by Tom Avery
“Len,” Ned said. “We’ve got to do something. I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”
More clicks. More gurgles.
Ned looked up at me. I stared back. “You’ve gotta hold him, Jamie.”
I shook my head a little. I wasn’t squeamish about fish and flesh, but bones and joints….Bile rose in my throat. I shuddered.
Ned nodded, big nods. “You’ve got to.”
I’d only touched Leonard once. Back on the beach when I’d pressed one finger into his smooth back and bundled him into our sack. He’d felt alien then. But now I could see him—this strange new life. I thought about fetching Mum’s yellow rubber washing-up gloves, but Ned wouldn’t have liked that.
“Come on,” my brother said.
I sighed, then took a step and another and another till I was beside them.
Leonard looked from Ned to me and back to Ned. His big fish eyes swiveled in his head.
“All right,” Ned said. “Do it.”
Before I could think a moment more, I slid my arms around the merman’s chest, under his arms. He was light, like I remembered. He wriggled and pushed away. He wasn’t strong but his movements were quick and squirming.
“Right, right, right,” my brother said, taking hold of Leonard’s arm.
My head began to swim. I swallowed, pushing down nausea.
Leonard let out a squeal, high-pitched and ghastly.
“OK, OK,” Ned whispered, turning the arm.
Another squeal.
Ned turned it again and again as Leonard squealed and writhed.
“OK, OK, OK.”
Then there was a wet sound, a slurp and plop, like when Dad used the plunger to clear the kitchen sink. It was done.
Ned dropped the arm. I dropped Leonard and fell to my knees. The merman slid back into the water. He snarled at us. He tested his arm. Then he smiled his wide fishy smile.
Ned smiled back. “We did it,” he said. “All fixed.”
I blew out a long stream of air, picked myself up and grinned at my brother. “We did,” I said.
All fixed.
I’m not one for picking favorites. Ned would happily make a list, though.
Ned’s favorite foods—macaroni and cheese, frankfurters, scampi, Frazzles, apple crumble.
Ned’s favorite places to go—the beach, the rock pools by Portland Bill. Dad’s quarry on a Saturday with no one around. We’d put on hard hats and clamber and climb across the rocks and through tunnels. Ned always wanted to go farther, stay longer. I guess it wasn’t much of a day out for Dad, though.
Ned’s favorite Star Trek episodes—this is a tough one. He had a list. It changed a lot. But always near the top was, “The City on the Edge of Forever.” It’s a good episode.
It’s got the best characters—Captain Kirk, Commander Spock and Doctor Leonard McCoy. It’s got time travel. Kirk falls in love. All features of classic episodes.
The threesome travel through time to New York where Kirk falls in love with a lady called Edith. But because they change things in the past, they no longer exist in the future. This makes sense in the program, but when I’ve tried to explain it to Mum she says it sounds like nonsense.
The only way to make the future the way it should be is to let Edith die as she was meant to.
The episode’s got one of Kirk’s best lines, a favorite of Ned’s. My brother likes to use it whenever it’s time to go—“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Ned’s favorite way to spend an afternoon—exploring with me. Well, it used to be. We’d find some uncharted bit of Portland, a rocky bit of shore or the shrubland by an ancient church, somewhere secret, and see what we could find, see what we could see.
But Leonard changed things. Even favorites.
Now Ned spent his afternoons in the garage. With or without me. Sometimes I’d find him gone, find him in the garage, sitting on the edge of the tub, Leonard’s head close to his. As I pushed open the door, his whispers and Leonard’s clicks would stop.
I couldn’t remember a time before when Ned didn’t tell me everything. But now I got the feeling that it was Leonard who was hearing all of Ned’s thoughts and worries and fears. Maybe that is how it worked. Maybe the child of Atargatis needed to listen, to hear it all before working a wonder. Maybe.
If this was the last big adventure, as Ned had said, it was his adventure, not ours. I looked on. I watched. I hoped. And sometimes jealousy clogged my throat.
Ned’s other favorite way to spend an afternoon—worrying Mum. But this seemed to have stopped too. Mum had noticed as well.
