The Lamplighters (23 page)

“Don’t be so jumpy, there’s nobody here.” Jessie smirked. “At least we have some party tunes now.”

Marla ignored her, glancing at a mess of grubby melted stumps of candles lining the lower shelves nearest to the mattress. Behind them stood a couple of liter-sized bottles, one uncorked and empty but the other almost filled to the top with clear liquid, cork intact.

Jessie saw it too and grasped it, excitedly twisting at the cork stopper and taking a tentative sniff. A look of evil delight spread across her face like a gleeful shadow. She held the bottle out to Marla, inviting her to take a sniff.

Marla leaned forward to inhale, curious about what was inside the bottle. As she did so, she noticed a ream of tattered papers lurking on the dusty shelf behind the empty bottle. Breathing in alcoholic fumes from the mouth of the bottle, Marla’s senses reeled at the sudden vapors of aniseed and pure booze that cut through her nostrils like some kind of nefarious cold remedy.

“Ouzo,” Jessie said.

Peering into the space behind the empty bottle, Marla began to make out what lurked there on the shadowy pages. As the vapors insinuated their merry way up towards her brain she realized she was looking at a section of thigh, a trio of folded breasts and a series of parted legs—the pages forming a lurid gynecological catalog for whatever deviant had occupied the corrupt sheets atop the stinking mattress. The printed pornography looked so incongruous amidst the children’s toys that Marla grimaced suddenly. Jessie laughed, mistaking her look for one of distaste at the scent of the ouzo. In sympathy she corked the bottle again and, pausing only to pick up the kiddies’ tape player, swung her flashlight in the direction of the stairs.

Words of bafflement and disgust stuck in Marla’s throat, choking her like pollen on hot day. She followed Jessie dumbly, desperate to be away from the dank basement, the foul mattress, and the excretions of whoever, or whatever, used it as a bed. Marla almost stumbled on the stairs as a fathomless panic seized her. She climbed the last steps two at a time, all the better to be away from that subterranean nightmare.

The cellar air felt like a cold, clammy breath on the back of her neck as the door swung shut behind her. Only when she and Jessie had walked the narrow corridor back to the high-ceilinged space of the games room, could Marla breathe again. The sound of her exhalation joined the howling chorus of wind as it whistled around shutters and walls only inches thick, but miles away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Through the trees surrounding the huge wood, metal and glass structure, over the headland and toward the rocks, the same fearsome wind buffeted Vincent as he made his way to the lighthouse. The door banged and squealed as loud as a wild boar as he rounded the crumbling base of the tower and began his tenuous climb up the rust-mottled steps. He tumbled over the threshold, his insides straining against the confines of his ribcage, piercing pain shooting through his middle as he coughed into dirty bloodstained fists. The smell of the earth on his fingers confused him for a moment—was he adrift, dreaming again in the depths of the muddy hole he’d dug with his bare hands? But the sound of the wind rattling the windows in the moldy library above was too palpable, too true for this to be a dream. He gripped the handrail and, as he hauled his knackered old frame up the winding stairwell, the welcoming scents of rust, decay and stale coffee told him he’d come home.

Home. That was the name he’d given to his prison long ago. Even so, he had to admit to himself he was glad to be back in the old place. He found himself longing to fold into the chair that had been sculpted to support him, chiseled as it was by his backbone, which was becoming as bent as the spines of his oldest books. Vincent felt wetness beneath his feet and looked down to see the overturned bucket Fowler and his cronies had left behind. Unwelcome memories of their tortures flashed in front of his eyes bright as fireflies, their inane questions ringing in his ears like dull bells pealing from across the dead ocean outside. The sensations caused his legs to buckle and the old man limped blindly to his chair, almost falling short of the mark as he sat down, clasping a clammy hand to his forehead. A great shuddering tremor passed through his body from his gut to his head and the floodgates opened. Tears streamed down his face as the delayed shock from the last few hours was given full sway by the very act of coming home. Salt water leaked from his eyes and splashed onto the cold floor, mingling with gobbets of his own dried blood and making dark islands around fragments of ruined fingernail and chipped tooth. He sat like this for an age, cycles of tears and remorse squeezing the very moisture from him, futile snot bubbling from his nose as he wept on and on. Into this vale of despair he fell, further still, until he was weeping in his sleep. Finally his tears subsided, their tracks beginning to dry on his wrinkled face like shame.

