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Izzy didn’t know anyone on this crew. He’d stopped reassuring himself that it was early days yet - he’d been going out on trawls with this particular Captain for nearing a year now, and at some point he’d had to simply make peace with the fact that there was something about him that just… seemed to repel people.
It was odd, because he’d hardly describe any of the fishermen he came across as friendly, and yet there was an easy camaraderie that seemed to come with the occupation, where newcomers were welcomed with a nod and a gruff explanation of the schedule, where there was always an extra pair of hands to help haul in the nets, a spare cigarette during the precious few hours they had for rest and sleep. All this and more was readily given to even the surliest of their workers - except, for some reason, when it came to him.
Perhaps it was to do with his attitude. He’d grown accustomed to being Edward’s right hand man, to giving orders and ensuring that they were carried out properly. When he saw something going wrong, instructions would be out of his mouth before he realised that he’d earned the glare of his new Captain, and any attempts to take charge were met with mutters of irritation and scoffs.
He wanted to believe that it was simply ego. A reluctance to take advice from someone they barely knew. Crews fell in line behind their Captains, and change was as much of a threat to this way of life as a storm or a heavy rolling fog.
But somewhere beneath all of that, discomfort sat suspended in his chest. The fear, the deep seated certainty that had burrowed his way somewhere within him that day he’d asked Edward when they’d be out on the water next.
“Never think about anything else, do you? Fuckin’ hell, man.”
He’d long suspected that there was something loathsome about him. Something secretly abhorrent that other people seemed to just be able to sense , though no matter how long he played back conversations and stared at the tired man in the mirror, he could never figure out precisely what it was.
He wished he knew, so that he could cut it out.
Nevertheless, he tried to make up for it. He worked the nets until he could barely feel his arms from the strain, until his back screamed bloody murder and he ended the days drenched and shivering and covered in seagull shit. He took on night watches, knowing that he’d sleep undisturbed when they returned to land. There was nobody coming to visit him, after all. These offers were seldom knocked back, not when every minute of rest was a precious commodity out on the water.
Of course, it was also a little easier for Izzy than the others. On night watch, he had a friend.
He shifted a blanket around his shoulders as he settled in at the helm. Around him the boat rocked in the water, rattling chains and making the wood creak. It was mostly dark but for the lantern swinging just above his head, dimmed as low as he could manage it. He’d poured himself a cup of piping hot coffee, and he wrapped his hands around it to warm them as he peered out the window, listening for any signs of wakefulness from the rest of the crew. Excitement was building in his chest, excitement and the mad terror that he might be caught.
Slowly, carefully, he turned the volume on the radio set as low as it would go, set the dial to the frequency he’d memorised, and then gradually, painstakingly, turned it up.
“... how fucking loud the sea is all the time. Sometimes I wonder if anybody else notices.”
The effect of the tinny voice crackling through the speakers was instantaneous. Izzy felt himself melt at the sound of it, the bunched up muscles in his shoulders letting go all of a sudden as he let out a sigh, happy to finally hear the sound of a friendly voice.
He moved closer so that he could keep the noise to a minimum, dialled the volume back down a notch, just in case. Here, it felt like it was just the two of them, himself and the mysterious Roach.
“I did not grow up in a seaside town. Where I am from it was desert, as far as your eye can see. Everything is quite still. Sometimes even the air does not move for days, and time feels like it is standing still for you. Here, everything is moving constantly. The wind blows so hard I think sometimes I will simply fly away, and then who would look out for the ships!”
Izzy smiled to himself, letting himself drift as he tried to picture the desert. He’d seen a photograph once, an old black and white one in the principal’s office at school. He knew deserts were hot, so the sand in his mind burned a bright flame-orange, dunes like the huge waves that buffeted their own little fishing boat, but still. Frozen in time. Also there in his mind he imagined Roach, a blurry, human-shaped thing that belonged to that voice.
Izzy loved to wonder what he looked like on the other side, next to his radio. Was it cold up there in the lighthouse?
