The Brighton Mermaid

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘He has so much to worry about, do not tell him about this.’

  I knew I couldn’t tell Dad this, just like I knew I couldn’t tell him that the nasty policeman was still hanging around.

  When Mum was finished, I carefully did up my shirt and tried not to gasp every time I moved. Carefully, she put her arms around me but didn’t draw me into a hug. ‘I’m sorry for what they did to you. It’s not fair,’ she said. ‘But please, Enelle. Please do not tell your father. It will break his heart. And it will cause trouble for everyone.’

  ‘I know, Mummy,’ I said with a nod.

  When I didn’t come down for dinner that night and instead stayed upstairs holding ice on the bruises, Mum told Dad I was coming down with a cold and needed an early night.

  Tuesday, 16 November

  ‘Are you Nell—’

  This boy, a stranger, didn’t even finish my name before I was running. I was sore, still, my body ached from the last kicking I’d received, but my legs moved as fast as they could, taking me away from potential danger.

  I did that every single time someone approached me and asked if I was Nell – sometimes, I didn’t even give them a chance to speak to me at all.

  1994

  Nell

  Saturday, 12 March

  The knock at the door was familiar. I poked my head out of the living room and stared at the two figures obscured by the frosted glass in the front door.

  Police.

  Police because there were three others now. Three more ‘mermaids’ – four in total along the coast. After each young woman was found, the police task force that had been convened to deal with this hideous set of crimes would come to speak to my father. They would take him away, they would keep him overnight – sometimes for two nights – and they would try as hard as they could to eliminate him from their investigation.

  Dad had more than one link: these poor young women were found in Brighton, Eastbourne, New Haven and Seaford – places where he had shops; his daughter had found the first one; his daughter’s friend had disappeared; and there was a policeman who was convinced he was guilty and was probably pouring all sorts of poison into their ears.

  I used to watch my mother after every time Dad was walked out by two police officers. She would exist a little less, disappear a little more, would repeat over and over how he could have been killed the first time he was arrested. It was almost as though she was bracing herself, but I was never sure what for. For the day he wouldn’t come back? For the time it would turn out he was guilty? Macy and I took over Dad’s chores whenever he was taken: she would water the garden; I would cook and keep the house as pristine as possible. And Mum would sit staring into space. She would take the hot drinks we made her, she would eat the food we brought her on trays to their bedroom, but she would barely engage.

  Mum took to her bed every time Dad was taken from her and sometimes also when he was right there. She was delicate. People looked at her and assumed because of the job she did, the nasti-ness and ugliness she encountered in everyday life and tolerated without complaint, that she was resilient, strong, unbeatable. The epitome of ‘The Strong Black Woman’. But she was fragile, really. She got her strength from the certainty of Dad being around – the predictability of always having him there as her soft landing place. All of this was wearing her out. Like the enamel on a tooth being worn away and worn away until all that’s left is the exposed soft, pulpy bit that meant everything caused pain, she had been worn away and worn away until everything hurt and the only thing she could do was retire from the world and wait for it to get better.

  The knock came again.

  Mum was in bed. Dad was in the garden, in his greenhouse, planting and pruning. Macy was in her room, probably sitting on her bed, a book open on her lap, a finger in her mouth as she bit at her already over-gnawed nails, and chewed at the dry bits of skin on her lips.

  I had been in the living room, staring at the television, pretending everything was normal inside the house and outside it, too.

  None of us had mentioned the ‘For Sale’ sign that had appeared outside our neighbour Mrs Breers’s house, months ago. We’d all acted as though, yesterday – two days after the news of another ‘mermaid’ – a removal van hadn’t arrived and whisked away Mrs Breers and her possessions, even though she hadn’t yet sold her house. And we certainly weren’t going to mention that we could feel the weight of our neighbours’ curiosity about what depravity and wickedness lurked inside our ‘ordinary’ home.