Over lunch one day, she asked what we were up to.
I looked to Ned.
He told her we were sorting out the salvage. “A spring clean,” he said. “And you said we couldn’t go out.”
Mum narrowed her eyes. “It’s autumn, and what I say doesn’t usually stop you boys.”
“Mum,” Ned said, looking her in the eyes and reaching up to take her shoulder. “We’ve turned over a new leaf. We will be the good boys you always longed for.” He spoilt his serious tone by cackling.
“Rubbish,” Mum said. “You’re up to something.”
I found myself wondering the same. What was Ned up to? What was Leonard up to? What was the plan?
Because all the time that Ned spent with Leonard, our little fishy friend, his arm in the wet sling was getting better. But my brother was not.
“It’s nearly time,” Ned told me in the late afternoon as the autumn chill spread under the closed door of the garage and up our legs. He bent over in a coughing fit.
“Nearly time?” I asked. “For what?”
Ned straightened, looked at me and tipped his head to one side. “Nearly time to say goodbye,” he said, and turned toward Leonard, who sat below the water.
I asked another question. “We’re letting him go?”
This one Ned did not answer.
If a miracle was coming, time was running short. Hope was slipping away.
My favorite thing to do—worry about Ned.
Dad likes big events. Like trips to London. He’s not really there in the everyday. He goes to work early and when he gets home, filthy, he has a bath, we eat dinner, he sets us some maths to do, then he usually falls asleep in front of the TV, like Ned.
Sometimes, at the weekends, Dad has an event planned. After he’s watched his fill of Grandstand he’ll say, “Right, boys, we’re going out.” And we go to the cinema or swimming pool or into town.
“What about the quarry today?” he said this weekend.
Mum coughed. “Ned’s been quite tired this week, Charlie. I think that’s too much for him.”
“He can’t stay in forever. We’ll take it easy.”
“You can take it easy doing something else. Not the quarry.”
Dad pulled a face. The kind of face Ned pulled when he didn’t get his way. “Fine,” he said. “Any bright ideas, boys?”
We were sitting together in the front room. I’d been reading. Dad and Ned were watching Grandstand. Mum was humming and flicking through a magazine.
Bright ideas; I had none. Ned did, though.
“I was thinking about E.T., Dad.”
“Right…”
“The Extra-Terrestrial,” Ned continued. “You know in the film when Elliott is escaping with E.T. and he’s got that box on the front of his bike?”
Mum looked up from her magazine. “And they fly to the moon?” she said.
Ned laughed.
I grinned. “They don’t fly to the moon, Mum.”
“I did think it was a bit far-fetched.”
“What about the box?” Dad asked.
Here it was. Ned’s plan. Maybe this was what he and Leonard spent those afternoons whispering about. “Can we make one to put on my bike?”
Dad smiled. “That’s a great idea. Easy. We can definitely do that.”
“Percussion first, though,” Mum said.
“Right. We’ll go in half an hour. All right, boy
s?” Dad flicked the TV back on. Des Lynam, the Grandstand presenter with the thick moustache was interviewing Allan Wells, one of Dad’s favorite athletes. Des was asking Allan whether he thought the Russians would come to the Olympics in Los Angeles in a year’s time.
“Good question, Des,” Dad said at the TV.
“Lie down, Ned,” Mum said. “I’ll get some tissue.”
Ned mouthed at me as I left. He seemed to be saying, “Feet Lemon.”
I frowned at him.
My brother widened his eyes, bared his teeth and mimed eating.
“Oh. Feed Leonard,” I mouthed in reply.
“Half an hour,” Dad shouted as I snuck into the basement.
—
Usually, when Leonard saw Ned he smiled, all sharp teeth and glinting eyes. He never smiled at me, though, and I didn’t smile at him. He stared. I stared.
“I’ve brought fish,” I said, and waved the small pollack from the door.
Leonard didn’t move. I threw the fish into the tub from where I stood. Leonard clicked and gurgled.
“Why are you here, Leonard?” I asked.
Leonard clicked and snatched up the fish.
“Are you just lost like E.T.?”
