So close.
And yet…
Battered, bruised, shot, bleeding—they were alive and they were together. The winds of fortune were still at their back.
With his hand now to his wounded side, Ben began to mount the stairs.
Aleksey watched him for a moment, thinking about blood. They’d been willing to share death together. This sharing was better.
* * *
The stairs were a wonder in themselves. The spiral brought a sense both of permanence of age and yet fragility of beauty. The handrail was wrought iron, but the inside of the tower and the steps were pale green, a stone that could have been polished granite. The mortar, as Aleksey ran his hands up the wall, was so smooth, so intricately applied, that it was as if the blocks had placed themselves just so without the hand of man. The silence was almost a sound in itself, and it was only in its confining peace that Aleksey realised his ears were no longer ringing from the shot that had sliced him open.
The first landing in the stairway brought them to a storage area. There was no window on this level, so it was extremely gloomy, but they could make out a dripping sou’wester hung on a stout wooden peg with the coat and some boots beneath in a puddle. The room had wooden lockers and some boxes which appeared to be mainly full of tins of food. The next floor was a mirror of the first except for missing the waterproofs, and contained large hobs filled with coal. The third had a window, one of the long, thin slits they’d spied on their first day on the island. The glass was almost smoky with age, but it did let in enough light to see that this floor was an engine room of sorts. There was a winch and oil tanks, some crank handles and chains, but all was silent and still.
The wind and rain beat against the window and the sill was a little damp from condensation. They continued up. Set into the outer wall halfway up the next spiral was a door, as if some mad architect had thought to put an extension on the tower forty feet up, cut a hole for a joining bridge, but then hadn’t bothered to build more. A suicide door?
Only when they cautiously opened it did they understand the full extent of the thickness of the structure. It was a toilet with a washbasin, and it fitted entirely into the hollowed-out wall space.
The next floor also had a window and benefited from weak light spilling up from the floor below, so it was the brightest level they’d come to so far. This was clearly the main living area, as there was a tiny galley and a table with four chairs. And a little man boiling a kettle over a gas stove flame—he was the most interesting feature in the room, but as he didn’t acknowledge them, or appear to be going anywhere, they continued up to the next level. Aleksey didn’t think anything could have held either of them back. It was almost elemental, this pull to climb, to get to the very top, to see what there was to be seen.
Once more there was a door in the outer wall halfway up the next level, and this turned out to be a shower.
The next floor was a bunkroom which held a couple of two-tier bunks. This level too had a window. Ben went into the gloomy little room and ran his hand over one of the old mattresses. ‘They slept four to a room, in these tiny bunks? Huh, look.’ He pulled something from beneath an old blanket. ‘A teddy bear? A lighthouse keeper had a teddy bear?’ The bear had articulated legs, so Ben sat him up on the bed and stared into his amber glass eyes. ‘This is weird, yeah? Is it just me, or is this decidedly weird?’
Aleksey smiled. Sort of. One side worked, anyway. Kissing Ben hadn’t helped much—physically anyway. ‘That there is a munchkin living in our lighthouse with a teddy bear? Yes, I would agree with your assessment of weird.’ He considered the honey-coloured bear, and then took it from Ben, turning it around in his hands. It was heavy, solid. ‘This is a very expensive one. Steiff.’
Ben didn’t seem impressed by this, but he nodded at the bear’s knitted scarf. ‘Plymouth Argyle supporter.’ Aleksey tried a smile again. It was true: the bear, with his scarf and tiny pompoms of green and black, did appear to be supporting Ben’s favourite local football club. He placed him back on the bed but then, with an afterthought, when Ben was turned away examining something else, he tucked him back beneath the blanket, trying not to chastise himself too much for foolishness.
‘Look at this!’ He turned and saw Ben was examining something which appeared to be a miniature record player inside a tiny red leather carrying case. ‘This place is like a museum.’
He curled his lip slightly at the implication in this—that being old enough to recognise a record player made you a museum specimen—but only jerked his head towards the stairs continuing up, and Ben’s eyes flashed with pleasure and excitement.
The next floor was full of stuff apparently related to the lamp workings, none of which Aleksey had any idea about.
The stone steps ended on this level and there was a metal vertical ladder leading up through a hole in the roof.
They climbed.
And then they came out into the lamp room itself.
It was alive. So cleverly was it crafted that even in the last few streaks of the setting sun beneath the purple storm clouds, neither of them could look directly at the lens. They really weren’t all that tempted to. Instead, they opened a glass door set into a metal frame and went out onto the narrow gantry.
Even Ben, who was utterly fearless, reckless and physically indomitable, raised his eyebrows and kept his back to the wall for a moment, until he stepped forwards to grip the rail. A gust almost took him off his feet, and Aleksey could see his knuckles were white where he held on.
It took some considerable courage for him to step out next to Ben. He wasn’t entirely on par given the day he’d already suffered, had a sneaking suspicion he could develop vertigo very easily if the opportunity arose, but obviously wasn’t about to allow any of this weakness to show. The latticed framework seemed relatively sturdy, so they stood side by side in utter wonder. The squall they’d seen from the boat had moved off to the south and sheets of grey rain fell draping over the ocean from its bruise-black heart, darkening the sky in that direction. But to the west, where they faced, there was a hint of indigo blue where the setting sun was sinking into the vast, endless horizon. They walked around to the lea of the tower which faced over the island, and Aleksey bent down, resting his arms on the rail, surveying everything.
It was a miracle, a dream made manifest. Laid out in front of him was his mental map brought to life. Directly below was the slope leading down to Ben’s Bottom. He could locate Guillemot House by a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, and from that could work out where the garden must be, Kittiwake, and the coves.
He couldn’t decide whether the island looked bigger or smaller from up here. More precious, definitely.
Suddenly, they heard a shout, and both peered down to see two of the soldiers staring back up at them. One of them raised his Walther and fired off a shot. They didn’t even bother to dodge. With an accurate range of about thirty feet, there was no way they’d be in any danger whatsoever from such a display of hubris. But it was highly entertaining to see this level of fury. If he were alone, or not Lord of Light Island with attendant dignity to maintain, he might have tried pissing on them, just to see if he could.
He almost sympathised with their wrath, and wondered if the men were plotting gliders or scaffolding.
Apparently, they didn’t need to.
They were setting up an observation position.
