The Wash

The envelope joined the pile gathering dust on Mike’s table. He would read its contents, but only after his run. He dreaded a confirmation that would seal his fate almost as surely as if he’d thrown himself off the rocks and plunged into the oblivion of a churning sea. But no. In spite of everything, he wanted to live.

Besides which, Jeff would have expected him to fight rather than cling onto a past long since gone.

There was no point running away from problems.

But running away was exactly what he’d been doing – for months, even years now. As Mike ploughed against the wind on the cliff top path known as “The Wash”, the thought played in his mind, tormenting him. Jeff, who had been his partner and at times his better self, would not have hidden away, scorning help. He’d have done something.

Letting go of old dreams, he’d have found new ones.

**

The tide had forsaken the shore leaving behind lines of green-encrusted breakers that were impotent against the waves’ carnage. Air blasting through his lungs, Mike ran along what he regarded as his section of the cliff, ignoring warnings of sudden rockfalls, riptides and other perils. The wind shrieked, billowing his clothes, but he carried on running.

All his life, Mike had run to escape his troubles. At school, he’d outrun the bullies who taunted him. Later, as a young man, he’d relished the quickening heartrate, the fire in his muscles, and the euphoria that came 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 he got to this?

Rising slowly, the ravages wrought by pounding waves, growing sea levels and general erosion on his lighthouse home, could be clearly seen. In the distance, Mike felt his life slipping away faster than he’d have believed possible. Of course, he’d always known about the dangers of living on the coast, but it should have taken years to reach this level.

Only six months ago, he’d watched helplessly from the tower window as chunks of his garden 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. He’d worked so hard, putting his life savings into a home that was meant to last.

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

Unable to keep up the insurance payments, it would now cost thousands to repair the lighthouse and stem the erosion. Unless he acted fast, he’d have to let it all go and that was unthinkable.

***

Yet it had all started so promisingly. A few months before moving in, the lighthouse had been restored, including the ancillary buildings which came with it. By completion, there was a perfectly equipped kitchen-cum diner with glistening worktops and pine floors where Jeff had talked excitedly about baking bread. 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 past.

Then weeks from moving in, Jeff’s illness had got the better of him. After the funeral, having nowhere to go, Mike moved into the lighthouse, planning 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.

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. Rather like the mound of bottles piling up in Mike’s old bins.

**

As the months turned into years. Mike became enclosed in his tower. When his last exhibition flopped, 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 deliveries. The cries of gulls and other birds had embedded their way into his soul. In his studio, he was free to take on the lashing sea, seeking to capture its mysteries. His canvases were filled with huge foamy leviathans crashing against algae-encrusted rocks. Painting in oils, acrylics, and black ink, he might as well have painted in his own blood.

At times he considered renewing his daily running routine but as it would mean leaving the safety of the tower, he all but abandoned the idea.

**

The tower had unleashed something primal, and Mike painted with manic energy, mulling over the past. The faces of students he’d taught rose up before him, many dreaming of bright futures in the art world. Among the small, but valiant coterie that had attended the weekly sessions in the studio of his old London house 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 legs. Even more annoying had been his mock calling of “Master Mike” – when Mike would have been adequate. 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 later. Mike had endured Kevin’s rudeness because he was impressed by his work. However, nothing could have prepared him for Kevin’s Caravaggio style 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 one particularly fiery art session Kevin had pummelled his hand and declared, “Thanks for your help, Master Mike, but I won’t be coming to the group again. I’ve a novel to finish.”

That was the last time Mike had seen him.

**

In the “old 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 when his paintings had taken on new forms, Mike had been no more able to tame his brush strokes than he could the waves. It was as if the tower and his paintings were indistinguishable. 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 previous work.

Still, he was either unable or unwilling to let go and reboot the old crowd-pleasers.

***

Mike just about made it home in one piece. Taking a slug of whisky, he thought about the lighthouse’s past. He’d read about John Glover, one of the “original” lighthouse keepers. How for a while, he and his niece had been forced to leave the place. Eventually they’d moved into a new structure built eighty feet above sea level with a circular tower thirty-three feet in diameter. Eighteen lamps had been set up in the lantern room.

But times changed again, and a series of floating lights ultimately rendered the existence of such lights 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 were already demanding payment.

Damn it, whoever it was! Bothering him like this! At 2 0’clock in the afternoon, he’d 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, eh?”

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

“Good to see you too, oh Master Mike. You actually look like hell! I’m guessing you haven’t read my letters. At least, I hope that’s the case. Unless you’ve been deliberately avoiding me. I haven’t managed to obtain your email number, so here I am.”

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

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 took in the mound of unwashed dishes, without blinking.

“Where’s Jeff?” he asked.

“Jeff died.” Not for the first time, 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.”

“What do you want?” Mike asked irritably.

Kevin brightened. Feeling on safer ground, he said, “I’ve actually come to check out your paintings. I heard about your last exhibition, but I was in New York.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Cut out the crap, Kevin. Why are you really here? To gloat at my failure? In case you hadn’t noticed, life hasn’t exactly been treating me well lately.”

“Sorry to hear that. I haven’t come to gloat over 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.

Mike shuffled in, breathless from the climb.

Kevin stood in silent contemplation.

Mike regarded the solid form restlessly. “Looks like you’ve had a wasted journey. You never really did like my art, so why come at all?”

Kevin turned to face his old master, tears in his eyes. “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. They were never rugged enough for my taste.”

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

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

“Why would you want to do that?” Mike couldn’t believe his ears.

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

Mike stepped back. It was pointless carrying on with this charade. “I’ve given up on the idea of selling them. They belong here now.”

“You mean you’re unwilling to let them go. Go on, name your price.”

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

“Try me.”

Mike laughed at the absurdity. Then, he plucked a ludicrously high figure out of thin air – more to see Kevin’s reaction than anything else.”

“That sounds fair.”

“Are you serious?”

“Never more so.”

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

“Do you read much these days, or are you just being deliberately obtuse?” Kevin couldn’t resist strutting a little. “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. “That’s me.”

“Right.” Mike found it impossible to take it all in.

“I know you were more interested in my art than my writing, but you were a source of inspiration, you know.”

“I was?” Mike scratched his head. “I find that hard to believe.”

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

“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 a vicar. Lila sent it to an agent and things took off from there.”

“Really.”

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

“Glad to hear I’ve done some good.”

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

“You really think they’re worth something?” Mike was still reluctant to let them go.

 “I do.” Kevin followed Mike back down the creaky spiral staircase. Back in the kitchen, he sought out the dusty coffee machine that had been a mainstay at the old London home.

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

Mike stiffened. “What?” It was hard to believe Mike was serious about the paintings, but he had nothing left to lose. He needed money and plenty of it if he had any chance of moving forward.

“Are you still running?”

“Rarely these days, although I ventured out yesterday. You?”

“When I can.”

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

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

“Maybe a small run,” Mike conceded. “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?”