Death of a Mermaid

by Lesley Thomson

  6

  MAGS

  Can we meet? Fx

  The text was in her phone in the staffroom, but the words had wormed their way into Mags’s head. She was trembling so much, it took three goes to swipe the audiobook’s barcode. She’d apologised to the woman – her library card said she was Mrs Barker – the heating had packed up hence the staff were in their coats and scarves. Mags saw Mrs Barker spot her hands shaking; she’d have Mags down as a functioning alcoholic. Elderly, grey hair stiffly set, Mrs Barker gave the stack of books she was borrowing proprietorial pats. Her strong resemblance to Mags’s late mother didn’t help the headache. Maureen McKee had drummed it into Margaret that Wine was for Communion.

  Mags taunted herself with a rerun of the brandies she’d drunk the night before. The first downed in one, the others in rapid sips in an attempt to obliterate everything. Her statue of Mary glowed white and recriminatory from the alcove. In bed, Mags had tossed and turned – she had imagined Karen Munday standing over her demanding reinstatement as a Mermaid. Or Mags would burn in Hell. When it wasn’t Karen, Reenie Power was filling her with secrets.

  It’s all I ask, Mags, love…

  Then, that morning, Reenie had died.

  Returning to her flat at lunchtime, Mags had found her copy of Mother Julian’s Revelations of Divine Love open on the duvet. She must have resorted to it to ward off the ghosts. In a quavering voice Mags had read aloud from a passage: ‘“Everything other than the cross was ugly to me, as if much crowded with fiends…”’

  As if Julian herself had spoken, Mags was soothed. It wasn’t up to Reenie. And now Reenie was dead. Mags’s duty was to God, not Andy or Ricky. Or Freddy.

  ‘What needs doing?’ Edward was the part-time librarian recently transferred from Lewes who had too many cigarette breaks and not enough initiative.

  ‘Have you finished the audit of the inventory?’

  ‘No.’ His expression implied that the task bored him.

  ‘Maybe do that?’ Mags wrinkled her nose at the reek of smoke from his latest cigarette. It took her back to the convent, when Toni and Freddy would slink out of the convent garden after having a fag. They thought Mags didn’t know. Mags should have minded their duplicity, but Toni and Freddy’s ability to be what Sister Agnes called ‘rascally’ impressed her.

  ‘He needs a rocket up his backside,’ Mrs Barker remarked with pursed lips.

  Mags nodded vaguely. She had taken Freddy’s number off Toni’s phone one time when Toni was in the loo. She’d never used it. Until yesterday. With Julian beside her, Mags had texted, Your mum is ill. Mags x

  In her flat earlier, Mags had knelt by the alcove and prayed to Mary for forgiveness. Had she opened a can of worms?

  Returning to work, she’d processed parking tickets and loans and drifted between the stacks, more of a zombie than Edward. Toni would tease her that paracetamol couldn’t touch a stalking hangover. Mrs Barker was speaking.

  ‘Sorry, pardon?’

  ‘Bad behaviour catches up with you.’ Mrs Barker’s eyes glittered.

  ‘I don’t see it as bad.’ How could Mrs Barker know? Mags had taken life into her own hands. Her teeth chattered. She gripped the counter.

  ‘I was looking at Breakfast, doing my list of chores. Ned had his coffee. Suddenly there’s Newhaven. Where I live. Police swarming everywhere.’ Mrs Barker tapped her intended loans. ‘One lad dead. A girl fighting for her life. When I was young boys were tearaways. Apple scrumping, chicken and knock-knock ginger. Not stealing cars. That poor girl’s parents.’ As Mags processed each volume, Mrs Barker placed it into her tartan wheelie trolley. ‘Well, I never…’

  ‘I haven’t seen the news.’ The brandy had made Mags paranoid. Mrs Barker knew nothing. Ginger and chicken? Jamming her cold hands under her armpits, Mags couldn’t contemplate food.

  ‘A teenager stole his mum’s car.’ Mrs Barker was beside herself at recruiting new blood. ‘He only goes and crashes it on West Beach. Dies instantly. His girlfriend – she’s fifteen, little mite – is hanging by a thread in the Royal Sussex.’ Tipping into the present tense with the skill of a reporter, Mrs Barker slotted her library card into her purse. ‘My husband says it’s a group mentality. You get a ringleader and the others follow like lambs to the slaughter.’

