Cold Skin

  He got down on his knees. Suddenly, we were face to face. He touched the fingers of both hands together and cleared his throat. My protests hadn’t had any effect on him.

  “No one else goes in that lighthouse. That’s a fact. You have to accept it, not understand it.” He paused for a long moment without daring to look at me with his small, beady eyes. Then, “I heard shots yesterday. I wonder if our weaponry is compatible …”

  Gruner left the sentence unfinished, leaving me to fill in the rest. He had been struggling on the island for a long time and was surely beginning to run low on bullets. It was the height of depravity. Although he made it clear that my life meant nothing to him, he was asking for ammunition to defend his own. And in exchange for a bag of beans. I threw a shovelful of dirt in his face.

  “Here! Is that compatible enough for you? Criminal!” I climbed out of the pit. I kicked the bucket and the beans went flying. That gesture managed to unsettle him more than any argument.

  “I have no quarrel with you! No matter what you may think, I mean you no harm. I am not a murderer.” He said this while taking the harpoon off his back. It was an unspoken threat, but the weapon was there between us, grasped in his two hands.

  “Get out, out!” I yelled with my arm outstretched, just as one would throw a beggar out of an expensive restaurant. Gruner did not budge. He held his ground for a few seconds more, unwilling to abandon his mission.

  “Be gone, you human vermin, out!” I moved toward him with determination. Gruner backed away slowly, facing me all the while. He turned and walked away with absolute indifference.

  “You shall pay dearly for this one day, Gruner; you shall pay for it all!” I cursed before he disappeared into the forest. He did not deign to reply.

  Now I was certain that they attacked only at night. It was true that Gruner had come armed, but it was surely to defend himself against me, not the monsters. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been moving so freely about the island. Unfortunately, I arrived at these conclusions too late. I feared that my first slumber would be my last. Would I be able to wake myself up when night fell? What was to stop me, in my exhaustion, from falling into a deadly stupor? My own vulnerability terrified me as much as the monsters. And despite all this, I was overcome throughout the day by moments of weakness. One couldn’t say that I truly slept. It was a drugged grogginess, more akin to delirium tremens than to actual slumber. A strange mix of visions, memories, mirages and meaningless hallucinations appeared before me, on the frontiers of consciousness. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be a stretch of the docks of Amsterdam, or perhaps it was Dublin. Pools of oil floated on the water’s surface, washing up against the wooden pilings and echoing hollowly. I could see myself, as if from above, in the house on the island. A demon in human form was asleep on my bunk. I could have practically reached out and touched it with my fingertips. I woke up, more or less. I do not want to die. What shall become of me, what will they do to me?

  The third night arrived without reprieve. Buckets of rain poured just as Gruner had predicted. Thunder and lightning. Banks of clouds hung low with white blazes above them, wide as lakes and fleeting as dud fireworks. The thunder pounded like a hammer smashing a thousand-piece dinner service to bits. The churning waves were visible from the loopholes. The night-time horizon was resplendent like a battleship in the heat of combat. The lightning ripped through the sky, falling in jagged and scattered verticality.

  Later, the rain lessened into a hazy, damp curtain. It was impossible to see more than a few inches beyond the windowpanes. Drops of water bounced off the slate roof. Raucous torrents sluiced down the gutters. This time I did not see them coming. Suddenly, the door became a marching drum for dozens of angry fists. The barricade of crates and chests gave way under the force of the pounding, and my body with it. I fell down on my knees. A malignant force caused me to crumple and give in. That infernal beating weakened the door even as it shook my spirits.

  The horrors of the world were reunited in that shuddering portal. I was beyond hope, beyond madness; but I had yet to give up. I had not yet reached such sublime indifference and refused to go quietly to my fate. The monsters’ cries ceased. All that could be heard was the deluge of fists, one punch on top of another. I whimpered a little as I chewed on a clenched fist, with the knowledge that no amount of good fortune would be enough to get me off that island. The door began to give way. It trembled like a laurel leaf in a boiling pot and would shatter any minute. Locked in a sort of paralysed entrancement, I was unable to take my eyes off that door. And a miracle occurred in those last moments, but it was the opposite of what one would expect.

