The Brighton Mermaid

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You should think about doing this sort of thing full-time. Getting paid for it.’

  ‘No one pays people to look for their family tree. Not unless there’s an inheritance or something involved.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But I just think that is your true calling. You’re so good at it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I repeat.

  We drive on in silence until: ‘Have you ever been in love?’ he asks.

  Why would you do that, Aaron? I think. Why would you try to take us there? Instead of replying, I look out the window at the dark world.

  ‘This isn’t me talking about “the thing”,’ he says to my silence. ‘It’s just one friend asking another friend a question.’

  Have I ever been in love? ‘That’s an odd question. I’m not sure what sort of answer you want from it, to be honest.’

  ‘Just an answer. Have you ever been in love?’

  I’m avoiding responding because if I look back over my life in any detail, I suspect I’m very likely to find that the reply is very possibly ‘no, I have never been in love’.

  ‘I was in love with Shane, I guess,’ I say. ‘In that young way when you think that what you feel is the most pure and intense love in the world and no one else has ever felt that way.’

  ‘Shane who is married to your sister?’

  ‘Yes, Shane who is with my sister. They’re not married.’

  ‘You’ve never really said how you feel about that. You just said your sister was with your ex. I didn’t realise that you felt like that about him. It must kill you inside to see them together.’

  ‘Not at all. It was over when I left for college and after the first month of thinking I would die without him, I was fine. More than fine. He tried to rekindle things when I finished college, but …’

  ‘But … ?’

  ‘I just didn’t want to. I had no feelings left for him, basically. I sort of fancied him, and we did sleep together that one time – and you must never tell my sister that if you ever meet her. I’m really not proud of the fact that I let a temporary lapse in judgement take over and I did it with him.’ I don’t mention that it was seeing Aaron’s dad that pushed me into it.

  ‘What, when he was with your sister?’

  ‘No, no, no way,’ I say quickly. ‘No, it was almost literally after college, when I was back living in Brighton. This was well over fifteen years ago. He wanted us to start dating again and I … There was nothing there. The sex had been all right, I guess. But I certainly didn’t feel anything for him beyond nostalgia. I shouldn’t have slept with him again. I might have more fond memories of him if I hadn’t. That’s why I said I guess I was in love with him, because doing that years later kind of muddied how I felt about him the first time around – when I’m pretty certain I did feel all that for him.’

  Aaron checks his rear-view mirror and then side mirror and I think for a moment he’s going to change lanes. But he doesn’t. Instead a look comes over his face, like he is trying to calculate something. ‘No one else?’ he asks suddenly.

  No one else. Over the years, among the one-night stands and flings and short relationships, there’s been no one else. It worries me. Am I incapable of love? Do I not know how to feel? Is that part of the problem with Aaron? We could fall into sex, we could fall into a relationship, but I would wreck it by not knowing how to fall in love. No, no, that’s not right. I do know how to fall in love. I do know how to be in love. I must do. Most humans do.

  ‘Zach, maybe.’

  ‘Who’s Zach?’

  ‘The guy I’m seeing.’

  ‘So you really are seeing someone?’

  ‘Yes, I told you!’

  ‘All right, all right. You can forgive me for wondering, given how things … Anyway, you haven’t been seeing him for long, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, but there’s something about him that … I don’t know, I like him differently to how I’ve liked other guys, and I think we could, maybe? I’m being very presumptuous – he might not even like me that much – but when we’re together there’s a spark that is kind of new and unique. I think sometimes when I’m with him that he’s the guy I’m going to fall in love with.’

  ‘I hope he is,’ Aaron says. I know he means it on so many levels, and I do love him for that. ‘And I’m sure he likes you that much. What’s not to like?’

  ‘What about you? Have you ever been in—OK, scratch that, have you ever had a girlfriend?’

  ‘What sort of a question is that? Of course I have!’ he replies.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? You talk about your life growing up sometimes, and you talk about your life in London, but you never mention any women. You talk about your job, the company you started, where you lived, the holidays you went on, but it’s always “I did this”, “I went there”, never “we” anything. I’ve always thought you lived the single-man life like I’ve lived the single-woman life.’

  ‘I’ve had girlfriends,’ he says. He is staring intently straight ahead and I’m sure he doesn’t need to concentrate so hard, but he’s uncomfortable talking about this. ‘I had one girlfriend for nearly ten years.’ He reaches up and pushes his glasses back on his face. ‘We were engaged.’

  ‘Bloody hellfire! Aaron, I had no idea. Engaged? What happened?’

  ‘My father’s accident happened. My father needed looking after and I had to move back to Brighton, back to my house of horrors, as you so rightly called it.’

  ‘And she didn’t want to move?’

  ‘She did. She was all for it. She thought we could start a tech business down here, keep the one in London, too. She’d done lots of research and she was just gagging to live by the sea. But …’ His voice peters out and his face looks grim. I understand.

  ‘Was she a white English woman, your fiancée?’ I ask him.

  The intense staring is back on his face; his knuckles become yellow with the strength with which he grips the steering wheel.

