“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.
Fowler sighed and ordered his man to hand over his pistol. The boy looked wary, nervous even, as he unclipped the weapon and passed it to him. Opening the chamber to reveal the dead brass eyes of the bullets within, Fowler removed all but one of them. He snapped the weapon shut and gently handed the remaining bullets to the gun’s owner.
The old man’s sobs subsided at the sound of the gun’s mechanism snapping shut. Fowler sneered down at Vincent, who peered out over the headland, listening to the sea. The old codger looked like he would welcome death's release. His face had taken on a serenity that defied the bludgeoning it had endured. Fowler didn't like that face.
With a sickening thud, Fowler knocked Vincent out using the butt of the gun and shoved him headlong into the open grave. He tossed the pistol in after him.
A single bullet. The old man can have his wish. He can bury himself for all I care, thought Fowler emptily; I’m done with him.