1979- Meanwhile at Bishop Rock

Thompson shielded his face from the rain as he jogged across the helipad atop Bishop Rock lighthouse, introduced three years before, to ensure that the keepers could access the lighthouse on nights like these. The sea was far too violent and treacherous to reach the rocks safely by boat, forcing Thompson and his new partner David Wells to be airlifted in.

Thompson gave the pilot the thumbs up, before clambering down the ladder as fast as he could. The rungs were slippery and frighteningly cold, but he'd done this a thousand times.

"Watch ya step!" he screamed up to Wells, battling to be heard over the hammering and clattering of the helicopter taking off.

Thompson hopped confidently from the ladder once he was a yard or so from the platform, landing with a soft splatter of his boots against metal. He ducked inside into the top floor of the lighthouse to get some rest bite from the unrelenting weather. Wells followed close behind.

Thompson was in his late fifties, but could easily be mistaken for a lot older. His thick grey beard was unkempt and his shaggy hair wasn't much better. He wore his age on his face, with wrinkles and folds from top to bottom, like an un-ironed sheet.

He was a bulky man, standing well over six feet, and with a naturally broad and muscular body. He towered over his latest partner.

Wells was 24, and new to the island. This had been the only job he could get his hands on, after looking just about everywhere else. He was good looking, with a chiselled face, flowing blonde locks and bright blue eyes. Compared to Thompson, he was a very slight, short man, and his nerves made him sink even lower still.

They had barely had time to introduce themselves back on dry land, and shared a somewhat awkward and silent ride over, but Thompson now reluctantly instigated pleasantries.

"I guess we better get to know each other, if we're going to be stuck out here for God-knows how long," Thompson grumbled, unable to force a sense of pleasure into his sullen tones. "It was Wells, wasn't it?"

His brown eyes were unwelcoming and, teamed up with his harsh eyebrows, always seemed so full of anger.

"David Wells, yes, looking forward to working with you! Hell of a lighthouse this, isn't it?" Wells replied, extending his hand to shake.

"They don't call her the 'King of the Lighthouses' for nothing kid," Thompson said, shaking his new colleagues hand eventually.

He wasn't a fan of new people; hell, he wasn't a fan of people in general, but he prided himself on being professional and getting the job done.

"Sorry, I didn't catch your first name," Wells smiled.

"Thompson'll do just fine," the older man mumbled in reply. "I spose I should give you a tour of the place then. Keep up please."

The smiled drifted from Well's face, but he shrugged his shoulders and followed Thompson down a set of stairs to their right.

"The last crew would have been flown out about half an hour before we got here, so all the systems should be working fine but it's best to check. Our job is basically to keep the bastard place running and report any wrecks or activity out there," Thompson explained, casually throwing a thumb out in the vague direction of the sea.

"Are there not meant to be three of us?" Wells enquired.

"Aye, Murphy should have been here, but I guess he's been caught up in some drama at home. His little son is very ill you see. Poor kid," Thompson explained. "So, it should be just you and me for the time being."

"Sounds great!" Wells exclaimed, immediately regretting the level of enthusiasm. He was trying to make a good impression, but he could already tell that Thompson was a man of few words and even fewer emotions.

"We have ten floors here, these stairs take you from the lamp all the way down to floor two, then it's ladders down to the rocks from there," Thompson continued to clarify as they trudged down the steps.

The staircase was a perfect spiral, running down almost the entire body of the tower. The narrow cylinder meant that the spiral was incredibly tight, and it was almost dizzying to walk down.

"This is floor nine. The service room. This is where we do maintenance and the such; just keep the light and the horn going basically." Thompson pointed out with the passion of a brick.

Wells peered inside. The room was full of electronics, levers, and buttons, with a dull whirring, mechanical noise. In the centre stood the main control panel, painted a dark green colour which had flaked off over the years.

"Could you just run the controls by me?" Wells asked, but Thompson was already stomping his way down do the next floor. "Maybe later then."

"This here is your store room; food, pots and pans and such. Not a lot to see really," Thompson pointed out without stopping his decline down the stairs.

Wells didn't bother to ask any questions, he knew better than to irritate the man further. He already got the distinct impression that Thompson resented having him here, so he just followed him down further and kept his mouth shut.