“I do not think I will ever adjust to the weather in this country. Do you people ever see the sun at all? I miss her. I miss a lot of things. I wonder what they are doing now, back where I grew up. I hope the sun is shining.”
Izzy touched the tips of his fingers to the radio, as if he could somehow transmit some modicum of comfort back along the airwaves. Roach talked about his home often, about his sisters, about the goats and the ducks and the dogs and the turtle. Izzy listened carefully, adding every detail to the mental picture he’d built up in his mind’s eye.
“Anyway, I have fixed up the old record player I found. There are only a handful of records here, and they seem pretty scratchy. But perhaps when I swap out with the others, I can bring more back from the mainland.”
A pause.
Izzy leaned in, worry suddenly gripping him.
A sigh, quiet and weary.
“It will probably not be for another two weeks. The man who was meant to relieve me has been injured. My bosses are trying to find someone else. It is a good thing I have some music to keep me company now. And you too, if anybody has found this. If anybody is listening out there, hello! I hope you like the sound of… Lucille Bogan? There is a song about shaving on this one. Let us hear what she has to say about it.”
A chuckle escaped from Izzy before he could get the grin that had spread across his face under control. He clapped a hand over his mouth, clicking the radio off and peering outside to make sure he hadn’t been heard.
The boat rocked. The waves broke against the hull. The lantern squeaked. Crew snored and shifted in their sleep, but not a soul outside stirred. Slowly, he brought the volume back up again.
“... out there listening or not, but it is a comfort to think about it. Perhaps one day we will walk past each other in the street, and neither of us will even know that I once spoke, and you once listened. Strange, how life works like that. Anyway, shaving.”
The opening piano of Lucille Bogan’s Shave ‘em Dry played, and Izzy leaned back in his seat, sipping at his coffee. Waiting.
I got nipples on my titties, big as the end of my thumb-
Roach, not having turned off his microphone, howled with laughter. Izzy shut the radio off, biting down hard on his hand to try and keep his own laughter silent.
He took several deep breaths, glancing outside again. He itched to turn back, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep himself under control when Roach heard the rest of the song.
So he leaned back, sipping at his coffee, forcing down the giggles bubbling up in his chest. In his mind, he returned to the desert, exploring the place this strange man, this Roach, called home.
Izzy had gotten out of his own house as soon as he was old enough to get work at the docks. Anything was better than being saddled with the little ones at home. At least crates didn’t cry when you handled them.
Had Roach looked after his sisters, he wondered. Had he tried to bounce them on his knees the way he saw the adults do, had he swung them around, fed them, changed and cleaned them with clumsy hands?
He ran a finger along the edge of the radio casing as he pondered this, poking at the sharp corner, pondering what the two of them might have in common.
What they might have, aside from the obvious - that the two of them were desperately, wretchedly lonely.
*
Night watch wasn’t always so easy. At the end of a seven day voyage, Izzy was just about ready to drop, but for the fact that they still had a morning trawl to take care of before the Captain was ready to head back to the mainland.
Izzy sat huddled at the helm, his head drooping forwards as he tried to keep himself awake through sheer force of will. He’d once slept for fourty hours straight after a particularly long job, and he had the nagging suspicion that when he managed to drag himself back home, the result would be much the same.
He allowed himself a small indulgence. One that he prayed nobody would see him doing, because if he was caught he wasn’t sure he’d be able to bear the shame of it.
He let himself lean over, resting his hand on the radio, and resting his head on his hand. He imagined what it would be like to do that to a person, to trust so implicitly that you could rest your head against them without asking, without fear of being shoved away or laughed at.
He wondered what Roach was doing. Whether he was tired too, what with the strange hours he kept at the lighthouse, and the fact that by the sounds of things, he was manning the place alone.
He clicked the radio on, then slowly turned up the volume.
“... always wondered what the taste of human flesh would be like.”
Izzy blinked. What the fuck?
“I suppose it is because I have eaten my fair share of interesting animals. Well, interesting by contrast, camel and goat is fairly normal where I am from. It is stranger to me that you people eat so much pig here.”
