The Lighthouse, page 15
It’s like a switch has flicked in my brain and suddenly I understand. The world has, to me, always seemed like a series of problems to solve. It’s how I approach everything: methodical, systematic. Jess isn’t like that. She has the burden of creativity, imagination. She pours her energy into cooking and baking because it’s got a formula but there’s art there too, in the exotic flavours and blends of traditions. And that’s why she’s afraid. Raising a child isn’t like baking a cake. It’s not like assembling ten ingredients and artistically blending them to a set of instructions – and only having to wait a couple of hours for the results. Raising a child is terrifying, and you never seem to know you’ve fucked up until it’s too late.
I roll away from the moonlight and the shadows on the glass, feeling something prickle at my back as I do; some sense that I’m exposing myself, which is ridiculous. There’s nobody out there, nobody except us and Genevieve’s ghosts. I loop an arm around Jess’s warm waist and hold her tight.
Slowly I begin to drift to sleep, but my thoughts have been so jumbled that I immediately start to dream. I see shadows when I open my eyes, and a murky underwater world where the outline of a child that looks just like Emma floats below stormy waves. I reach for the child, desperate fingers clawing. My fingers lock around her, both of us freezing and salt-slick. Rocks are jagged underneath, closing in around me, and the cliffs, when we finally surface, icy sea spray in my lungs, are so high that the tops brush the bruised sky. The lighthouse beam searches, pounding, across the water.
I scream. We’re here! Help!
But no help comes. The waves are too much. I’m losing my grip.
Hold on!
But she can’t hold on. I can’t hold either, my fingers too numb. I can’t even cry as the child is tugged from my grasp, the water flooding in where moments before I held her arm tight. I kick and kick, arms propelling me onwards against the waves. I won’t give up. I won’t …
She’s gone.
The water closes in around me. It is heavy, lung-crushing, breath-stealing, as if somebody – something – is sitting on my chest. I cough it in, and it’s not just water; it’s like tar. It is brine and honey-brown sap. I blink. The water is not water any more. I see trees, winter-skeletal. There are secrets within their branches. Suddenly I’m standing below them, the trunks so thick and close together they block out the black sky. My legs are jelly and my lungs ache.
Jess? I call. Are you there?
There’s a figure ahead. I claw my way through between two trees, the bark cutting into my palms. The figure is hunched in the leaves, which are red as blood, oily and multiplying beneath my feet. I glance down and notice that I’m not wearing any shoes – but I can’t feel anything. My whole body is numb.
Jess?
When the figure turns it’s Jess’s face I see, but it’s not her. It’s somebody else wearing Jess’s skin. She holds a pile of books in her hands, even as she crouches in the leaves, even as they twist and slip beneath her feet, rising around her. Are they journals? Recipe books? I can’t tell.
I can’t stay, Not-Jess says. Her voice is car tyres on gravel. The sound of an exit. I can’t be here any more. Tears stream down her face. I’m crying too, big gulping sobs that feel so real, even as I know in the back of my mind that they aren’t.
Don’t go. Stay. Please.
The Not-Jess opens her mouth then and it’s yawning, gaping. The sound that rips from her lips is a sharp knife on a glass cutting board, a wrenching so deep my heart trembles. And then she screams.
My limbs go liquid as I pull myself back to waking. I claw at the buttery sunlight, feel my eyelids peel open as if through glue. My mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof, my throat tight with unshed nightmare tears; my head pounds with the racing rhythm of my heart. I have no idea what time it is but I’m sure it must be late. I feel the soft mattress under my body, the duvet heavy over my knees, and finally, finally my aching lungs release and I draw in a sudden rush of freezing air.
It is so cold. My limbs are numb with it, the terror of that dark, frigid water refusing to leave me. I try to relax but my body is so tense, muscles taut like bowstrings ready to snap, my skin prickled with goosebumps. Why is it so cold? The window is closed, and yet there is an unmistakable draught, icy fingers tracing my spine, the sensation so much like a ghostly presence at my back that I have to move, have to roll over just to check.
