Chapter Five.

Friday, 1st October, 1982

8.20am

"Sam?" Al leaned over the armchair where Sam was curled up asleep.

The leaper didn't respond. Al felt mean waking him. Sleep was often a luxury Sam didn't get to indulge in on a leap and his tossing and turning in the chair showed that this had not been the most peaceful of slumbers. He'd had precious little chance to recharge his batteries.

"Rise and shine, buddy! Up and at 'em!" Al coaxed.

Gradually, Sam surfaced, rubbing his eyes, then his neck and back, which were stiff from the awkward position in which he'd been sleeping.

"What's going on, Al?" he mumbled once he was more conscious than not.

"The sun's been up well over an hour, Sam. It's been a dull dreary morning but it's brightening up, so you need to go up and switch the lantern off."

Reluctantly, Sam stood up and stretched out the kinks in his aching muscles.

"Time to get on the crampons and fetch the pitons and carabiners, is it?" he jested, showing his affection for the spiral staircase had not increased one single iota with the new dawn.

Sam spent the next hour going through the regular routine of the lighthouse, which he'd soon become conversant with.

Then, having showered and changed his clothes, he rustled up breakfast for himself and then for Gil, and went to see if the other man was ready to start a new day.

With a tray in one hand, containing a plate of his special eggs à la Beckett, several slices of hot buttered toast and a mug of hot strong tea, Sam tentatively knocked on Gil's bedroom door. Getting no immediate response, Sam hesitated, wondering if it would be better to let Gil sleep on. Then he fretted that the old man may indeed have succumbed to alcohol poisoning and be even now lying comatose and close to death.

Knowing that if his fears proved groundless, he would antagonize Gil by going into his private room, Sam played his ace and sent Al in to check on him.

Moments later, the hologram returned to report that Gil was awake and Sam should do his utmost to get him out. Burgess had recovered a bottle hidden in the bedroom and was rapidly heading for the bottom of it.

This was not the action of a man preparing to take up his duties in a few minutes, especially not such responsible duties as operating a lighthouse. It seemed that Gil no longer felt the same pride in his work that he'd exhibited over the previous 40 odd years.

"Gil, I've made you some breakfast," Sam called, knocking on the bedroom door again, more forcefully this time. He tried to sound casual and relaxed but, having heard Al's news, that was far from how he was feeling.

Sounds of shuffling as Gil hid his bottle filled Sam's ears. Gil was soon at the door, unshaven, disheveled, bleary eyed and with enough bourbon on his breath to make Sam feel intoxicated just sharing the same air.

Gil took one look at the tray of food, put his hand to his nose to indicate he didn't appreciate the appetizing aroma, and then pushed it and Sam out of the way, dashing for the bathroom. Graphic sounds of vomiting soon confirmed to Sam that Gil wouldn't be partaking of a hearty breakfast.

Sam looked from Al to the still open bedroom door, debating whether or not he should try to clear the booze out while Gil was otherwise occupied.

"On balance, Sam, I'd say leave it. A man so far in the grip of the daemon drink that he's hitting the bottle that hard at this time in the morning is gonna get his hands on some booze somewhere, even if he has to break down the shed door to get it. Better if he sticks to what he's got in there. You don't have time to sober him up fully and I don't think you have time to reason with him either; he's not ready to be receptive. Trust me, I know the signs. I'm afraid all you can do is play on his being 'ill' and persuade him to stay off duty. It's gonna be a long day pal."

Sam nodded in agreement and took the breakfast tray back to the kitchen. Once at a safe distance and so free to talk, he formulated a game plan with Al, whereby the Observer would leave the Imaging Chamber and get a few hours shuteye now so that he could keep watch for Sam later in the day. This would enable Sam to snatch a couple of hours before the storm broke, both literally and figuratively.

Sam then took a pitcher of water through to Gil, who was likely to be getting pretty dehydrated by now. Gil snatched it from him sullenly.

It proved a lot easier than Sam had anticipated persuading Burgess that he was not fit for work and that 'Ken' could cope with doing double duty until he felt better.

Sam would have been happier if Burgess had put up more of an argument. It would have meant that on some level the old man still cared.

Al had suggested that there would be time enough to look for a long-term solution to Gil's alcoholism once the crisis was over. Sam could probably set the wheels in motion, make sure Gil would get professional help, and leap with the assurance that everything would turn out for the best.

Still, all through the day Sam fretted that he wasn't trying hard enough to get through to Gil. In his gut, it felt wrong not to be tackling the problem head on and helping the old man through his personal crisis. Sam was prepared for it to be tough, but he still felt it was worth a try and that it was his duty to try. "It's never too soon to start early" kept running through his head for some inexplicable reason.

Al had been right about Gil being unreceptive though. A couple of times when Gil had come out of his room to visit the bathroom, Sam had tried to open up a channel of communication, asking him how he was feeling and if he needed anything.

"Just for you to leave me alone, whelp," was the politest he got in return, followed by a forceful slamming of the door.

