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Authors: Richard Herley
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fallen away; none of the windows in the turret had
survived.
At one time a deep-cut concrete road had led
up to the light from a jetty in Crow Bay, but Houlihan had
half-filled the road with rocks to make it impassable and secure
his defences on that side. A number of sheds and other buildings,
more or less temporary, had surrounded the lighthouse. All had been
demolished or burned.
“In’t that Feely?” Martinson said.
“Where?”
“On the helicopter pad.”
Obie switched to the old asphalt landing pad,
now covered with weeds and tufts of grass. A bald man in a red
shirt was climbing the steps leading to the lighthouse door.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
Martinson’s eyesight was impressive. Obie
looked aside from the binoculars. Without them he could hardly even
make out Feely at all.
“The old stonk,” Martinson said.
“I wouldn’t put it past him to have had that
goat,” Brookes said.
“Boffed him, you mean?” Martinson said. “No,
I wouldn’t put it past him, neither.”
Feely, so named for his wandering fingers,
belonged to what Houlihan called his “brain gang”, three or four
advisers who lived with him in the lighthouse itself.
The rest of the lighthouse citizens were
consigned to the “tombs” – small, dome-shaped dwellings made of
stone, scrap iron or timber, roofed with wood and turf. Nineteen of
these structures were grouped around the light, and another
thirty-two a little further down, by the well. They varied in size,
housing between one and five men: most held two or three. At any
one time about a quarter were in disrepair.
Billy was not on view. There was nothing
unusual about the scene, nor even any clue that the atrocity had
been committed. Two men were prodding with hoes at Houlihan’s
vegetable garden; another had just milked his white goats. The rest
of the lighthouse goats were feeding on the cliffs above Crow Bay
and in the designated areas beyond. Billy was not among them.
“They’ve got him under cover,” Brookes
said.
“My turn,” Martinson said, holding out his
right hand for the glasses.
Obie, and Brookes, decided not to argue. Like
a number of people on the island, Martinson was a psychopath: at
least, that was the conclusion Obie had reached after long
acquaintance with the man. He was supposed to have murdered
seventeen women, though the total kept increasing. Martinson
himself had never spoken of his crimes, and no one wanted to
ask.
Obie watched him adjusting the focus. Despite
his usual laconic, easy-going manner, Martinson was one of the few
white men Obie really feared. He was well over one ninety, more
like one ninety-five, with massive shoulders and long, powerful
arms and legs. The word was that he had Swedish blood, even though
he had reddish blond hair and a pale complexion, rather like
Franks, who came from County Cork. Martinson could well have been
Irish too, though he spoke with a Birmingham accent. Or perhaps he
was of Danish origins. The way he wore his hair, in flowing locks
tied up with leather braids, and the abundance of his mattress-like
beard, reminded Obie of the lunatic death-dealing Norsemen,
insanely brave, whose longboats had brought terror to the English
coast. His taste in garments had something of the Viking about it
too. He would have looked good in a horned helmet, carrying off the
head man’s daughter.
Obie had never known Martinson to have
anything to do with sex. He lived alone in his hut. For food he
relied mainly on hunting. Rabbits he chased and killed with a
mallet, an amazing feat of agility for so big a man. In season he
ate eggs, young puffins and shearwaters, and fulmars, kittiwakes
and guillemots from the cliffs. He also made regular excursions to
the Village to steal their stock. In addition he received, from the
other towners, occasional Danegeld of oatmeal or vegetables.
Martinson was one of the first convicts to
have arrived on Sert. During the war with Franks he had sided first
with Barratt, then
survived.
At one time a deep-cut concrete road had led
up to the light from a jetty in Crow Bay, but Houlihan had
half-filled the road with rocks to make it impassable and secure
his defences on that side. A number of sheds and other buildings,
more or less temporary, had surrounded the lighthouse. All had been
demolished or burned.
“In’t that Feely?” Martinson said.
“Where?”
“On the helicopter pad.”
Obie switched to the old asphalt landing pad,
now covered with weeds and tufts of grass. A bald man in a red
shirt was climbing the steps leading to the lighthouse door.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
Martinson’s eyesight was impressive. Obie
looked aside from the binoculars. Without them he could hardly even
make out Feely at all.
“The old stonk,” Martinson said.
“I wouldn’t put it past him to have had that
goat,” Brookes said.
“Boffed him, you mean?” Martinson said. “No,
I wouldn’t put it past him, neither.”
Feely, so named for his wandering fingers,
belonged to what Houlihan called his “brain gang”, three or four
advisers who lived with him in the lighthouse itself.
The rest of the lighthouse citizens were
consigned to the “tombs” – small, dome-shaped dwellings made of
stone, scrap iron or timber, roofed with wood and turf. Nineteen of
these structures were grouped around the light, and another
thirty-two a little further down, by the well. They varied in size,
housing between one and five men: most held two or three. At any
one time about a quarter were in disrepair.
Billy was not on view. There was nothing
unusual about the scene, nor even any clue that the atrocity had
been committed. Two men were prodding with hoes at Houlihan’s
vegetable garden; another had just milked his white goats. The rest
of the lighthouse goats were feeding on the cliffs above Crow Bay
and in the designated areas beyond. Billy was not among them.
“They’ve got him under cover,” Brookes
said.
“My turn,” Martinson said, holding out his
right hand for the glasses.
Obie, and Brookes, decided not to argue. Like
a number of people on the island, Martinson was a psychopath: at
least, that was the conclusion Obie had reached after long
acquaintance with the man. He was supposed to have murdered
seventeen women, though the total kept increasing. Martinson
himself had never spoken of his crimes, and no one wanted to
ask.
Obie watched him adjusting the focus. Despite
his usual laconic, easy-going manner, Martinson was one of the few
white men Obie really feared. He was well over one ninety, more
like one ninety-five, with massive shoulders and long, powerful
arms and legs. The word was that he had Swedish blood, even though
he had reddish blond hair and a pale complexion, rather like
Franks, who came from County Cork. Martinson could well have been
Irish too, though he spoke with a Birmingham accent. Or perhaps he
was of Danish origins. The way he wore his hair, in flowing locks
tied up with leather braids, and the abundance of his mattress-like
beard, reminded Obie of the lunatic death-dealing Norsemen,
insanely brave, whose longboats had brought terror to the English
coast. His taste in garments had something of the Viking about it
too. He would have looked good in a horned helmet, carrying off the
head man’s daughter.
Obie had never known Martinson to have
anything to do with sex. He lived alone in his hut. For food he
relied mainly on hunting. Rabbits he chased and killed with a
mallet, an amazing feat of agility for so big a man. In season he
ate eggs, young puffins and shearwaters, and fulmars, kittiwakes
and guillemots from the cliffs. He also made regular excursions to
the Village to steal their stock. In addition he received, from the
other towners, occasional Danegeld of oatmeal or vegetables.
Martinson was one of the first convicts to
have arrived on Sert. During the war with Franks he had sided first
with Barratt, then
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