  I was no longer in need of salvation; it was pointless. In a few seconds, I should be carrion. The miracle was this: that I no longer cared. In fact, I was dead already. Being dead, I no longer felt it necessary to curl up in a corner. In light of the situation, it seemed ludicrous. I was dead, but I had ceased to tremble. I was dead, but before I reached oblivion, it was my lot to experience the very nature of the abyss. What else could that quaking door be other than raw horror itself? My body felt so weak that I had to crawl across the floor. My last wish was to touch that door with my fingertips. It was as though its touch would release some source of universal wisdom: an ever present knowledge accessible only to those who had been received in palaces of light. I was mere inches away. I raised my palm in front of the door as though it were glass, not wood. But in that exact moment one of the monsters smashed the slit that served as a lookout. An arm slipped through the gap, slithered down like a salamander’s tail and grabbed my wrist.

  “No!”

  In the blink of an eye, I fell from the loftiest spirituality to the basest animal instincts. No, no, I had no wish to die. I bit down into that hand with every tooth. The small bones crunched as I ripped the membrane that joined the first two fingers. The beast cried out with a long, unending howl of pain, and yet I refused to let go. I pulled back with my jaw, pressing down with my heels until I felt something give way. My head hit the floor due to the sudden impulse. My face and chest were soaked in blue blood; it dripped off my chin and elbows. I reeled like a drunken orang-utan, incapable of putting myself to rights. Later, days later, I realised that those awful sounds had escaped from my gritted teeth. I happened to rest my hands on one of the rifles. I loaded it like a blind man, without looking, and then fired shots through the door. The bullets perforated the wood. Yellowish shavings flew everywhere. The monsters yelped in a frustrated pack. The door had been reduced to a slice of Swiss cheese. The beasts had gone, but I kept on shooting. The storm was moving off. By dawn, the rain was only a light drizzle. It was only when it grew light that I noticed how rigid my mouth was, as though it were packed full of something. I spat out half a finger and a membrane bigger than a Brazilian butterfly.

  The last flash of lightning illuminated my mind. I had a thousand nameless monsters against me. But they weren’t really my true enemies any more than an earthquake has a vendetta against buildings. They simply existed.

  I had only one enemy and his name was Gruner, Gruner. The lighthouse, the lighthouse, the lighthouse.

  5

  I had never been a very good shot, but I was determined to learn. One catches on quickly in cases of emergency. I calibrated the Remington’s scope and took aim at empty tins of spinach. Here I was met with my first obstacle. I practised all morning with limited success. My mind and body were in an equally sorry state. A crushing fatigue wore on my senses. On shutting one eye to take aim, my vision doubled. My nerves were crumbling at a rapid rate. Mortal danger was compounded by the infamous torture of insomnia. My body’s natural physiological rhythms had ceased to function. I ordered my body about as a colonel commands a regiment. Eat. Drink. Walk. Urinate. Do not give in to sleep! My horror of sleep was as pressing as the need for it. I inhabited a mental realm where the borders between insomnia and sleepwalking blurred. Occasionally, I would tell myself to do this or that, to load the rifle or light a c
igarette. But the bullets refused to enter the chamber; the gun was already loaded and I had no recollection of having done so. I would put a cigarette to my lips, only to realise that I was smoking one already.

  But now I had embarked on a mission. Survival had been my sole concern until that moment, with no glimpse of hope on the horizon. For the first time, I was driven by some sense of purpose. My mind made up, I charged as fearlessly as a warrior through the forest. As much as my wardrobe allowed, I had chosen clothing in tones that would blend in with the surrounding vegetation. Leather gloves would help withstand the cold and blisters. I took up a position sixty yards from the lighthouse. The site would have been coveted by any marksman. A dense thicket at my back kept the light from filtering through and casting my shadow. I secreted myself behind the last line of foliage, always keeping watch on the door and balcony. Then I clambered up into a tree. The thickly gnarled branch had a hollow which made an ideal cradle for the rifle. I took aim at the door. Gruner would be a dead man if he so much as showed himself. But there was no sign of life in the lighthouse all day. Gruner did not make an appearance. For fear of the monsters, I had no choice but to abandon my watch as dusk fell.