He was too tired to try and process what the fuck this guy was on about. A small smile crept onto Izzy’s face nevertheless while he listened to Roach ramble on.
“Humans, though? Tell me you have never thought of this. Surely everybody has considered it at some point in their lives, what it would be like to butcher a human. Where the meat would be the best, the tastiest, the most tender. The parts that would be the cheap cuts. What broth made from human bones would be like.”
Izzy shook his head. Fucking weirdo. He was surprised how affectionate the thought was when it appeared.
“Perhaps I should apologise to anyone who has accidentally found this frequency. I am just rambling. We are on fog watch, so I have been awake for quite some time by now. That, and I was supposed to be picked up two weeks ago, and then I was supposed to be picked up yesterday, and then today they tell me - oh-”
Izzy found himself on alert suddenly as Roach’s voice trailed off, replaced by the noises of shuffling, the turning of switches and the scrape of chair legs on the floor.
“Sorry,” said Roach’s voice, “later!”
And with that, the transmission turned to static.
A few minutes later, the fog signal sounded in the distance.
Hands on the wheel, Roach, thought Izzy, I’m right here with you.
The signal sounded at regular intervals through the rest of the night. Izzy found himself listening out for it, something in his chest aching with worry when dawn came, illuminating the white haze that had engulfed them all. There was little to be done now but slowly head back, the weary crew working with cramping muscles and stiff joints to get the ship back into port. Izzy was so worn out that the journey passed in a blur. His mind was aware that his body had been pushed past the point of its endurance so it guided him home like a beacon, dragged leaden feet over the threshold and deposited him in his bed.
He sat there, dazed, shivering in still-damp clothes. The fog signal blared again in the distance, faint and quiet.
His mind was screaming at him to rest. He could feel himself fading by the moment, and yet he felt… wrong. He felt the pull of something - fear?
No - it was guilt. Guilt that he should get to rest when Roach was still up manning the signals. As though propping his eyes open would somehow lend Roach the strength to get through the rest of it.
Izzy wasn’t sure how long he stayed there for, staring out the window in a trance. But by the time the sun was high in the sky, the fog had dissipated, and the signal had stopped.
Izzy didn’t even remember falling asleep.
*
It was about an hour to dawn when Izzy stumbled to the helm to man his post. The storm had raged all night, and it had been all hands on deck to try and keep the boat and its catch steady and safe.
He silently cursed his name, and the fact that - coupled with the roiling nausea that always accompanied the violent waters during storms - it seemed Dizzy Izzy was going to follow him on every ship he set foot on until the day he died. And speaking of-
His stomach lurched and he sped out just in time to throw up over the side.
“Storm’s over, mate,” said a sleepy voice from somewhere to his side.
“Ah, don’t bother him,” said another.
There was a pointed pause.
“Dizzy Izzy’s gotta earn his name somehow.”
A series of snickers scattered through the men sleeping on the deck. Izzy spat over the side, then strode silently back to the helm.
Fuck them. Fuck all of them. He was just trying to do his fucking job.
Izzy eyed the radio, twisting his hands around in his lap as he waited for everyone to fall asleep. They were probably all too wired from the storm still. It might be a while before they fell asleep.
His stomach felt like it was knotting up again, and Izzy held a fist to his mouth, forcing the bile back down. There was no way in hell he was going out there again.
He waited as long as he dared. He waited until he could hear some of the louder snorers start up, and it seemed like there was no movement from outside.
Then he reached out slowly, and clicked on the radio.
“...used to bake bread with me. It was a long time ago, but the process is not one that you forget so easily. I wish I had the time for it, here. Or the facilities. The oven here is not so good. And it is so cold all the time.”
A pause. A muffled cough.
Izzy brought his feet up onto the chair, tucking his knees to his chest and hugging them. It was cold tonight, and he was used to the frozen English air. He hoped Roach was staying warm.
“Bread baking days were wonderful. The smell of fresh bread is one of my favourite things in the world, you know. When that is the start of your morning, you know that it is going to be a good day.”
Izzy couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked a proper meal. Eating was usually done on the fly, the boats stocked with food that was easy to grab and eat on your feet and his house stocked with tins and packages that he could heat up without having to think too hard.