"Here we have the bedroom, I'm sure you'll find it most comfortable. As you can see, it's fitted out with the latest modern trends and entertainment to pass the time."

The bedroom was a sad sight. Wells hadn't expected much, but this was even dingier than he had imagined. Three old, rickety single beds lined up, one against each wall, with a chest of drawers squeezed in next to each. The closest thing that came to home comfort or decoration was the thick layer of dust coating just about every surface. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds, but barely doing anything to brighten the dull space.

"It's lovely," Wells muttered, tongue in cheek.

Thompson ignored him. the last thing he wanted to do was start exchanging banter. He couldn't think of anything worse.

"Next floor down, we have the living room. Just a couple of armchairs and a few books and that really, but it's better than nothing."

"Sounds good, what about the rest of the place?" Wells asked.

"Oh, it's just store rooms and old oil tanks, nothing to worry yourself with. Everything we need is been here and the top really," Thompson assured.

"Okay, well get me up to speed with the controls and I'll be good to go!" Wells said, hoping that his teacher wouldn't just ignore him this time.

Thompson spent the next hour or so teaching his young protégé the inner workings of the lighthouse, before retiring to the sleeping chambers for a rest. He found that sleep was the best way to pass the time in this line of work; plus, he wasn't as young as he used to be, the kip would do him good.

Thompson awoke from his sleep a couple of hours later, feeling slightly groggy and worse for wear. He headed up to the top platform for some fresh air, hoping it would clear his headache.

As he wearily climbed the spiral staircase; the circles only making his head feel worse; he could hear the muffled tones of singing. The sounds grew louder as he neared the summit.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now please pay attention and listen to me

Give me some time to blow the man down

"Blow the man down, ay?" Thompson grinned.

Wells jumped out his skin, almost dropping the burning cigarette nestled between his fingers. It was the fist time Wells had seen the faintest sign of a smile from his new housemate, so he was quite taken aback.

"Yes sir, my dad used to sing it to me as a boy, bad habit I spose," Wells laughed uneasily.

"Not at all, nothing wrong with a good old sea shanty in this line of work boy," Thompson chirped, slapping Wells on the back as he shuffled up next to him.

"Got another one of those?" he asked, gesturing towards the flumes oh spoke escaping Wells' mouth.

"Sure do," Wells replied, thrilled that Thompson was finally trying to bond.

"Oh, actually, hold that kid, I'm just going to go grab my book from downstairs, won't be a tick."

Wells nodded, not wanting to seem like he was trying too hard to befriend the stubborn old man.

A couple of minutes later, Thompsons grumpy voice was bellowing up the staircase.

"Wells, have you moved my book?" echoed through the night.

"Err, not that I know of!" Wells shouted back down, desperately racking his brain as to whether he'd accidentally taken it.

He could hear Thompson's grumbles and moans making their way back up the stairs, louder and louder, until his messy grey mane re-emerged.

"I could have sworn I left it next to my bed," he mumbled.

"Well, I'm sure it'll turn u-" Wells began to reassure before Thompson interjected.

"I thought you said you didn't fucking move it?"

Thompson was visibly annoyed, and as Wells followed his fiery gaze, he understood why. On the side of the balcony, next to him, stood a solitary book.

"What? I swear that wasn't there a minute ago!" Wells pleaded.

"I know some people like to joke around to pass the time in these jobs, but let me tell you right now, that shit will not fly with me!" Thompson spat, snatching his book up before barging past Wells, back down the stairway.

"Fucking prick," he kept murmuring under his breath, straining to suppress his inextinguishable anger issues.

After stamping down the stairs as loudly as possible, Thompson threw himself into the nearest armchair and settled into his book, The Old Man and the Sea.

The book described the journeys of fisherman Santiago, who suffered a painfully unlucky streak, going 85 days without a catch. The younger fishermen mocked him and refused to work with him, out of fear of catching the curse.

A couple of chapters in, Thompson began to calm down, and regretted the way he had reacted. Wells had probably forgotten he'd borrowed the book, or was just playing a practical joke.

It was rare for him, but Thompson decided to go and apologise to the younger man. It was his first day after all.

It felt as if he spent his life climbing up and down these stairs, as Thompson made his way back up to the lamp.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea, he heard as he passed the 8th floor store room..

