by Jordan, G R
Home was frustrating, and Donald was plucking up the courage to tell his mother he would soon be moving out. The familiar but staunch ways were a bind he was unable to live with any longer. His job on the boat gave him two weeks grace at a time but it was hardly living, going back and forth over the sea, and he understood his home should be on the mainland. A wee flat, maybe in the city, or maybe a small house in a quiet village with a good bus service. He wasn't searching for the high life, merely his life.
Sunday lunch was eaten, lamb with mother's wonderful gravy and, of course, grace beforehand. Thankfulness, he understood, but Donald struggled now with routine thanking. Was it even acknowledgement at all or merely ritual? When he had taken this up with his father one quiet Sabbath afternoon before he had passed away, there was at first an embarrassed silence before his father clarified, "it's just what we do." That was the problem for Donald at home, little exploration of anything, just a resounding confirmation of the status quo.
Donald told his mother he would take a walk, mentioning Jesus had seen it as a good idea on the Sabbath, to quell any dissent. In order to avoid his parent any scandal, he kept well out of sight and clambered down to the hidden shoreline less than a mile from the house. Usually he would meet one of the heathen dog walkers, as she called them, letting the animals do what so many children were denied on their day of rest. Aiden, an Irish Catholic on the boat, described how they would all see the hurling or the football on a Sunday after mass in Ireland. “That's Catholics for you,” his dad would have said.
It had been two weeks since the incident with the mermaids on the ferry, and Donald had come to the conclusion he had seen the equivalent of a mirage. While the event was memorable, it was clearly also an illusion. Part of him praised himself for managing to keep control and not involving the others. The teasing it would have generated would have lasted a good year or two at the minimum, and he had had enough flack over some of the church incidents already.
Pushing the mermaid incident out of his mind once again, he continued to mull over his more ordinary day-to-day problems.
Working on the boat is hard on relationships, thought Donald. He hadn't seen Kiera in a few weeks which bothered him. Since his mother disapproved of her, being Irish, probably Catholic and not holding a proper job, just that photography nonsense, Donald had to be quite secretive about their meetings. Since he had got back off the boat four days ago, he had been up to her house five times but each time she was out.
The last time they had been together she was so down, still grieving the loss of her friend. Part of him had felt guilty that while she was crying on his shoulder, he had enjoyed her curly, black hair blowing gently in the wind. Despite her mourning, she had still looked gorgeous in her black jeans and red fleece jacket. When they had parted, he had watched her go, admiring her behind and itching for his two week work detail to hurry past. But he believed watching her was as intimate as he would ever get with Kiera.
It would be risky dropping up on a Sunday as the walk would take him past the Reverend McKinney's manse. Waiting until the evening service was out of the question, as his absence would be noted but maybe a quick drop in would work. Yes, he would, stuff them. Kiera was more important than some auld nosey parker's offended pride. But he would cut up through the high rocks by the beach at the small jetty just to keep out of the way. No point taking unnecessary flak.
Donald almost broke into a skip such was his delight at reaching this rebellious decision. His thoughts returned to Kiera, wondering what she would be wearing and if she would have her hair loosely tied up or draped down to her shoulders as he preferred. From the corner of his mind came an idea that perhaps Kiera took a bath on Sunday afternoons as there was so little else to do. Maybe this wasn't a good time to be going. A deviant thought said “Oh, yes it is” but Donald managed to persuade himself this was a call of necessity to a friend rather than a hopeful romantic encounter. Not that the debate was extensive.
He hadn't been walking slowly but Donald now found himself breaking into a half-run skipping action, taking care around the potholes on the path by the sea. Beside him, the rocks were on display with the tide now almost fully out. Little rock pools and crevices where he had played as a child were now ignored at the thought of getting up to Kiera's cottage. The little jetty at the beach came into view as he looked for the sheep trail up past the crofts. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a colour that didn't seem quite right.
Right at the base of the jetty where it met the rocks, it wasn't unusual to see some netting or plastic washed up. If the object had been bright pink or a deep blue, Donald wouldn't have taken a second glance. But the colour was that of flesh, extremely pale and certainly with a translucent quality, like fish skin. With his second glance, Donald's skin went cold as he saw the top half of a body.
Bloody hell he thought, then apologised for swearing.