I reach back, expecting to find the solid warmth of Jess’s body, soft curves I can wrap my arms around to chase the chill away. But the other half of the bed is empty.
And then the scream happens again.
Pulse thrumming, I haul myself out of bed, legs tangling in the covers, landing on my elbows before I manage to drag myself to my feet. I can’t find my dressing gown so I stumble into the hall still wearing little shorts, my vest top twisted indecently, and I’m still cold. I’m tugging my top round as another scream, more like crying, echoes down the hall.
A bedroom door swings open behind me. And then another. But I’m too busy following the sound of the sobbing to pay attention. I know that sound – would know it even if I hadn’t heard it on and off over thirteen years; I always say our daughter sounds just like Jess when she cries.
The bathroom door is locked. I twist the knob fruitlessly and then bang my palm on the door. Jess lets out another cry.
‘Jess?’
There’s a rattle as she fumbles with the lock and then the door swings open. I tumble inwards as Jess falls towards me and into my arms. She’s rigid, her skin hot – feverish almost.
‘What’s the matter?’ I demand. ‘Jess, what’s going on?’
I’m so focused on checking her over for injuries, that I don’t see it. Her hair is a mess, her skin is pale and her eyes are bloodshot; all of a sudden she looks too thin, like I’ve missed something while I’ve been sleeping. For half a second I wonder if she felt that strange coldness too, if she felt its hands on her spine and if she, too, was indescribably afraid. But then Jess lifts her arm up, finger outstretched, and points, and I realise why she is so scared.
The mirror.
The wall.
‘Come away,’ I say. I’ve got an arm around Jess’s shoulders and I pull her firmly out into the hallway. She stumbles but doesn’t argue, wandering in a daze like she’s been drugged. My chest still aches, as though somebody has been sitting on it all night, but I push the feeling away.
‘What’s going on?’ Kira is standing outside the kitchen in an oversized hoodie. She looks pale, hungover.
Lucas is halfway out of his bedroom and I can see the shape of Genevieve moving somewhere inside. She stumbles out next. James is the last one into the hallway and he looks at me questioningly.
‘Go and see for yourself,’ I snap.
Jess is still crying but it’s a whimper now, more shock than anything else. I lift her chin and force her to look at me. She doesn’t look injured, just scared. Her pale face is even paler than usual, dark smudges under her eyes despite the heavy way she slept last night. I find myself thinking of my nightmare, of the Not-Jess, and I have to fight to force it back.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Kira pushes past us, marching into the bathroom with her hands on her hips, no doubt ready to curse us out for being melodramatic. But then she sees it too and her whole body tenses with anger.
‘What the fuck,’ she says. Not a question.
‘What is it?’ Lucas asks.
‘Was it like that?’ I say to Jess, gently. ‘When you went in?’
She nods. There’s a glassiness to her eyes but she’s not crying now, just letting the truth of it wash over her. I need to take another look. To see it again.
I leave Jess in the hallway and follow Kira back into the bathroom. It’s blindingly white. White tiles, white bath, white sink basin and toilet and walls. The decorations are all twee and seasidey: a little statue of a lighthouse in white and navy stripes and some seagulls on the windowsill; a painting of Ora lighthouse itself, tall and white and brutally gorgeous on the wall. The vibe is so kitschy, so perfectly holiday; that’s why it looks worse, here of all places. Just as bad as when I first saw it.
The mirror is smashed, a spiderweb pattern of destruction across the medicine cabinet. And on the wall, in what looks like chalky-matte Malbec-red lipstick, somebody has scrawled one word.
LEAVE.
22
Kira
For a second I honestly can’t believe what I’m seeing. This kind of behaviour … It isn’t a joke. It’s not even remotely funny. I turn with my mouth open and see my expression mirrored in Moira’s face. Anger and confusion, but most of all a horrible sickness in my belly, because I know that one of us did this.
I march out into the hallway, carelessly shoving Mo out of the way. I don’t care as long as I haven’t hurt her. Jess is still standing with her hands over her mouth, her eyes shining. I march past her too.
