The White Tower

TW: some sensitive themes.

The envelope joined the pile gathering dust on Mike’s oak table. He knew he’d have to read it at some point, just not now. Although it had been months since his last run, he wasn’t going to allow anything to put him off. The letter was a confirmation of demands that would seal his fate almost as surely as if he’d thrown himself off the rocks and plunged headlong into a sea that would be close to freezing. Mike briefly imagined the churning oblivion. But no. In spite of everything, he wanted to live.

Besides, Jeff would have expected him to keep fighting.

“Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today.” But running away was exactly what Mike had been doing – for months now. As Mike ploughed against the wind on the cliff path, the words played in his mind. It wasn’t Jeff’s quote, but it was the kind of thing he might have said. Jeff, who had been his partner and at times his better self, would not have hidden away. He would not have scorned help. He’d have done something. 

**

The tide had forsaken the shore leaving behind lines of green-encrusted groynes that were increasingly impotent at preventing loss of shingle. Air blasting through his lungs, Mike ran along what he regarded as his section of the cliff, ignoring warnings of sudden rockfalls and other perils. A shrieking wind billowed his clothes, but he kept on running. 

All his life, he’d run to escape troubles. It started when he’d outrun the bullies who taunted him at school. Later as a young man, he’d relished the quickening heartrate, the fire in his muscles, and the euphoria flooding through him afterwards – the runner’s high. He couldn’t run like that now, without something giving out. In the grey mist, he dropped to his knees, cursing his aging body. How had it come to this? 

Eventually rising, he saw the havoc wrought by pounding waves, rising sea levels and general erosion, on his home. In the distance, it was slipping away faster than he’d have believed possible. Of course, he’d known about the dangers of living on the coast, but it should have taken years to reach this level.

Only three months ago he’d watched helplessly from the tower window while chunks of his garden had crumbled into the sea, throwing out masses of red dust. Unless he acted quickly, it was only a matter of time before the waves reached the house. A house which connected to the tower which had once formed part of an old lighthouse. Life was unfair. He’d worked so hard trying to save it, putting all his life savings into a place that was meant to be a haven. 

Tears cracked his cheeks as all his illusions were laid bare. He finally saw “White Towers” as the lighthouse was called, as others must see it. Even the name mocked him, reminding him there had once been two towers; now only one remained. The once brilliant edifice he’d poured his love into, was turning into a weather-beaten wreck. Even the railing encircling the top storey where the light had thrown out a beam to seafarers, was tarnished. 

Mike had been unable to keep up the insurance payments and it would now cost thousands to repair the lighthouse and stem the erosion. Unless he acted fast, he’d have to leave. The creditors were at his heels and his money was gone.

***

Yet it had all started so promisingly. A year before moving in, Jeff and himself had lovingly restored every part of the tower, including the ancillary buildings which came with the lighthouse. By the time they’d finished, there was a perfectly equipped kitchen-cum diner with glistening worktops and pine floors where Jeff who fancied himself a bit of a chef had talked excitedly about baking bread and cooking continental cuisine. The much loved coffee machine was coming over from London – that was a given. Upstairs, two of the bedrooms had been given ensuite treatment, and the master bedroom opened out onto an ornate balcony. Mike imagined the pair of them running along the golden sands while soft clouds scudded overhead.

Jeff had never been much of a runner, but that hadn’t featured in the tender scene.

They had been weeks from moving in when Jeff’s illness which had long been in remission, had got the better of him. Even so, he’d lived just long enough to admire the completed tower and inspect the gleaming white paintwork. Having nowhere to go, Mike moved in, although he planned to sell up as soon as he found a buyer. The buyer never materialised, and he ended up staying. He told himself it was what Jeff would have wanted. 

Sometimes he wished he hadn’t.

**

That had been more than a decade ago. The lighthouse of “dreams”, now cast a spurious, even sinister aspect along this particular section of the coast. In the distance, windows in the old lantern storey, appeared like eye sockets. Empty and devoid of light. Like the mound of bottles piling up in Mike’s old bins.

** 

As months turned into years. Mike became enclosed in his tower. Even more so, after his last exhibition flopped and most of his paintings remained unsold. He found himself turning more to the work he’d always wanted to do. Apart from the occasional run, he rarely bothered with the outside world. His agent gave up trying to contact him and he ignored all emails and calls unless they were internet deliveries. The constant cry of gulls and other birds embedded his soul. In his studio, he could he take on the lashing sea, attempting again and again to capture its boundless mystery. Canvas after canvas was filled with huge foamy leviathans crashing against the rocks. Meanwhile, he painted in oils, acrylics, and black ink. He might as well have painted in his own blood.

At times he considered taking up running again. But running meant leaving the safety of the tower, so he all but abandoned it.

