Montok Point

Through the zoom lens of the video camera Mark saw
Sarah sitting on a rusty, wrought iron chair at back of the semi-detached house. She was highlighted in the glow of the kitchen window opposite her. She rolled a thin, white cylindrical object delicately between her fingertips, completely oblivious of his presence.

Mark discerned the far away look in her eyes that he loved so much. It made her look as if she had a secret that no one else knew. She was wearing a plain black halter neck top and a blood red calf length skirt. Her long dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, obscuring one side of her face. Mark noticed the silhouette of Sarah's mother in the kitchen, outlined in the window. The dishes clattered noisily in the sink, conveying her displeasure more effectively than words.

Sarah twisted the end of the joint then raised it to her lips. Mark focussed the video camera in tightly as she brought the joint to life with the pale yellow flame from a brass zippo lighter. She looked up and in that second she seemed to be staring right at him. A thrill of pleasure rushed through him as their eyes met, albeit through the camera. He ached to be next to her, brushing his fingers against her warm pale skin, running his hand through her dark tresses and sharing the acrid clouds she exhaled sensuously through pouted lips.
*
Mark walked slowly along the busy main road towards the sixth form college. It was a fine sunny day but his guts felt leaden with the anticipation of what he knew would happen when he arrived. The morning ritual of humiliation at the hands of the gang was unavoidable. He had tried every way into the college, and even being very early or very late. But somehow they always seemed to intercept him. He turned into the main gate and started up the pot holed tarmac driveway. The bushes on either side rustled and disgorged several figures. It was Lance, Helen and Ben. Mark kept walking.
"Hi Mark", said Helen. She was the girl they'd done their so-called 'test' on him with. She had asked him out to see if he was gay or not and they'd conveniently assumed that a refusal was firm evidence of his sexual preference. Helen had blonde, curly collar length hair, blue eyes and an overdeveloped figure. Definitely not his type. She fell into step beside him and reached for his hand. He quickly switched his bag to the other side to avoid touching her. The other two followed a few paces behind. "Aren't you going to say hello to me big boy?" The two lads behind laughed and cat called.
"Oh hi Helen." Mark carried on walking.
"Why the hurry, big man? Won't you stay for a fag?" She asked. The laughter increased in volume. Mark continued walking, hoping for a tutor to appear around the corner and put an end to her fun. He heard quicker footsteps behind him. A hand grabbed his shoulder and he was forced to turn.
"Hey, she asked you a question gay boy." Lance leered at Mark. Lance was slightly taller and more heavily built than Mark. Another reason for Mark to fear him. Lance's mouth seemed to be curled into a permanent sneer, contorting his potentially handsome face, below that his thickset jaw was peppered with so called designer stubble. Collar length slicked back brown hair, bleached denim jacket , drainpipe jeans, black boots and white T-shirt completed the appearance of Mark's nemesis.
"No I don't want a fag. Thanks very much." Mark looked around desperately seeking a way out of the situation. A few yards behind them he saw Sarah walking amidst a group of her Gothic friends. His heart leapt. Suddenly, courage filled his body. He pushed Lance's hand off his shoulder.
"Leave it out grease boy! I'm going out with her." Mark pointed at Sarah. Lance laughed.
"Do you seriously expect me to believe that?" Lance barked incredulously. Mark paused, thinking rapidly. If only he could get Lance and Ben off his back, life would be sweet. His guts turned to water as he realised the humiliation that would follow if Sarah rejected him.
 He turned and walked slowly towards the group of pale skinned, mostly black clad students. The group was nearly level with him, and began to fan out so they could walk round him.
"Hi Sarah," Mark croaked as she passed him. She stopped, as did the rest of the group. He coughed to clear his throat. He reached out a hand to touch her arm, but stopped halfway, thinking it was probably better not to.
"Did you want something?" One of the Goth boys asked, staring at Mark. Mark was taken aback by the fact that one of them had even spoken to him.
"Erm yeah. I just want to talk to Sarah."
"It's a free country, so talk."
Mark felt the few fragments of the frantically prepared phrases mixing up in his head.
"Well?" Sarah's gaze drilled into him.
"Will you... I mean would you like to go out somewhere..." Mark could feel the heat flushing his reddening face, "...with me?" He wished that the Earth beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole. A confused expression flitted across Sarah's face. The seconds seemingly lengthened into minutes. Mark's heart was a lump in his throat.
"No," Sarah replied, "you're not my type." The group reformed and walked off leaving Mark standing there dumbfounded and in acute embarrassment. The first period bell sounded and the few remaining stragglers and late arrivals started moving with a renewed purpose towards their form rooms.
*
It was first break and Mark was studiously trying to avoid his antagonists and Sarah by loosing himself in the crowded College Centre. He swore under his breath as he saw Lance threading his way towards him through the milling, chattering crowds.
"So you do like girlies after all eh? Even if they look like Morticia Addams?"
"Get lost Lance. You don't know anything about her." Mark grimaced as he saw Helen and Ben approaching as well. He turned to move away, but Lance grabbed his arm, holding onto him until the other two arrived.
"You'd be surprised at what I do know about her. She used to be the best lay in college, but now she's a frigid bitch," Lance said. Mark was shocked at the revelation. How the hell did he know that?
"Yeah, the only love in her life now is Satan, as well as drinking the blood of her so called friends," Helen commented vacuously.