The merman took a bite, watching me.
“Do you have powers like him too? Are you here for Ned? Are you gonna do it? Make him better?”
Leonard gurgled again before slipping into the water where he sat below the surface and stared at me.
Mostly, in Star Trek, if the alien is good you can see it. They make it obvious, with bright lights and white clothes. As Leonard sat there, in the dark, with his finned head and sharp teeth, I wondered if I was hearing the stories wrong. How could Leonard be good while looking like that?
Leonard just kept staring and I realized that I did not know what this creature was. I wanted a miracle but I didn’t know what kind of miracle Leonard would deliver. I wanted him gone.
For a moment, jealousy rose up and drowned all other thoughts, drowned out any hope that the fish-man had come to help Ned. I wanted my brother back and the creature that sat before me gone.
I swallowed down that feeling.
“Maybe you just want to go home, hey?” I opened the door. I could hear Ned’s choking, spluttering. “We’ll send you home soon. Ned’s got a plan. I think.”
—
The van made a racket. Dad always said he needed to get the fan belt looked at, but he never did. We screeched away from home.
The van was loud but Ned was louder. He coughed and choked all the way into Weymouth. All the way to the hardware shop.
Every time we tried to talk, my brother would open his mouth but all that came out was that wet rattle. In the end we fell silent. We listened to the engine scream and Ned choke.
As we parked by James & Sons, I wondered how much hope Dad had. Did he have anything better to rely on than a little fish-man?
We got a big sheet of wood. Some strips of metal. Bolts—Dad spent about ten minutes discussing the right size with the man in the shop. A new drill bit to go through the metal. Some L-shaped brackets—“They’ll go inside the box. Make sure it’s good and solid,” Dad said.
Ned fell asleep on the way back. Dad carried him inside and laid him on the sofa. Mum had lunch waiting for us.
“Just me and you then, Jamie,” Dad said, placing his ham and piccalilli sandwich back down on the plate, unbitten.
Dad’s good with his hands. At Christmas, Mum makes the cake and Dad makes little models of snowmen or robins to go on top of it. Dad fixes everything at home—the washing machine, cabinets, the plumbing. He always shows Ned and me what to do. We’re allowed in his cupboard under the stairs, where hammers and saws hang on hooks and a little set of drawers holds all sorts of nails and screws and washers and bits and bobs. We’re not allowed to touch the power tools, though.
Dad pushed the white and pink and yellow sandwich away. “Might let you do a little drilling today.”
It was a little thing, but it made me smile.
We fetched the tools and started on Ned’s bike. We measured how big the box should be. We sawed the wood into sections.
“Keep the saw straight,” Dad said. “Otherwise the teeth will catch.”
I wanted to tell Dad about Leonard. I wanted to ask him if he believed in miracles or magic, if he believed in the impossible. Dad’s never been much of a talker, though, and I’d promised Ned.
Instead, we drilled, and I got to do a little as promised. Then we screwed the wood together, using the L-shaped brackets.
“Give it a wiggle then,” Dad said.
I gave it a wiggle. It was good and solid.
I nearly asked about the hospital, about the doctors, about Ned’s chances. I nearly asked but I didn’t.
Finally we fixed the box to the bike. The bolts weren’t the right size for the ready-made holes in the frame. Dad shook his head and said the man in the shop didn’t know what he was talking about. He carefully made the holes larger with his new drill bit. He made more holes in the strips of metal and more still in our box. Then we bolted it in place.
“There we go,” Dad said, giving the whole thing a shake. “You could have someone sit in there.”
“Good,” I said. After all, that was the plan.
“Shall we call it a day?” Dad said.
I wanted to say no. I wanted to sit him down and make him tell me how it was all going to be OK. I wanted him to tell me how he was planning to make everything better.
But he didn’t have a plan. No one had a plan. Except for Ned.
We called it a day but Ned still slept. Mum said I should go and see Lucy. We always used to knock for Lucy. I said I didn’t fancy it. Mum insisted.
—
I knocked quietly, hoping no one would hear. But the door opened instantly. Little Peter stood there, as if he’d been waiting for someone.
