A spiral staircase, dimly lit by tiny portholes in the exterior wall, curved upwards and into the darkness out of view. At the foot of the staircase was a wide puddle of water, green-tinged from the algae that straddled its surface. Marla stepped inside, curiosity fuelling her deep desire to take shelter from the bitter snap of the wind. As she neared the puddle of water a strong stench, of stagnant seawater, hit her nostrils. Her stomach heaved as her senses tried to adjust to the stink. To one side of the puddle beneath the curve of the stairs, a pair of wooden doors were set into the wall. It looked like a closet might be behind them. Marla walked over to the doors and her heart leapt with fright as the rusty metal outer door slammed shut, forced into the act by a strong gust of wind. Turning nervously, her composure still rattled from the shock of the noise, Marla muttered some colorful words under her breath in the general direction of the door. Returning her attention to the closet, she stooped slightly and reached down to try the wooden doors. They opened, revealing a complex spaghetti of tangled wires and cables, looping out of the great metal racks that filled the closet space. Faded electrical warning decals hung peeling off the inside of the doors—they looked ancient, as did the wiring. A blinking light deep inside the confusion of multicolored strands caught Marla’s eye and she leaned deeper into the closet to get a closer look. Her heart froze once again, but not at the door banging this time, but at the hand which grabbed her shoulder. A strong, manly hand with one hell of a grip. She whirled round in terror, reflexes already pushing her hands up in front of her face to protect her from the intruder. Losing her balance, she clattered backwards into the closet doors. Tense moments passed as she righted herself and awaited her fate.
The old man was looking at her with surprise in his eyes. He had a leathery face, with deep-set wrinkles etched around his eyes like a relief map of the rocks outside. But his eyes were somehow younger, bright, alive and thankfully completely non-threatening. Marla wasn’t quite ready to trust him yet though.
“Who the hell are you?” she said, her voice wavering despite her best efforts to sound in control, authoritative. Gone was the voice of the city girl, the one she used to use on cab drivers when she’d had too much to drink, back in the day. “What do you want?”
At this, he chuckled dryly, then said in a soft wheezing voice, “I might ask you the very same young lady. I guess you can tell me over coffee. Just brewing up a fresh pot when I heard the damn door banging again. Needs fixing. Everything needs fixing round here.”
He adjusted his oil-stained blue overalls and started climbing the stairs, beckoning for her to follow.
“Come on up. It’s warmer upstairs. It’s no problem.”
With that, he was on his way up the stairs—sprightly as a young lad, taking two steps at a time and whistling a jolly tune as he ascended to god-knows-where. Marla sighed heavily, her system exorcising the last remnants of the scare from her frazzled nerves. Hearing the howling wind outside, she decided upstairs where it was warmer didn’t sound like too bad a place to be. Following him up the stairs, Marla was greeted by the faint aroma of real coffee. It was a welcome smell after the rank stench of the seawater puddle, not to mention after the kind of day she’d had.
The old timer told her his name was Vincent. She watched as he busied himself with the promised pot of coffee, although it was less a pot and more of a can, an old catering tin filled with dark bubbling liquid atop a little gas stove that spluttered angrily with blue flame. She glanced around his quaint abode, engrossed in its many little details. Seashells and pebbles lay everywhere there would have been bare space, and driftwood, nets and other beach debris gave the impression the tide had recently come in and gone back out again—inside the room. The room itself was surprisingly large. It was the control room for the lighthouse, but it looked as though it had not been used as such for quite some time. Ragged blankets hung over portions of the three-sixty-degree windows that encircled them, moving slightly in drafts as they struggled to keep the elements at bay. Beyond the windows, Marla could see the remnants of a flag fluttering pathetically outside in the growing wind. The flagpole was attached to a gantry, accessible via a metal door—or would have been accessible if not for the huge stack of books leaning up against it. She crossed to the books and scanned some of the spines, many of which were torn, moldy and ruined. Vincent’s library was in a poor state of repair, but contained everything from old encyclopedias to pulp fiction, literary classics and well-thumbed puzzle books. Marla felt like a child in an Aladdin’s cave up here, peering out beyond the treasures at the dark clouds that danced dramatically above the high seas.
“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.”