"That's crap and you know it," Mark replied, inwardly still stunned at what Lance had said about Sarah.
"No that's your department Mr Shirt lifter," said Ben, shoving Mark and laughing. Mark cringed as he caught sight of Sarah's group moving towards them.
Sarah glanced over. Her easy smile vanished as she saw Mark and Lance together. She paused and said something to one of the others with her. The group stopped.
Seeing Sarah's face again only brought back the earlier moment of humiliation with the same intensity. Mark bet with himself that they'd all had a really good laugh at his expense after they'd walked off.
"Hey look it's the Zombie Zoo!" yelled Ben. The tallest Goth in the group scowled at them. He was easily six foot seven tall, and wore a scarred leather biker jacket festooned with chains and studs, ripped jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. He strode over towards Ben, but Sarah grabbed his arm and said something that was drowned out by the noise of the crowd. The biker Goth scowled at Mark, Ben, Helen and Lance for a moment then rejoined his friends. The group of Goths turned and moved away.
Lance thumped Ben in the shoulder and hissed, "Shut up will you dough brain!"
Mark took the opportunity to slip away from his antagonists. It was painfully clear to him that whatever he did he would never win the hand of fair Sarah.
*
Mark crouched in the bushes, video camera at his shoulder, waiting for Sarah to come out onto the decking at the back of her parents house. He shifted his weight to one side to try and ease the cramp that was forming in his calf.
"Hey you!" came a shout from close behind him. Mark yelled and tried to turn, stand and run at the same time but his cramped leg gave way and he ended up on his backside in the mud. A figure stood over him, shining a dazzling torch beam directly into his face. "You pervert! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Mark was lost for words. "Take that hood off you dirty bastard and don't try anything funny either the police are on their way right now!" Mark put down the video camera and rolled the ski mask off his head. He felt his cheeks going bright red.
"Shit! It's you!" the woman gasped. She lowered the torch then switched it off. Mark immediately recognised Sarah. He was lost for words for the second time that day.
"I bet that wanker Lance put you up to this didn't he?"
"No." said Mark. Sarah gave a short laugh.
"You surprise me. I didn't think you'd have the balls to do something like this."
"It's the only way I can get to see you. I can't get near you at college."
"Right, so that justifies you stalking me and filming me does it?"
"No. It's just that there's something about you which I find totally compelling - like a truth that's waiting to be told. It shines from within you like a lighthouse and draws me to you like a moth to a flame." It was Sarah's turn to be taken aback.
"So that's why you asked me out?"
"Yes."
"Not because Lance put you up to it? Because that's what it looked like."
"No. I hate Lance. He's a bastard and he keeps picking on me." Mark spat out the words with loathing.
"Shit and here I was thinking he's your best mate."
"No fucking way. If I had the chance I'd do him in. He makes my life hell."
"Hate. That's good."
"Why?"
"I hate him too. More than you'd ever know." She stopped herself. The distant look formed in her eyes. She blinked then swallowed as if an unpleasant taste had risen in her mouth. He had touched upon something within her, and she had veered sharply away from as if in denial.
"Too many people go through this life without feeling anything at all, like it's just a game. If you hate something then you have passion. Something arouses you out of the dull grey stupor and lights a fire in your gut."
"You're serious about this aren't you?"
"Absolutely. Do you read poetry?" The diversion away from her inner secret became even more evident. He followed her lead in an attempt to prolong the conversation.
"We do in English class. Mainly sonnets."
"Shakespeare eh? Never mind. What about Gothic stuff like Shelley and Byron? And Poe?"
"I've heard of them, but never read them. I like the War poets Owen, Sassoon and Brooke."
"You should try them, they're quite mind expanding, I can tell you." Sarah glanced around. "This is no place to talk. I can see the neighbours curtains twitching already. Come on." She began to walk towards her house. Mark quickly stuffed the digital video camera and his ski mask into his rucksack. He was dumbfounded. Sarah was actually talking to him as if he were a person.
"Sarah what about the police?"
She stopped and turned to face him, "I was bluffing."
"Christ" Mark thought. "She is crazy. What if I had been a rapist or something?" He followed her across the neatly manicured lawn and up to the back door of the house.
"Wait here," Sarah put her finger up to her lips, "and be quiet." Sarah slipped quietly into the darkened kitchen. Light filtered through from under an adjacent door. Mark could hear the sound of voices, and assumed it was the television.
Sarah stood the hefty Maglite torch on a work top, then moved towards the door from where the light emanated. "I'll be right back" she whispered. She slipped through the door and closed it behind her.
Mark was left wondering why she had to sneak around her own house like a cat burglar. He heard soft creaks from above as she climbed the stairs. He slumped back against the wall, hoping that whoever was in the house wouldn't suddenly need a snack or a cup of tea and have to come into the kitchen.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he began to notice the way the kitchen was decorated. It was done out with a distinct nautical theme, with pale blue washed, half height wooden panelling on the walls and sandy coloured paint above. Between the various cupboards and shelves the tiles were plain white but shell fish and sea-horses were stencilled on them at regular intervals. The most striking thing about the room was the large, mounted black and white photograph of the lighthouse at Montok Point. It had been taken from the cliff tops during a stormy night; the waves smashing and foaming high above the weathered rocks and the warning beams of light stabbing out to either side contrasted strongly with the slate grey headland and the roiling charcoal clouds. Maybe that was why what he'd said about the lighthouse had taken her aback so much. He looked for a signature or name of the photographer in the white border at the bottom of the picture.