  ‘No, no she was not. She was British born, but her parents were Iranian.’

  ‘And you could live your life, you could be with her, you could even get married – if you lived all that way away from your father. But you couldn’t put her through being around him all the time, could you?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. After I’d heard what he’d done to you and your family, I just couldn’t put Lydia through that. I loved her too much. And the thought of him being like that with our children, too …’

  I place my hand on his shoulder, briefly, to show him I understand.

  ‘She is an adult, though. Don’t you think you should have given her the chance to make that choice?’

  He sighs and his grip on the steering wheel loosens, almost as though he is letting go of something I can’t see. ‘All right, let me explain it like this. My father calls my wife something out of my earshot, and she tells me. What do I do? I mean, she’s already told him where to get off, and it’s not made a difference to him. What do I do? Do I tell him what I think of him? Yeah, all right, I do that. And then what? I carry on living in his house and taking care of him and expecting my wife to do the same? What if it’s one of the children, who won’t be old enough to tell him where to get off? They’d be going out into the world and getting enough of that crap slung at them from all sides – home is supposed to be safe, not where your grandfather says nasty, vicious things to you.’

  ‘In that case, you move out,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I move out. I cut my father off. And then live for ever with the guilt that I didn’t take care of my unwell father.’ Fear. Obligation. Guilt. Shackles that are so difficult to unbind.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to cut him off, just—’

  ‘Just still see him and basically condone how he behaves when he’s vile about and to my wife and children. We talked about it for hours and hours, Nell, we tried to find a way around it. But the only way is if I cut my father out. And I couldn’t do it. And I couldn’t ask Lydia to even try l
iving with it. She’d put up with enough racist crap in her life, the overt stuff and the covert stuff – I couldn’t knowingly bring more of it into her life.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you,’ I tell him.

  ‘I do understand, you know, Nell,’ he says.

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘When I look at it rationally, I understand why you won’t even think about going out with me. It’s the same as it was with Lydia only a hundred thousand times worse because I know what he put your family through. But then, I find it hard to be rational about how I feel about you.’

  ‘This is “the thing” that we agreed not to talk about,’ I remind him.

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry, but just hear me out. Talking about Lydia has made me realise I need to back off. I didn’t want to put her through all that horror and I don’t want to put you through it, either. Even more so when I think of what he’s already done to you, what he’s doing now, holding this thing over your head. So, I’m talking about “the thing” so we don’t ever have to talk about “the thing” again.’

  I knew he’d get there, that he’d eventually understand what I’ve been trying to tell him during all the time he’s been showing an interest in me: the outside world is scary enough, and John Pope made sure that it was terrifying inside my own home, too. And I’ve come to the point where I don’t want to invite, no matter how obliquely, more of the terror-maker into my life.

  ‘Thank you for saying that,’ I mumble.

  We’re coming towards the end of the M23; we’ll soon be on the A23 down into Brighton. I always like to look at the large stone Brighton gates, sitting tall and proud on either side of the road as you enter the city. Around us it is dark and there is nothing but fields. This part of the motorway has no lights and it feels like we are the only two people left in the world as his silver car moves us towards home.

  ‘Did you get anything from Sadie?’ he asks. ‘I mean, I know you now know about the other branches of her family, and with their names you can start to look for them, but I mean, did you get anything else?’

  ‘No. And yes.’ I think back to how Sadie was. She seemed so free and open and comfortable with who she is. ‘I kind of, in my mind, fit her personality onto the Brighton Mermaid’s. Sadie is how I imagine the BM would be if I ever got to talk to her. You know, laughing all the time; talkative and friendly. Even though she was … you know, when we found her, so I had no sense of who she was. But I would love it if she was like Sadie.’

  ‘So what are you going to do next?’

  I pause for a moment to look at the Brighton gates, welcoming us back, telling us that on the other side of the gates we are protected.

  ‘Well, I’m going to do Internet searches on all of the names she gave me, create a large family tree. From there, I’ll come over to yours so I can use the proper facial recognition software to go through all the matching faces and names with the online records I can get access to. And then, hopefully, I’ll get a few more things to work with. More names, more leads.’

  ‘And what about your friend?’

  Jude. What about Jude? I feel guilty. I’ve been so excited that I have a lead in the BM case that I’ve almost – only almost – forgotten I’m meant to be finding her, too. That soon it’ll be twenty-five years since she disappeared – and the nightmare of my dad being accused of killing her began.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll just keep plugging away like I’ve been doing for years.’

  Aaron pulls up outside my building and neither of us moves. We stare out of the windscreen. It’s been a profound day in more ways than one. It began early and here we are back at home very late, one step closer to unravelling one mystery, and several steps beyond another thing we’ve been dealing with.

  ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days then,’ Aaron says eventually. ‘When you’ve had a chance to go through all your stuff.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll see you in a few days.’

  Still neither of us moves. It feels like, after such a profound day, after such deep pronouncements, we need to say something more. Do something more.

  ‘This is so crazy,’ I say. ‘I feel like I should invite you up or something.’

