Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

“Got another mug around here somewhere,” Vincent muttered, half to himself, as he clattered around in the cupboards.

Marla watched him reflected in an exposed section of glass as he located a second mug and gave it a good scrub at the sink. She remembered the night she’d watched Jessie making coffee for her in the summerhouse kitchen, the same night she’d seen those cold, hollow eyes watching her through the window. Marla shivered.

“Soon warm up. Have a seat.”

Vincent gestured to a beat up chair next the stove. He placed the steaming mug on an upturned tea chest that served as a coffee table. Next to it was a plate of dry crackers. Marla sat down and picked up the mug with both hands, enjoying the heat as it throbbed into her icy hands.

“Thanks.”

He took a cracker from the plate, bit into it and created a little shower of crumbs.

“Help yourself.”

“I’m okay thanks, coffee will do me fine.”

She looked around the room again. It was a stark contrast from the mansions of the rich on the other side of the island, even from her “servant’s quarters” with their sturdy shutters and home comforts. The dilapidated chair she was sitting in now was much more comfortable than her crappy wicker furniture though, she had to admit. Overall, this place had an earthy charm that appealed to Marla perhaps more than any opulent mansion house ever could.

“Cozy place you have here,” she ventured.

“Ain’t much, but she’s home,” he said, blowing vapor from the surface of his coffee. “Wouldn’t much know how to live anywhere else.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“My whole adult life, feels like. Figured I could get my head clear in a place like this. Met my wife soon after I took the post as lighthouse keeper. But she got sick, died young.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. Ancient history now, all that. My boy lived out here with me for a spell. Good place for a kid to be, I figured, all that fresh air.”

“Your son? He’s on the island.”

The old man snorted. It was a bitter, unhappy sound. “Nope, he left long ago.”

“Back to the mainland you mean?”

His eyes twinkled, as fluid as the puddle downstairs. “He died too, here on the island. Turns out I was wrong. No place at all for a young lad.”

Marla stiffened and took a gulp of coffee, not knowing what else to say or do. The liquid was darker than freshly dug earth and stronger than anything she had ever tasted before. She took another gulp.

“Took his dog out for a walk. Damn thing ran into the ocean, chasing lord only knows what. My boy ran after him, caught hold of the beast, but then they got swallowed up by the waves. Both drowned.”

“How awful. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

The old man sighed. He took a sip of his coffee and blinked the memories from his watery eyes. “No matter.”

“What was his name? Your boy?”

“No matter,” he replied.

Awkward silence clouded the space in the room. Marla looked over to the exposed glass as a shaft of light cut through it. The clouds were breaking.

“Looks like it’s brightening up a little. I’d better get going.”

She stood up and took another gulp of coffee before replacing the mug in the sink.

“I’m really sorry for intruding.”

“Intruding? Not at all. Don’t get visitors up here much, not the polite conversation kind anyway. Just the goddamn uniforms, poking around.”

“Don’t you get lonely, up here by yourself all the time?”

“Sometimes. But you’re never really alone on an island this small.”

“Maybe I can visit another time, read some of your books?”

“Welcome anytime…”

She realized she hadn’t told him her name. “Marla, I’m Marla. Very pleased to meet you Vincent, and thanks for the coffee.”

Vincent stood politely up and Marla shook his leathery hand. She gave him a warm smile, then turned and headed down the spiral stairs.

Listening out for the familiar metallic clang of the door as it slammed shut, Vincent looked out to sea. He found himself hoping young Marla would head back to the mainland before the storms came. You could never really be alone on an island this small and it was no place, no place at all , for the young.

Pietro lit up a cigarette and strode out onto the porch to watch the sky. As the clouds rolled by he realized this was the first time in months he’d seen so many. Weather rarely visited Meditrine Island and so when it did, it became as much a grand spectacle as a fireworks display. He blew smoke through his nostrils, watching the little gray wisps as they appeared to mingle with the heavy cumulous in the sky. Becoming bored of the sight already his thoughts returned to Marla, in particular her smooth skin, pert breasts and firm buttocks. How on earth had he lost his erection with material like that? He wondered how long it would be before she came back to visit him, and how long after that before she ended up in his bed again so he could try again. Not long, he wagered, but even as he thought it he realized how disinterested he already felt towards her. Towards sex in general. Pietro felt more passion for his beloved A.C. Milano than he did for any female. It was true what they said about any lover, absence makes the heart grow fonder. He made a disapproving smacking sound with his teeth as he remembered asking her who had won the European soccer championship. Outrageously, she hadn’t even known who’d played in the final. He’d quizzed her on his other great passion and she’d failed spectacularly on that one too. No I don’t know if U2 have an album out, she’d said mockingly, why do you even care about that?

“Why do I even care about that? Bitch.”

He was speaking aloud to himself now. He spat into the swimming pool defiantly, and then flicked the cigarette in after it. The stub made a satisfying hiss as it hit the water. Fuck it, he’d be cleaning the pool again soon anyway, and again soon after that, and on and on until his dick truly shriveled up and he died. Jessie had been telling him for weeks now to be patient, but he really was all out of patience. Jessie pissed him off anyway, a victim of that dreaded condition he called “Golden Pussy Syndrome”—swanning around the island like she owned the place just because she had a cunt between her legs. He kidded himself for a while that he didn’t fancy her after all, that she wasn’t his type, but what really pissed him off was knowing she was giving blowjobs to the security guards in return for smokes, booze and a bit of substandard weed. When he’d offered Jess his own personal services in return for some cigarettes she’d given him a few packs, but in return for not sleeping with her. Golden Pussy Syndrome . His lips smacked again. At least Marla had seen sense, although it had cost him most of his booze stash to get her panties off. Fat lot of good it had done him. Maybe he should start offering the security guards some mouth-to-cock action in return for some reliable information about A.C. Milano? He reckoned at least a couple of the boys in black were shirt lifters. Hell, even if they weren’t, any hole was a goal right? He groaned and stretched, feeling stiffness and tension in his muscles where there should’ve been post-coital numbness. What he really needed was a swim. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy, a swim. He looked back at the pool, seeing the cigarette butt floating there atop the chemically treated waters, doing backstroke. The clouds suddenly parted, bathing the surface of the pool in sunlight. Shimmering ripples danced across his vision, reminding him the ocean back home. Yes, what he really needed was a swim in the sea . Pietro spat into the pool again and as he watched his phlegm float on the sparkling water he felt himself descending into a funk. Fuck Fowler and his rules, he thought, fuck Golden Pussy Syndrome and her rules too. And with that, he headed back inside to find his swim trunks.