Mark was so absorbed in the photograph he failed to notice the sound of the kitchen door opening.
"Here¦" came a voice.
"Wha...?" Mark flinched paralysed with indecision about whether to hide or run outside.
"Hey? What's up? Did I scare you or something?" Sarah said quietly, pushing the kitchen door closed behind her.
" Yeah um I was looking at the picture."
"Do you like it?"
"It's awesome. Very dramatic and moody I love the way the beam from the lighthouse picks out the clouds racing across the sky. Where did you get it from?"
"I took it."
"I didn't know you were into photography."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." She smiled in the half-light, her pale skin catching the glow from the moon whose rays slanted in through the kitchen window.
"Yeah this is the first time I've ever spoken to you properly."
"Look you can't stay someone's going to come out here soon." Mark's face fell. "But take this," she said handing him a thin book, "it's the only one I could find; the rest must be in my locker, if you're serious listen to this too." Sarah passed him a battered cassette tape with a scribbled inlay card. Mark took the items and carefully stowed them in the front pocket of his rucksack.
"Thanks. That's great."
"Sarah!" came a shout from the adjacent room. "Who's that out there with you?"
"Go!" Sarah hissed, pointing at the back door. "No-one mum!" She shouted in reply. Questions raced through Mark's mind as Sarah opened the door. Why did she hate Lance so much? What was her secret? What was the significance of the lighthouse?
"But!" he blurted.
"Mark just go. Before she comes out here and finds us." She hissed in his ear.
"Okay. I'm gone." Her face hovered temptingly close to his for an instant. Her hair smelt of orange blossom and her dark red lips glistened invitingly. Being near her was as he had imagined: it was like she was reaching inside his body and locking his centre; numbing him with her presence. Then she was gone, and the door was locked and closed. He paused a moment holding the image of her pale, beautiful face and her dark mysterious eyes, then snapped out of it as he heard the siren of a police car in the distance.
*
Mark sat down at his desk in his bedroom, the book that Sarah had given him spread out before him. It was a selection of works by Edgar Allen Poe. The tape she had given him was playing in his stereo. There were many bands on the tape that he had never heard of before: 'Propaganda', 'Bauhaus', 'The Damned', 'Nine inch nails' and some that he recognised only by name. The majority of the tracks were not far from his usual taste of heavy metal but overall the collection seemed somewhat eclectic. The lyrics spoke to him of lust, betrayal, revenge and murder; madness and fear; love and hate; life and oblivion.
He placed a bookmark in the page he had just finished reading. It was Poe's 'Dream within a dream'. The words seemed strangely familiar. A fragment of a melody came to him, played by a trumpet. It was on the tape he'd been listening to. He jumped up and spooled back the tape, then hit play. At first the forlorn trumpet seemed out of place against the fading guitar chords from the previous song. Then the hypnotic throbbing bass line kicked in, contrasting with the clipped crisp cymbals and a precise rhythmic mechanical drumbeat. The vocals came in last, a female, her sparse phrasing of the poem enhancing the poignancy of the mournful couplets. The combination was overwhelming. He felt himself slipping inside the heart of the music as if it was a resonating crystalline structure, the hairs rising on his neck and his spine alive and tingling. Each beat made him slide closer to the dark heart of Sarah's glazed stare. Finally the music faded and the structure of the song dissolved into the hiss of white noise.
The well thumbed page and the pencil notes in the margin had drawn him to that poem only by virtue of their heavy usage.
'Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream?'
Those last two lines of the poem were heavily underlined with broad pencil strokes. A thin swirling line connected to a comment in the margin. 'I wish it were, then I could wake and forget what happened to me'.
'Shit.' Mark thought. How many times had he woken up in the morning, guts twisted with fear at the realisation that he had to face Lance again, hoping the exact same thing?
Mark pushed his chair back and swivelled it so he could see the freeze frame image of Sarah on the computer monitor. It was of her lighting the joint. Was she using the dope to kill the pain of the emotions she felt? Maybe she wanted to wake up so bad she was trying any way she could to do it? With some kind of twisted logic she felt that the narcotics could help her achieve what she yearned for.
In the still picture Sarah held the white cylinder tightly between her ruby red lips, offering the oily yellow flame up to the twisted end of the cigarette paper. The lighter cast a glow about her face, accentuating her cheekbones and reflecting in her dark eyes, like twin wells of midnight sky. There it was again: the light and dark in her face. The white skin, so pale and milky it was almost translucent, but there above the eyebrows, below the cheekbones and to the sides of her nose the shadows, dark and sharply defined. He had to find out what it was that was eating her from the inside.
Mark studied her face and neck, entranced by her beauty. Then he spotted what he thought was a glitch in the image.
'So even in beauty there must be flaws' he thought. Intrigued he grabbed the image from the video window and copied then pasted it into PhotoShop. Playing with the contrast and brightness levels he finally realised there wasn't a glitch in the picture. The line was in fact a thin horizontal scar mid way down her neck. 'Now that is weird'. He saved the processed image, then printed off a hardcopy.