QLHQ

Waiting Room

Verbena had spent several hours chatting with the current visitor. She found Ken to be intelligent, witty and charming. When she told him as much, he was surprised or, more accurately, astonished. Most people, he told her, thought he was a dullard. It was as if they assumed the blot on his face had somehow sucked his brains out.

Bena had met that attitude all too many times. People often had a horrible tendency to talk to the caretaker of a physically handicapped person, as if confinement to a wheelchair or whatever made them congenitally stupid and incapable of even rudimentary conversation. It was reprehensible but far too common.

"I suppose I'm partly to blame," Ken told her, "I've always been painfully shy so I've tended to avoid crowds and deep, meaningful one on one conversations." He gave a little apologetic snigger.

'Who could have blamed him for being shy?' thought Bena.

She really liked this young man and found herself looking forward to their chats. She would have loved nothing better than to book him in for immediate laser treatment to shrink his birthmark. It may not have been one hundred percent successful, especially since it was usually done on a much younger subject, but she was convinced it would have improved his physical appearance significantly. Unfortunately, since it was not readily available in 1982, it was against the rules. She couldn't even suggest to him that he explore the possibility a few years down the road.

Talking over with Aurora - the project's head medic - her regret that something that would have such a positive impact on the young man's life was forbidden to her, Bena was thrilled when the doctor came up with 'the next best thing'. The two women set about arranging it at once.

Cape Peligro lighthouse

Friday, 1st October, 1982

6.30pm

Sam had divided the day between the routine chores of the lighthouse - which had not taxed him much given his foreknowledge of future events - and his further attempts to break through Gil's defensive wall. The latter had continued to be 'mission impossible'.

Gil had refused point blank to eat anything that Sam offered him during the morning and had only grudgingly accepted the pitchers of water that Sam kept plying him with. He left his bedroom only to visit the bathroom and did his best to act as if "Ken" was not there at all. Not once did he attempt to ask if everything was running smoothly, which of course it was, or to take any interest whatsoever in the business that had formerly been his life.

By mid afternoon, Gil had finally decided he was ravenously hungry. Sam knew this was because his liver was too busy working overtime trying to break down the alcohol to efficiently control his blood sugar levels. Gil had emerged from his room and headed in the general direction of the kitchen, colliding with several pieces of furniture on the way. Sam had intercepted him and promised to bring him 'room service'. The surly man finally accepted grudgingly when Sam suggested he might be too 'ill' to be safe cooking and was at risk of burning himself.

The way Gil tacked across the floor like a small boat in a high wind left little doubt as to how he was still spending every waking moment in his room. Sam prepared him as much carbohydrate and starch heavy food as he could muster to help soak up the booze, though he was pretty sure that by this point nothing would help much. At least Gil ate it this time.

Now it seemed that Gil had either run out of supplies, or just out of steam, because Sam could hear him snoring loudly again.

Al arrived at 6.30pm on the dot and, while they exchanged what little news they had, they made their way up to the top of the lighthouse.

As he winched the weight up, Sam told Al of his unsuccessful attempts to get through to Gil and his feelings of failure that he had not been able to do more to help.

"I told you he wasn't ready to listen, Sam. With any luck he'll stay in a drunken stupor all night and, once you know the yacht is safe, you can concentrate on the full Beckett charm offensive. Right now, the last thing you want is to make Gil angry."

"I guess you're right, Al. I just hate to see him like that, you know? I feel I should be doing... oh, I dunno... something... anything."

"I've had Ziggy check, Sam. After this incident, there isn't another ship in danger for over five weeks. You can afford to concentrate on the yacht first. Tomorrow you can start on Gil's rehabilitation."

Sam conceded Al's point, yet his anxiety translated itself into a furious energy poured into the winch so that the weight was hauled up in half the normal time. Though the effort made him sweat and his muscles protested the activity, he achieved a certain release of pent up frustration that felt good.

In no time, he'd turned on the beacon, done his circuit of the balcony, and was heading back down the dreaded stairway.

"Why the devil didn't they put any windows in this darn tower?" Sam complained as he held the oil lamp aloft to light his descent. He should have been getting used to it by now but he still found the eerie shadows unnerving.

"Probably because of the risk of them being blown out in a storm." Al reasoned.

The lighthouse was very old, well over a hundred years, and simplicity had been the watchword in its design. The potential for modernization had been there over the past few decades of course, but Archie and Gilbert had resisted all such moves. It was a wonder they even had electricity, thought the Admiral wryly. Even that was provided by a generator - a back up of which was housed in the shed with the supplies.

Back downstairs Sam checked the radio while Al checked on Burgess.

"Sleeping like the proverbial baby, Sam." He reported moments later. "Though it's sure not mother's milk he's tanked up on!"

"Keep an eye on him, Al. Make sure he's okay." Sam exhorted him as he slipped away to try to get some sleep himself.

Al nodded his assurance. He was more concerned that his friend would find sleep elusive. Sam had a tendency to worry too much, though lately it had been with good cause.