The Lamplighters

Chapter Ten

Breathing frantically, Marla was running for her life. The path down to the jetty was treacherous, and she almost fell a couple of times as the gravel slid beneath her feet. Her pursuer was gaining on her. He knew the terrain. She could almost feel him on her back as she hurtled down the gangway and onto the wooden jetty. Her heavy footfalls echoed off the rocks as she sprinted, full pelt, towards the security hut. Then, fuck, she lurched to a halt as Adam stepped out of the hut in front of her, brandishing a pistol. No, she tried to cry as he lifted the weapon and pointed it at her head but no sound would come.

Bang.

The bullet pierced her forehead, burned into her brain and rested there, molten hot. Her knees became fluid and she toppled over the side of the jetty, hitting the water with a splash.

Splash. Marla awoke violently and turned off the alarm clock, blinking away her nightmare. Sunlight was creeping in through the window blinds. Her bedding was in violent disarray. That was the last time she’d eat cheese and smoke a joint before bedtime, she told herself. Idiot.

Showered and full of coffee and breakfast, Marla set out across the lawn to work. Her first day’s work on the island. She took the key from her pocket and stepped inside the palatial house, again marveling at its size. A majestic staircase, which looked as though some visionary Swedish architect had designed it, swept upwards from the lobby inviting her to explore upstairs. Marla took a first tentative step on the stairs, as though not wanting to wake anyone who was up there, sleeping. Of course, no one was—but the feeling of being an intruder in someone else’s house was pervasive, and it would take Marla some time to get used to it. Wandering around the upper floor, she looked inside each of the five bedrooms, each with its own luxurious en suite bathroom. The bed linen, towels and rugs were of the highest quality, clean and white. What struck Marla most was the apparent lack of any personality in the rooms. There were no framed photographs, no pictures of any kind. No trinkets, ornaments or little family heirlooms to give any clue about who lived there. One of the bedrooms belonged to a child—the tiny bed and nightlight told her this much. A closet door set into the wall tempted Marla with its mystery, but upon opening it she found it empty. No toys? No dressing up clothes? No televisions or multimedia players? She supposed the children of the rich owners simply brought stacks of toys, games and gadgets with them. Oh well, it was less of a problem for her to dust. She hated dusting ornaments with a passion and, shuddering at the thought, went back downstairs to the kitchen.

Sitting on a high stool at the vast breakfast bar, Marla leafed through Fowler’s rules and regulations, incredulous at how many of the damn things there were. There was even a directive on the minimum amount of water to drink each day, for Christ’s sake. Still, if it helped the owners to rack up their utilities points and keep her in gainful employment, Marla was only too happy to do as she was told. She filled a glass with water and took a sip. It was the finest champagne compared to the dreadful bed-sit water—“Thames water” her ex used to call it. No, the water here had no unpleasant chemical smell; in fact it had no discernable odor of any kind. She drank again and decided its source must be a wellspring on the island somewhere. Hell, even bottled water never tasted this good. Having drunk her fill, Marla set about vacuuming the ground floor lobby, hallway and rooms.

It was a little weird not to see a huge television in the living room, as Marla was sure these people would have a gigantic wall-mounted flat screen monstrosity. She felt strangely pleased that there wasn’t one. The islanders, despite their incredible wealth, apparently embraced the “peace and quiet” lifestyle in the fullest sense. Vacuuming done, Marla rooted in a utility closet and found a mop and bucket. Digging around in the cupboard under the sink she found some floor cleaning solution, clearly labeled yet un-branded like all the other household products. She filled the bucket with hot water and added a capful of the cleaning fluid. It fizzed a little as it mixed with the water, creating a little layer of bubbles like the head on a pint of beer. Strange, thought Marla as steam rose from the bucket in little kiss curls. The floor stuff was odorless and colorless, just like the drinking water—in fact, it looked like it may as well have been drinking water. But as she worked the hot sudsy mixture into the floor tiles with the mop, they began to gleam. Must be organic. Only the very best for these guys, she mused.

Working her way across the kitchen floor in sections, Marla mopped herself into the corner by the patio door. She stopped her labors for a moment to unlock it, using both hands to slide the thick glass open. The lush Mediterranean breeze drifted inside, and began to dry the floor right away. Marla drank in the fresh air and a smile curled at the corner of her lips. Once her morning chores were done she’d go for a swim in the pool, where she’d met Jessie yesterday, then eat some lunch in the garden. As she gazed out, something caught her eye. Her greasy fingerprints on the glass door. And something else, rusty red, coated the door catch and the metal casing surrounding it. It looked like blood. Marla tiptoed over the still-drying floor and grabbed a cloth, which she moistened at the sink. Returning to the door, she rubbed at the dry red patch. It made a little pattern on the wet cloth. Instinctively, she sniffed at it, without getting her nose too close. It smelled metallic. Rust, she thought, even paradise needs oiling occasionally. She refolded the cloth and wiped the greasy fingerprints away, listening to the glass squeaking as she did so. Sliding the door shut behind her, Marla headed for the summerhouse where her bikini was waiting for her.