‘Everybody,’ I order once they’ve all had their fill peering into the bathroom. ‘Into the fucking kitchen. Now.’
‘Can we just – put some clothes on?’ Lucas asks. It’s the first time I notice that he’s in a T-shirt and boxers.
‘No,’ I snap. ‘Kitchen. Now.’
James makes it in there before I do and flicks the kettle on but I turn it off with an unnecessary slap. He makes a noise – an exclamation of sorts – but quickly realises that I’m not about to apologise and heads towards the table with his shoulders up near his ears.
‘And the rest of you, as well. Sit.’ I point at the table, and slowly it fills. Too slowly. By the time Genevieve sits down, rubbing at her eyes as if I’ve been rude to wake her even though it’s gone midday, I’m overflowing with rage. It’s white and hot and blinding.
‘So,’ I say, as calmly as I can. ‘Anybody want to explain?’
I feel like a teacher and I hate it. Why do I always have to be the one responsible for everybody else? Why is it always up to me? We’re only here because of me, and it’s my name that’s on all of the paperwork with the owners and the magazine. The damages alone …
The silence is deafening.
‘Well somebody must have done it,’ I say. ‘So either you can tell me what happened and we’ll sort it out together or …’ I trail off, waiting.
‘Or what?’ Lucas pulls a face. ‘What’s going to happen, Kira?’
‘Why are you being so defensive?’ I turn on him. He’s sitting back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like it’s not even a big deal.
‘Hey, this has nothing to do with me.’ Lucas doesn’t even bother to shake his head. ‘Why the hell would I do that? I like it here.’
‘This is exactly the sort of thing you’d do,’ I push. ‘Did you think it would be funny? To freak Jess out?’
‘Oh come on. If I wanted to scare Jess I could do it any number of ways – I wouldn’t be writing on walls. And anyway, how would I know Jess would be the first one up? I’m not a child and I resent the implication that I’m the only one who’d do this.’
‘Well who else is it going to be?’
I glance around the table. Nobody will meet my gaze, but none of them look guilty, either. I don’t know what’s worse: knowing somebody deliberately damaged property to score a few funny points, or that they’re refusing to admit it.
‘Hello?’
‘It wasn’t like that when I went to bed,’ Moira says. ‘That was at like … two-ish?’
Jess nods slowly. ‘Same.’
I turn to James and Genevieve, both of whom are staring at the table. James looks confused and Genevieve looks angry. I’m shocked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her face look so dark and it unsettles me, as if I’ve been knocked back by a gust of wind.
‘Guys?’ I say. ‘You both went to bed after me.’
James shrugs. ‘I don’t know what time it was. But …’ he trails off.
‘But?’ I prompt. I feel like my mother and I hate it. This shouldn’t be my goddamn place, and yet here I am.
James hangs his head, dark curls falling forward so that he looks a bit like a child, but that’s where the similarity ends. His stubble is dark and it looks like he didn’t sleep well; he has dark crescents under his eyes. He picks at a bit of skin on his thumb nail awkwardly.
‘Gen was the last one up,’ he mumbles. ‘She was the only one still awake when I went to bed. Well, aside from Mo and Jess but they were busy.’
Genevieve stares resolutely at the table, not even blinking at the accusation. But she’s fuming. I can tell it from the set of her shoulders; the way she’s breathing. I can’t tell if it’s anger at the accusation, though, or at me. It feels pointed, either way.
Lucas sits bolt upright.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he snaps. ‘Really? Jay was the one on about leaving the island. You think Gen did this? Why on earth would she?’
‘I don’t know!’ I throw my hands up in exasperation. ‘Maybe she’s pissed off about everybody telling her to stop going on about folklore and spooky stories? Maybe she’s bored of being here and wants a way out? Or maybe she was trying to scare us.’ Even as I say the words I don’t know if I believe them. I don’t like Gen – haven’t liked her because of Lucas, and because she always seems so perfect – but is that any reason to think she’d do this? But I don’t know her. We don’t know her, not really.
