Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

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?”