Teaser Chapter from THE PAYOUT GAME - An appointment at the lighthouse

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1

The Winter Solstice Regatta from Roscarrig Harbour always concluded with two rowboat crews racing each other around the Tidewater Lighthouse. In the open sea the December swells always presented a gruelling challenge. The two four-person wooden Chesapeakes were struggling in the deteriorating forenoon conditions. In the weakening light of the shortest day of the year, a member of the support zodiac spotted something on the leeside of the automated lighthouse. 

At first she thought they were clothes from a charity shop bag. Local marine debris swept out to sea, coming to rest on the craggy rocks around the lighthouse.

Except it was the glinting of something metallic in the dim vanilla light that made her reach for her powerful binoculars. Glinting pin pricks of gold came into sharp focus along with the exposed bones of a hand littered with blocky gold rings. Panning the binoculars left to right, she could make out a denuded leg. 

It was a body. The zodiac stopped, dipping in the winter swells. A flare was launched. Pagers for the RNLI crew around Roscarrig came to life. It was 10:15 and the rain had turned to squalling sleet over the angry sea.

Garda Inspector Pius John Crowe had managed to blag his way onto the big orange Atlantic 85 inshore lifeboat. He had spotted the flare going up and had dialled the coxswain, O’Meara, asking what was going on.

A body on the rocks of Tidewater.

And I’m the nearest S.I.O. thought Crowe. 

O’Meara tossed Crowe thermal gloves, life jacket and helmet,

“Try not to fall overboard, Crowe,” he said.

Hysterical. 

The lifeboat was a soaking, gut-churning twenty minute rollercoaster ride to the lighthouse. Rescue 113, a huge Red and white Sikorsky S-92 helicopter was already there trying to hold position. A sheet of rain obscured it for a spell. Once in the relative shelter of the shoal, O’Meara nudged the boat closer to the landing point. The tough coxswain brought the boat alongside the old sandbar that was once used by the sail-rigged supply boats from Roscarrig town. 

Tossing the helmet and timing the next plunging dip, Crowe launched himself out of the boat and despite his bulk, by some miracle landed without twisting an ankle or busting a knee cap. Straightening up and catching his balance, he Marcel Marcaued his way up the flight of treacherous concrete steps to the lump of fluttering rags near the base of the lighthouse. 

It was clear that this was a recovery; that he was dealing with a dead man. The mosaic of tattered skin around the head led to the two empty eye sockets. The matted beard flapped in the wind. Looking up, Crowe stared at two black backed gulls that sat like Harpies at a blind man’s feast, their plumage buffeted by the storm. They looked all around as if to say we just found him like this. But he could feel their feral gaze once he turned back to face the corpse. Another gull sat perched on the step’s faded newel post like a gargoyle.

Removing the gloves and reaching into the inner pocket of his all-weather, Crowe pulled out a half-packet of cigarettes. Using the coat as a wind cheater he sparked up and inhaled. He relished the heat hitting his throat and the frontal synapses firing up. Setting his mastiff jaw he glanced around with an experienced eye. Rule one of procedures was already pointless; there was no way to preserve the scene. The body itself was splayed at odd angles suggesting the man had fallen from the light station’s balcony. Crowe calculated the drop was about thirty metres. An impact like that would have resulted in catastrophic head injuries. Apart from the carrion feeding, the skull seemed relatively intact. Crowe’s instincts honed over three decades told him this man had died somewhere else. Not here. Crowe patted down the body. No wallet, phone or ID, but the rings nestling on the damaged fingers might offer a clue to the man’s identity. No watch or FitBit. The sea was voracious and probably stripped the body of everything extraneous.  

Still…

Crowe fished out his phone, it had 20% battery. He steadied himself to take a few shots. His heavy boots were having trouble finding purchase on the patch of damp scurvy grass as the wind swirled around him.  

    “Cochlearia officinalis,” he muttered, looking at it creeping over his boots. He could smell the brine and seagull faeces coming off it in surges. He traversed the tower’s apron paving taking the full brunt of the fearsome weather. On the far side was a small building, probably the old lighthouse keeper's house. It looked unoccupied, locked up, tidy and intact. As Crowe looked out to the Irish Sea, the seething depths felt like he was standing on the edge of the world. To his left a few miles away, the dark shadow of Inishcarrig Island faded in and out of the swirling mist. Completing his circuit, Crowe was satisfied that the body was the only remains on this piece of god-forsaken rock.

The weather took a more violent turn and Crowe felt the crash of the sea as it hit the far side of where he had been standing moments before. His cigarette was doused out. One more wave like that and he and the body would be tossed unceremoniously into the dark roiling expanse. He flicked the butt idly away cursing under his breath. A metallic clanking overhead made him look up. A winchman with a litter was descending from the helicopter. The litter was banging off the walls of the structure. Another deluge pooled around Crowe’s boots, seeping over the rims, drenching the padding and the heavy duty socks. One more like that and was game over muchasos...

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