*
Mark checked himself in the mirror as he was about to leave the house for college. He had traded his usual blue denim jeans, white Nike trainers, Iron Maiden T-shirt and red chequered work shirt for the black look. He'd borrowed his brother's old black denim jacket, found a pair of army surplus para boots lurking at the bottom of his wardrobe, dug up some black jeans and a Metallica "Enter Sandman" sweat top with the band's snake logo embossed on it black rubber. After some research into Gothic fashion on the internet the previous evening, he had decided to forgo the classic frilly shirts, black nail varnish and white blusher that some sites had recommended as "de-rigueur". Mark believed he had to ease himself out of the chrysalis first rather than rush, overdo it and damage his reputation any further. Lance would have had a field day with the make up angle anyway. He checked the time. Eight twenty. That would give him just about enough time to get to the garage near the college where he knew the Gothic crew assembled for a last cigarette before heading onto the college en-masse.
*
Mark arrived at the old wrecked garage at the bottom of the gravel track which led up thorough the car park to the college grounds. A few groups of people passed him walking slowly up the hill towards campus, chattering idly about what their first lesson was and which pub they went to last night. Mark tuned into the fragments of conversation unconsciously, fretting about whether he would get to see Sarah, and hoping that he wouldn't see Lance, Ben and Helen. His prayers were answered when he spied the group heading up the side road towards him. The huge figure of the biker Goth that had put the wind up Lance and his cronies towered over the heads of the others. Sarah was walking alongside him. They were passing a cigarette between them, alternating puffs. Mark fervently hoped the that the biker was friendlier than he had been the other day. The moments of waiting seemed agonising and stretched out in an interminable ordeal, more excruciating than a 3 hour Physics mock exam. Finally they were about him. They stopped. A few of them were grinning, and one of them called out to Mark
"Hey a doom-monger! Tell us our fortune! Oh no need. The future's black, right?"
"Come off it Jen, it's not bad for the first attempt," Sarah said. Today she was clad in a grey trench coat and had taken the Goth extreme with her appearance. Her face was made up in pure white and her eyelids and sockets kohl blackened. Her and ears and nose were festooned with rings and studs and she wore a fist sized ankh on a silver necklace over a purple blouse. A metallic grey mini-skirt, stripy leggings and paint spattered Doctor Marten boots completed her entourage.
"Yeah chill out Jen will you!" said a younger looking man with long sideburns and rakish spiky hair. "He looks okay. Metallica eh? Little too heavy for me, but I liked 'One'."
"An all time classic I think," Mark said before he could stop himself. He caught biker Goth nodding in agreement out of the corner of his eye.
Sarah turned back to Mark and smiled. Mark nearly melted in disbelief. He couldn't believe the fact that they were actually talking to him. He figured that she must have told them about him by e-mail or SMS after he left last night.
"Come on let's get into there before we get marked down as late," Sarah said. The rest of the group groaned in unison.
"Sarah, stop practising that school ma'am act on us it won't work! Besides it's English lit first and I don't want to miss any." said Jen, stalking off in mock disgust. She stopped and turned back "Well are you lot coming or what?"
The group moved off through the foliage and then up the gravel track towards the college, leaving Mark and Sarah standing at the gate.
"You told them about me didn't you?" Mark said.
"Of course I did."
"Why? I thought you were just trying to get rid of me?"
"As I told you before you still don't know me that well do you."
"No, I suppose I don't."
"Come on, let's walk or we'll be late." Sarah started off.
"Okay."
"What did you think of the tape?"
"It was good. I liked it."
"Errr!" She impersonated a quiz show buzzer. "Wrong answer. Not good enough." Mark was astounded. "Let's try that again! This time tell me what you really thought of it!" He hesitated to mention 'Dream within a dream'. He had no idea what effect it might have on her.
"To be honest with you I thought some of it was a bit weird and some of the others especially Bauhaus seem to be obsessed with death. I mean, what else can you say to song titles like 'Bela Lugosi is dead' and 'Of lilies and remains'?"
"Ah, zis iz an interesting development," Sarah put on a very bad German accent, "we cut through ze outer layer of Mark who iz just zis guy who iz vanting to be friendz wiz de Girl Zara."
"Cut out the accent will you - you're bonkers." Mark couldn't help laughing.
"...and we reach the real Mark underneath who has his own opinions and is not afraid to air them."
"So you're a fag hag now Sarah?" Sarah stopped walking. Mark felt his guts go cold. There stood Lance, Ben and Helen. The remainder of the Goths were out of earshot by now.
"Go and fuck yourself Lance." Sarah heaped on the venom. Mark noticed her stiffen with anger.
"I think not. That's rent boy's job." Lance pointed at Mark.
Mark fumbled for a retort
"Can't you change the fucking tune? Lance hesitated. Helen obligingly filled the gap.
"I bet you feel safe knowing he doesn't want anything from you." Sarah's eyes narrowed with hatred.
"Found a boyfriend that doesn't use you as a punch-bag yet?" Said Sarah. Helen looked genuinely startled. It was common knowledge that the only reason Helen hung around with Lance was for protection from her brutal and vengeful ex-boyfriend. Helen went bright red as if her face had been slapped. It was Sarah that broke the punch drunk silence.
"Well on that happy thought I think we'll leave you fuckwits." Sarah turned and strode off quickly after the rest of her group, Mark stood dumbfounded as Helen, Ben and Lance disappeared just a rapidly in the other direction.