  ‘I feel like asking you if I can come up.’

  ‘And ask you to spend the night.’

  ‘Together. Properly.’

  ‘Having sex.’

  ‘Making love.’

  ‘“Making love”? Who actually says that?’ I turn to look at him.

  Aaron turns to face me, too. ‘I do. Who actually says “having sex”? Like they’re getting a root canal done or something.’

  ‘I do. Lots of people do.’

  ‘Lots of people say “making love”, too. All right, what would you prefer? “Fucking”?’

  ‘“Screwing”?’

  ‘That sounds like you’re putting together flat pack.’

  I laugh. ‘“Making love” isn’t so bad when you put it like that.’

  ‘Neither is “having sex”.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  We stare at each other in the dark of the car, both of us breathing hard, both of us with our lips slightly parted, our eyes linked. This is crazy. For the first time ever, I want Aaron Pope. I’ve always been aware of how attractive he is; I could even concede to a small crush. But right now I want to have sex, make love, fuck, screw, whatever with him. Right now I want to do the stupid, passionate, naked thing.

  ‘We’re not going to do this, are we, Aaron,’ I state.

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘No.’ I pull on the handle of the door and it pops open. ‘No, we’re not.’

  I retrieve my belongings from the boot and the back seat and lean back to look through the open door. ‘Goodnight, Aaron.’

  ‘It’s morning. Wednesday morning now,’ he says. ‘So, good morning, Nell.’

  I watch him drive away until he turns at the end of my road and then I turn to my flat. As usual, when I’m stumbling home at this time from a night out, there are a couple of lights on across the different flats.

  Oh, Aaron . I think as I drag my tired body, weighted down with my many bags, up to the third floor because the lift is out of action, again. I wish things were simpler. Even if we can’t get together, I wish, wish, wish, that he would get out of his father’s orbit. I have to be there for now, but you are going to waste so many more years looking after the man who abused you .

  On my floor, I hit the timed light at the end of the corridor. Nothing.

  I’m sure they only changed the bulb a couple of months ago. I hit the flat white circle again, expecting the light above to splutter into life this time. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Three more hits, and still nothing. I have to accept it’s not going to happen so I fumble in my coat pockets until I find my mobile. I flick on the torch function and move towards my flat, shining the torch in front of me. I will have to get on to the freeholder about the lift and the light and no doubt he’ll dodge my calls and then somehow make out I’ve done something to break the lights and lift just to spite him.

  At my front door I set down my bags, which seem to have doubled in weight in the dark and fug of tiredness, and reach into my other pocket for my keys.

  My front door is ajar.

  I pause in pulling out my keys and stare at the door.

  Did I leave it unlocked? I wonder as I stare at the door. No. I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t .

  I stare and stare, my heart racing faster and faster until it is a painful juggernaut in my chest.

  I did not leave my door unlocked .

  I have four locks on my door and I remember securing each and every one of them before I went downstairs to wait for Aaron yesterday morning.

  Slowly, carefully, I use the toe of my shoe to push the door further open.

  As the door swings back, I notice the splintered wood from where it’s been kicked open. But how can that be? How could someone kick open my door and no one in the other fla
ts have heard?

  I stare into the darkness of my flat, the torch from my phone making a small puddle of light by my feet.

  I hear, then sense, the movement, and I’m about to raise my phone when the darkness suddenly comes alive and rushes at me at speed. I don’t have time to react as a black shape barrels into me, knocking me aside, causing my face and my left side to slam into the splintered door frame, my head snapping back like I’ve been punched. I stumble back, the pain acute and sudden in my face, as I lose my balance and crumple.

  In the darkness of the corridor, through the blurriness of my vision, I watch the darkness moving, running for the stairs at the end of the corridor, the only thing properly visible the white soles of its shoes.

  Nell

  Wednesday, 25 April

  This wasn’t a normal burglary. That’s obvious because pretty much everything of value – TV, DVD, cash, computer screens – is all still here, and the only things missing are the three hard drives from the desktop computers in my office. Also, whoever it was that came out of the darkness trashed my home. There are papers – everywhere. Every drawer has been opened and emptied, even the drawer in the white unit under the bathroom sink. The family trees have been ripped off the walls, the filing cabinet broken open and papers strewn about. It’s obvious that whoever was here was looking for something, but I’m not sure what.

  It’s also now obvious that whoever pushed me over last Friday and stole my bag was doing it for a specific reason, and not simply to mug me.

  I’ve been itching to tidy up. Pick things up. Straighten out things. Just get my flat back to how it should be. When I called the police, though, they said they would get to me as soon as they could, but not to touch anything, so I had to sit by the front door, my bags around me, my arm a big throbbing wedge of pain by my side, and my face stinging so much I kept thinking I was going to pass out.

  ‘You really should go and get your injuries looked at,’ the uniformed police officer says.

  I’m allowed to sit on the sofa since it’s unlikely they will get any forensic evidence from it. I actually preferred sitting by the front door, because from here I’m at the epicentre of the devastation that has been wrought upon my home and it is making me feel worse, if that’s possible.