The bell rings. A proper old ship’s bell hung on a rope, echoing up the steps. But that’s odd because it never rings, there’s never anybody at the door. Those who come to the cliffs look in or rest by the wall but then walk right past on their way to the Head or the Sisters; and those who lurk on the edge at dawn and dusk with thoughts of going over seem to avoid the grey stone tower. That’s the way he likes it. Until he’s stronger. No vacancies, no visitors. Nobody he has to speak to. The lighthouse keeper goes slowly down the spiral of steps, wondering. Down another level, past the desk that is meant to serve as a reception. One day. Maybe. Through the toughened, frosted glass of the new front door he sees a figure in silhouette like a scarecrow: dark, skinny, long-limbed, with a shock of dark, messy hair.
‘I’m looking for my wife.’
It’s the boy from the pub. He doesn’t look drowned any more, but he hasn’t slept, that’s obvious. He’s looking in, trying to see through the darkness of the lighthouse. The boy hasn’t shaved for a while, thinks the Keeper, touching his own stubble. Ah. Yes.
‘You do bed and breakfast, don’t you? Is she staying here?’
He must take the sign down. It went up far too early.
‘Talk to me. What’s the matter with you? Are you shitting me? She’s in there, isn’t she? Sarah! Sarah! I’m here!’ Now he’s shouting. This could get out of hand. On a better day, the lighthouse keeper might have taken the boy in, offered him a cup of tea; but right now, his head is full of his lost love. That wasn’t the boy going past the window just now, was it, with a parachute? No, surely not.
‘Let me see her. Where is she?’
This startling scarecrow tries to push into the lighthouse, and without thinking the Keeper steps across him, accidentally grinding his arm against the wall.
‘Shit, what are you doing? Man! Jesus!’
The boy throws a sudden punch, fist whipping in from nowhere, catching him on the eyebrow, stinging. Bad move. The old instincts kick in. The old training. He grabs the boy’s swinging arm and pulls him in close and tight, their faces almost touching. Hot breath, a fleck of saliva landing on his lip. There is no choice but to speak now. ‘Listen. Understand. She is not here. This place is closed. We’re not . . . I’m not . . .’
The confusion in his voice gives the boy his cue to wriggle free, and he jumps back, bouncing on the step, waving his arms. ‘You hurt me! I’m getting the cops! Sarah? Sarah!’
The Keeper stands with his arms by his sides, waiting for the manic young man to shout himself hoarse. Deep breaths. Someone has to be calm. ‘Please.’ He speaks very quietly, very matter of fact, as he learned to do from policemen and soldiers at crime scenes and in war zones. ‘Let’s start again. What is it that you want here?’
‘Jesus. I want my wife. Sarah. She’s missing. Don’t I know you? Is she in there? I’ve been walking, looking for her, I can’t find her. These hills are so steep. I’ve been walking and walking, she’s not here. I can’t see her, she must be there, inside your place; that’s the only place, there’s nowhere else she can be. Is she there?’
‘I’m on my own.’
‘Sure?’
The lighthouse keeper does not answer but his eyes say yes, trust me.
‘Jack. I’m Jack.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know that? How? Shit! Get her, will you? Just let me talk to her.’
The Keeper tries to fill the doorway. Of course he doesn’t know this person’s name, he was just responding. This is what always happens. Misunderstandings. He’d like to help this Jack, he’d like to help him look for this Sarah, he’d like her to be here . . . but his eyebrow smarts and his head is thumping and he just wants it over, to get this guy out of here, away. ‘Please, go.’
Surprisingly, Jack does. ‘Tell her. I’ll be back,’ he says, stumbling over the gravel, out of the gate, looking back over his shoulder, then disappearing behind a wall. Thank God. The glass is cool against the lighthouse keeper’s forehead. So one man stands in the darkness of his hallway, another slumps in the sunshine, his back against a drystone wall.
Neither sees the other’s eyes filling up with tears.