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.
He arrived on deck to find everyone crowded around the cabin. A fair bit of commotion too—what the heck were they all so excited about? He ambled over, his steps slowing as he spotted Idoya’s ass. The supine curves of her butt cheeks framed the dark line of her G-string and he felt himself salivating at the sight, then getting hard at the thoughts it was provoking. He reached into his shorts to try and adjust his erection, make it less obvious. Right on cue, a couple of the crew turned and caught him in the act, hand down his pants tugging at his penis. He flushed as Idoya turned and looked, fixing him with an indifferent look that made him feel all of ten years old.
“What’s going on?” his voice squeaked involuntarily as his heavy Australian accent made a steep curving ascent of the question.
“Distress call,” The Skipper said (sorry! “The Skip”—asshole), “Gonna have to change course, check it out.”
“Looks like you’re in some distress there yourself, mate,” Scott bellowed, pointing at Brett’s crotch. The others fell about laughing.
A pleasure cruise. Relaxing. What a fucking joke. Brett felt his face burning red as he retreated back to the galley to peel some more bloody bastard potatoes.
Self-loathing was closing in on Marla like the clouds that gathered high above her. She’d fled the scene of the crime while her hair was still wet from the shower, unable to face him after their ill-advised tryst. She traced her shitty day backwards in her mind’s eye, through the drunken tumble with Pietro, past seeing Jessie and Adam together in the summerhouse and back to her impromptu disciplinary in Fowler’s office. Yes, a shit-tastic day. She cursed herself for not having the presence of mind to steal Pietro’s cigarettes. As her pace slowed to a brisk walk, her mind drifted grumpily to the handbook Fowler had been so determined she read and digest. He could shove it up his ass. She’d only been on the island a few days and she’d already screwed everything up. Better to just go jogging on the jetty again, and let Fowler’s “security operatives” assist her gently to the floor, guns pointed at her head.
But what then? Her prospects looked pretty dire; go back to a city where she couldn’t get a job with her record, or start over in another country without a single penny in the bank. No, she’d have to stick it out here, do her chores up at the white stucco house every day and keep the hell to herself the rest of the time. What she needed, what she really needed was a place to clear her head—somewhere to think where there weren’t security cameras prying at her every move, where no other Lamplighters could lure her in with drinks, drugs, kisses. As the landscape turned from sandy soil and wild grass to jutting rocks and steep drops, Marla realized she’d found such a place.
A rocky promontory unwound in front of her, its spiny ridges like the backbone of some giant fossilized beast, and there at the end stood the high tower of a lighthouse. Crosswinds opened up and licked at her, invisible tongues sent by the sea to push and pull her into the depths below. She folded her arms tightly against them and walked carefully across the rocks, on towards the lighthouse. The structure seemed to multiply in size as she neared it, towering over her now. It looked drastically older than any of the other buildings she’d seen so far on the island. Patches of leprous lichen crept from the rock beneath her feet and up the peeling walls. Layer upon layer of white paint had peeled back like dead skin flaking from a corpse to reveal the skeleton of stonework beneath. She climbed up a couple of feet onto its foundation, which had been hewn from massive slabs of native rock, and began circling the base in search of a way inside. A door presented itself halfway around the building, loose on its rusty hinges and banging against its frame in the ocean wind, unlocked. Rickety metal steps stained with browning rust led up to the door and they gave a metallic groan as she walked up them. Grasping the equally rusty door handle, rough and cold against the palm of her hand, she pulled the door open and peered into the gloom.