When he'd recovered his senses, Mark ran after Sarah.
"Hey, wait up!" he called. She stopped, still some way ahead. Mark reached her bursting full of admiration.
"Christ, you were brilliant back there. You stopped Helen in her tracks. Thanks." he reached out and put his hand on her arm. Sarah flinched and twisted her arm away unexpectedly. Mark was startled. "Sorry, are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just leave off with the pawing." Sarah seemed to withdraw from him.
"Look I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted to say thanks."
"That's okay, it's all in a day's work. I've had to put up with far worse things than that."
"I just wish I could get rid of that lot so easily. They make my life hell around here."
"Be careful what you wish for."
"How come?"
"It might come true."
*
Mark sat down in an alcove in the noisy college centre. A nearby TV set blared out the lunchtime edition of 'Neighbours' much to the amusement of the masses crowded in front of it. The building was alive with the buzz of conversation. Mark chewed half-heartedly at a homemade limp cheese sandwich. He guessed that Sarah and her friends were back down by the old garage enjoying a smoke or had gone into town for some window-shopping or even a drink. He would have liked to be invited, but he felt that he had not quite achieved the status of a fully-fledged member of the group yet. He did so very much want to belong; not just because it would get him near Sarah, but because of the overwhelming pressure upon him by his peers to fit in. He had always felt different from those around him but could never adequately reason why. The closest he could come to it was that he felt old beyond his years, as if he had grown up too fast without the teenage bit in the middle. Ever since his dad had caught him indulging in an underage pint after his Saturday job he was too afraid to go out to the pub in the evenings. He couldn't really see the fascination that people had with drinking enough to fall down and be sick, but then he hadn't really done it. Poisoning yourself to have a good time didn't really seem like the most sensible thing to do ' but he knew that most of the people around him probably did it on a regular basis. He supposed that what it boiled down to was the fact that he didn't like lying to his parents about what he was doing if he went out. Besides, there was so much college work to do in the evenings anyway ' he wondered how the others managed to fit it all in what with the part time work needed to keep themselves in beer money.
"Here, this is for you." Someone handed him a small piece of black card. He glanced up and saw Jen.
"Hey thanks."
"No problem. See you." She disappeared into the throng. Mark looked at the card. On it, in spidery silver letters were written the words 'Now it's time for you to see the lighthouse.'
He turned the card over. On the other side was written 'Meet me in the west dunes, by the bunker. Tonight at 8pm. S.'
*
Mark sat on the rim of an abandoned gun emplacement on the weathered concrete roof of the world war two bunker, nervous as hell. His guts felt worse than they had ever done when walking into college. He hadn't got a clue what he should wear, bring or say and had nearly been late because of such dithering. The sun's rays warmed him, the sweat on his back drying from where he had cycled like a madman to reach the dunes in time.
A cool sea breeze caressed his hair affectionately like the tender hand of a lover. He hoped that Sarah would do that to him one day. He estimated that the sun was not long from setting. It had begun to swell and change into a shimmering orange ball, hovering above the sea, ready to be consumed by the undulating blue green waves. Already the blue sky had begun to turn pale yellow and orange, thin fingers of cloud reflecting the colours.
"Hi!" came a voice. Mark turned to see Sarah standing by the base of the ramp that lead up to the corroded metal hard point on the roof. The sunlight lent her skin a golden orange lustre, making it seem as if she was filled with some glowing inner fire. The contrast in colours made her eyes and hair seem even blacker than usual and her lips were a lustrous blood red. She was wearing a short black skirt over purple leggings, an indigo blouse with frilly collar and cuffs and a red shawl, all topped off by a black rifleman's jacket trimmed with white braiding. Slung over her shoulder was a black hessian satchel with a rolled up rug tied to the top of it.
"You look amazing," said Mark.
"You look hot and tired." She walked up the ramp towards him.
"Yeah. I was running late. I had to burn off some extra calories to get here on time. How did you get here?"
"Broomstick of course," replied Sarah. Mark laughed. "I'm not kidding!"
"How? I mean that's magic right."
"No dur brain. Kev's got a VW camper called Broomstick."
"Kev's the tallest one, right, the mean biker type?" Mark's heart sank. If Kev was here so were the others. Something else came suddenly to the front of his mind. He had felt that he been accepted too readily by the group. There had to be something else in the way before he became a bona fide member. Some kind of initiation ritual? Despite the ludicrous nature of Helen's comments they came back to him in a burst of recollection. 'They drink each other's blood and worship Satan.' As Sarah had already told him several times: he didn't really know anything about her and by extension them.
"Yes. He may look mean but he's a sweetheart really."
"That's nice to know. I bet he's handy to have in a fight?"
"Funnily enough he isn't. He's a pacifist and faints at the sight of blood. Especially his own!"
Mark started to feel a bit more reassured. If Kev didn't like blood then how could he be in the group? Maybe that wasn't the ritual? "Is something wrong? You look distracted?"
"No, I'm fine", Mark lied, desperately trying to put a lid on his feverish imagination.
"Okay. Let's make a move then." Sarah put down her small hessian bag and started to rummage in it.
"Sure. Where are we going?"
"Just for a walk." She pulled a crumpled red bandanna out from her bag and began to fold it lengthways into a strip.
