Frazer Lee: The Lamplighters

“Good. We have quite a drive I’m afraid, so just relax and enjoy it. There’s a boat waiting that’ll take you to the island. The exact location has to remain…”

“Confidential, I know.”

Back in London, Marla had looked Meditrine Island up on every website she could find. It simply didn’t exist—not on any map. Even Google Earth couldn’t find it. Doubt had begun to set in, so Marla asked about it when The Consortium had called to confirm travel arrangements. “Meditrine Island” was merely a name, the friendly voice had assured her; the island could only actually be identified by its registration number, latitude and longitude. “Please understand The Consortium’s need for secrecy,” the friendly voice had implored. “The assets of our clients would be under considerable risk if every Tom, Dick and Harry knew where the island was located.” If Marla had any doubts, the voice went on, they could cancel her flight at any time. Reassured, Marla had told them that wouldn’t be necessary. Let them keep their secrets , she thought, and I’ll keep mine .

Through her sunglasses, Marla watched the gray airport warehouses and car parks give way to green countryside. For a moment, the sun slipped behind a cloud and Marla shivered, remembering her vile neighbor Mr. James. Then the sun blazed back into the blue sky, warming away the gooseflesh on her arms and bathing her face in its warming glow. She vowed that would be last time she’d think of that horrible man, or her horrible past.

The past. She had considered calling her “mother” before jetting off, of course. She’d found herself standing at the payphone at her bed-sit, calling card in hand, scrap of paper in front of her with the number written on it in fading ink. Marla had even picked up the receiver, just for a second, before returning it to its cradle. From the cradle to the grave , Marla had thought bitterly, recalling a song she’d once heard at a club with Carlo. No, relations with her final pair of foster parents had ended very badly. Best to leave them that way rather than re-establish contact and then make them end even more spectacularly. What would she have said anyway? Hello Mrs. Gore, it’s Marla, remember that fuck up of a foster daughter you couldn’t wait to get rid of? Well, I got a job. A job on a faraway island… They would just assume she was high again, or finally being sent to jail for her latest heinous crime. No, it was better to lock up the past and throw away the bloody key.

“We’re here.”

Welland’s tones cut through her thoughts like the very voice of reason. He slowed the car to a halt and half-stood, pointing over the windshield into the distance. They’d arrived at a small harbor. The faint ding-ding of bells rang their greeting. Sun kissed the water, twinkling into the ocean’s distance.

Marla looked out to where Welland was pointing and saw the speedboat, huge, sleek and black like his car. He had to be kidding .

“Your chariot awaits.”

She looked wide-eyed at the impressive vessel. Its name had been painted on the front side, Sentry Maiden .

Welland took Marla’s rucksack from the boot of the car and handed it to her.

“This is as far as I go,” he said. “Island Security will look after you now.”

“Thanks for the ride,” said Marla, “You’re not tempted to take some time off? Sunbathe?”

“Oh, believe me I am sorely tempted,” he replied, “But alas, duty calls. Catch a few rays for me, will you?”

Marla nodded. He turned back to the car, then paused.

“And have fun. But work hard .”

His eyes shone for a moment before he replaced his shades. As the car roared away, Marla heaved the rucksack onto her shoulder and made her way over to the boat.

A heavy-set man dressed in a black, almost military, uniform waited for her at the foot of a steel ramp leading to the deck area. Rather uncomfortably, Marla clocked the holster on his belt. He was carrying a pistol. She’d been in London for so long, this was the only gun she’d seen outside of the airport.

“Miss Neuborn, I’m Anders, security operative over at Meditrine Island. I’m here to ensure your safe passage to the island. Your safety is my priority. My other priority, of course, is to safeguard the island. So, I’m afraid I’ll have to take you through a quarantine procedure before you board.”

“No problem. No problem at all,” said Marla. This was getting kind of surreal.

Anders led Marla to a low building adjacent to jetty where the boat was moored. Stopping at a thick glass door, he took a plastic card from his belt and swiped it through a reader. The little LED light on the reader turned from red to green, there was a loud click and the door opened. Marla followed him inside and down a dimly lit corridor to another door. He used his swipe-card again and led her into a clinically white room. A long bench ran the full length of the wall at waist height. Anders closed the door behind them, then produced a pair of white rubber gloves from some secret pouch attached to his belt and snapped them on.

“If you’d like to place your bag on the bench please.”

It was more of an order than a request. Marla did as she was told and watched as Anders leaned over the bag as though he was going to launch into an impromptu exercise routine. Instead, he loosened the straps and drawstrings and began rooting through Marla’s rucksack. She averted her eyes with awkward embarrassment as he hit a deep seam of underclothes. Unflinching, Anders continued his search of the main compartment until all her clothes and belongings were lined up on the bench in a parade of shame. Making his way through the side pockets and buckled top compartment, he stopped and pulled out her toiletry bag, then her personal music player. He stood and held both items aloft in his hand. Marla suddenly felt like she’d been caught with a full bag of drugs at some seedy border crossing. Tiny headphones dangled in front of her, conspiring with her toiletries against her.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to confiscate these for the duration of your stay, Miss,” snapped Anders, “The rules state that no liquids, gels, or other cosmetic items are allowed onto the island.”

“But—how will I wash? What about my make-up?”

“Toiletries will be provided from the island’s stores. You will have no need for make-up,” said Anders, “In addition no personal electronic device is to be taken onto the island by any employee, no matter how innocuous.”

“I thought the rule only applied to phones, laptops, that kind of thing.”

“That’s fine. Your belongings will be returned to you on completion of your contract.”

That’s fine. Easy for you to say when you don’t use eyeliner . One thing was certain—she’d be going on a spending spree as soon as she got paid. She watched Anders take her music player and little toilet bag, separating them out and placing them into a plastic storage box a little further along the bench. She was going to miss her music almost as much as make-up. Thank God I didn’t pack an electric razor, all Hell would break loose.

Anders dropped suddenly into a squatting position, again looking like he might launch into an impromptu workout. He rooted beneath the bench and pulled out a cylindrical container, like a fire extinguisher but smaller. Returning his attention to the bag’s contents, he pointed the nozzle of the cylinder at Marla’s clothes and began to spray them with a fine white mist.

“Hey! What the hell?”

The mist smelled awful, like neat bleach. Marla had no desire for her clothes to smell of bleach. Anders continued spraying, like an automaton in a factory.

“What are you doing to my clothes? That stuff smells horrible!”