Izzy let himself dream about the process of being in a kitchen, taking his time to prepare something to eat. The smell of fresh bread was a distant memory, but he grasped at the threads of it nonetheless. Warmth. The comfort of a full belly and the fascination at the curl of steam that erupted when a hot roll was torn apart, ready for butter. Izzy felt his mouth water.
“I cannot wait until I can get back to the mainland. I think I will buy out the whole grocery store and lock myself in for the two weeks, eating real food that is not tinned or dried.”
Izzy’s stomach gave an answering growl. He didn’t often think of food as anything other than fuel to keep everything going, but Roach’s wistful reverie was making him change his mind.
But then, more coughing. Izzy leaned forwards at the sound, startled.
“Too fucking cold in this country,” rasped Roach, “anyway. I have work to do. Stay safe out there, my friends. If you are out there.”
“You stay safe too,” whispered Izzy.
The radio turned to static.
The door creaked open suddenly, and Izzy nearly leapt out of his seat in fright. His hand shot out and turned the radio off, rolling the dial away from Roach’s frequency.
“Hey,” said one of the crew. Jameson. Johnson. Jackson?
“Yes?” said Izzy, then winced.
“I mean,” he tried again, “sorry, what did you-”
“Figured you could use a bit of a kip after tonight. I can take the rest of the watch.”
Izzy stared at him, trying to figure out what the catch was here, what the tradeoff would be. Or if this was perhaps some sort of elaborate prank.
“You look like shit, mate,” said the man, “that’s all. Feel bad for ya.”
Izzy nodded, then slowly unfolded himself from the chair. He nodded at the man, a whispered a grateful thank you.
Out on the deck, he huddled himself out by the starboard gunwale, behind some crates that had been tied down. Nice and separate from the rest of the crew. He knew he probably wouldn’t get much sleep, but he closed his eyes anyway. He allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of a warm kitchen, fresh vegetables, fruit in a bowl on the counter. Of the smell of fresh baking. Something chocolate, perhaps.
Somewhere in the kitchen, the blurry shape of a man was there with him. Roach, hovering just out of view of his mind’s eye. Izzy longed to know what he looked like, to fill that space in his imagination with a real face. It was a ridiculous thing to hope, a futile one, but nevertheless, it was enough to let him drift off for a little while.
*
“If there is anybody out there. Anybody at all. Please - if anybody is listening, I need to get in touch with the Imperial Lighthouse Service.”
Izzy sat at the helm, frozen to the spot. He’d been in danger of nodding off moments before, but now he was wide awake.
“I have been here for four months now, and nobody has come to relieve me. There was an injury, and then the weather turned, but now it is fine but nobody is replying to me. I have no way off this island. I - I am not in any danger but I am so tired -”
Roach’s words were choked from him by a cough. Izzy flinched at the sound of it through the crackling, tinny speakers of the radio. It didn’t sound bad, but it seemed to be lingering around, and the weather was only getting colder.
“Please,” Roach said softly, “I-”
Izzy touched his hand to the speaker, gazing at the machinery in growing panic as Roach was cut off once again by his cough.
“I am starting to get a little frightened, I think. Most of the other keepers have someone - they are married, or close, but I-"
“It’s okay,” whispered Izzy, “you’re going to be alright. I’m going to call them the second we get back to shore, I swear. We’ll get you out of there.”
He wished Roach could hear him. He wished he could reach right through the radio and bring him back, set him by the fire, make him hot tea and wrap him in all the ratty old blankets he had piled on his bed for the winter.
It was all he could think about, all the way back to shore. He ran to the nearest phone, shoving coins into the slot as fast as his numb, shaking fingers could manage.
“The Imperial Lighthouse Service, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Uh, a concerned citizen.”
Izzy tapped a bitten-down nail against the glass of the booth as he waited, beating out a nonsense rhythm to try and calm the hammering of his heart.
“You’ve got the Imperial Lighthouse Service, how can we help?”