  Another knock. The third one. I had to move then. I walked slowly to the front door to open it. Maybe I’d got it all wrong. Maybe it was someone else.

  ‘Good morning, Enelle. May we speak to your father?’

  Friday, 27 May

  Five in total now. The newest in Peacehaven. Not that much older than me. Treated like that. Left like that. Without a name, without an identity, without a way of proving she – like the others – had existed in the world in any other way than as a body the police now had to investigate.

  Jude. This always made me think of Jude. Was she a mermaid somewhere? It’d been nearly a year and still nothing had been heard about her. Was she out there, like these young women had been, but unnamed, or even unfound? I still missed her every day. The loss of her ran like an unstoppable river through everything and the fear of what might have happened to her echoed in its wake.

  I wished I knew what happened to her. Where she had gone, even if I’d never find out why. I wish I knew she was alive and safe and well.

  Was she a mermaid somewhere? Was that why I hadn’t heard from her?

  Wednesday, 1 June

  ‘The special police task force that was convened to investigate the so-called Mermaid Murders today had a major breakthrough when they arrested and charged a thirty-five-year-old man from Shoreham.’

  All our eyes immediately went to Dad.

  Even Mum, who spent less and less time downstairs with us nowadays, did what I was doing – checked Dad was sitting beside us when this news came in. That they weren’t talking about him. The man who’d been arrested was significantly younger than Dad, he lived miles away from us, but still, after all this time, all the arrests and formal chats and nights away from us, we could only be sure it wasn’t him being charged by checking with our own eyes. He was sitting on the sofa, his crossword puzzle on his lap and pen in his hand. He was here and someone else was being charged with the murders.

  That meant the whole thing would go away now. Our neighbours would speak to us; the police would leave us alone; John Pope would disappear . We could get back to being a family again. We would talk if we all sat in the living room. Mum would spend more time with us. Macy would stop biting her nails, chewing her lips and – the new thing – wringing her hands. If this was the man they wanted, we would be fine now. Just fine.

  I was so elated, so relieved, that I didn’t even notice Macy’s reaction until much, much later. Instead of smiling or even looking relieved, she simply got up and left the room and we didn’t see her again until morning.

  Now

  Macy

  Sunday, 25 March

  ‘Hello, you. Happy Sunday,’ my sister says to me.

  I’m calling to see if I can salvage something for the week – maybe eke out some good days. And I’m calling to let her know without saying the words how pissed off I still am that she didn’t answer yesterday and she turned off her phone. But here she is, doing that thing of sounding normal again. She was clearly asleep, but she sounds normal and happy to hear from me and not at all angry that I’ve called again at this time.

  ‘Hello.’ I sound frosty. I don’t mean to sound that Arctic, but then I do. Icicles have formed on that one word.

  ‘What you up to today? Shall I come over?’ I hate that she’s acting like there’s nothing wrong.

  ‘No,’ I say, adding more icicles for good measure.

  ‘OK, cool.’

  ‘We’re meant to be going over to Mummy and Daddy’s
for lunch. He’s harvested some giant leeks and spring greens, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, cool. Send me a picture of Aubrey next to one, please,’ Nell says.

  Urgh, she is so frustrating! ‘Yeah, OK. How was your leaving do?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Apart from Mr Whitby saying in his speech that I’d be back at work in no time.’

  I laugh because that’s what I’ve been saying to Shane – all this nonsense about being a ‘people finder’ won’t pan out and she’ll be back at work in no time. It’s good to know I’m not the only one who thinks that. I’m sure she knows why I’m laughing – it’s not like I make a secret of what I think of what she does.

  ‘Hey, listen, I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone yesterday,’ she says unprompted. ‘I was otherwise indisposed.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I was, erm, with someone.’

  ‘How do you mean, “with someone”?’

  ‘How do you think I mean, “with someone”? I was with someone .

  In bed.’

  ‘Ohhhhh, with someone.’

