Live Long and Prospero

By Scott Pixello

1983. The Grange Lighthouse, just off the western coast of the UK. Nearest human habitation- New York. Principal Lighthousekeeper James Church settles down to his usual breakfast of whisky and cornflakes. Not together. He has some standards- particularly low ones that he constantly fails to live up to. Into his well-ordered universe comes a scientist to study the nearby puffin colony. This leads Church, and his crew of social misfits, who are forced to share their Captain’s unhealthy obsession with Star Trek, on a strange journey featuring a nasty gang of drug dealers, a surprising undersea discovery and a hamster called Steve.
This is a Young Adult novel with slightly more emphasis on the ‘Adult’ (14+) than previous books by Scott Pixello but not in the sense of being any more grown-up.
Think The Tempest meets Star Trek.

Please note, this is a novella, and priced accordingly.
Like Billy Crystal, Gromit and Boris Johnson’s hair , it may be a bit short but it’s still funny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Pixello
• Release date: May 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301634378

Scott Pixello

I’m a moderately-disturbed Brit who writes books. I’ve had seven books of non-fiction published with three different publishers under another name but as Scott Pixello, I've written eight ebooks, mostly dark comedies, aimed at twisted YA readers or immature adults. Luke I am Your Father takes a look at the funny side of unplanned pregnancy,Gothic Girl features a central character that 'goes Goth' and Live Long and Prospero is about a bunch of lunatics on a lighthouse. Rainbow is about a psychic cow that can predict soccer scores and Gagfest follows a heckler who takes exception to a stand-up comedy routine. I could tell you my real name but then I’d have to kill you and no-one wants that. I’ve got ideas for about another dozen novels so I’m pretty busy. Unfortunately, my wish not to be rich & famous is somewhat at odds with conventional wisdom about how the Internet works, in which shyness is like Kryptonite to online sales. I don’t Tweet or even have a mobile phone. I’m probably the leader of a Luddite cult but no-one can phone me to tell me so. I am on Facebook though- I’m not a total freak (see www.facebook.com/scott.pixello).

Book preview

Live Long and Prospero

Chapter 1: A Rock and a Hard Place

Chapter 2: An Unexpected Expected Visitor

Chapter 3: Chekhov's Wise Words

Chapter 4: A Skeleton in the Cupboard

Chapter 5: Secrets and Lies

Chapter 6: Cal

Chapter 7: Joie de Vivre

Chapter 8: An Old Family Recipe

Chapter 9: The Balcony Scene (Part I)

Chapter 10: More Secrets and More Lies

Chapter 11: Another Unexpected Guest (or Two)

Chapter 12: The Prospect of Imminent Death

Imminent Death (Part II)

Chapter 13: Braingasm

Chapter 14: Special Delivery

Chapter 15: The Tempest

Chapter 16: Go Straight to 'Go'

Chapter 17: Floods, Cannibals and Deckchairs

Chapter 18: Robin Hood

Chapter 19: Discovery in the Dark Room

Chapter 20: Fraggle Rock

Chapter 21: Full Fathom Five

Chapter 22: A Little Light Housekeeping

Chapter 23: Captain Birds-Eye

Chapter 24: The Great Escape

Chapter 25: Inspection and the Cookie Monster

Chapter 26: Remember your Chekhov

Chapter 27: Octoflambé

Chapter 28: Beam Me Up

Appendix 1

Luke, I am Your Father

Memoir of a Gothic Girl

About the Author

Coming Soon…Rainbow

Chapter 1: A Rock and a Hard Place

Three miles west out from Land’s End on the south-west of the UK mainland, sits the rugged beauty of the Isles of Scilly, surrounded by deceptively-treacherous seas. On the most westerly and isolated side, exposed to the lashing winds and waves of the Atlantic, sits a small rocky island and on the southernmost tip, stands Grange Rock Lighthouse. The lighthouse, some 150 yards high, cuts an imposing figure. It is composed of five levels. The main entrance door, a sturdy piece of oak, is placed on the leeward side and a small series of lighted windows above indicate the living areas. At the top, the light itself, with its mass of 3000 watt bulbs, produces a pure brilliance that like the sun, is too dazzling to look at directly.

A figure is leaning over the railing by the light, illuminating him every time it turns. He is very loud, very drunk and most surprisingly, very naked except for a rather superfluous black bobble hat and Chelsea FC scarf tied jauntily around his neck. Bearded, paunchy and middle-aged, he surveys his kingdom.

Suddenly and rather unexpectedly, he opens his mouth and begins to sing softly, I’ve paid my duties, my curtain call. The next few words are slurred and incoherent, but end more defiantly as if addressing a crowd. I thank you all.

Suddenly he launches into a different key. Well, in his head anyway but outside his head, in the real world, his voice is just louder. But it's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise. Ironically at this point, he slips into the manner of a bad crooner on a cruise ship. I consider it a challenge before the whole human race- And I ain’t gonna lose...