“Hi, you’ve got a - there’s a lighthouse keeper. Out off the coast of Wentham.”
“Hmm, a Mr Roach? Has there been trouble?”
“I - I think he’s sick. He was coughing-”
“Have you been in contact with him?”
“Not - not really, I just picked up a frequency-”
“Am I to understand that you’ve been listening in on the lighthouse communications?”
Izzy grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fuck. Shit.
The absurdity of the whole situation hit him, and all of a sudden he realised that he must sound very stupid indeed.
“Sort of. It was an accident. He’s been there for four months, he said, and-”
“We are aware. He has not, as far as we’re aware, attempted to send out any sort of mayday or distress signal, so rest assured there is currently no emergency.”
“No, but-”
“Our keepers are well aware that they may be required to stay for longer stretches than anticipated, especially during periods of unpredictable weather, illness, or injury. Please leave further communications up to the people who are paid to do so.”
“But he sounded-”
“My records say that there is another keeper scheduled to relieve him in a week. Thank you for your concern.”
There was a click, and the call ended.
“Fuck,” whispered Izzy.
There was nothing he could do.
It wasn’t like Roach was in danger . Not really. Cold and miserable, yes. Sick. Alone.
Apparently, that wasn't enough to kick up a fuss.
Izzy dragged himself home, leaving his wet clothes in a pile on the floor and then flopping in bed, burrowing under the blankets.
He was too worn out to dream, but for some reason when he woke sometime in the middle of the night, it was to the faint scent memory of baking bread.
And with that, he had an idea.
*
It wasn’t hard to beg off the next sail. Not when he’d been on every one for nearly a year so far.
Neither was it particularly difficult to get up early and wander into town, buying the nicest loaf he could find in the bakery along with butter, marmalade, apples and oranges. A handful of good tea and an end of ginger. A jar of honey and, on a whim, soft, cinnamonny biscuits.
He packed all of it into a satchel, along with a small bottle of brandy he knew he’d never get around to drinking.
The hardest part was chartering a boat to the island, when most of the regulars had already left for the day. In the end he slipped a woman a full day’s wages to convince her husband to take him out on a sail that would likely take all of half an hour. Izzy didn’t care. It was worth it.
The island sat mostly on rocks, huge ones that were slippery and dark from seawater, covered in slime and moss. Izzy forced sore limbs into one more little burst of action, clambering up to where the lighthouse stood.
He could feel his pulse in his throat as he made his way up the gravel path to the doorway. It was painted what would once have been a bright red, stripped and weathered away by the wind and the salt to a faded rust colour.
For one brief, terrible moment, Izzy froze.
What was he doing here? What the fuck did he think he was going to accomplish, knocking on the door of a stranger and letting himself in like this? He didn’t even know what Roach looked like.
And yet-
He could still hear his voice so clearly.
I am not in any danger but I am so tired
Izzy grabbed the bell cord, and pulled.
The clanging rang out loud and clear, even amongst the roar of the waves crashing on the rocks and the whistling of the wind. Izzy rang it once more, and then waited.
And waited.
Roach was tired, he’d said, and the lighthouse was a tall one. He was probably taking his time getting down. Or he was in the middle of something. Any number of problems that might have arisen, that would take time. Izzy could be patient about it.
He waited a little longer.
He shivered, drawing his coat more tightly around himself and stamping his feet against the icy wind. His breath fogged up in front of his face.
He wondered about ringing the bell again.
Maybe Roach hadn’t heard? It might be louder up near the lens.
Izzy gritted his teeth, and rang the bell again.
It suddenly occurred to him that he’d come here without a plan for getting home. He’d be able to hop on whatever boat came to relieve Roach of his duty. But that was if one really did arrive. He could use Roach’s radio to call for someone as well. That would be fine too.
Both of those options, however, required Roach to let him in.
Izzy suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He reached for the bell once more, but at that moment, the door creaked open.