**

It was as if the tower had unleashed something primal. As Mike painted with manic energy, he mulled over the past. The faces of students he’d taught rose up before him – some querulous, some anxious, all dreaming of bright futures. Mike also remembered the small, but valiant coterie who’d attended the weekly sessions in the studio of his old London house. The one that most came to mind was fellow artist and running mate, Kevin. The runs between them had been vigorous and refreshing, always undergone in silence.

Kevin Wordless or Crusty as Mike and Jeff had secretly called him, with his long beard and habit of torturously crossing and uncrossing his knees. Even more annoying had been his mocking way of calling Mike “Master Mike.” A larger-than-life character, clenching his fists against the world, and not infrequently rubbing others up the wrong way. The group’s more tolerant members viewed Kevin benevolently, but when the mood took him, he could be blunt to the point of cruelty – though he’d always regretted his outbursts. Mike had endured Kevin’s rudeness because he was impressed by his work. However, nothing could have prepared him for Kevin’s production of a woman holding the severed head of a man bearing Kevin’s eyes and facial expression. It had been the most devastating piece of art Mike had ever seen. Also, the most truthful.

No one had been more surprised than Mike when at the end of the session Kevin pummelled his hand, declaring, “Thanks for your help, Master Mike, but I won’t coming to the group again. I no longer have need of it.”

That was the last time Mike had seen him. 

**

In the “old days” days, Mike’s prints had been instantly recognisable in garden centres and the like. Murmurs of his having “sold out” washed over him like dross. But after Jeff’s death, Mike found he was unable to replicate the half-dressed figures posing on sunny beaches. When his crowd-pleasers dried up, so did his income. 

The last ten years Mike’s paintings had taken on a new character. He was no more able to tame his brush strokes than he could the waves. It was as if the tower held him under a spell. He began to wonder if previous owners had been similarly affected.

Pouring over the lighthouse deeds, he discovered the original conception was down to a man called John Glover who had made it his life’s work to build one on the site in the 17^th century. Mike could only imagine how hard the man and his daughter must have worked to keep the light alive by means of a coal fire brazier and candles. Until he’d inhabited the place, it was hard to imagine that level of dedication. 

Before that, sailors had used the lights of a nearby chapel, now in ruins, to guide them safely into The Wash at night. Such days were long gone, and the light was no longer needed. Mike had wanted to preserve the tower as a monument to the men and women who’d fought to keep the light alive for past seafarers. The problem was he’d underestimated the cost of its upkeep. Sales from his recent paintings had been disappointing. Few galleries were willing to take on scenes of grey turbulence that were a far cry from Mike’s previous work. 

***

Blotting out all thought, the ground pounding beneath him, Mike ran until he was brought to a standstill by his heaving chest. When he looked up, he could no longer see the tower. On the opposite shore, a haze unmasked itself and he made out the outline of a distant funfair. For a few seconds, the distinct metallic image of the roller coaster glittered in the sun, before disappearing like a mirage.

**

Mike just about made it home in one piece. Taking a slug of whisky, he thought about the grandson of John Glover’s niece and how they’d set about improving the old lighthouse. The new structure had been eighty feet above sea level and its circular tower thirty-three feet in diameter. Eighteen lamps were set in the lantern room. By then, the coal fire had long gone.

But then times changed, and a series of floating lights ultimately rendered the existence of the beam unnecessary. For a while, the lighthouse was governed by a lighthouse authority, eventually moving into private hands.

**

As a result of the previous night’s whisky, Mike couldn’t decide whether the hammering came from inside his head, or the door. Only that it was loud and insistent. Befuddled, he wondered if the bailiffs had arrived demanding payment. But it couldn’t be. It was too early. 

Damn it, whoever it was! Disturbing his solitude like this! When he checked the clock, it was 2 0’clock in the afternoon. He had already lost the best of the light. Had he really been out of it that long? Pulling the cord tight on his dressing gown, he unlatched the bolts, ready to repel the intruder.

Mike struggled to place the man on the other side of the door.  It didn’t help that the scruffy beard had been replaced by clean-shaven skin and the crooked teeth straightened and whitened. The eyes, however, had lost none of their belligerence. 

Kevin Wordless spread out his arms dramatically.

“Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…?”

Mike’s tongue moved across the roof of his mouth. It tasted disgusting. “What… the hell?”

“Good to see you too, oh Master Mike. You actually do look like hell! I’ve sent you a number of letters, all to no avail. I’m guessing you haven’t read them. At least, I hope that’s the case. Unless you’ve been deliberately avoiding me. I haven’t been able to obtain your email number, so here I am.”

“Is it really you?” Mike’s head throbbed. The only solution was a full English breakfast, except he wasn’t up to cooking.

The man before him assumed a wounded expression.

“Well, are you going to let me in, or do I have to spend all day out here in the cold?”

Mike collected what was left of his sobriety. “You’d better come in.”

