The Lighthouse: A Tom Hardy FanFiction

The Hitchhiker

This place could be the moon. Miles and miles of rockface and sky. Oh but there wouldn't be sky on the moon would there? Idiot. There would be... what would there be? Whatever that was above planets that wasn't sky? Universe? Galaxy? I am truly shit at astronomy. There wouldn't be sheep on the moon either. Or snow.

The snow makes the rock look like more snow but I know it's there, lingering below the white powdered surface, grey and unyielding.

The Outer Hebrides are like nothing I've ever seen before – they feel like the end of the world, and the weird accents and people I've seen dotted around act like it is too. How do they survive here? They must be made of sturdy stuff because I'd been here a five days and was already starting to feel the hardening in my bones and of my skin. Or maybe that had happened before? After I caught them together?

The crappy aerial signal which drifted in and out had gotten me twenty minutes of the news and weather – news which was about some post office closing and some runaway dog. The weather had been more interesting, a warning that there could be upwards of four feet of snow and blizzards from about eight pm. I mean who came to the Outer Hebrides in late winter? No one. Literally no one.

No one except me.

Maybe that's the real reason everyone is looking at me weirdly?

The roads are full of passing places. The entire island is literally a single track road with paved sections jutting out every fifty to a hundred feet to allow other traffic to pass each other safely – a place so remote that it only needed one lane. As I approach one of the passing places I spot a figure; cloaked in a dark outdoor jacket and walking boots, and carrying what looks like camping gear. You have got to be kidding? Camping? Are these people insane?

I've never understood campers generally, people who would trade hot running water, electricity and a comfortable bed for some tarpaulin and a flimsy zip. Chris was a camper. And she was outdoorsy. He liked being outdoors too. I wonder if they ever fucked outside? In a tent? Is that what he liked about her? Stop it Frankie. Fucking stop it. He really wasn't worth it. She was even less worth it. Backstabbing bitch.

I slow down as I pass the insane hiker and glance out the driver side window at him to see if he has the look of a madman. I assume it's a him because seriously, only a man would be arrogant enough to think that in a fight against nature he'd have a chance of coming out on top. He throws a cursory glance back in the window, tipping his head in a silent hello. It is a man. A bearded one. Built for the weather; broad and strong-looking with dark brown hair around his nose hidden by a scarf.

The shop, which is more like a garage because it's made of tin and stuck onto the side of someone's house, is quiet when I pull up out front. I need milk and more eggs and just in case I get snowed in at Laura's for the foreseeable, wine too. The young guy who has been here every time I've come in is on again and as I walk through the door that dings to signal my entry he pulls his shoulders back and smiles in recognition. He looks about eighteen and has large brown eyes like a cow and the sort of face that also speaks to lots of outdoor activities – rosy cheeked and with a bright healthy complexion. He's kinda cute in fact, and clearly interested in the young woman from the lighthouse who doesn't belong around these here parts because he stares at me too long yet averts his eyes when I meet them and smile. He told me his name the other day and I think it's Drew but I'm not certain so I don't bother saying it out loud for fear of being wrong and offending him.

Insane camper aside, Drew was the closest I'd come to a friendly face since I'd arrived on the island five days ago.

"Hello again," I smile, heading straight for the fridge by the door.