Shadows moved across him as he woke and he peered out through stinging eyes to find what had disturbed him. He struggled into a seated position on the chair and scanned the room. Pietro’s body had gone to God only knew where, the stained and crumpled blankets lining the cot bed the only evidence he’d ever even been there. Vincent’s eyes followed the slow rhythmic dripping sound of the leaky faucet above the sink. There, a shadow! His heart pulsed into life at the sight of a small pale form crouching beside the sink cupboard.

“Son?” he murmured in confusion, for the face of the little white boy was awful familiar.

Then, with revulsion, Vincent saw the kid’s grubby fist was clasped around its fat little penis, kneading it like a water balloon. The child’s tongue flicked out across dry, cracked lips leaving a snail trail of slimy wetness on their scaly surface.

“Eric? My child—is that you?”

At the sound of his name the child hissed like a wildcat and, releasing his engorged member from his hand, lurched back into the shadows and scuttled beneath the panoramic mountain of books lining the windows.

Wide-eyed and shaking with fear, Vincent was about to stand up and go look for the boy when a great, light-canceling
shape
filled his vision. Trembling, the old man looked up to identify this new terror and saw a monolith of a man standing over him. Tall as a wave and dark as the night ocean, the shape carried Pietro’s limp body over one shoulder as though it were merely a sack of feathers. Foul sulfurous breath emanated from the impenetrable black depths where the giant’s face should have been. Empty eyes bore down on Vincent like black light, causing him to clamp his eyes shut in denial of these phantoms come to visit him in his home. Agonizing, breathless seconds passed as the old man listened to the dull thud of great footsteps. The monster was coming for him, to snap his neck and put out his eyes, hollows ready for the aberration that looked like his child to penetrate them with filthy digits and hook out his brains. But the great booming footsteps were fading and then they were gone, echoing into nothing as the lighthouse door clanged shut far below. Vincent sat there, terrified, with his eyes clamped shut until he heard the obscene crablike scuttling of tiny wet feet moving across the room and down the stairs. When he finally summoned the courage to open his eyes, Vincent felt warm metal in his hand and realized he’d been clutching onto the pistol for dear life the whole time. Vowing not to let it go of it until his work was done, he rose and clambered over the books to try and locate the control panel. If, with God’s good grace he could remember how, he’d make good on his promise and light the lamps. 

Light the lamps one last time.

Chief of Security Fowler still felt as mad as a bear. 

Unknown to him, Adam’s predictions had panned out just as he’d described them to Marla and Jessie; the security detail faced a long and arduous task if Fowler wanted them to haul ass back to the Big House with the cutting gear in tow. And, true to form, that’s exactly what he’d ordered them to do. Relying on his computer guys had been a mistake, Fowler understood that now. Whatever technical mojo the cocksucking hippie girl had worked in the guts of the island’s network was far too complex for his team to undo without a careful review of the defenses she’d put in place. His best option was to bust the bitch out of the mansion house and put her to work on the problem she’d created, under pain of death if she resisted. Something stirred in his loins, partly a need for violence and partly a manifestation of his vitriol at being duped by a bunch of fucking subordinates. 

The wind shifted in the clearing around him and Fowler looked up to see two parakeets flying to higher branches against the darkening sky. Their cries had a mocking quality, like the teasing voices of children engrossed in some playground power play. Gritting his teeth so hard that they scraped together, Fowler unclipped the holster on his belt and pulled out his sidearm. Using his left arm to support his shooting hand, he pointed the gun at one of the parakeets as it preened itself wantonly like a knocking shop window prostitute. The painted bird disgusted him with its colors and its cries, perched there so high above him. He wanted to blow it out of existence. In a shower of blood and explosion of feathers, the act would announce that he, Chief of Security Fowler, was in charge on this island. 