  ‘Yes. It would not have been appropriate to start talking on the phone at that moment.’

  ‘Did you spend the whole night with him and sleep over and everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes, honestly.’

  I can’t help but grin. She once told me she doesn’t see the point in sleeping over at a guy’s place once they’ve had sex a couple of times. When she saw how shocked I was at that, she explained that she likes to get out of there before they have to have the awkward ‘are we going to see each other again?’ conversation in the morning. To be fair, that was just as shocking to me. But clearly something is different with this guy.

  ‘Are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Macy …’

  ‘What? It’s a perfectly simple question.’ That will hopefully lead to a yes and then she’ll start dating him and then she’ll maybe get married and have babies and STOP ALL THE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE ON HER COMPUTERS CRAP.

  ‘A question I’m not going to answer. So what else are you lot doing today?’

  ‘The usual: homework, ironing, getting ready for the week.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? You know how great I am at ironing.’

  I was annoyed with her, wasn’t I? And now I’m not. She’s good at doing that, my sister. ‘No, next Saturday, I was think—’

  ‘Tell me when you call me next Saturday morning,’ she interrupts. ‘You know, in case I forget.’

  I smile because she really is good at mitigating my anger at her. ‘OK. But are you sure you won’t be otherwise indisposed again?’

  ‘Oh, like I’m going to fall for that! I am not answering that question, Mace. I’ll talk to you in the week, OK? Bye.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’ Love you , I say in my head when she hangs up. I’d never actually say it to her. That would be stupid.

  ‘Was that Nell?’ Shane asks as he comes into the kitchen. He’s dressed in his black running gear – running shorts to his knees, a tight black top, black socks in his neon green trainers, and white headphones snaking up from his music player. Every Sunday morning Shane goes for a thirteen-mile run, training for the marathon he never gets around to signing up for. It clears his head, he says. And running half a marathon every Sunday prepares him for that point in the future when he’ll actually do the full twenty-six in front of thousands of other people, including the children and me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you’re smiling, so I’m guessing it was a positive call?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Did she say why she didn’t answer the phone or come over yesterday?’

  I glare at the man who wants to be my husband. Four times he’s proposed and apparently he even has the most perfect engagement ring. It’s not happening. Not now, probably not ever, especially if he’s going to ask about Nell when he really should know better.

  ‘Yes, she did tell me. She was having sex,’ I say.

  Right on cue his face flushes bright red and he has to break eye contact. He fits his earbuds into his ears and turns to the door. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Yeah, see you,’ I say and watch him walk away.

  I really am a bitch sometimes .

  Nell

  Tuesday, 27 March

  At seven o’clock I arrive at The Cricketers, a pub on Black Lion Street, which is near the seafront and just around the corner from Zach’s hotel.

  Via text on Sunday evening, Zach asked where would be a good place to meet for a quick drink on a Tuesday evening and I chose this place. I like it because it’s odd. It’s a white building that looks like it’s been wedged in an alleyway, when in actual fact it’s been around for about five hundred years (apparently). Inside feels the cramped side of cosy with red velvet everywhere and framed pictures on the ceiling. It’s also the sort of place you would go with someone if you’re not sure of their motives. I’d been confused when Zach asked me out for a drink, and I’m none the wiser when I arrive in the bar area looking for him.

  I’ve spent the day trawling through records up on the other side of Brighton, searching for information on Janice from work’s extended family. She wants to find out her family tree but has zero interest in actually doing it, so when she asked me for pointers (which was really her way of asking if I’d do it for her), I obliged. I sent her DNA off to the different places last week, and today I got a birth certificate on her mother’s side and a marriage certificate on her father’s side, while I wait for the results. Her family is proving unchallenging, but with every piece of information I find, I am hoping it will bring me nearer to Jude, to the Brighton Mermaid. To either of them.

