Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

Waking up with a crick in her neck, Marla realized she must’ve dozed off for quite some time. The sky outside had darkened to an almost green-blue color as the birds chirruped at the sun’s descent. Stretching her arms and back until her neck clicked, she made her way through to the shower room. This too was well stocked, with fresh, fluffy towels and toiletries to replace the ones that security had confiscated. The little bottles were similar to the containers of cleaning products at the main house, plain white plastic with no branding, just some simple text to describe the contents. She opened the container marked “shower gel” and sniffed at it. There was no discernable fragrance to the stuff at all. Oh well, better no fragrance at all than some horrid floral scent she didn’t like, although the latter might help mask the remnants of bleach she could still smell on her skin. Marla turned on the shower and tested the stream with her hand. It warmed up in no time. Naught to toasty in ten seconds . She climbed in and water pummeled her body like a powerful masseuse; this shower was a million times better than the one she’d suffered every day back at the bed-sit. She let the water run down her face as she blinked away embarrassing memories of climbing out the bathroom window and shimmying along the ledge while perverts wolf whistled at her from the street below. Best not think about that one . Marla turned, arched her back and let the warm jet travel up and down her spine. She could really feel the tension being driven out of her now. Another half hour in here ought to do it . Then she heard the whisper.

“Marla.”

The voice was urgent and shocking to her. Again, goose bumps erupted all over her skin. She felt suddenly vulnerable, naked and afraid.

“Marla.”

She turned the shower off and stepped gingerly out onto the tiled floor, grabbing the biggest, fluffiest towel and wrapping it round her body tightly.

“Who’s there?”

Her heart leapt into her mouth as a loud knock resounded on the door. She looked around for something with which to defend herself, the sudden mad image of her brandishing a toilet brush like a weapon flashing into her head.

“It’s me—Jessie.”

Marla opened the door, “Jessie! Christ, you shared the shit out of me!”

“I’m sorry, toots. I’ll wait for you on the porch,” she held up a freshly rolled joint. “Okay?”

Minutes later, dressed in clean jeans and t-shirt, Marla stepped out into the evening air and sat down next to Jessie on the porch. The joint was already lit, the fiery orange tip dancing like a firefly as Jessie passed it to her. Marla inhaled the smoke gently—it smelled pretty potent. She coughed, hard. This was the strongest skunk she’d ever tasted. Jessie laughed at her joyously. Marla started to giggle too, through her coughing rasps.

“Where the hell did you get this stuff?”

“I could tell you,” smiled Jessie, taking the joint back from Marla.

“But then you’d have to kill me, right?”

“Exactamundo.”

What sounded like an owl sang in the distance. Night had arrived.

“How long have you worked here, Jessie?”

“Oh, too long really. I came here just over six months ago. Was bumming around in San Fran with nothing to do, saw the job ad and a coupla weeks later here I was.” She paused for a moment, as if winding down. “Do you like it here, Marla?”

“Yes. Yes I really do.”

“Good. Hold onto that feeling for as long as possible toots.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you like it here?”

“I do… I mean I did, I guess. But after a while, this place just seems to…” She paused. “I’m sorry, it’s your first day. Not fair to put a dampener on things on your first day. My bad.”

“No, it’s okay. Go on.”

“It’s no big deal really. You do any job for a while and it becomes… just a job, y’know?”

Marla nodded quietly. After a while, this place just seems to get to you. Marla felt certain that’s what Jessie had meant to say.

The trees creaked in the balmy air. From the shadows of their trunks, he watched the girls with hungry eyes. They were smoking and talking together, blissfully unaware of his presence. He sniffed at the smell of their smoke, absorbing their pollutants. He would know all of their scents soon enough. And they would know him.

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.