"Er¦ what's that for?"
"It's for you. It's a blindfold."
"Now come on, isn't that a bit kinky? And it's only our first date?"
"Mark", she turned to look up at him, "you have a two choices. One - walk away now and I'll never talk to you again. Two - trust me."
"Okay. I'll pick number two." He said with false bravado, and a feint stirring in his loins. "But I have just one question."
"So long as it's only one."
"Right - here it comes. How will I see the lighthouse wearing a blindfold?"
"I have an answer for you, but I don't think you'll like it."
"Trust me, right?"
"I don't think I need to answer that."
*
Mark trusted Sarah with every ounce of his being, holding tightly onto her hand. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, and the keening sound of the gulls. The strength of the breeze told him that they were high on the cliff tops. Some of his footsteps felt like he was walking on sand. He desperately hoped that the edge wasn't crumbling away beneath his feet.
Despite his fear he was amazed how much more he could sense with his eyes closed and covered. He could smell the orange fragrance of Sarah's hair impregnated into the bandanna, and he briefly imagined nuzzling the nape of her slim arched neck through the volume of her long smooth tresses. The salty tang of the sea filled his nostrils so much that could almost feel the spray splashing on his cheeks. The gulls seemed to swoop directly above his head, so loud they sounded.
His arm and shoulder ached where she had held it outstretched in front of him. He relished the contact of her smooth slim fingers, even her long nails, and could picture each of the rings that she wore just by feeling their shape. The braided thumb ring was his favourite, as he felt it rubbing against the side of his index finger.
They seemed to have been walking for hours, but he did not really care, simply because he was touching her. She had not spoken to him since she had tied the blindfold tightly around his head, yet he felt as if they had formed a bond during that time. It was something strong, yet almost sensual, and every time he tried to focus on it, it slipped away. Perhaps it was just a trick that she had learned? Or maybe it was real magic? Then it became obvious to him. She was totally responsible for him: totally in control. If she let go then he could easily take a wrong turn and plunge to his death down the cliff face. Hadn't she always been the one in control in this relationship? He was simply the infatuated fool.
Finally they came to a stop, having descended a short, steep slope. He could feel the heat, and hear the crackling wood of a blazing fire. So acute were his other senses he knew there were other people there. Hands gently turned him away from the orange glow of the flames that seeped through the edges of the blindfold, then began picking at the knot at the back of his head. He blinked as the cloth was removed, more to clear his eyes than because it was too bright. He saw Sarah tying the bandanna around her neck.
The steep bank he had descended was part of a large conical hole in the scrub land at the cliff top. He knew the story of it's creation, how in World War 2 a Luftwaffe pilot on the return leg of his mission had one bomb left and had decided to try and destroy the lighthouse. It was a ultimately a futile attempt as the anti-aircraft battery on the beach picked him off just in time. The crater was so deep that when standing in the bottom it wasn't possible to see anything else except the sky. When it was dark the rotating warning beam of the lighthouse filled the entire sky above the hole. Mark marvelled at the effect. The regular interplay of light and dark was hypnotic. Several of the group lay back on the side of the crater just staring straight up.
Local people called the crater the Devil's punchbowl, and it appeared that Sarah and her friends exploited the beliefs that the Goths were only interested in Satan worship and death. It meant that the Montok cliffs were usually free of walkers, lovers and suicidals after dark.
"Hey Mark, come and have some of this!" called one of the group. Mark looked over to see Jen waving a half full bottle of red wine at him. "It's fresh you know!" A chorus of laughter filled the air.
Sarah tended the fire, tossing another piece of driftwood onto it. Orange sparks shot skyward then looped and swirled as the breeze took hold of them. The flames gave her pale complexion a golden glow, and highlights danced in her hair as she stood up. She reached over to Jen and took hold of the bottle. Mark moved closer to her.
"Drink!" she said in a rough mock Irish accent. She thrust the wine into his hand.
"Thanks. This place is great! It's even got its own light show. How did you find it?" he took hold of the bottle and sniffed it. It smelt like wine. Gingerly he took a mouthful. It was warm and slightly acrid, but it definitely wasn't blood. He blamed watching the vampire film 'Lost Boys' for his paranoia.
"I think it found us." Sarah's voice had returned to normal.
"That sounds weird."
"Well it is called the Devil's punchbowl. We like to live up to our so-called reputation."
Mark decided to get to the point.
"So what are we doing here tonight?"
He noticed Kev taking a tug on a spliff. Kev looked over, smiling beatifically, and exhaled a perfect smoke ring. Kev passed the joint onto another guy that Mark didn't recognise. He was of slim build, clad in dusty leather trousers, jacket and boots and had a blonde crew cut.
"Having a good time I think." Sarah replied.
"It certainly seems that way."
"Come on and sit." She took him by the hand. A space opened up in the circle, and Sarah unrolled the rag rug then flopped it out onto the ground. She sat down. "Are you having some more? You look kind of lost?"
"Yeah, of course." Mark swigged at the bottle again. The bitter wine made him feel slightly queasy. He paused and gulped in some fresh air. He took another, longer swig as the alcohol filled him with false warmth and a pleasant blurring sensation.
The blonde man looked up at Mark.
"I'll have that when you've done."
"Sure." Mark passed him the bottle. He felt nervous and had no idea what else to say to the man. He finally gave up and sat down next to Sarah.
