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The Watchkeeper
by Lauren O'Donoghue
EXCERPT
We’ve not had a summer like this for years. All through May it rained as though it might never stop. The spring afternoons turned dark as evening, and by the time summer announced itself we’d near forgotten what the sun looked like. That first week in June, when we woke to a kiss of warmth in the breeze, I could’ve knelt on the waterlogged earth and prostrated myself in gratitude. We’ve been gifted with long, golden days since then. A true summer.
The weather is bigger here, as the sky is bigger. The station faces south and west, the window that wraps around the front of the building putting the island straight in my line of sight. I sit in the right-hand chair, and Glenn in the left. Our perch faces the open water, which glimmers like tinfoil in the unfettered light. Bright spots echo when I blink. One leaves behind an afterimage, grey and shaped like a question mark. It hovers at the edge of my vision, scrawling forms on the quiet sea that disappear when I turn towards them. I need to get that eye looked at, but there never seems to be the time.
A fan whirs on the desk between me and Glenn, doing little but move the hot air about as it turns a laborious half-circle. I pull a hankie from the pocket of my trousers and shake it out flat. Sweat is beading on my skin, stinging the places that are raw with eczema. I dab at my upper lip, my hairline, the deep fold of flesh below my shirt collar.
Reaching over to tap Glenn on the shoulder, I nod towards the island.
‘There’s a few out there today, Glenn.’
‘Aye.’
‘A fair few. Hope they bothered to read the crossing times before they went out.’
‘Hmm.’
‘It’ll come in rapid soon,’ I say. ‘They want to be careful, at this hour.’
…
… Read the complete story in our anthology Perfect Circle.
Lauren O'Donoghue
Lauren O’Donoghue is a writer, game designer, and PhD researcher based in Yorkshire.
