Five Parts Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

in dire straits, he records the equivalent of a 000 emergency call, hoisting a signal flag from the lighthouse: Whisky—require medical assistance .
    Three weeks later the handwriting changes again. Another keeper, maybe Mr Bellows as second in charge, writes:
    Captain Wilton very unwell today. His mind is wandering at times.
    A boat passes—but too far away to signal. The captain and his daughter must have been freaking out.
    SEPTEMBER 11
This day Captain Wilton scarcely can speak. He is apparently dying.
    S EPTEMBER 12
Began with moderate winds and fine clear weather. Wind at south. At 4, wind SE. At 6–11 put out the lights. At 8 wind NE by N. At noon NE. Captain Wilton still alive but appears to be going fast. At 5h 45m lighted up…
    SEPTEMBER 13
Begins fresh breezes and cloudy weather ESE. At 4 ditto with wind shifting to the northward. Put out the lights at 6h 10m. Wind NE. At 8 ditto weather. At 11h 45m Captain Wilton died. At noon ditto weather. At 4, wind north. At 5h 48m lighted up…
    I’m gobsmacked. There were only ten people in this godforsaken place, ten! The head keeper, the boss, died from an infected wound only months after they arrived and his death barely rated a mention in the logbook! All we get is a note in the margin that the other keepers buried the captain near the path to the lighthouse. And Mr Bellows reported changing the signal flags to Victor— require assistance . The lazy prick must have been desperate for a replacement keeper so he didn’t have to work extra shifts.
    I close the log and teeter over to the desk to put it away. The wind moans around the lighthouse and I shudder, thinking of the captain’s daughter, orphaned and waiting for a boat to rescue her. Where would she go with no friends or family to turn to? I mean, the loneliness here is absolute. It’s totally crushing. No wonder people go mad…or can’t see a way forward. My pulse pounds. My breathing is shallow and urgent. Shit. Shit. Shit.
    I get to the door and shove it open. Retrieve my fallen crutch and plod swing, plod swing, plod swing, gaining speed until I’m lurching down the hill to the cottage, way too fast for a cripple, but hey, who’d give a rat’s if I fall?
    My foot fires volleys of protest along my leg, into my hip. My armpits ache. I struggle to the bathroom, throw back a handful of painkillers and stumble to my bedroom.
    I’d give anything to talk to someone right now. Anything. Anyone. No one.
    I pray to the drugs. Bring on the black.
    Please.

K: DESIRE TO COMMUNICATE
    The girls shake me awake. The room spirals. I hear Mel’s voice: ‘Wake up, slacker! You’re sleeping your holiday away.’
    And Pip: ‘Go easy on him, Mel.’
    I unshackle myself from another ugly dream, grimace, blink and glance towards the foot of my bed. Nothing there. Then I spot my crumpled reflection in the window opposite. I look like a ghost.
    Pip takes charge. ‘Mel, would you mind getting some water?’ Pip waits for Mel to leave and then stoops and looks into my eyes. ‘Are you okay? Did you take something?’
    The room careens like the ferry. I lean forward, resting my head in my hands to steady myself. ‘Painkillers… maybe a few too many.’
    My words slur but Pip seems to understand. ‘You look awful,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’
    â€˜I…I don’t…’
    Mel prances back into the room with the water, sloshing some on my knees.
    â€˜My God,’ she trills, ‘did you get on the turps or something?’
    â€˜Why don’t you piss off? Go on. Both of you.’
    Pip recoils as if I’ve slapped her. I hate myself for the hurt I see in her eyes. She opens her mouth as if she’s going to give me a serve but holds fire and backs away, mute. Mel rolls her eyes and follows Pip from the room.
    The wind slaps the window and groans, triggering a