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now please pay attention and listen to me

Give me some time to blow the man down

At least Wells' spirits hadn't been dampened by his outburst, Thompson thought, nearing the top of his climb.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

All he had to do was say sorry and share a smoke with the kid, everyone loses their temper some time.

Now wait for Thompson and listen to me

Look at the rocks and throw the man down

Thompson bounded up the last few stairs, his rage instantly switched back on.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Wells looked up from his perch on the side of the balcony. "What did I say when?" he asked defensively.

"Don't play fucking games with me, boy!" Thompson roared, taking a step closer to Wells to show him that he wasn't messing about.

"I literally do not know what the fuck you're on about," Wells claimed, hopping down from the railings.

"You want to throw me onto the rocks ay?" Thompson screamed, grabbing his partner's collar, and pushing his head over the side of the balcony. "You want to throw me down there?"

Wells planted two hands on Thompson's chest and pushed him away.

"What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy old bastard? You've been a prick ever since I arrived here! I didn't take your shitty book, and I sure as hell didn't say anything about throwing you onto any fucking rocks!" Wells yelled in retaliation.

"I know what I heard, you disrespectful piece of shit!" Thompson spat.

"You know what Thompson, maybe you're just going a little bit crazy. Losing your mind in your old age," Well's hissed mockingly as he made circle motions by his temple.

Thompson wound his arm up, preparing to smack Wells as hard as he could in the face. Something in the back of his head told him to stop. This wasn't worth losing his job over.

"You just stay out of my way!" he cried, retreating down to his bed.

"Crazy? Me? How the fuck can he call me crazy? I know what I heard! And I know that he took my book!" he whispered to himself.

Thompson's mind was full of questions, rushing around one after another, just as fast and forceful as the waves hitting the rocks below.

Why was he doing this? Was this all one big game to him? Was he playing one big joke on Thompson? Was he trying to make him think he was crazy? Maybe he was after his job! People had tried to force Thompson out of this position many times before, claiming that he was unstable, prone to rage. Yes, that was it! He was trying to make Thompson think he was crazy! But why? So he could steal his job and take the higher wage as head keeper?

Thompson stormed into the bedroom and slumped down onto his bed, his head sinking lower than expected and rebounding hard against the mattress.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed.

He sat back up and peered behind him. His pillow was gone.

"Oh no! Oh, this is the last straw!" he said, marching back out the door straight away.

"Where the fuck is it this time? First my book and now my pillow? Are you really that immature, you little shit!"

This time Wells came down to him, striding down the steps almost as purposefully as Thompson.

"What the fuck is it this time?" Wells asked.

"You know exactly what it is, where is my fucking pillow?" Thompson growled back.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, are you serious? You've lost it! You have actually lost it! I'm not spending another minute around you! I'm sleeping upstairs, and first thing in the morning, when the water is calm, I'm getting the fuck out of here!" Wells laughed, before leaping back up the stairs as fast as he could.

"He laughed. He actually laughed at me," Thompson whispered to himself. "As if I'm the crazy one here!"

His face was growing redder and redder by the second, and he could feel the rage bubbling from within. All he had to do was make it until tomorrow morning, then cheer and wave as Wells left, never to return.

Thompson bent over the side of the stairs, eyes shut, breathing in deep, and then out, in and then out. His heartrate slowed, and his breathing became more regular as he felt himself calming. After a moment or two, he opened his eyes once more.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

Thompson squinted and strained but he was almost positive about what he could see, sat at the very bottom of the spiral staircase. His pillow.

He kept breathing steadily as he started the decline from floor seven to floor two, all the while muttering the words 'one more day'. That's all he had to endure until this plague on his life left for good. Maybe even Murphy would be back by then.

As he reached the very bottom of the stairs, he felt the real force of the wind outside. It whistled powerfully under the door and through the slim cracks in the granite bricks. The noise was so loud that it muffled the profanities that spewed from Thompson's mouth when he bent down to retrieve his pillow.

Attached to it was a little note. Simply:

Thompson surrounded by a neatly drawn heart.