The man who opened the door was taller than he’d expected, probably even taller than that but for the fact that he was currently hunched over. His skin might have been a deep chestnut when he was healthy. Right now it seemed ashen and leeched of colour, darker from the flush of fever at his cheeks and bruised purple under his eyes. Damp curls hung limply around his face, covered with a battered cloth cap. The rest of him was wrapped inside a heavy woollen blanket that he was wearing in lieu of an overcoat. And in spite of the cold, his face and neck were dotted with perspiration. Izzy felt something in his chest clench at the sight of him.
“Hello?” said Roach in confusion, “you are not Oluwande. Or Jim.”
“I’m Izzy,” said Izzy.
The two of them stared at each other a little longer.
“Hello Izzy,” said Roach, “who the fuck are you?”
“I - I’m - I’m a fisherman,” stammered Izzy, “I brought you some bread.”
Roach blinked.
“I mean-”
Fuck. All the preparation to get here and he’d forgotten to fucking figure out what he was going to fucking say to the guy when he got here.
“I heard you. On the radio. You sounded sick, and I got worried so I thought maybe, you know, I’d give the lighthouse service a call, except a fat lot of fuckin’ good they were, so then I thought maybe I’d just - maybe you might want-”
Izzy trailed off, lightheaded and blushing furiously from embarrassment.
“Maybe you might want some company,” he murmured.
“Oh,” said Roach softly.
Izzy looked resolutely at the ground. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle whatever expression Roach was making right now. He’d truly made a proper twat of himself.
“Come on,” said Roach, “inside.”
Then suddenly there was a hand on his arm, and he was being led inside, and up the stairs.
It was fucking freezing inside the lighthouse. No wonder Roach was ill - the place was damp and drafty, and Izzy felt a shiver run through him as the wind from outside screamed through all the little cracks and crevices in the building.
“You are lucky,” said Roach, “I have just finished up top, otherwise I might have roped you into some work with me.”
He sounded out of breath just from shuffling his way up the steel staircase.
“I would've helped,” said Izzy, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look fuckin’ awful.”
Roach gave him a weary smile as he led him into the living area. It was a cozy enough setup - a bed, a couch, a stove, a washbasin. A mountain of homemade blankets, undoubtedly the result of many a lighthouse keeper passing the time on quiet evenings.
“I think I’ve gone mad,” said Roach, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.
“I’m not a hallucination, if that’s what you mean,” said Izzy, “I can give you a pinch if you’d like.”
“Please,” said Roach, “I am afraid I will wake up and discover I am speaking to no one.”
He looked so worn out, it was easy enough for Izzy to take charge.
“Well, let’s get some food and tea in you first, and we’ll see if that changes anything.”
Every instinct screamed at Izzy about how fucking ridiculous this whole thing was, inviting himself over and helping himself to a stranger’s kitchen. Yet an amused smile had emerged on Roach’s lips as his eyes followed him around the room, and somehow that made everything easier.
“This is very kind of you,” Roach said softly. His voice sounded rough, and thick with congestion.
“Yeah well, you sounded like shit over the radio,” said Izzy, busying himself with getting some water onto the stove, “and you sound even worse in person.”
“I am not used to-”
“-the cold, yeah.”
Izzy froze. Oh, shit.
“Fisherman Izzy, how long precisely have you been listening to me?”
Izzy didn’t answer that. He stoked the coals in the stove, frowning at how low Roach had let them burn. No wonder it was so fucking cold in here. He spent some time building it up instead, muttering about idiots who didn’t know how to look after themselves properly despite living and working on their own for so long, until it had erupted back up into a hearty blaze.
“Izzy,” said Roach, “how long?”
Izzy crouched by the stove, his face burning with shame.
“Months,” he said, “probably - probably near when you started your posting here.”
“Oh-”
“We - we’re out very late, on the boat” he stammered, “I was just messing with the radio one night, and I heard you talking-”
“I had hoped that someone might-”
“And there’s no one else out there on night watch-”
“The sea is so much larger at night. You feel so much smaller, so I wanted to-”
“And no one fucking talks to me during the day anyway because I’m - because there’s just something - they don’t want to-”
Izzy found himself babbling, desperate for Roach to understand, daring to hope that he actually might.
