The Lamplighters

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.

When she awoke, Marla’s bleeding had started and was heavier than ever before. She went to the bathroom to staunch the flow, clutching at her belly. The Consortium Inc. had kindly provided a box of tampons, unbranded of course, in with her toiletry supplies. She grabbed the box and was about to open it when the hollow gnawing pain inside her inverted, becoming a kind of kicking spasm. In agony, she began to feel afraid. Normally she’d have a day or two of increasing cramps and nausea before her flow began, and the discomfort would never be as bad as this. Her hands shook as she used the applicator to insert the tampon. Another painful spasm seared in her gut. Doubling up, she let the rest of the tampons fall to the bathroom floor in their box and limped back into the bedroom, head spinning. Collapsing on the bed, Marla watched the ghosts of her imagined wicker fires die behind her eyelids then promptly blacked out.

Morning birdsong rang out across the island. Marla, meanwhile, slept like a dead thing. Her breath was barely audible above the joyous chorus of birdsong outside on the roof. Gradually the shrill orchestra penetrated through the layers of sleep and Marla groaned herself awake, remembering the agonizing abdominal pains of the preceding night. She was already in the bathroom, taking a pee, when she realized the pain had gone. Not just gone, but disappeared entirely, as if it had never been there in the first place. In fact, she felt healthier than ever, rejuvenated somehow. Removing her tampon, Marla was stunned by its dryness. She had expected to see lots of blood, but there was very little. And what scant blood was there had already taken on that deep brown color, like autumnal leaves turned to rust. She was puzzled about how her flow could have diminished after such an aggressive bout of pain. She pressed some tissue paper between her legs and inspected it. Marla could now see that her menses hadn’t just diminished, they had stopped. There was nothing on the tissue paper—not a trace of blood at all.

Beyond the green belt, towards the beach, Pietro lay in bed trying to masturbate to some memories of a blonde he’d fucked on the beach one night in Palermo. He couldn’t remember her name, or where she was from—some Eurotrash from the East no doubt—but he had clear memories of seducing her back to the beach and doing her over the bank of a sand dune. He tried desperately to fixate on an image of her ass, pale and round as two full moons, but try as he might he just couldn’t stay hard. He grunted in frustration as his dick went limp in his hand, vowing that he had to do something about this; he needed to feel alive again. Life on the damned island was sapping his virility. Pietro concentrated on a mental facsimile of Marla’s face. Maybe this new blood could, well, give him some new blood. He traced the line of her mouth around the head of his cock with the digit he lovingly referred to as his “pussy finger”. Oh, wait. There was a little stirring in his loins. It was a start.

Something else stirred on the island too, a presence that sensed its time was coming. A sudden shift in the seasons. It churned the waves in the sea like a great invisible oar. It rattled the branches of the trees and hissed through their leaves. The birds flapped their wings and stopped singing for a few moments, as if steeling themselves for changes yet to come.