  Fortunately, it was a quiet night, if one may call it such. The beasts did not attack my cottage. I assumed some had circled the lighthouse, given the ruckus and a distant shot from Gruner, but that was all. It seemed impossible to draw any conclusions. Perhaps they had had enough. The shots fired through the door were certain to have wounded some of them. The fact that Gruner was saving his bullets may have drawn them to the lighthouse. Perhaps it was simply that they hadn’t worked up much of an appetite that evening. Who knew? It went against all logic, let alone military strategy. I even allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes before dawn, a false but ever so seductive repose. At the first glimmer of daylight, I repositioned myself back in my tree.

  This time, I did not have long to wait. Scarcely half an hour had passed when Gruner appeared on the balcony. Half naked, he bared the torso of a retired boxer to the world and leaned against the rusty railing, his arms spread wide apart. Gruner stood stock-still with his chin up and eyes shut, drinking in our meagre sun’s rays. The man resembled a figure from Madame Tussaud’s. His skin was perfectly white. He made an ideal target. I set the rifle against my shoulder and snapped my right eye shut. The muzzle trained directly on his chest. But I hesitated. What if I missed? What if I merely injured him? It made no difference if the wound was grave or superficial. All would be lost if Gruner managed to find refuge inside. No matter how long the agony, he would have already barricaded the balcony. Yes, the walls could be scaled with some rope and a hook. But one could never force open the sheets of steel shuttering the balcony’s windows. As I told myself all this I also said: No, that is not the real reason and you know it.

  I was simply incapable of killing the man. As much as circumstances impelled me, I was not an assassin. Shooting a man was a great deal more than taking aim; it was the act of killing every remaining hour of his life. While Gruner lay in my viewfinder, I could envisage his entire biography. I imagined his existence prior to the lighthouse. Against my will, my mind recreated Gruner’s stupefaction as a child; the journey which, in the still distant future, would lead him to the island. Every failure of his youth and all the disappointments and frustrations inflicted by a world he had never chosen. How many beatings had he received from those very same hands meant to nurture him? Now that he was reduced to a defenceless target, his vulnerability was patently clear. What had brought Gruner to the lighthouse? Was he in himself cruel or did he carry cruelty like a disease, spreading it to others? Gruner was simply a man basking half naked in the sun. He wore no uniform that would justify the bullet. And no matter how one looked at it, to rob a human life was in itself a painful task. However, to kill a man who was merely sunbathing was nothing less than abominable.

  I climbed down from the tree, deeply ashamed of myself. On the way back to the house, I chastised myself by pounding my head with my fists. Fool, I cursed at myself, you are a fool. The monsters don’t distinguish between saints and sinners. It is all the same meat to them. You are on the island, the island of infamy. No good man, no philosopher, poet or philanthropist could survive in this place, only Gruner. I took the path that led to the house and stopped in my tracks at the spring. I brought Gruner’s bucket, still lying on the ground, to my lips. But I caught my reflection in the water before taking a sip.

  My visage was scarcely recognisable. Days of insomnia and combat had wreaked their havoc. I had a scraggly beard and my face was pale, deathly pale. My eyes especially were haunted by a look of irretrievable lunacy. My blue irises were islands hemmed in by deep crimson. A series of dark violet rings jockeyed for position in and around my eye sockets. My lips were cracked by a combination of cold and fear. The scarflike bandage on my neck oozed pus and clots of barely dried blood. My body had lost the art of healing itself. I had broken nails and my hair was coated in what appeared to be a tarlike substance. I snatched a clump from behind my ear and saw, with great puzzlement, that its shade had turned a snowy grey. I dunked my head into the bucket and scrubbed frantically. It did little good. My anatomy lay buried in filth of biblical proportions. I laid the rifle, ammunition and knives down and stripped off my clothing as if each garment were ridden with plague. Then I scaled the rock face where the water sprang forth.

  A kind of pool had been formed by the night before last’s rain on that upper plateau. The water barely grazed my knees. I dropped down in to it. The frigid water had a benign influence. I was glad of it, for the cold would sharpen and invigorate my senses. Naturally, my thoughts were fixed on Gruner. The spring might serve as an excellent trap. He was bound to come by for water before long. An ambush. Gruner would be defenceless and caught unawares. He could be captured at gunpoint and there would be no need for murder. I would force him to surrender; take him prisoner. Chains stored in the lighthouse would become his fetters. And at the first sighting of a ship, I would use the lighthouse’s beam to flash a message in Morse code. Should Gruner be tried in a court of law or locked up for life in an insane asylum? That was secondary.