He breaks off to the sound of some angelic choir backing-vocals that build up to the slower, louder main chorus. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIEND (adding an imaginary electric guitar, mimed with a golf club) Bow-wow. AND WE’LL KEEP ON FIGHTING TILL THE END. Duh-duh-dow. WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS (with a key change upwards which almost suggests he is in pain) WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS. NO TIME FOR LOSERS... He punctuates the last word with a pointing gesture like he is taunting rivals on a football terrace. COS WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, while improvising and acting out drums Duh-duh-duh...

He steps up to a golf tee, addresses a ball with an unhappy face drawn on it and cheerfully blasts it into the darkness with a full-bloodied swing. OF THE WOOOOORLD!!!

His voice fades away into the coming darkness. He gives a theatrical bow, casually leans out over the rail like a figurehead on a ship and whistling, pees down the side of the tower.

Behind him, the shadow of the mainland is still just visible. The skein of the sea stretches out to the horizon, barely moving, a faint lapping sound rising up to him and the whole scene is lit by a little opaque moonlight, mottling a few patches of cloud. The surface of the water looks like a harmless millpond, but his gaze rakes the scene, looking for anything unusual.

Licking his lips at the salty air, he gives a sigh of satisfaction and flicking a nearly-extinguished cigarette off the rail, casts a glance at his watch and mutters to himself. Five to, five to.

He shuffles round to the top door and strangely starts to put some clothes on now that he is coming inside. He follows a trail of casually-discarded clothes, retracing his steps, back into the room described as the mess (even though it is kept very tidy). Inside, disheveled but at least dressed, without looking, he secures the top door and puts his hand out to where he knows the logbook will be.

He just makes it to the radio with seconds to spare, throwing himself in his carefully-positioned chair and grabbing the mike with practiced ease. He starts to doodle on a notepad. This is Grange Rock, Grange Rock to Coastguard Central, over. This is Grange Rock, Grange Rock to Coastguard Central, over.

After a few seconds of static, an officious, nasal voice promptly replies. This is Coastguard Central, receiving you loud and clear. Are you ready with your 8 o’clock readings, over?

I was born ready, Coastguard Mascarpone, you know that, over.

Grange Rock, You sound like a very bad disc-jockey. And my name, as you well know, is Maschereno. Have you been drinking again, Lighthouseman Church? Over.

Ha, ha. That’s what I love about you, Mozzarella, a sense of humour.

I beg your pardon, over?

Never mind, Minestrone. Are you ready for the numbers?

There is a long pause. You're supposed to say ‘over’. There is another long pause. I said, ‘You’re supposed to say-.’ Oh God, this is one of your pathetic jokes again, isn’t it? Right, so if I definitely say ‘over,’ you'll continue as normal, over?

Of course. Just keeping you on your toes. And possibly making you late for your next call...over.

Any more time wasting and I'll report you, over.

Oooh, you really know how to frighten someone. Who’s going to come out here to put me in my place, huh? Who’s gonna want to live on a godforsaken rock out in the middle of nowhere? Over.

Well, you did. Look, can we get on with it, please, over?

Certainly. All you had to do was ask. Let’s start with our old friend, Precipitation. In the following minutes, Church reads carefully through his readings for rainfall, dry and wet humidity, pressure, visibility, wind speed and direction and other observations about the sea conditions and shipping. While he is talking, Church’s doddle slowly takes shape as an accomplished caricature sketch of a ship, the HMS Jobsworth with a Captain Maschereno at the helm. They are approaching an unseen iceberg.

He is about to sign off, when Maschereno adds ...And I hope you enjoy your guest, over.

Church is momentarily thrown off-guard. What? Oh, over.

You know, your visitor, over.

What are you talking about? Over.

Should have got notice of it in your last mail-shot, over.

Yeah, right. He looks at the small table in front of him, covered with unopened envelopes.

Probably just filed it, over, whispering away from the mike, Under ‘P’ for ‘pain in the arse’.

An element of relish is creeping into Maschereno’s voice. Word is they’re looking to replace anyone over 45, over.

Church gives a thin laugh. Well, that’s them stuffed then. I’m still 42. So, er, what do they really want? I mean, they’ve pretty much left me alone for years, over.

Search me, over.

I’d rather not thanks, over.

Anyway, I’d better sign off. There’s plenty more fish in the sea to collect data from, over.

Right. Well, same time, same place. See you, Macaroni, over.

OK and stop calling me that. And by the way, no more fake tidal wave reports. That last one was officially not funny. Over.

Beg to differ there, Minestrone. Anyway, hasta lasagna. Over and out.

He puts the headset back in place, shaking his head. Plenty more fish in the sea. All of them more intelligent than him. He rifles through the letters, scanning opening lines only. Most are from interested tourists wanting to visit or with a particular question about the history of the Rock. He takes a stamp from nearby and produces a neat-looking official response: ‘undeliverable’. He does two more but then sighs, opens the nearest window and throws the rest out. The paper slowly flutters down into the night.