“At night, I like to imagine there is someone here, sitting with me,” whispered Roach, “so that I do not feel quite so alone. I thought it was silly. Too much to hope for.”
Izzy turned around, and found Roach staring at him - not in disgust. Not even amusement, which he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle, even good-naturedly. But in a quiet kind of awe.
“I was doing the same thing,” said Izzy.
Roach gave him a watery-eyed smile, but then he began to cough, the moment shattering as he hunkered down in his blanket.
“Right,” said Izzy, standing up, “you stay there.”
Mugs were filled with honey and ginger and tea. Bread was cut into thick slices and spread with butter and marmalade. He peeled an orange, and then brought all of it to the exhausted man on the couch.
Roach reached for the bread first, his hands shaking as he picked up a slice.
“Did you bake this?” he said, staring at it.
“No,” said Izzy, “god no, I’m not really much of a cook. Not really good at much of anything, other than catching fish.”
“I know for a fact that this is untrue,” said Roach, shoving the bread in his mouth and groaning obscenely at the taste.
“Oh?” said Izzy, unable to keep down the smile that forced its way onto his face.
“No,” said Roach through a mouthful of bread, “you are also apparently very good at improving my mood. I feel better already.”
“Yeah, well you still look like shit, so drink your tea.”
Roach laughed, but he did pick up the tea and sip at it, sighing contentedly into the warmth.
“I will teach you to bake bread one day soon,” said Roach, “it is very easy once you have done it a few times. Your fishing arms will be strong enough to knead the dough for me, no?”
One day soon? Izzy felt his heart rate begin to speed up again.
“Okay,” he said faintly.
“Once they get me out of here. They finally told me I only have another week.”
His expression softened, his eyes growing shiny again.
“I suppose I have you to thank for that.”
“I’d - I’d like to bake bread,” said Izzy, a little embarrassed.
“Good. Then perhaps we will-”
Roach’s voice cracked suddenly with emotion, and then all of a sudden he was crying quietly into his tea, his expression crumpling as the sudden relief of it all overwhelmed him.
Panic gripped Izzy as he tried to figure out what the fuck to do about it.
He scooted a little closer, putting a tentative arm around his shoulders.
“There there,” he said awkwardly, “it’s alright.”
A sob shook Roach’s shoulders, then another. And then Izzy realised that the quiet breaths shaking out of him sounded more like laughter than anything else, and Roach was shaking his head, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand.
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry, ah - sorry. I am so tired, I think I am going a little mad.”
Roach reached up and patted the hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly.
“Thank you,” he said, leaning over to knock his head gently to Izzy’s, “it is - this is all a little strange.”
“Yeah,” said Izzy, “sorry if I-”
“No!” said Roach, “you do not need to apologise. I just-”
Another giggle escaped him, edged with hysteria.
“I have been told stories about people going mad in lighthouses. There is a special kind of madness that comes with lighthouse keepers.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” said Izzy.
“Are you afraid?” said Roach, “of being here with a madman?”
“I’m the one who packed a picnic and crossed the ocean to come see a complete stranger,” said Izzy, “I think we’re about even on the madness side of things.”
Roach nodded.
“Wonderful. So-”
He reached across Izzy to the pile of blankets, dragging them across their laps in a haphazard pile of mismatched wool and jaggedly stitched quilting.
“Izzy, I believe you already know plenty about me. But I know absolutely nothing about you.”
He wiggled his eyebrows at Izzy.
“I’m not really that interesting,” said Izzy sheepishly.
He didn’t want to say anything fucking stupid. He didn’t want to put his foot in it, say something that would make Roach hate him, or laugh at him, or think he was an idiot-
“You have already, I believe, heard me talking about cannibalism,” said Roach, “amongst any number of other embarrassing things.”
He patted Izzy on the leg, then gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Come on, you are here now,” he said, “if you did not run for the hills listening to my bullshit, I promise not to for yours too.”
Izzy felt something in his chest loosen, something he hadn’t realised had been knotted up there, it had been so long.
“Okay,” he said, “alright.”
“Come on Izzy,” smiled Roach, “start talking.”