  I haven’t felt this pressure before, I’ve always been able to search in my own time, but now I’m up against it and so everything I look at is vital, important, necessary .

  Zach stands as I approach his table, part of a booth by the fireplace at the back of the pub. He has a short glass of amber liquid that looks like whisky or brandy on the table in front of him.

  ‘Hello,’ he says with a smile that broadens and deepens when I arrive at his table. He seems unsure whether to lean in and kiss me on the cheek or stick out his hand to shake. I’m on the back foot, too. If I see someone again after sex, it’s generally at their house, and we generally dispense with formalities such as how to greet each other, and get on with what we’ve met up for. It’s rare that I’ll have a formal date and will therefore be required to know how to say a public hello.

  I exhale, give my head a (mental) shake, and decide to treat this as though I am meeting a friend for a drink. ‘Hi,’ I say to him, like I would a friend, and then lean in to kiss his right cheek. I then lean in to kiss his other cheek, just like I would a friend.

  He seems relieved and grateful at the same time as he receives my kisses; his hands linger on my biceps until I step back.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks.

  ‘What are you drinking?’

  He grins at the reminder from the other night and says, ‘Not tequila.’ He picks up his glass and swirls its contents. ‘Honey whisky is tonight’s chosen poison. Delicious going down, known to give me courage.’

  ‘What do you need courage for?’

  ‘Beautiful woman, first proper date – why wouldn’t I need courage?’ he replies, staring straight at me.

  He kept calling me beautiful the other morning. It didn’t sound forced, or insincere; he stared into my eyes, whispering it as though he wanted me to feel it in every part of my body. I was pinned by his intensity at some points, not sure what to make of him – very few men say that sort of thing to me in that sort of way. I redirect my gaze, just as I did on Saturday morning.

  ‘I’ll, erm, have a white wine. No, actually, a rosé – remind myself of the summer to come.’

  ‘How can something remind you of something that hasn’t hap
pened yet?’ he says, smoothly taking up my change in subject.

  ‘Ahhh, easily. You just imagine what it’ll be like sipping it when the sun is taking its time to set and the night is so warm every breath feels like a caress.’

  ‘That’s quite poetic,’ he replies. ‘I may even have one after that. Two rosés coming up.’

  I watch his besuited form walk towards the bar, and quell the excitement that wants to jump up and down in my chest and my stomach. Yes, he’s good-looking and sexy and all of that, but he’s also brought me here for a reason, and I don’t for one second think it’s for a date. I’m wondering if he’s changed his mind about us and wants to tell me in person because ghosting isn’t his style. Or, worse, maybe he wants to see the look of utter horror and humiliation on my face when he tells me he thinks I’m disgusting for doing what I did with him on Saturday morning.

  Dirty girl, dirty little slut echoes across my mind and instantly my stomach flips. I couldn’t stand it if Zach called me that. I wouldn’t let him see my hurt, but it would wound me.

  No, Zach isn’t like that , I tell myself sternly. Only psychopaths do things like that. How about thinking the best of him until he proves otherwise? How about not letting John Pope infect every single part of your life?

  ‘So, I guess you’re wondering why I asked you out tonight?’ Zach begins after we’ve both taken a sip of the rosé. It’s slightly tart, and there’s a hint of summer berries – just enough to start thoughts of summer blossoming in my mind.

  I nod.

  ‘Well, I wanted to spend some time with you.’ He lowers his voice to add: ‘Away from the bedroom.’

  I nod, but still don’t say anything.

  ‘I mean, not that it wasn’t nice and everything.’

  My eyebrow shoots up at ‘nice’. He thought the sex was nice? Quelle horreur! I had a one-night stand and he describes it as nice.

  ‘I didn’t mean “nice” in that way,’ he says quickly, obviously picking up on my dismay at his description. ‘I meant … it was … special, I guess. Different from what I’m used to. I liked it a lot. So much so, I wanted to make sure that you didn’t regret it or anything.’