Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

“You’ve been out, old man. We know this, and you know this. Our cameras have seen you, skulking around the island in your oilskins. We can’t have cameras everywhere though. You know that too, don’t you?”

Vincent’s leathery skin gathered itself around the meat of his eyes and mouth and he half-coughed, half-cackled as he tried to speak. Some nonsense about his “child”. Fowler was growing ever more impatient.

“Where’s Anders? Where’s the German girl? We know she visited you here, at this lighthouse. Brought you books.”

Fowler recalled the day he filed his report with the Consortium about the missing girl. Accompanying the report were his concerns about the sightings of a man walking the island at night. All efforts to intercept the unauthorized intruder had been fruitless. The mystery man knew the island like the back of his hand—that much was certain. Fowler could only conclude it was the lighthouse keeper who was prowling the island after dark. It was a fair assumption he had something to do with the missing girl but he’d need authorization from The Consortium to carry out a full investigation. When this authorization was denied him, he’d followed his ensuing orders to the letter of course; keep it hush-hush, forbid his men to mention the matter on or off the island, and induct the new recruit, Miss Neuborn. He knew The Consortium Inc. had to protect its interests and he was in no position to contradict its ruling. So he went on, he knew his place. But now Anders was missing. His best fucking guy. Looking into the old man’s eyes, Fowler was at absolute breaking point. His blood boiling, he stood up and poured vitriolic words like hot oil into the man’s face.

“No more, you old fucker, d’you hear me!? No more, no more! You must think I’m a blind man. Walking around this island like you damn well own the place…”

Fowler glanced at Pietro’s corpse, laying contorted like roadkill on the cot bed. Vague excitement throbbed in his crotch as he replayed the image of the boy twitching beneath the pillow while Vincent pushed down on him, hard.

“Just show me where Anders is, old man. Tell me what happened and I’ll let you live. I’ll turn you over to The Consortium on the mainland and…”

The old fellow’s ears pricked up at that word, “mainland”. Gurgling like a baby, his head fell forwards and he tried to speak. It was a grotesque sound, like maggots against the lid of a tin.

“In therrrrground…”

“What’s that? Speak up old man. Tell me where you take them.”

“I dugawhole…in therrrrground… I’llshowyou…”

Fowler gave his men the nod. They untied the bleeding lighthouse keeper, hoisted him to his feet and dragged him towards the stairs.

Now he was getting somewhere.

The stale air in the control room had been so thick with the scent of blood, sweat and mildew that Fowler felt blessed to be outside, his nostrils gorged on fresh island air. Up ahead, two of his men had Vincent by one arm each. His wrists were still tied behind his back, to make things difficult for him should he try to break free and make a run for it. Fowler studied the old man in the same way a young child might study road kill on a country road. The old buzzard was staggering as they climbed the gentle slope beyond the outhouse. He looked the worse for wear after Fowler’s interrogation, blood congealing around his ruined fingertips, bruises ripening like fruit in the afternoon sun. Fowler felt a pang of something in the deep heart space within his chest—remorse? Or concern that his superiors might question his methods? He slowed his pace until he was standing still for a few moments as he attempted to identify the strange feeling. He closed his eyes and reached out for it, nerve endings desperate to entwine and fuse with his consciousness. But just as he felt a glimmer, a flutter above his ribs, the sensation was gone and there was nothing left but the machine pulse of his heartbeat. The functional rhythm provoked him into walking again and he hurried his pace in order to catch up to his men and their bedraggled prisoner. No, Fowler was getting somewhere at least and that was all he really cared about. It felt good to be out of The Snug, marching in the fresh air, marching towards the truth of the matter. Whatever he found there would surely justify his methods and curry favor with his superiors at The Consortium Inc. Wiping perspiration from the terrace-like furrows in his forehead, Fowler squinted into the golden sunlight with what looked very much like a grin on his face.

Vincent was on the verge of collapse, delirious from torture and exhausted by the unexpected hike. Suddenly, he stopped dead still and leaned against his captors pointing with a single outstretched trembling finger into the middle distance. Fowler and his men followed the line of the old man’s arm and peered out into a ring of scrubby bushes on the headland. Shoving the twitching man forward, he staggered ahead before falling to his knees. He pointed again, twisting his neck painfully and mumbling gibberish at Fowler through dry, cracked lips.

Ignoring Vincent’s mad ravings, Fowler pushed past him and his personnel and peered over the low bushes. The headland gave way into a natural dip, green with grass and dotted with color here and there from wild fauna. Looking out to sea for moment, Fowler began to realize the significance of the spot. Zigzagging down the slope, he proceeded to the edge of the headland, which afforded a clear view of a rocky cove below. To the west lay the lighthouse, which confirmed Fowler’s suspicions—this land lay directly above the spot where Vincent’s son had disappeared beneath the water all those years ago. Turning and looking up at Vincent at the top of the slope, Fowler saw the haunted look in the old man’s eyes. Then he noticed something, a pile of branches and bracken strewn across the ground a short few meters away. What had the crazy old bastard been doing up here? Tearing the branches and bracken away, aided by one of his men who skidded down the slope in order to help, Fowler took a step back to better appreciate the old man’s handiwork.

“An empty hole?” Fowler’s voice was strained with exertion, or anger, or both. “So you dug a fucking hole? What is the meaning of this?”

At a gesture from Fowler, the remaining guard shoved the old man roughly down the slope and onto his knees.

“Was this meant for the girl? For Anders? Speak up!”

Wide-eyed and ranting, Vincent looked up at the security chief imploringly, spitting the words out of the tunnel of his mouth.

“My grave. I…been…digging my grave.”

Fowler looked on as his man removed more of the branches, revealing the true size of the lighthouse keeper’s insane project. It was indeed a grave, around four feet by six and at least eight deep. A brief burning phantasm pierced Fowler’s skull—the image of the German girl and at least a dozen livid others, all piled up together naked and dead in the hole. His penis twitched like a dying bird, tethered inside his underclothes. But then the image was gone and there was just the smell and the color of the earth and the pitiful sobs of the old man.

“Bury me here, I beg you. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore…”

The final disappointment crept into every fiber of Fowler’s being like a wasting disease. Vincent had been sneaking out at night, this was certain, but for what? To dig a grave—his own deep, tragic grave—on a hill overlooking the place where his son drowned. There were no digging tools in sight, not a pick or a shovel. Fowler glanced at Vincent’s hands, remembering how filthy his fingernails were before his men set to work on them. He must have carved out this sad little abyss with his bare hands, night after night, for year upon year. Fowler felt like crying, but not from pity, no not from that.