The ravenous eyes watched Marla's shadow lengthen over the patio as she walked away. Just out of her sight were more tiny red stains that lay concealed below the doorstep, where only ants could find them. The stains formed the signature of his handiwork—a flourish. He hungered to work again.

Lying back in the water, Marla peered up at the blazing sunshine. Should have brought my sunglasses, she thought, then looked at her pale white arms glistening on the surface of the pool. Christ, anyone looking at my skin will need a pair too. No matter, she’d have a tan soon enough if the weather stayed like this on the island. Floating to the water’s edge, she kicked off again from the pool side, its textured hardness feeling good on the soles of her feet. Marla swam a few lengths then, breathless, clambered out of the pool. She felt embarrassed about how out of shape she was, and made a pact with herself there and then to take a swim every day. Back in London, all the gymnasiums had been too expensive. Now she had an entire pool to herself, there was no excuse not to exercise. Well, she thought as she settled back on the sun lounger, maybe I do have a couple of excuses, like sunbathing followed by a delicious lunch. She closed her eyes against the sun, which burned red through her eyelids. Then her vision went black. The sun must have disappeared behind a cloud. She shivered, her skin still wet from the swim, and felt her nipples harden. Just as the sun came back out again, Marla heard a noise like a footfall in the grass. She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. Had someone been standing there seconds ago, casting a shadow over her but saying nothing? That’s too creepy, stop scaring yourself Marla. But her arms and legs had turned to gooseflesh again and she felt so vulnerable lying there half naked and alone. You’re getting paranoid dear, she told herself, it’s been a long time since you smoked grade-A skunk and maybe with good reason. Wrapping a towel around her tight shoulders, she started walking towards the summerhouse. Maybe she’d get dressed and go for a walk, see if she could find Jessie.

She didn’t feel hungry anymore.

Strolling down the path, away from the main house, Marla started feeling better. She was just being paranoid; after months of hustle and bustle in the big city, maybe all this peace and quiet was giving her culture shock. A butterfly flitted by ahead of her, disappearing into the deep, fragrant foliage at the side of the path. Lilting birdsong drifted down from the tree branches high above. She lifted her head, shades protecting her eyes from the sun this time, and let the warm glow spread across her entire face. Cicadas sang their joyous fanfare as she passed them. This place truly was like some kind of paradise.

Reaching the section of path that led to Fowler’s Security building, Marla stopped for a while and gazed out to sea. She realized she had no idea where Jessie was staying and, post-smoking, hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask for directions. Turning away from the ocean, she spied another path leading off inland at an angle to the one she’d followed. Nothing ventured, she thought and walked on. This path was narrower and more overgrown, with thickets and trees providing welcome shade from the heat of the sun. After a few minutes the path took a winding turn to the left, then back to the right into a thick wooded area. As she followed the twists and turns, Marla suddenly saw a figure crouching at the side of the path up ahead. She instinctively slowed her pace, trying to see if she recognized this stranger in the woods. As she neared the figure, his dark skin and hair became suddenly familiar to her. She remembered her anxiety dream from the morning and halted in her tracks.

Adam was on his haunches, studying something at the side of the path. He did not look up as Marla approached, but spoke as if he’d been expecting her.

“It’s dead, I think…”

Marla bent over to take a closer look. A sleek gray cat lay in the dirt on its back, perfectly still. It could have been sleeping, dreaming of mice, but there was no telltale rise and fall of fur—no movement at all—it had stopped breathing.

“Poor thing. What do you think happened to it?”

Using a thick twig, Adam gently lifted the cat’s head. Marla held a hand to mouth in horror. The cat’s eyes were gone from their sockets and half the creature’s cranium was open like a pumpkin with half the flesh scooped out. It looked as if something had taken a hungry bite out of its skull.

“Predator of some kind,” said Adam. “Big, hungry and pissed off, whatever it was.”

“Did the cat… belong to somebody?”

Adam stood up and turned to face Marla. She was glad; she’d much rather look at his features than the cat’s.

“Don’t think so,” he replied, looking a little bemused by her stare. “The owners don’t keep pets as far as I know. Still, I’d better report it to Fowler—maybe he knows something about it.”

“Maybe it’s his cat?”

Adam raised an eyebrow at her.

“No, I suppose he doesn’t seem like an animal-lover, does he?” she joked.

“Doesn’t seem like an anything-lover,” laughed Adam. “So, where are you off to?”

“Oh, just out for a stroll. Actually, I wanted to drop by and see Jessie—thank her for showing me the ropes yesterday. Do you know her?”

“The American girl? Yeah, sure.”

“Good. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me where she lives?”

“Course not. It’s not that far. Follow me.”

Marla followed him through the trees.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that flies had begun to buzz and swarm around the cat’s ruined face.