There Is More Light Than Dark

Chapter Eighty Four

Sunday August 21

Life at the lighthouse had settled into some sort of routine over the four days we had been there.

I had hummed to Lola what I could – even though she didn't have Mumma's purity to compare it to, she didn't seem that ready to engage.

But we had time. And I had her.

We were safe at last. Just her and I and everything that might lay ahead. No noise, no running and no Mason.

The picture sat on the dusty table near the window, thick with memory and fog; with warnings and welcomings. I think she always knew we would end up here. I could feel her right near me with every booming wash of sea-water over the rocks below and every deep breath and sigh that I let out in sympathy and relief.

And she was there in the love I felt for the little girl who would still call me Daddy.

I had gone back into the town to buy a new padlock for the front door grate. Those eight hours I trawled through the damp green bush and back were the most stressful of all. Like I had finally found my paradise and my angel and I might have left them alone and needy.

But if he was ever going to reappear, he'd chase me, not her.

I'd stood leaning against the bus stop on the other side of the road until the hardware store had a few people in it and then gone across quickly, picked out the lock and got to the counter. I had some Euros that I hid and grabbed the plastic Australian notes, making enough small talk to be pleasant but not noticeable. Even though I was home free, in every sense, I knew that I had to be unremarkable. For that reason I waited for my change and nodded as he passed it to me.

But his pause, his slight squint as his hand met mine and the coins jangled into my palm, had me notice. Had me sweat. Had me know.

And here I am again, king of my own castle and proud son of the kindest mother, cooking some toast on a gas jet and scratching some butter onto it. I watch the crumbs fall, sifting down to the brick floor, and remember when she would do that for me. I break the toast in half and hand one part to Lola who sits and talks to her doll and doesn't notice the fact that I look out of the window, not towards the sea where the view is pure and the air is clean but rather back towards the dirt road that leads to the front door.

And I wait.

I feel that peace – that fucking peace – that I created and ran to, already is being eaten at by those outside this sharp white hotel.

And I cry as I look back at Lola and know for sure that the best of everything I ever wanted has already been and gone.