  ‘You said there were two.’

  ‘Double trouble; they egg each other on. It only takes two.’ Confirmatory nod. Mrs Barker was neatening the opening times leaflets. Mags wanted to slap her hand and toss the leaflets up in the air.

  It takes two… She heard the song in her head, and allowed herself to be transported for a moment. She and Freddy, dancing to Marvin Gaye in her bedroom, the CD on repeat. They were seventeen. Only five months left at Our Lady before freedom. Fred and Reenie were down the social club. After they’d danced, they’d dropped, exhausted, onto Freddy’s bed.

  ‘... the dead boy is Daniel Tyler, son of a single mother. You all right, dear? You’re as white as snow. They should send you home in this temperature. There’s no limit for heat, but when it’s this cold, you’ve got rights. Oh.’ Mrs Barker clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Did you know those kids?’

  ‘No.’ Mags didn’t know any kids. Unless she counted Andy Power’s three, who she’d seen at communions and at their nana’s house. She knew the ‘single mother’. It was Karen Munday.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to spoil your morning, but there we are.’ Mrs Barker didn’t look sorry at all. She brandished the Ruth Rendell audio The Best Man to Die. ‘This’ll cheer me up over the ironing.’

  After the heating was restored, Mags remained cold. The hangover was a raging migraine. She alphabetised the books on the returns trolley. She flicked them out and fitted them in the right place with speed: One Pair of Hands by Dickens – Monica not Charles; Thomas Hardy’s The Return of the Native; three Ruth Rendells and the last two Sue Graftons. She began pushing the trolley around the stacks, reshelving the books. Freddy Power’s return to Newhaven was like the native in Hardy’s novel, the traveller coming back to the home from which she’d fled in search of a better life. It was a story that belonged in the nineteenth century.

  She rubbed her temples as she returned the books to the shelves. She trundled her trolley around to the military history section and stopped with a biography of Napoleon in her hands like a votive text. The shock of Karen losing her son mingled with the guilt she had never quite shaken off from their childhood. She was the one who had invited Karen and Toni to be Mermaids and who, later, as if from paradise, had expelled Karen. She had played God. It was her fault Karen had hurt Toni.

  When she had caught Karen tormenting Toni, she had hissed at her that she was no longer a Mermaid. Karen had not argued. She had turned the other cheek. At the door she’d said, ‘See you all later, yeah.’ She had seemed timid.

  Mags recalled Mother Julian’s words.

  … those who deliberately occupy themselves in earthly business, and are constantly seeking worldly success, find no peace from this in heart or soul…

  Mags was desperate for the medieval anchorite to drag her back over the centuries to her own time. To before, when, like Judas, Mags had betrayed Karen Munday. And lost all peace in her soul.

  Her head pounding, Mags shoved Napoleon into the bookshelf. At the desk she called out, ‘The library is closing. Please pack up your things, everyone.’

  She looked again at the text on her phone. Can we meet? Fx

  She should not have sent that text to Freddie. She was still playing God… Poor Karen.

  7

  FREDDY

  After picking over a burger and chips in the restaurant below the hotel, Freddy was in her room. Resting her forehead on the window, she gazed down at a car park below.

  Her mum hadn’t wanted Freddy at the end. Nor had Ricky or Andy asked Mags to contact her. Ricky hated her as much as the day he’d accused her of killing their father. Sarah had said it was a feat since she wasn’t there when he’d died. It was enough to Freddy that
she’d planned to surprise her dad at his sixtieth party. Nothing Sarah had said could convince Freddy that she wasn’t guilty. She had killed her dad.

  Now it seemed that Mags had texted off her own bat. This was bad and good. Mags had thought of her. But Mags hadn’t been in touch since the first text, although she knew Freddy’s mum had died. She hadn’t said how ill her mum was. Why bother to text and not give the full picture? Was she hedging her bets by leaving it to fate? Freddy had been scared that Mags wouldn’t reply if she texted back. Now she felt angry with Mags for leaving it to her, as she always had. She felt angry for so much.

  Freddy wandered from the window over to the bed. The king-size mattress was firm – at least she’d get a good night’s sleep for her money. She would have it all to herself. The shower wasn’t up to Sarah’s multiple power jets. Freddy felt a moment of poignancy that this was her past. She reminded herself that the split was overdue. Freddy was deleting Sarah’s hourly texts without reading them. She had ignored her calls. She’d personalised the notifications to avoid the moments of hope that Sarah’s texts were from Mags. Something Sarah had always wanted to do. ‘Give me a special signal.’