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Lucas says.
Genevieve stays quiet, eyes still trained on the table. I glance at Moira and Jess, imploring them to say something, but Jess just opens and closes her mouth like a fish.
‘I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions,’ Mo says slowly. ‘I mean, there has to be a rational explanation for it. I understand that maybe it seemed funny – when we’d had a drink – but it really isn’t. Genevieve, did you write on the wall? It’s in lipstick—’
‘What’s the use in saying I didn’t?’ Genevieve mutters. ‘You’re all so eager to believe it was me. Why should I waste my breath? You’ve all been talking over me like I’m not here. I would never want to hurt or upset any of you like that.’
‘So it wasn’t you?’ Lucas asks.
‘No,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t me. But Kira’s quick enough to believe it, so why not the rest of you? You don’t know me so it’s easy enough to believe. Point a finger at the newbie.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I snap, even though it’s true. ‘You were the last one in the bathroom.’
‘And it was exactly the same as it’s been the whole weekend when I left it.’ Finally Genevieve looks up. Her eyes are filled with a calm rage. I imagine the vortex of anger swirling inside her. I know it’s there, but I can’t see it now. It scares me that she can bury it so deep. ‘I got ready for bed at about three-ish. I’m not sure exactly, but it was late. I cleaned my teeth and washed my face and went to bed.’
And still I don’t know if I believe her.
‘Well did you see anything?’ James says.
‘Your door was open,’ Genevieve shrugs. ‘For what that’s worth.’
This feels like the truth – but does that mean anything?
‘James?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, my door was open. I was still awake, I think. I heard somebody knocking about in the hall but I didn’t check who it was.’
‘And you didn’t go back into the bathroom?’
‘No!’ James exclaims. ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘This is fucking stupid,’ Lucas mutters. Jess starts talking to Moira in a hushed voice, so quiet I can’t hear what she’s saying over Lucas and then James repeating himself.
‘I didn’t,’ James says again. ‘If there was a way to check, you’d see that I’m telling the truth. I don’t see why any of us would do it.’
‘You’ve been scaring us this weekend, though,’ Jess says, a bit louder than before. ‘You’ve been acting weird.’
James baulks. ‘Why would I smash a mirror? And where the hell would I get lipstick?’
‘You said yesterday that maybe we should leave,’ I agree. ‘Did you mean it? Do you really think we should go?’
‘Yes but I wasn’t going to resort to that sort of thing! Jesus, I just felt uncomfortable, that was all.’ James is sweating, and if I didn’t know better I’d think his hands are shaking because he is nervous. But then he gets up and puts the kettle back on again, as though he needs to keep them busy, and I realise that he actually probably just needs a cigarette. I hadn’t realised I’d not seen him smoking, but now it seems odd. Perhaps he’s been trying to quit and that’s why he’s been so weird.
‘We all need to calm down,’ Moira says.
‘Oh fuck you, Mo,’ I say tiredly. ‘I mean that in the nicest way possible but we need to get to the bottom of this. I’m not about to lose this job because one of you knobheads didn’t think a prank all the way through. We’re not twenty any more. This is a big deal. And it’s not just about a broken mirror and a stain on the wall.’
‘I’m not saying we are still kids,’ Moira says calmly. ‘I’m saying that we’re not going to get anywhere like this, arguing amongst ourselves and flinging shit.’
‘Well we’re not going to get anywhere at all until somebody confesses.’
‘I know I’m not going to convince anybody one way or the other but I swear I didn’t do it,’ Genevieve says. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d want to do less. I love this place! You all know I do.’
‘Truer words never spoken,’ Lucas mutters. ‘You’ve not shut up about it since we got here.’
‘Exactly. Why would I want to leave? Why would I want anybody else to leave?’
‘Well we’re not going to leave, are we,’ Moira points out. ‘Not over this.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Jess shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure I want to stay any more. This is – it’s stressing me out. And with Emma at home …’
