The Lamplighters

Dedication

To Laura, who lights the lamps so I may always find my way home.

Acknowledgements:

Special thanks to Joseph Alberti for telling me about the real lamplighters. And to the real Marla Newborn, my thanks for allowing me to use and abuse your name. Thanks to Max Kinnings for introducing me to the British Library—and to the latter, where much of this volume was drafted, for its comfy chairs, quiet desks, and mountains of inspiration. Thanks to Jason Conway for conversations on the cobblestones, here’s to many more. Cheers to Joseph D’Lacey (AKA The Adverb Killer) for friendship beyond the call of dutifully (oops). Heartfelt thanks to family and friends. And much gratitude and respect to Don D’Auria and all at Samhain Publishing.

Chapter One

“It’s the greatest job in the world.”

Vera smiled as she said the words.

“All I have to do is turn on the damn lights, water the plants; a few chores…”

Static crackled in her ear—the phone line was lousy tonight.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” came the reply, “but I can hardly hear you. There's a weird kind of…echo.”

“It’s Jessie’s uplink,” Vera chuckled. “We’re not really allowed to call anyone from the island…”

“Sorry…how…calling me?”

Christ, the line was getting choppy. Vera pressed the cordless handset closer to her ear, then checked herself.

“As if that’ll make any difference,” she said. Probably talking to herself now.

The crackling grew louder. She could still hear her friend’s voice, buried beneath layers of digital cacophony. A faint echo smothered by an avalanche of noise.

There was something else in the mix too, an ominous growling hum like the electricity pylons near her home. Berlin, so far away now. Even as she thought it, the hum grew, drowning out what little was left of her friend’s staccato tones.

And with a click, silence.

“
Scheiße
,” she cursed, stabbing the redial button. The phone was completely dead. Hacking an outside line was a fine art, she appreciated that, but Jessie clearly needed some new software. And she’d be giving that little bag of smoke back too.

First things first
. Vera put the handset in its cradle and headed for the kitchen. She walked over to the huge range in the centre of the room and ignited all four of the gas taps. Then, crouching on her haunches, she turned the oven on full blast. The expensive smoked glass oven door afforded her a look at her own reflection. Only a month on Meditrine Island and already she looked five years younger. Amazing. Gone were the dark gray shadows around her eyes—even her signature brittle dry hair had a new luster. Berlin could take care of itself, thanks very much. The island really was like a fountain of youth, she thought as she rose and crossed to the patio door. 

Unclipping the latch, Vera had to use two hands to slide the glass behemoth open. Whoever owned this house had a serious heavy glass fetish. Stepping out into the night, her senses were flooded. The island’s fresh air was like no other, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and ocean spray. When she went back to the city, she’d have to remember to bottle and sell it.

Click.

Her quiet moment was suddenly blasted with fifteen hundred watts of raw security lighting as she stepped in front of the infrared sensors. She cursed the light for blinding her as she picked up the watering can, blinking away the white-hot glare. The light had brought the mosquitoes a-calling too. They whizzed around her as she dashed back into the kitchen.

Vera filled the watering can with cool, clear water at the bath-sized sink. This was the least tedious of her tasks—the plants were going to drink their fill tonight. Amidst such fabulous wealth, such meticulous order, it felt good that a mere backpacker could decide the fate of items so precious to their millionaire owners. 

Millionaires? Billionaires, more likely.

She remembered Jessie’s sardonic voice from the first time they’d hung out together, gossiping about who owned these mansions, this island. But Vera didn’t really care who the owners were. That they were paying her handsomely to do a few chores was all she cared about. And the most strenuous chore was watering the plants. Easy money. “The job's a doozy,” Jessie had giggled. “Doozy Jessie” had been working on the island longer than Vera and seemed to be going a little stir crazy…

As the water rose closer to the brim of the watering can, the security lights clicked off suddenly.
Like everything else on the island they ran to a tight schedule,
thought Vera. As she did so, milliseconds before the light bulbs faded, Vera saw something outside.

A figure.

She blinked twice, slow and firm. The ghost imprint of the blinding bulbs still there, forming crescent-shaped black holes in her mind’s eye. Was there someone out there?

Vera blinked again, then swore furiously as liquid spilled onto her feet. Soaked, she closed the faucet and let the watering can rest in the sink unit.
Shouldn’t have smoked that joint before coming up to the house,
she thought, sounding for all the world like her mother. Scatterbrain, she used to call Vera whenever she lost the power to function normally, everyday tasks becoming impossibly hilarious missions. She still wondered if her mother had known her daughter was stoned, or if she simply believed her child was missing a neuron or two million.

The old clumsiness was really kicking in now, as she left little pools of water on the tiled floor on her way to the patio. Putting the can down (yet more spills), she grabbed the door handle and pulled with all her might.

Swoosh.

The glass giant slid open easier this time. Vera bent down to pick up the can—then the smell hit her. 

Something had invaded the envelope of jasmine and surf, corrupting the very night air with its presence. A hospital smell, harsh and synthetic, like the way her dentist smelled. She’d hated the dentist since she was a kid. Had he followed her here, to paradise, tracking her down after all these years to do all that work she had chickened out of? To tut and frown disapprovingly through his paper mask, noting her cannabis-stained enamel and ugly overbite?

She leaned out into the night air, her nostrils searching for the source of the stifling smell. It was mixed with something else now, like ripe leather.

Click.

He was standing right next to her, impossibly close. Vera’s heart blasted into her mouth, choking her scream. The source of the smell regarded her idly, his black eyes like camera lenses. Cold. Unforgiving.