One manila envelope remains, forgotten at the bottom of the pile. He peers at it more closely, noting the London postmark. He frowns, then rips it open and murmurs occasional words as he reads:

Trinity House Lighthouse Service

Tower Hill

London

EC3N 4DH

1st September 1983

Dear Principal Keeper Church,

Be advised that Dr Chris Truman, Assistant Professor in the Department of Marine Biology at the University of Southampton has been granted permission to spend a month at Grange Rock, two weeks from the date above, to study the indigenous birdlife of the island and the puffin colony in particular.

I am sure we can rely on you to give Dr Truman any assistance required during this period.

Yours sincerely,

He peers at an indecipherable signature but beneath an explanation is printed.

David Brearly, Senior of the Elder Brethren, Trinity House

Two weeks from the above date? He glances quickly at the calendar next to the radio. The days up to the 13th are already crossed out. The 17th is ringed in red as Jake’s birthday.

Aghhhhhhhhhhhhh! Think man, think. I need a plan, a cool, logical plan. I could hide. He has a sudden vision from inside the darkness of a kitchen cupboard as someone opens it, revealing him crouched inside like an insect. He gives an embarrassed smile.

Nah. Maybe I could just not answer the door. Another vision shows a close-up hand knocking on the main door below at night but no-one answers. The door is strafed by the passing beam from the lighthouse. A disembodied voice is heard. Looks like the light’s on but no-one’s at home.

Disease? A third vision shows an official-looking notice, declaring the lighthouse a quarantine area. There is a skull drawn in felt pen in one corner.

Rats. He looks at his watch: 8.30. He pours out two mugs of tea with the kettle that is boiling on the stove and plops in tea-bags, milk and sugar from the shelf above the hob. With steady hands, he makes his way down the hatchway in the middle of the room, still holding both mugs and below, takes three paces to the left and taps on the first bedroom door.

Tea’s up, Steve. Opening the door, Church walks slowly into the pitch black and put the mugs down where he knows the table will be.

A slurred voice replies from one of the two bunks in the room. Waztimeskip?

Half eight. There is the sound of eyes being rubbed, mouth working.

Tea?

Church replies patiently, On the table. Where it always is. He moves across in the half-light to address the form in the lower bunk. "Jake? Jake? Come on, son. It’s nearly nine. I’ve got your tea. Come on, Jake. Come on. The Smiths are on Swap Shop later. Jake?"

Hesnothere.

What?

Steve slowly swings his legs over the top bunk. He is a thin, pale and not particularly handsome specimen. He repeats himself a little more clearly. He’s not there. Heard him go out a while back.

Great. Exactly how long were you going to let me make an idiot of myself before telling me this?

"Hey, calm down, Skip. It was like The Waltons there for a moment. I thought you were gonna call him Jim-Bob, or something."

I'll call you Jim-Bob in a minute. Where’d he go?

Out.

Church grimaces in exasperation and tries to speak slowly. What kind of ‘out’?

Steve gives a slow yawn. Fishing.

Church leaps up. Bloody hell, down by the door? How many times have I told him about that? And you let him? If he’s been washed away, you know what that means don't you?

Church hurries out.

Steve calls after him, I get his bunk? Church flicks the light switch on the way, making Steve cry out in protest.

Church scoots down the staircase that runs inside the outer wall like some great medieval turret, taking two steps at a time, only slowing slightly as he reaches the generator room at the bottom. Beyond a heavy metal door, it is nearly pitch black.

Jake? As his eyes adjust, he can make out a shape in the gloom in one corner. It appears to be moving slightly (the shape not the corner- Church would be out of there like a shot if that was going on). There is a creaking sound.

Jake? Christ, Jake you can be a real idiot sometimes. I know there isn't much of a swell but you’ll never get made up to Assistant Keeper if you get swept away to your death. Trinity are sticklers about that kind of thing. The shape moves a bit more and he can now see a distinctive black leather jacket and above it a quiff, both shaking.

Jake? Jake, what’s up?

The gangly form of Jake, who is probably in his early 20s, but seems more boy than man, dressed in his habitual black, is hunched behind the spare generator like a crashed daddy-long-legs. At first, he is shivering so much, he looks like he must have fallen in the water. Church puts an arm round him. Jake is jabbering something. "Hey, slow down. You’re not making any sense. Deep breaths. One-two. That’s it. Now, slowly, what happened?

O-O-Outside.

What about it? Come on Jake, what’s up?

I c-c-couldn't sleep and came down to f-f-f-.

-Yeah, OK, Steve told me. I thought I warned you about this before?

I know. But I was b-b-bored.

So what happened?

I heard the top door slam and then c-c-came down and c-c-climbed down the steps. I’d only been sitting there a c-c-couple of m-m-minutes. Water was flat. It wasn’t d-d-dangerous.

"Is that why you're nearly wetting yourself, is it? So, what then?

I g-g-got a bite. B-b-big one. I thought, ‘th-th-this’ll show him.’ So I started to r-r-reel it in. B-b-but it wasn’t a fish. He takes a deep breath before the next sentence burst out of him. It’s a b-b-BODY !

Church scans Jake’s face, his shaking hands, his whole demeanour and takes him at his word. Alright, alright. Did you try and land it?

"I th-th-thought about it. But I