“Hello,” he shouted.
“Hi,” I said.
Mrs. Taylor appeared. “Hi, Jamie. It’s lovely to see you. Lucy will be delighted.”
She was. She was delighted to show me the artwork she’d been doing at school, delighted to tell me about the dance competition coming up, delighted to gossip about other kids at school.
I couldn’t share her delight, and eventually her chatter grew slower and I stopped filling any gaps.
“Cluedo!” she said. And we played. Colonel Mustard did it, in the library with the lead pipe.
After the game, when I was still silent, Lucy said, “Are you OK, Jamie?”
I stared a moment, then shook my head. “Not really.”
Peewee appeared then, dressed as a robot. “I am pa robop,” he chanted in a machinelike voice.
I smiled. “I’ve got to go.”
—
Later, when he woke, I tried to talk to Ned about the plan. “What’s Leonard here for?” I asked.
My brother, still lying on the sofa, didn’t answer. Eventually he said, “Isn’t it obvious, Jamie?”
I shook my head. “He’s gonna make you better?” Hope was in my words but it was fast escaping from my heart.
Ned shook his head again and coughed. “Jamie, I’m really sick. The new medicine isn’t working.”
I couldn’t speak; we didn’t talk about the illness. I stared at him, usually so quick with a smile or a laugh.
Ned closed his eyes. A tear squeezed through and ran down onto the cushion. “Our last adventure,” he whispered before falling back to sleep.
Granddad spread out a map on the table. Ned and I shifted our glasses of juice.
“Right. Britain,” Granddad said. “Where are we?”
Portland was in front of Ned, at the far south. I had the west. Granddad the east. Ned’s finger squashed our island.
“Yep.” Granddad nodded. “You can point to where it is. Now tell me where it is.”
Even though Granddad mostly told us stories, it seemed to me that he was a good teacher.
“It’s on the south coast
,” I said.
“It’s near Weymouth,” Ned said.
“It’s between Southampton and Exeter.”
“It’s in Dorset.”
Granddad nodded. “OK. Let’s go west,” he said.
Ned traced the curve of Chesil Beach round to West Bay then west through coastal towns we knew and on to Exeter.
“Exeter,” Granddad said, “is in Devon. That’s the next county west.”
Ned’s finger followed the coast south through Torquay and Dartmouth and round west again to Plymouth.
“There it is,” Granddad said.
Plymouth had been home to Granddad once upon a time. It was where Dad was born when Granddad was away at sea. It was where Grandma was buried before Ned and I were born.
“What’s that river there?” Granddad pointed to the west of Plymouth.
I was closest and squinted at the tiny text. “The Tamar,” I said.
“T-A-M-A-R. Pronounced Tay-mar,” Granddad said.
We nodded. I mouthed, “Tay-mar.”
“That’s it. That’s a border between Devon and Cornwall, the farthest county west. Keep going.”
I took over from Ned and ran my finger across the shiny map. The towns had strange names now. Almost foreign. Polperro. Mevagissey. Landewednack. Cornwall kept going, west and west and west till we hit Land’s End.
“That is the very farthest west you can go,” Granddad said, “before you have to take to the sea. The place we are looking for is a little farther round. Can you find Zennor, Jamie?”
We continued our journey, heading round the coast and back east. Zennor was not far. A tiny village. A dot on the map.
“Here we are then,” Granddad said. “I’ve got another mermaid story for you. Happened right there, in Zennor. Do you remember Gin?”
We’d never met him, but we remembered Gin. He was first mate on Granddad’s first captaincy after leaving Long Ben in Manila, on a fishing boat out of Plymouth.
“Well, he had a story for me once. Said it was about his great, great, great-grandfather’s brother or some such. A man by the name of Mathew Trewella.
“You wouldn’t have heard of him, Gin said. But in Zennor and round abouts, his was a famous name. Even more famous in his day. It’s said that Mathew had the most beautiful voice imaginable. He sang wherever he went, through the village and about his work as a carpenter, always singing. Every Sunday he sang in the church in Zennor. Everyone stopped to listen when he sang.