  Fine yet tangible columns of light filtered through the clouds. Soft lichen, pleasing to the touch, covered the edges of the pool. I was in no hurry to leave the water. My limbs had grown accustomed to its temperature. I floated on the surface, gazing at the firmament above: it was my first moment of pleasure since disembarking.

  I was still bobbing about when I heard some footsteps coming closer. I submerged myself up to the neck to avoid detection. The sound of clanking tin revealed that Gruner carried more buckets. What was to be done? It was just a matter of time before he discovered my clothing and, what was worse, my rifle. It was uncertain what his reaction would be. We might yet be able to share the spring without conflict. But lunatics are a sensitive lot. He certainly considered himself capable of surmising my intentions. And I went unarmed. There was no time to reflect on the situation. The fact was that my options were limited. Even if by some miracle Gruner left without noticing the clothing, he would not return for days. Meanwhile, the monsters would have infinite opportunities to annihilate me. I strained to listen. He was just in front of the pipe; I could hear him change one pail for another. A sudden quiet fell. The fellow was sure to have seen my clothing by now. I bounded in one pantherlike leap, and our two bodies were rolling together on the ground. I managed to get the upper hand and seized my combatant’s legs. My raised fist froze in midair. This was not Gruner. It was a monster.

  I leapt back as far as I could. But I did so in confusion. Monsters were killing machines. The body I had wrestled with was lightweight and fragile. The buckets continued to roll about on the ground, banging against each other with the din of a pedlar’s cart. I kept a prudent distance while observing the monster, like a cat frozen by curiosity.

  The beast lay where it had fallen, letting out the pitiful sounds of a wounded bird. The stench of fish
invaded my nostrils. I dragged myself over to the beast and pried its hands from its face in order to observe it more closely. There was no doubt that it was one of the monsters. But its facial features softened the overall effect prodigiously. Its rounded face ended in a bald skull. The eyebrows were lines that appeared to have been drawn by some Sumerian calligrapher. Its eyes were blue; by God, were they blue. The very blue of an African sky. No; it was brighter, purer, more intense and brilliant. The subtle nose was thin and pointed with high-set nostrils. The ears were smaller than any human’s and were shaped like fishtails, each one being divided into four tiny vertebrae. It had smooth cheeks and a long, thin neck. The monster’s entire body was covered in a creamy grey skin tinged with touches of green. Ever wary, I touched the flesh with my fingertips. It was as cold as a corpse and had a snaky texture. I examined one of its hands. It differed greatly from the other monsters. The webbing barely reached its finger knuckles. A panicked scream escaped from its lips. Inexplicably, that touch drove me to beat the thing mercilessly, I know not why. It cried and whimpered, covered only in an old sweater, shapeless enough to serve as a dress. I picked it up by its ankle, holding the thing like an infant so as to observe it more closely. Yes, it was female. The genitals were bare, untrammeled by pubic hair. Its legs kicked desperately. I punished the little beast with the rifle barrel until a particularly cruel blow to the groin caused it to curl up like a worm. Face to the ground, the beast whimpered and covered its head in its hands.

  The jersey and the bucket indicated that Gruner was in some way connected to the little beast. Where had she been found and what value did he place on her? It was impossible to tell. The fact was that she had been trained, much like a Saint Bernard, to complete a few basic tasks. She collected the water, for example. He had also taken the trouble to dress her, although the outfit was one even a beggar would scorn. The combination of such a dirty and torn jersey and her amphibious form was insufferable; far worse than those little dogs that the English dress up in the best tweeds. But if Gruner had bothered at all, then the monster surely meant something to him. The best way to find out was to take her hostage. If he had any interest, Gruner would come looking for her. She trembled as I put a bucket over her head as a blinder. The buckets were linked with a rope which served to bind her hands behind her back. I purposely left signs of struggle. Gruner would see what had happened and come looking for us. One smack of the rifle barrel and we were on our way toward the cottage.