Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘Yes. And then drop…’

‘What?’

‘Just drop…That’s it…’

She struggled to get the whole image into focus.

‘Drop what ?’

‘You just did it. Your hand…’

‘Where? Here?’ He dropped his hand still further. ‘Like this?’

‘No. You just…’

She took another step back, ‘Yes. Good. Perhaps lift it a little higher now…And if you could just twist your…’

‘It should actually be possible,’ he sniped, ‘if you’re going about this intelligently , to sort all these details out from your end.’

‘But you’re so much taller than Fleet, and it’s…’

Dory dropped his arm and strode towards her.

‘This is stupid. You go and pose and I’ll take the picture…’

‘But I don’t…’

Elen hated being photographed.

‘We can wipe it,’ he insisted, coolly gauging her displeasure. ‘It’ll be fine . I just want Fleet to get the gist of what I’m trying to do here…’

Elen went to stand in front of the lighthouse. She held out her hand. Dory carefully shifted around and angled the camera. ‘Big smile.’ Elen smiled, weakly.

He took the shot. He waited for the shot to reconfigure. He stared at the screen. The picture appeared…

Shit

He blanched at the dark circle of bruises on her outstretched wrist. He quickly pressed ‘delete’, muttering something under his breath about the battery running low, then turned the camea off.

It took half an hour of concerted effort to cajole the boy to the top. Dory led the way. Elen supported from the rear. Fleet was squeezed in between them — the jam in their sandwich.

The real problems started on the second floor when the wind suddenly rose and the skies opened up. Sheets of rain slammed fiercely into the walls and against the small, deep-set windows which allowed neat squares of natural light to flood on to the stone stairwells.

Fleet became convinced that the lighthouse was unstable, that the lighthouse was rocking , that it might conceivably fall —then blow away; fly down the beach and into the sea, like a hollowed-out lobster shell. Elen tried to distract him with the choice selection of ancient artefacts on display—‘See how different this old lighthouse used to look, Fleet? Before they painted it?’—but Fleet wasn’t willing to be distracted.

‘I don’t like it, Mama,’ he bleated. ‘It’s going to fall over. I’m dreadful frighted. I want to go down.’

‘But when you get to the top,’ she told him, ‘you’ll be able to see for miles and miles. All the little boats out to sea. All the little houses…’ she paused, deviously. ‘In fact you may even be able to see Michelle , sitting in the car…’

His eyes suddenly lit up.

‘And will Michelle be able to see me , Mama?’

‘Very possibly, yes. If she’s looking the right way…’

‘ Really? ’

His face broke into a smile.

‘Absolutely. And I’ll tell you what else we’ll do…’

‘ What?! What else ?’ he interrupted her, jumping up and down.

‘We’ll wave at her. Very hard — like this…’

Elen waved, maniacally. Fleet squealed his delight.

‘And will Papa wave, too?’ he gasped.

‘Of course he will. You’ll wave at Michelle, too, won’t you, Dory?’

Elen turned to face her husband with an expression of mute appeal. ‘Dory?’

Her eyes scanned the room. Dory had disappeared. She paused, frowning, then tipped her head and listened carefully. Above the snarl of the wind and the rain she heard the clatter of footsteps rapidly resounding — like distant cannon fire — on a higher level.

‘And will we say anything to her?’ Fleet wondered.

‘Pardon?’

Elen focussed in on the boy again, distractedly.

‘Will we say anything to Michelle, Mama?’

‘To Michelle?’ Elen struggled to maintain the light tone in her voice. ‘Yes. Of course we will. We’ll say, “Hello, Michelle! Look! We’re up here! Hello, Michelle!” and then we’ll all wave our hands again, like this …’

She waved. Fleet copied her, using both hands, laughing uproariously.

‘So shall we go now?’ he gasped, eager to set off again.

‘Yes, let’s.’

Elen turned grimly towards the stairwell. Fleet skipped on ahead of her — to the foot of the stairs — and then commenced a mad scramble up.

‘Not too fast , Fleet,’ she tried desperately to wrangle him, ‘and do take care. And always make sure to hold on to the rail …’

‘ Yes , Mama!’ he hollered back, then: ‘Hello, Michelle! Hello, darling Michelle!’ he trilled.

The last flight wasn’t curving, but straight, and not stone, but steel; little more than a reinforced ladder.

As they started to climb, the sound of the rain striking the large, glass dome directly above them reached a noisy crescendo. But then half-way up, it just stopped. The wind dropped. The storm — it seemed — had blown itself out.

‘Take your time , Fleet, keep it steady…’ Elen panted after him, struggling not to snag her feet in the fabric of her skirt.

The boy — like a tiny, hyperactive monkey — scrambled effortlessly to the top. He whooped. He ran around the huge glass lamp, screaming. Elen carefully eased her way up behind him.

‘Fleet!’ she gasped. ‘Calm down! Stop running! The floor’s a little damp. Just try and be careful …’

She glanced around her, anxious for any evidence of her husband, but there was none. Just to her left, however, was a hatch — a tiny door, which had been left slightly ajar (a small pool of water had formed just inside of it, on the floor). The hatch led out on to a thin, steel and wire balcony which — from what she could see — traversed the entire circumference of the dome.

‘Can we go out and see Michelle now, Mama?’ Fleet asked, pointing eagerly to the hatch (he’d already realised that he was too short to see through the windows properly).

‘I suppose we can,’ she said, dubiously, ‘but only if we move very slowly, very carefully. Mummy will go out first and then you can follow…’

She eased her way through the hatch, then turned and guided the boy.

‘Where’s Papa?’ the boy asked, gazing around him, apparently unfazed by the fact of being suspended — quite precariously — hundreds of feet up.

‘Uh…’

She tried to steady her breathing. ‘Hold on to my hand now. I think he must be a little further…’

She led him, slowly, to the right, her back pressed up hard against the masonry. Then–

‘ WAAAGH! ’ the boy suddenly lunged forward, with a roar.

Elen’s heart nearly jumped from her throat. ‘ Fleet! ’ she shrieked, grabbing on to his hand still harder. ‘Don’t do that!’

‘But look , Mama!’ the boy squealed. ‘It’s Phlégein! Down there!’

He pointed, exultantly. ‘See, Mama, see ? Just flying round and around! He can’t find us up here!’

The boy flung himself — for a second time — at the thin, metal rail. ‘ Wooo-hooo! ’ he bellowed, then he ducked.

‘Fleet. Fleet …’ Elen struggled to attract the boy’s attention. ‘If you don’t calm down we’re going straight back inside again. D’you hear?’

‘What’s Papa doing?’ Fleet asked, unpeturbedly, from his squatting position.

‘Pardon?’

‘ Papa …’ he repeated, pointing.

Elen turned. Further to their left, down on the floor, huddled into a poignant ball: Dory. He was soaking wet. He was sobbing uncontrollably. He was shivering.