"You're new to us aren't you?" The blonde man fastened his piercing blue eyes on Mark.
"Yeah. That's right." Mark was made even more uneasy by the fact that there seemed to be a hypnotic quality to the man's stare. It was as if he was trying to reach into the very core of Mark's soul.
"Hi. I'm David." He extended his hand across Sarah. "And you are?"
"Mark." Mark took the proffered hand and shook it. "Pleased to meet you."
"The feeling's mutual." The intensity of David's gaze vanished, and Mark was left wondering whether he had imagined the 'soul probe' or not. He wanted to mention it to Sarah, but was all too aware that David was right next to her. "Well, we're always glad of some fresh blood aren't we Sarah?"
"Yeah of course. I mean arguing with you all night about rhyming couplets and stanzas does tend to get a bit dull after a while."
"That leads me neatly onto my next question for Mark. I believe you have something that we want?"
Mark's heart began to beat faster and his guts went into a tailspin. Sarah grabbed his wrist tightly. Mark panicked as the firelight caught David's irises and made them flare preternaturally.
"Whoa!" Mark jumped up and backed away. "Keep away from me!" The group laughter reverberated through the night air.
"Mark. David wears tinted contacts," Sarah explained, trying to stifle her laughter, "as his skin and eyes are photophobic."
"Shit! I'm really sorry. I didn't know. I guess that's why I haven't seen you around?"
"Not your fault. It's a little trick I play on all the newcomers." David looked apologetic, but he couldn't help a half smile emerging on his lips. Mark found that the sudden shock and embarrassment with a large helping hand from the wine, lent him the confidence to say what he had been wondering all along.
"Look, I know I don't really fit in with you people but I keep thinking that you need me to do something to prove that I'm one of you?"
"Mark. For God's sake chill out will you. I think you've been watching too many American teen-flicks. Just be yourself." Jen said. "Everyone here feels the same. In fact probably the reason that we are here instead of getting pissed in town is the fact that we are different. We should be different. A lot of those under age piss head kids with their Reebok trainers and their fuckin' mobile phones don't seem to realise that. Vive la Difference! They need to grow up mentally not just physically. We don't want a whole world full of so called individuals that all look, sound and act exactly the same." She took a long draft from the wine bottle.
Riotous cheers and applause came from the group. As one they chanted
"Jenny! Jenny!" in mock tribute to the infamous Jerry Springer show. Jen jumped up and performed several mock bows. Mark stood up, feeding off the intensity of the atmosphere; his natural reticence dissolving in the haze of alcohol and marijuana smoke. The noise slowly died down.
"Thanks for that rousing speech Jen. I think I understand exactly what you're saying. I do have something different to say, or more exactly to read. It's a poem that I finally found out the band Propaganda turned into a song. I've had it stuck in my head ever since Sarah gave me one of her tapes. I was totally blown away by the hypnotic quality of the music and the sheer sparse intensity of the words. I've played it over and over until I've nearly worn out the tape. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 'Dream within a dream'."
Mark launched into the short poem, feeling the hairs rising on the back of his neck as the words poured out of him with a euphoric intensity. Mark imagined himself on the beach staring into the surf; sharing Sarah's angst as it resonated within him. Sarah stared up at him, visibly astonished at the transformation in Mark's voice and posture. As he neared the end he decided to finish with the notes Sarah had added to the poem in her book,
"Is all that we see or seem, but a dream within a dream," he paused, looking directly at Sarah, "I wish it were then I could forget what happened to me."
The final words drifted away into the dazzling beam of light that tore across the night sky. The group broke out into a tumultuous applause. Bottles were raised in appreciation. Sarah remained silent. He saw the tears trickling down her cheeks.
"So is this a private meeting of Gay poets society or can anyone join in?" It was Lance. Ice filled Mark's guts. All his empathy with Sarah was violently ripped away from him. He felt naked and extremely vulnerable. Sarah's face filled with terror. David, Kev and Jen had stood up and were trading insults with Lance.
"Fuck off Lance you're not welcome here!" The words flew around Mark and Sarah as they stood frozen in the centre of the crater. For the moment they were insulated from the conflict around them.
"Sarah what's wrong?" Mark put his hand on her shoulder, hoping it would comfort her.
"Please don't touch me!" She gasped, violently fending off his hand. Mark was startled at her extreme reaction.
"Something happened between you and Lance didn't it?"
"Look it's not all Lance's fault. I found out from Lance's mum that her ex-husband used to just beat Lance for no reason. Her ex had this uncontrollable temper. She used to try to protect Lance but came off pretty bad too."
"Shit, so you did go out with him? Why didn't you tell me this earlier? "
"It didn't concern you. It's in the past."
"So you expect me to take pity on Lance because of the way he was brought up?"
"No just don't rise to his bait. He wants to fight. It seems to be the only thing he understands."
"What are you hiding from me Sarah? What is it? Did Lance do something to you? Beat you up?"
"No it's nothing Mark." Sarah looked down, her face retreating beneath her tresses. "I can't tell you." It was too much for Mark. The ice within him melted and began to boil. Mark launched himself at their tormentor.
"Fuck you Lance!" Mark screamed, sprinting up to the rim of the crater, hands clawing for Lance's throat.