  Within twenty-four hours Freddy had walked out of her job and left her longest-lasting relationship of two years. Her mum was dead.

  Becalmed in Premier Inn limbo, Freddy appreciated the anonymous generality of the room. A nowhere place, it cleared her mind. She would not go to the funeral. Ricky might cause a scene. He would say it was hypocritical to be a mourner at her mum’s grave when, in the last twenty-odd years, Freddy had never come home. He’d be right. From his vicious greeting Freddy knew that her dad had never told them the real reason why she’d left. He wouldn’t be the only one to accuse her of wrecking her parents’ lives. Why was Andy being so nice? Rinsing her teacup under the bathroom tap, Freddy reminded herself again that he hadn’t asked her to stay with him.

  When she left she wouldn’t come back. On the train to London she’d let herself concoct a fairy-tale return to her home town. Tears and forgiveness. Love and warmth. The reality had been very different. There was nothing for her in Newhaven.

  An hour later she was startled by a tap on the door. Mags? Freddy peeped through the spyhole. Andy had come.

  ‘All right, Freddy?’ Andy Power wore iron-creased slacks and a golfing jumper over a polo shirt. Bare feet in yacht shoes, short hair damp from a shower.

  Freddy scoped the room for discarded knickers after her own shower. Thankfully, intending now to leave in the morning, she’d packed everything away. Not that it mattered; it was like twenty years meant nothing: loving siblings, they were at ease with each other.

  ‘We caused a stink when they wanted to build this place. The first design was crap; this is more in keeping with the town.’ Andy flung himself into the armchair, manspreading, hands behind his head. Casually pointing out the window, he said, ‘We’re over there.’

  ‘Over where?’ It was nearly dark. Beyond the room’s reflection Freddy saw only the lights of cars parking below and a row of tall houses.

  ‘We’ve got one of those wharf buildings.’ He yawned.

  ‘What, those huge ones?’ Freddy remembered Andy had said he lived opposite the hotel. She hadn’t supposed he meant literally. She gaped with astonishment at the glass-balconied, clapboard houses designed in the style of the wharves they’d replaced. Their dad had hated show. Success for him had not meant money; like his name, it had meant power. ‘You used to say Lewes was for snobs in fancy dress and bells.’ Andy had become Rotary Club Man.

  ‘Like Dad always said, I came out with stupid things.’ Andy did a bright smile.

  ‘Dad was always wrong,’ Freddy told her brother. ‘So, the fishery is paying then?’

  ‘We scrape a living against the odds of the politicians.’ Andy felt in his back pocket and passed her a card. ‘There you go.’

  ‘“Andrew Power, Chief Executive, Power Fisheries.” Brilliant, Andy.’ Freddy sat on the edge of the bed. On their second anniversary, Sarah had given her a silver card holder which was still empty. Sarah hadn’t packed it in Freddy’s case or she could have put the cards she’d been given today, for a priest and a chief executive. Who knew?

  ‘The staircases in my house are lit under the treads, like the Starship Enterprise.’ Andy squinted across the car park at his glass palace. ‘We’ve got triple glazing and a dumb waiter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Feeling dumb herself, Freddy needed Sarah – she’d be impressed enough to say the say the right thing.

  ‘Sorry about earlier; Mum’s illness and death have hit Ricky hard. It’s been a long road.’ Andy pulled out a vape pipe and, flicking it on, sucked on it as if it was his last hope. A scent of strawberry tinged the air-conned air. ‘I go out on the trawler with him sometimes, keeps me fresh and Ricky on the straight and narrow. You should come with us.’

  ‘I’ve got my marine qualifications.’ Freddy felt excited at the idea, then she came down to earth. ‘Ricky would love that. He always was so good at sharing. Not.’

  Their baby brother had been a pain. Yet she had adored him.

  ‘Do you remember the time we bunked off school? We arranged it in the morning. I sneaked out after dinnertime and met you at the convent.’ Andy puffed steam above his head.

  ‘We went to the old Rex cinema.’ Freddy grinned. ‘I can’t remember what we saw but it had to be illegal. I was about thirteen so you were nearly twelve.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. A rerun of Jaws, some over sixties thing. God knows how we got in. I was scared out of my wits. Who’d be a fisherman?’

