgeous, with that particularly stimulating roasted smell only found when someone else makes the coffee for you. Adam had opened a pack of sweet biscuits and Marla took one, unashamedly dunking it beneath the deep black surface of her coffee. Sugar and caffeine rush. The stuff of dreams.

  “This is lovely thanks,” she said through a mouthful of sweet, soggy biscuit.

  “You’re welcome. Don’t know about you but I’m never fully awake until my second cup.”

  Marla smiled in agreement. “More like my third. Sorry I was so groggy back there, I don’t normally sleep so deeply. Unless I’ve had a big night.”

  “No big nights here, unfortunately. It’s probably the journey catching up with you. And the island is pretty sleepy in general compared to the city I guess.”

  “You like working on the island?”

  “Must admit, even working for the chief I find this place pretty relaxing. How about you? Settling in okay?”

  “Oh, yes. I think I’m going to love it here. The silence is going to take a bit of getting used to. But if it’s too quiet I’ll just hang out with Jessie. She’s the life and soul.”

  Adam smiled and nodded, took a sip of coffee. In the distance, the breeze quickened, lifting and rustling the leaves. Marla remembered the day she’d found Adam crouched among the trees.

  “Did you mention the cat to Fowler?”

  “The cat?”

  “You remember, when you showed me the way to Jessie’s place—the dead cat.”

  “Oh yeah. It was pretty messed up, wasn’t it? Sure, I told the
boss. He said one of the owners must’ve left it behind.”

  “I thought there weren’t any pets on the island?”

  “Well, technically there aren’t. Who knows, maybe the cat got away and the owners couldn’t find it.”

  “I suppose. Poor thing.”

  He smiled her way again. He had a deep dimple on one side of his face. She began to blush.

  “Animal lover huh?”

  Marla giggled, “Yes, yes I am. More of a dog person than a cat person, though.”

  Adam finished his coffee. The small talk had run out, and the coffee with it. He took his empty cup back inside, then said his goodbyes. Marla wanted to invite him over for dinner. What time do you finish work? Maybe we can go for a walk sometime? But she felt awkward and just thanked him again for the coffee and supplies.

  She was halfway through her chores before she realized just how awkward she’d felt speaking with Adam. Fixing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she grinned to herself. Whenever she felt that about a guy, it generally meant she actually liked him. Marla suddenly felt a little sick. Blushing, she got on with her chores.

  Sadly, the sick feeling proved itself to be the beginnings of Marla’s period rather than the tummy flutters of true love. Back at the summerhouse, restless, hot and itchy, she’d tried reclining on the wicker furniture next to an open window. The breeze had begun to annoy her, however, and the furniture had become the focus of a series of violent fantasies involving kerosene and a large box of cook’s matches. By the time the sun had gone down, she was already curled up in bed holding a pillow against her gut in the absence of a hot water bottle. Drifting off into a sticky sleep, Marla could see those flames raging in her dreams—vast towers of creaky wicker furniture blazing like idols in some bizarre pagan rite. Chairs and two-seater couches interlocked with hand crafted coffee tables, forming cages inside which cats and dogs screeched and howled. Hundreds (no, thousands) of the creatures jostled against each other, tearing into their fellow inmates’ fur and flesh as the kerosene flames billowed higher. A plume of dark crimson smoke rose over the scene, stinking of burnt coffee grounds and black metallic death.