Lance, having the advantage, simply stepped aside and tripped Mark. Mark crashed to the ground gasping and rolled back down the slope towards the fire.
"Anyone else?" Lance remarked coolly.
The group stood shocked. Sarah caught Mark. He lay there gasping.
"Are you okay?" she whispered to him anxiously, gently turning him onto his side. A small gash in his forehead oozed blood.
"I don't care. What did he do to you?" Mark asked, pulling himself to his feet. He wiped the blood with his hand. The cut continued bleeding freely. "I've seen they way you are when he's around. You're like a rabbit in the headlights of a car." Sarah hesitated.
"What about that?" Mark grabbed her wrist, his rage overriding his better judgement, and tried pointing at the scar he knew was on her throat.
"No Mark!" Sarah screamed and collapsed to the ground.
"He cut you didn't he?" She bowed her head in an effort to hide her face. Every time he tried to touch her she shied away from him like a frightened animal. Something very bad must have happened to her at Lance's hands. Then he made the connection to what Lance had said the previous morning. Sarah had been the best lay in the college, then she become a frigid bitch. Lance had practically admitted it in boasting to Mark.
"Did he rape you?" She choked back a sob. The state Sarah was in, and what he already knew was enough for Mark.
"So is anyone here going to make me leave? Or shall I just stay here and shower you freaks with the insults you so richly deserve," Lance shouted.
"Fuck off back into town with all the other wankers Lance!" yelled Jen.
"Ooh, mummy I'm hurt. The nasty zombie lady called me wicked names." Lance feigned injury.
"If anyone's going to sort you out it's going to be me!" Mark grabbed a flaming branch from the fire and hefted it in front of him. Gasps of astonishment came from the group members, but no-one moved to stop him.
Mark mounted the slope adjacent to Lance, keeping his gaze locked on him. Lance didn't make any attempt to intercept Mark, and his face was a placid mask. His hand reached down into a cargo pocket, returning with a narrow metallic object.
"I guess you mean business Mr. Hard Man." Lance spat, emphasising the words. He clicked out the blade of the flick knife.
"Mark!" screamed Sarah.
Mark topped the rim for the second time, deaf to Sarah's words. As he neared Lance, he swung out with the flaming branch. Lance neatly gauged Mark's swing, ducked and delivered an uppercut punch. A blinding flash and impact filled Mark's senses and he staggered backwards, then fell to the ground. Struggling to regain his composure Mark shook his head. Then he saw the light glinting off the blade.
"No-one minds if I cut the boy a little so he remembers not to fuck with me in the future?" said Lance menacingly. The image of the scar on Sarah's neck flashed into Mark's mind. There was the knife.
"Don't be stupid Lance, you'll get time inside if you do!" shouted Kev.
Mark heard the words and the rage ignited within him again: his life was in the balance, his hand closed on a clod of dirt. As Lance turned back the dirt hit him square in the face, blinding him. Lance's hands flew up to his face instinctively, the knife falling to the ground. Caught off guard, Lance was knocked flat as Mark sprang up and shoulder charged him in the gut. They wrestled briefly but Mark managed to grab the knife and held it point first at Lance's throat. Lance's struggles died away.
"How does it feel to be on the receiving end now?" Mark pressed the knife harder to emphasise his words.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" Blood from Mark's head wound dripped down onto Lance. An expression of disgust filled his face. He struggled to tip Mark off him, but Mark followed Lance's movements with the knife.
"Sarah. What you did to her. You raped her."
"What lies has she been telling you?"
"She hasn't told me anything. I've worked it out from what I've seen."
"Mr gay detective eh? Well you're fucking wrong."
"Shut up!" Mark screamed, pressing the knife even harder into Lance's throat. His eyes began to bulge. Blood welled up where the knife point had broken the skin. "I am not gay. Do you get it!"
"I know. Croaked Lance.
"Then why the hell do you keep saying it?"
"'Cause I know it winds you up!"
"Mark," Sarah's voice cut through the Mark's red mist of rage, "give me the knife." Mark turned to look at her. Sarah, David, Kev and Jen were all standing near them in a ragged half circle, expressions of uncertainty and fear on their faces. "Help Mark." Sarah glanced at Kev and David. They moved to either side of Mark. Kev gently grasped Mark's hand that held the knife.
"Let go. It's not worth it."
"But?" Mark said, confused. David helped him stand up.
"What the hell?" gasped Lance as Kev grabbed hold of him tightly and yanked him upright.
"You all know, don't you." Mark said, astonished. "About Sarah."
"Yes Mark. They do. Lance did rape me. Here. Two years ago. In the crater. At knife-point. Where no-one could help me or even hear me screaming at him to stop it." The faraway look was in her eyes again. She seemed empty and almost lifeless, like a shell. Mark thought that all the emotions she must have felt during that time must have drained her dry.
"Oh god," Mark looked at her, "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I have a solution," she said, " Lance's signed confession to my rape, which I can then take to the police. Then no-one has to die here tonight."
Lance looked horrified. "You mean you wanted Mark to kill me?" He struggled, but Kev held him firmly in a double arm lock.
"You've got two choices Lance. One - sign the confession, walk away and I'll never talk to you again. Or two - trust me and come for a walk on the cliffs." Sarah said, untying the bandanna from around her neck. "Blindfolded."
"I'll pick number two," said Lance.