Before she could react, Vera heard a swooshing sound. The smell of rubber gloves perversely filled her nostrils, pushing all the way back into her throat as if someone really had jammed two fingers up her nose. The intruder’s dark form was a monolith, burned into her eyes by the security lights.

Click.

Swoosh.

The bulbs faded once more. Vera’s senses imploded as the sliding door crushed her skull against the alloy doorframe.

Crunch.

Swoosh, as the door slid back again.

Crunch.

Vera’s body jerked uselessly then fell still; her brains spattered across the cool, thick glass.

Chapter Two

“It’s the greatest job in the world.”

Marla Neuborn tried to look interested, although in truth all she wanted to do was read her book. That’s why she’d come to the park, a bit of piece and quiet.

“Looking after these two. Aren’t they just adorable?”

The girl who’d sat down right next to her on the bench clearly wasn’t going to let up. She wanted a proper conversation, goddammit. Marla couldn’t remember the last time she’d had one of those.

“Do you like kids?”

Marla closed her battered paperback with an audible sigh and looked up at the girl next to her. Pretty face, blonde hair—Marla suddenly felt a hundred times scruffier. Great, her mood had worsened. The girl sounded Swedish and just a little bit vacuous. If nothing else, at least Marla had the intellectual high ground.

“Yeah, I love them,” she lied.

This appeared to delight the girl; a slightly insane-looking smile spread across her face as she looked down at the pram in front of her.

“You should be an au pair. I get to look after these two all day. They’re as good as gold. And their parents are lovely…”

Marla had been an au pair, once. She shuddered as she remembered the tabloid headlines, “JUNKIE AU PAIR A MENACE TO TODDLERS—MOTHER’S ANGUISH OVER INCIDENT”.

Highgate Park had been busy on the day of the “INCIDENT”, swarming with au pairs like her, leaning on the handles of high-tech executive baby buggies, texting.

Marla had quickly maneuvered the kids to the playground area, as she always did. As she sat on a bench watching them attempting self-destruction on the swings, Marla had rolled a joint—as she always did. Kicking back and resting her head against the comforting hardness of the wooden bench, Marla had drifted off for a while enjoying the gentle birdsong and distant murmur of a jet plane.

Suddenly, a wailing scream broke into her reverie. Returning to her senses sluggishly, Marla peered through slightly red eyes to see what was up.

The children were screaming.

Marla ran. She ran and pushed through the little gate into the play area. An elderly woman was cooing over the children, trying to calm them down. The youngest was in a bad way, the broken bone protruding through her soft baby skin. Her face was a rictus of pain. A constant rising and dipping wail flooded from her agonized mouth like an air raid siren.

Sirens
.

The ambulance had arrived soon afterwards, and the police car. Angry parents had pressed charges of course, and she’d been unemployed ever since. So here she was, out of work and money in London. The most expensive city in the world.

Christ, she had to get of here. The Swede had started speaking into the pram in sickening baby talk. Marla stormed off and started the long walk home, the only place she’d get any peace now.

Marla let herself into her bed-sit, cursing the stiff lock as it nearly ate her key. She could barely wait to lock herself in her dark little room and smoke herself to sleep.

But sleep would not come. Her stomach was howling for food, so Marla dragged herself off the bed and rooted through the grimy cupboards in search of sustenance. A can of tuna, a little past its sell-by date, and a couple of rice crackers would have to do. She had nothing else. Eating from the can (
most unladylike
) she surveyed her room with mild despair.

Apart from the bed, a few charity shop paperbacks and dirty clothes scattered on the floor, the only sign that anyone was living there was a clunky old laptop. She’d inherited the machine from Carlo, an old boyfriend of hers. Poor Carlo fancied himself as a bit of a web entrepreneur but had left town in a hurry when immigration came calling. Marla decided to hold onto his computer for him, back-payment for listening to all his crappy jokes and even crappier chat-up lines.

The damn thing barely worked at the best of times, but at least she could check her emails and look at job ads. The landlady let her use the phone line for free, as long as she stuck to the free dial-up service. Although “service” was stretching it a bit.

The modem crackled into life, sounding like the anguished wails of that injured child, and promptly crashed. A few more attempts and Marla was online.

“You’ve-got-mail,” said the excited computer voice.

Why did it always sound so excited? All she ever got was spam mail about weight-loss pills and penis enlargements. Marla was clearly in need of neither; she tossed the half-eaten can of dry tuna fish into the trash and looked back at the screen. Her mail inbox was taking an age to load up.

“You’ve-got-mail.”

Expletives tumbled out of Marla’s mouth as dozens of spam mails racked up onscreen. “AS OF CONJOINMENT” one read idiotically, “WANT TO CUM LIKE A FIREHOSE?” asked another.
Jesus
, why did she even bother? She was just about to turn the machine off, when she saw it. There, tucked away among the junk mail was the subject line, “Re: Article Submission”.

Marla clicked on it and gazed at the email header, almost unable to scroll down and read the rest. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d submitted the feature, a travelogue cannibalized from her diary entries while backpacking across Europe during more prosperous times.

She actually trembled when she clicked the mouse to read the rest of the email.

“Dear Ms Newborne,” it read—great, they had already spelled her name wrong, “Ran a similar piece in last month’s issue. Please check before sending unsolicited work. We are not taking freelancers right now. Good luck with your career.”

The mail wasn't even signed with a name, but from the mail address she could see it was from someone called Sandy.

Well, Sandy was a bitch whoever he/she was. At least they hadn't crucified her work this time. Still, it made Marla feel a little better to sign Sandy’s email address up for a few porn sites and dieting newsletters before she went to bed.