Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

The very air she breathed seemed to cool as Marla moved through it, stomping past the house where she’d been dutifully scrubbing earlier, across the track she’d jogged along in the morning and on towards the sea. She still felt disturbed by the sight of the dead bird, pinned out like that against the wall of the house. Perhaps more so, she also felt deeply resentful about Jessie and Adam’s tryst, and foolish at the same time for feeling that strongly about it. Recalling the quiet times she’d enjoyed with Adam these last few days, drinking coffee outside the summerhouse, she did feel she had good reason to feel betrayed, however. Well, perhaps betrayed was too strong a way of putting it but she certainly felt she’d been made a fool of. Rejection she could take, that was one thing, but to be humiliated like this was more than she could bear. Walking on, her foul mood clinging to her like the cold clammy shower curtain from her bed-sit, Marla found herself approaching familiar ground. The path wound its way down the rough terraces of the headland and on towards the beachfront, which lay beyond the white stucco giant and its gardens up ahead—Pietro’s place.

She’d found him in the garden sunbathing half naked beside a large palm tree, the shadow of a huge leaf creating a dark tribal tattoo on his olive skin. He’d invited her inside for a drink, and a few more drinks later ( no smoothies this time, the real stuff ) saw them both half naked, rolling around tipsily on the huge bed in the main house. She bit his lip drunkenly as they kissed and dug her fingernails a little too hard into the muscular flesh of his back. He knows what this is, Marla thought mischievously as she straddled him and began pulling at his shorts, he knows this is revenge sex. But he doesn’t care and neither do I. Her aggression was doing nothing to pacify him and she could feel his arousal through the drunken haze. Marla had not had sex for quite some time and Pietro’s enforced abstinence had gone on for even longer it seemed. She kissed him and bit him again, a little bit harder this time. To her delight, he began to fight back with passion more than equal to hers, as the rest of their clothing fell away. The rest was an alcoholic blur.

A sick feeling in her stomach woke her—that and the violent need to pee. She lurched from the bed, head swimming, still under the influence of all the alcohol she’d knocked back. Never mix your drinks, idiot . But Marla had already begun to blame Pietro, wishing upon him the worst hangover Bacchus could visit. The room smelled stale. Afternoon sunlight bled into the room from gaps in the blinds like a sick breath. Glancing back at the bed she saw Pietro lying there face down, one arm dangling over the side of the bed like a broken wing as he snored softly. A used condom lay on the floor near his fingers, giving the impression that a vile worm had shed its skin there. Marla’s face wrinkled in disgust at the sight. She looked back at Pietro coldly—he looked like a corpse lying on a mortuary slab, dust motes swirling around him aimlessly in the queasy yellow light. Fighting her bladder’s desire to open up the floodgates right there on the bedroom floor, Marla quickly gathered her clothes and clutched them to herself tightly, concealing her nakedness. Stealing down the hallway as quietly as possible, she closed the bathroom door behind her and relieved herself. She was about to get dressed when she suddenly smelled Pietro’s scent all over her. With the smell came memories, indecent flashes of their aggressive coupling before she’d passed out from the alcohol. Dreadful suspicions about what he may have done to her while she was unconscious sprang into her mind, but she reminded herself he had been as wasted as she was. Unless he was feigning inebriation. She felt suddenly dirty, sullied by what she’d done in anger, ashamed of making such a scene. Moments later she was scrubbing herself clean in the shower, muttering under her breath that she shouldn’t have come here, that she certainly shouldn’t have slept with him. Her tears mixed with the hot water and trickled away with it down the plughole and into the silence and black of the sewage system.

Pietro awoke at what sounded like a clap of thunder but was in reality the main door to the house slamming shut. He stretched and yawned dryly, wondering where he’d left his cigarettes before he’d gone to bed with Marla. She’d spared him from the boredom of small talk, he’d known why she had come the instant he saw her, but he hoped to God she hadn’t taken his fucking cigarettes with her. Frustration and shame wound a tight knot in his stomach as he remembered losing his erection moments before Marla had passed out on the bed. He recalled flipping her unconscious form over and trying again from behind before he too passed out from the excess of alcohol. He reached over the side of the bed and grabbed the used condom off the floor, checking it to be sure. It was devoid of semen, a sad, pathetic thing shriveling up in its own spermicidal lubricated juices. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never had this kind of problem before. Not before coming to this godforsaken island, anyhow. He pictured the island now as a great sponge, slurping up all his energies greedily, leaving nothing for him except a list of tedious chores to do and long dull hours staring out at an ocean he was forbidden to swim in. Where the Hell were his damn cigarettes?

“I thought you said this cruise would be relaxing,” Brett said as he peeled his umpteenth potato. Scott just looked at him, blankly.

“It is.”

Brett hissed through his teeth. Cooking, cleaning, hoist the sail, drop the sail—none of it was relaxing.

“It’s so fucking not! I was having a great time at the resort, picking up girls, partying every night. Where’s the bloody party on this tub, eh?”

Scott rolled his eyes. If he looked like he’d heard this from Brett a thousand times before, it was because he had. All the dude did was complain about something or other. If you gave him a beer, he wanted a glass of champagne—if you passed around a joint, he wanted a damn bong hit instead. There was just no pleasing the guy. Throw him overboard, toss him a lifesaver and be done with him. Scott fought not to lose his temper, an argument was probably what Brett wanted, a pathetic way to ease his boredom.

“Look, we have to earn our keep here, this is the real deal not some package tour. We’re crewmembers and we have to do our share mate, fair and square.”

Crewmembers. Brett scoffed at this. It had been Scott’s wet dream to work on a boat like this since they’d met at school. Only he wasn’t allowed to refer to it as a boat, it was a yacht. Just like he wasn’t allowed to bring any dope or pills along with him. In case The Skip found out and made them swim home. Who the fuck called himself “The Skip” anyhow? Fucking asshole. Brett snarled with amusement at the memory of a kid’s TV show from his youth, Skippy the Bush Kangaroo . Oh, wait a minute though, Scott hadn’t quite finished.

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

But Scott was leaving the galley now, he’d said his piece, leaving Brett to bitch and whine in there all on his lonesome. Best place for him.

Brett threw the peeling knife into the sink in disgust. The only reason he’d gone along with Scott’s idea of a pleasure cruise anyway was so he could get to know Idoya a little better. She was a ripper—beautiful tanned skin, long dark hair, deep hazel eyes. She’d given him all the signals too, back at the marina over cocktails, but since boarding she’d developed a kind of superiority complex, as if she knew that she could have any guy on the yacht whenever she wanted. Which was probably the truth of it of course, but if so then why on earth give him the come-on? Wasn’t bloody fair. Now he was stuck on this shitty fucking boat for the best part of a week when he could be living it up on the mainland. Frustrated, he decided to go topside for some air. Maybe she’d be up there in her bikini—at least his eyes could get lucky today, even if none of his other organs could.