  ‘You never let on.’ The treat was meant to make up for their father hurting Andy’s arm. ‘How did we get in?’

  ‘Through the fire exit. We crept up to the back. It was half empty, no one noticed us. Massive place, over five hundred capacity, shame they knocked it down.’ Andy opened the minibar. ‘Fancy a drink? They’ve got Jack Daniel’s – is that still your tipple?’

  Freddy started to refuse, but decided she did fancy a Jack Daniel’s. Andy had remembered it was her drink. She watched while Andy prepared it, quelling the fear that any minute their dad might walk in and have a go at him.

  How long was Mum ill?’ Freddy wanted Andy to say it was quick, her mum was diagnosed and dead within a week. Like the Waitrose customer who never picked up her salmon order. It would explain why no one had told Freddy until yesterday.

  ‘Five, maybe six months.’ Andy tipped a miniature bottle of Scotch into his glass and then another. ‘She was in hospital a couple of times. At least she got her wish to die at home. Mags was great. I don’t know how we’d have coped otherwise. Mum treated her like a daughter…’ He rapped a tattoo on the arms of his chair as if to scare off the elephant in the room.

  ‘No one let me know.’ Struggling with tears that, since Father Pete, were close to the surface, Freddy got off the bed and began leafing through the folder of the hotel’s services on the table as if for information pertinent to the stilted exchange.

  ‘No. Well.’ Andy regarded his vaper. ‘You know how it’s been.’

  ‘I don’t, actually.’

  ‘Sláinte.’ Andy used their father’s old toast as he raised his glass to her and drank.

  ‘Cheers.’ Freddy knocked her glass against Andy’s with a little too much force.

  ‘After you went, it was tough.’ Andy emitted steam out of the corner of his mouth. All he needed was a gentlemen’s club, Freddy noted. ‘We were kind of lost without you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Her mum hadn’t once asked for her. She had Mags. Freddy gulped the Jack Daniel’s.

  ‘So, Mags told you.’ Andy swirled Scotch in the glass. ‘I didn’t realise you guys were in touch.’

  ‘We’re not.’ Mags and Toni had said nothing. The words repeated in her head.

  Freddy returned to the bed and propped herself on a bank of pillows. A couple of sips in and she mellowed. She was glad to see Andy. Eleven months apart, they’d once been close. As kids
, Freddy had protected Andy. One of Andy’s legs had grown to be slightly shorter than the other. His right shoe had a lift incorporated to redress the balance. In compensation, Andy had hurtled everywhere. In addition, he’d been clumsy, tripping on his loose shoelaces, which, when he was very little Freddy had tied for him, and bumping into furniture. At school he got vilified for missing football penalties and letting go of the cricket ball too late when he bowled so that it tore the grass feet away and Andy fell on his face. Aside from his leg, Andy was diagnosed as dyspraxic. The neurological disorder explained his clumsiness and reading difficulties. Infuriated by anything that implied imperfection, Frederick took Andy out of school at sixteen and set him to work in the fishery, packing and loading and swabbing down floors.

  Freddy, netball team captain at Our Lady, led her team into the county league more than once, amassing silverware and her dad’s respect. Top of the class, she sat at the front of the room in lessons. She’d left the convent two years after Andy with straight A’s and three university places. None of which Fred Senior let her accept. His first-born, and his favourite, Freddy was heir to the Power throne. After Ricky came along, Andy wasn’t even the spare.

  Freddy had tried to counteract Frederick Power’s contempt for Andy by diverting him from taking anything and everything out on Andy. She taught Andy everything about the fishery that she learnt from Fred until the day when her dad chucked her out of the house. A year later Fred was dead and Andy had, it seemed to Freddy, finally come into his own.

  ‘Please come to the funeral?’ Andy asked.

  ‘So that Ricky can rip me to shreds? Not the best idea.’

  ‘The cancer played with Mum’s mind.’ Andy downed his drink. ‘Or she’d have asked you. Dammit, Freddy, I won’t plead.’

  ‘She didn’t want me at Dad’s funeral.’ Freddy was pushing him. If she kept going, Andy would feel compelled to lie and say she’d changed her mind at the end. Freddy would save them the embarrassment. She’d check out in the morning and go far away from Newhaven.