No hippie hacker was going to get the better of him—how could she even think she’d get away with whatever damn fool plan she’d hatched? And the British girl? She had only been on the island a short while. She was either very naïve or she’d brought some of this bullshit rebellion to the island with her. He suspected the latter was the truth of it, even now she was eroding his order like a poisonous wave lapping against the very fabric of the island. The black kid was in on it too. He was sure of that. His men had been very thorough and there was no other explanation—his own guy,
his own fucking guy
, had snuck into the house with them. He recalled the satisfying crunch the kid’s walkie-talkie had made when Fowler had smashed it beneath his boot, grinding it into the dirt where they’d found it round back. Fowler made a solemn vow to himself—he’d grind the turncoat’s skull into the ground just the same as soon as his men popped the lid on their metal hideout. 

Then, raised voices and movement in the trees separated Fowler from his angry reverie and he turned to see his men approaching with the cutting gear. Alerted by the noisy activity, the parakeets flapped from their branches, chattering excitedly. Slowly, the Chief lowered his weapon and pointed it at the ground. No blood and feathers today. For now, anyhow.

“You took your sweet fucking time. Put your goddamn backs into it!” Fowler yelled, “Set it up over there by the main door. Bitches inside can pay for the damage.”

His men were sweat drenched and flushed from their efforts, their tanks all but empty as they struggled on the last few meters to the house.

Now we can get this party started
, thought Fowler as he finally, reluctantly, returned his pistol to its holster. His mouth craved coffee and his ass needed to be in the pile cushion atop the swivel chair in the warm confines of The Snug. But right now, his men needed supervision—even now, one of them had stopped work and was staring open- mouthed at the treeline.

“I said get it set up! What the fuck is wrong with you…” Fowler began, but then he saw several more pairs of wide eyes locked on the horizon behind him. The Chief followed their gaze and saw what they saw. Streaks of light, rotating like great searchlights across the clouds in the glooming sky. Unbelievable. Someone had activated the goddamn lighthouse. Fucker would be seen for miles around, another nail in the coffin of his regime, another flagrant disregard for the rules.

“Get back to work, all of you!” he hollered, “I want that shitbox open by the time I get back!” Then, selecting three men at random he barked, “You, you and you. Come with me. Keep up!”

As he marched off in the direction of the lights, Fowler pulled out his gun. He made a new vow to himself not to holster it again until he’d restored order to this godforsaken rock.

Stratum granulosum

The condition of the boy infuriated him. It was a far from perfect specimen. No matter, this one would enrich the stockpot ahead of the main ingredient. He took the lad’s body from the hook where it hung limp and heavy beneath the cold, unkind beams of the work lights, lifted it onto his shoulder and laid it down on the gurney.

Taking a fresh scalpel from the bench, he made the primary incision from the tip of the acromion down, being careful to use the belly of the knife not the tip. His wrist remembered the act from countless times before and gave its signature twist around the umbilicus as he sliced. He wiped the scalpel on his apron and put it aside, picking up the heaviest of his cartilage knives. Time to begin reflecting the tissues. A world of interest on the inside, so much more than the drab outer layers, slave to the tyranny of facial expression and superficial physique. He sawed with the knife, using its weight to help him pull the flesh back from the bone all the way up to and over the boy’s chest. He wiped the knife and reverted to the scalpel. Now it was time to work on the abdomen, taking great care to slice layer by layer so as not to perforate the bowel. The silver kiss of the blade caused new lips to open expectantly in the boy’s belly, which puckered open wetly like a flower. The peritoneum incised, he fingered the orifice, making a V-shape to raise the abdominal wall. Just as thousands of others had before, the organs fell away from the outer surface, crouching back as though they knew they mustn’t be cut. He paused, taking in the saltwater bile stench of the lad’s innards, then opened the abdomen fully. He grabbed the heaviest cartilage knife once more and got to work on the chest, cutting through the sternoclavicular joints then sawing at the costal cartilages. The boy was in good shape, supple and young, easy work. Older cadavers could result in calcified costal cartilages, rigid structures like tombstones an epitaph to the specimen’s age. Cutting and prizing against the posterior surface of the sternum, he lifted away the large elongated pyramid of flesh and bone and placed it in a dish on the workbench. Adjusting the lamp, he peered into the deeper mystery of the chest cavity. He used the huge knife again, cutting close to the spine and then used his free hand as a scoop, dipping it into the thoracic cavity. Stringy adhesions stretched and snapped as he lifted the thoracic organs from out of their gory hole. He piled them up on the boy’s neck then stepped back and admired his handiwork. He had usurped the superficial. He was looking at the boy’s true face.