**

Kevin was met by a mound of unwashed dishes and damp spreading up the walls. He was most struck by the lack of coffee machine – although he noticed a glass cafetière on the sideboard, with dregs of coffee still in it.

“Where’s Jeff?” he asked.

“Jeff died.”

“Oh.” Kevin wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I’m sorry man. I hadn’t realised. I should have done because there’s no way Jeff would have allowed the place to get like this.” 

“Look, it’s nice to see you too, but what do you want?” Mike said tersely.. 

Feeling on safer ground, Kevin said, “I’ve actually come to check out your paintings. I’d have come to your last exhibition, but I was in New York at the time.”

“You didn’t miss much! Cut out the crap, Kevin. Why are you really here? To gloat at my expense? In case you hadn’t noticed, life hasn’t exactly been treating me well lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I haven’t come to gloat at anything. I really have come to see your paintings – that is if you’re willing to show them.”

“If you’re that interested, they’re at the top of the spiral steps. All eighty of them.” Mike pointed to a door in the wall. “Through there. Here, you’ll need this.” He handed Kevin a metal key. “I keep them locked up in what used to be the tower’s light room. I use it as my studio, much good that it does me. I’ll be with you in a bit.”

**

While Mike splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink, Kevin studied the canvasses.

Ten minutes later Mike shuffled in, breathless from the climb. He regarded Kevin’s restless form. “Looks like you’ve had a wasted journey. You never really did like my art, so why come at all?”

Kevin struggled to keep his emotions in check. “I don’t know why you say that. I admit I wasn’t bowled over by your commercial pieces. Obviously, others liked them. For me, they lacked truth.” He shrugged. “Not rugged enough for my taste.”

Mike sighed. “Ah, well. That was a long time ago.”

Kevin pointed to the sea canvasses excitedly. “But these are different. With your permission, I’d like to purchase all of them.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Mike couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“They…” Kevin struggled to find the right words – “they just hit the mark.” 

Mike stepped back. It was pointless carrying on the charade. “I’d pretty much given up on the idea of selling them.”

“Don’t talk daft. You could always paint more. Go on, name your price.”

“Whatever it is, you couldn’t afford it.”

“Try me.”

Mike emitted a dry laugh. The situation was absurd. Then, he plucked a ludicrously high figure out of thin air – more to see Kevin’s reaction than anything else.”

Kevin nodded. “That sounds fair.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never been more serious.”

“Sorry to be personal, but how can you afford it?”

“Do you read much these days, or are you just being deliberately obtuse?”

“What do you mean?”

 “Well, let’s just say I’m not quite the struggling creature I once was.”

Mike, who’d always been more interested in Kevin’s art than his writing, said nothing. 

“Tell me, have you heard of the crime writer John Barnacle-Dennett?” 

“You mean, the crime writer that writes about that weird detective in East Anglia. Wasn’t his latest made into a tv series?”

“Now shown in thirty different countries.” Kevin grinned, his once crooked teeth now straight. “That happens to be me.”

“Ri-ight.” Mike found it impossible to take the man seriously.

“I know you were more interested in my art than my writing, but you inspired me, you know.”

“Did I?” It seemed so long ago.

“The last session I had with you made me want to turn things around. I decided to stop mucking about, get back with Lila, who’d always been my muse, and finish my novel.”

“Right. It obviously went well.”

“Not particularly. No one wanted to hear about the plight of a factory farmed pig. In the end, I scrapped it and started writing about an artist trying not to get caught after murdering someone. Lila sent it to an agent and things took off from there.”

“Really.” Mike’s voice was flat.

“What I’m trying to say is, it was all thanks to you, Mike. You helped me believe in myself again.”

“Good to hear I’ve done some good.”

“As for these pictures, I’d love to be the one who put them on the map.”

“I’m glad you think they’re worth something.”

 “I do.” Kevin followed Mike back down the creaky staircase. Back in the kitchen, he searched for the famous coffee machine that had been a mainstay at Mike’s London home.

“There’s something else I’d like to ask.”

Mike stiffened. “What?” He still couldn’t quite believe Mike was serious about the paintings, but he needed money and plenty of it if he had any chance of saving the lighthouse. 

“Are you still running?”

“Not so much these days. Yesterday was the first day I ran in months.” Mike rubbed his knees painfully. “I’m out of practice. And it’s hard running alone. You?”

“Whenever I can.”

“That’s good.” Mike felt a tinge of envy.  “But then, you’re a good deal younger than me.”

“A run a day keeps the cobwebs at bay. That’s what my Lila says. Maybe we could go for a run later. You could show me the cliffs before I head back to the city.”

“I dunno.” Mike sighed. “Maybe a small run. A very small one.”

“That’s settled then. In the meantime, what does a man have to do to get a cup of coffee round here?”