He resisted the urge to batter the living daylight out of wells and instead tucked himself into bed, comforted by the promise of isolation tomorrow morning. However, his sleep was interrupted that night, by a constant whispered chorus of:

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now wait for Thompson and listen to me

Look at the rocks and throw the man down

After lying there for what seemed like hours, Thompson couldn't take it anymore. What if he was crazy? What if this was all in his head? Maybe Wells was right after all.

He slid out of bed and stumbled out the doorway towards the stairs. He needed some answers. He rubbed his eyes, and planted one hand against the wall to steady himself. Rustle. Thompson turned his head to the source of the noise, and tore a scrap piece of paper from the wall.

Sprawled across it in messy red handwriting was the word:

CRAZY

As Thompson inspected it closer, he spotted the world Santiago in print and realised what the paper was. It was his book, The Old Man and the Sea. He glanced up the staircase, slightly blinded by the light of the lamp bursting through every five or so seconds. Page after page were stuck to the walls, spiralling up with the stairs, each brandishing the word CRAZY in the same red handwriting.

Thompson was sure now. He'd never been so sure of anything in his life. He was not crazy. Wells was trying to mess with him, make him think he was losing it, but Thompson swore he would get the last laugh.

As he burst out into the fresh air, he spotted Wells, fast asleep on the floor, next to the lamp. Thompson's target illuminated every five seconds, like a beacon beckoning him to go in for the kill.

He leaped on top of the smaller man, pinning him to the ground with his knees.

"What the fuck?" Wells screamed, as his eyes snapped open in a startled panic.

"What are you doing?" he cried.

"Crazy am I? Thought you could make me lose it? Well who's the crazy one now?" Thompson screeched, throwing the balled-up scrap of paper at Wells' face.

Wells desperately tried to punch and claw at Thompson's face, but even though he was far older, he was much bigger and heavier than his opponent. Thompson swatted away Well's flailing arms with one hand, whilst clamping the other around his throat.

"Stop! I haven't done any-" Wells whimpered, but Thompson gripped tighter.

He now had two hands wrapped around Wells' throat, choking every last bit of air from his lungs.

All Wells could do was muster a weak whisper, "Please."

It reminded Thompson of the whispered voices he had been hearing all day.

"Stop whispering! Stop whispering! STOP WHISPERING!" he squealed. He didn't sound human anymore.

Wells' grew weaker and weaker as the oxygen left his body, until eventually, he jerked violently before coming to an eerily still rest.

Thompson clambered to his feet, manically laughing.

"I won! I won you bastard! You tried to make me lose my mind, and I won!"

Thompson stared down at the lifeless body before him, and continued to cackle. Then he stopped.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now wait for Thompson and listen to me

Look at the rocks and throw the man down

"What? No! NO! NO! NO!" Thompson screamed. "I killed him! I won! WHY ARE YOU STILL DOING THIS!"

He kicked out at Well's dead body, again and again, as hard as he possibly could, but the song still rang through his ears.

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now wait for Thompson and listen to me

Look at the rocks and throw the man down

He slapped the side of his head with one hand, then the other, and before long he was punching his temples with all his strength.

"Get out of there! GET OUT!"

He sank to his knees and sobbed. After everything, he had been hearing the voices all along. Wells hadn't been singing it, and he probably hadn't been moving anything either. It was all in Thompson's head. He couldn't take this anymore. Now he was crazy and a murderer.

He clambered to his feet, fighting the urge to throw up. Stumbling like a drunk, he lifted one leg over the nearest railing, followed by the other. He took one deep breath in, then leant out over the side, gripping onto the rails behind him. He took one deep breath out, then closed his eyes. Another deep breath in and loosened his grip. One last breath out, and he let go.

His body plummeted through the air, falling 51 metres and ten floors down before finally crashing down onto the rocks below. Thompson had always been surprised by how loud the waves were when they collided with the rocks at Bishop lighthouse. It was nothing compared to the crack of bones.

The top of Bishop Rock lighthouse continued to flash for 15 more seconds.

Flash...

Flash...

Flash...

Darkness

Come all ye young fellows that follows the sea

To me, way hey, blow the man down

Now wait for Thompson and listen to me

Look at the rocks and throw the man down

A dark figure stepped out from the doorway at the top of the lighthouse, illuminated only by his own shining, demonic, red eyes.

Billy Murphy ran his hands along the railings of his beloved Bishop.

"Now it's finally just us."