Taking off at a run, it took Donald a mere ten seconds to get up to the body. It had the subtle curves of a woman with jet black straight hair now matted into the sand. As Donald touched the body, he found it cold and slippery. He rolled the woman over. Ignoring her naked torso, he immediately used his first aid training, placing his head to her mouth searching for her breath. There was nothing. Hand grasped round her mouth forcing it open, Donald blew air into the woman's mouth, sharply and with vigour, staring at her chest, searching for any lung function.
There was nothing. Not a sign of life. Several times he tried and felt the water rising up toward him as the tide was turning in. She must be cold, thought Donald. I'll lift her up the beach slightly and try some resuscitation up there. Grabbing her under the armpits, Donald pulled hard, dragging the poor woman from water. Then he saw it.
The scaly tail of the mermaid was still showing a blue-green sheen. Donald's heart pounded as he took in the motionless appendage. For a few moments he stopped his rescuing action and stood dumbstruck by the revelation that he had not seen a mirage. Then his benevolent instinct took over and he hauled the stricken mermaid to a clear area of beach to see if he could render further assistance.
Once again he knelt beside her and checked her chest for signs of breathing. With none present, he gripped her nose and blew hard for the prescribed number of times into her mouth before moving on to chest compressions. After a few minutes, he checked his patient for signs of life. There was nothing. A quick glance around told him there was no one, not even a Sabbath dog walker on whom to cry out for assistance.
Right, thought Donald. I need to pick up the lady and get her to the nearest house. Surely I can find a phone there and get an ambulance. Or a vet? What do you call for a mermaid? One for each end? She does look quite heavy, mind. Nothing for it though, emergency situation and all that.
Donald took her hands and straddled over her, attempting to pull the mermaid up towards him. Once he had her vaguely sitting upright, Donald thought he would crouch down, placing his shoulder into her stomach. From there, he would rock back, lifting her up on his shoulder and grabbing her by the tail he would make good progress, holding her like a sack of potatoes.
All was going well, and despite having to work past the mermaid's ample chest, Donald got himself into the brace position ready to lift her onto his shoulder. Accelerating upward she did indeed hook over his shoulder. Attempting to get both hands a hold on her tail, he found it to be incredibly slippery, and she sailed right off his shoulder somersaulting onto her back on the sand. Donald scanned the horizon, worried that someone might misconstrue this as cavorting with a topless swimmer.
Despite the ludicrousness of the moment, Donald sensed time was of the essence, noticing the mermaid's scales were starting to lose their sheen. There's nothing for it, he thought. Reaching down, Donald slid an arm under the rear of her tail. He took the mermaids arm and slung it round his neck, sliding his own free arm around her back. Bending his knees he lifted her up, struggling to support her weight.
Right, he decided, to the nearest house. Then the fe
ar struck him. It was a Sunday. Not good to be out here. He was carrying a topless mermaid. There could be some controversy about that. Desperately he sought his biblical knowledge about whether this sort of action was okay. He knew Song of Songs had some raunchy bits but was unsure how they applied in this situation. There was also the bit about pulling your ass out of a pit on a Sunday, but was this the same?
Part of Donald cursed himself for this stupid line of thought while he had a potential dead woman on his hands. Ah, the police might be awkward about that too, especially if he mentioned his previous sightings of mermaids.
Damn, thought Donald, what do I do?
Suddenly an answer came. Whether it was a good answer, an appropriate answer or even a workable answer was a question Donald's brain never had the pleasure of entertaining. Instead, he started his staggering march, similar to the strongman carrying the car shell in those feats of strength competitions. Only one thought was on his mind. Kiera. She'll know what to do. As to Kiera's qualifications for dealing with semi-naked fish women in a state of near death, these were mere details for another time. No, Kiera was the answer. No scandal, no chastisement, no police. Just Kiera.
Donald, now focused, performed one of those herculean moments that all men hope they have inside them and ignored all aches and pains as he haphazardly negotiated the path to Kiera's.
5
Unexpected Caller
Stretching across the bath, she felt the steam reaching the underside of her neck and held her pose for a moment, relishing the warmth. This was going to be sweet. She had the bath bomb all ready, anticipating the splash followed by the dizzying fizz of the pink coloured ball as it sped round the tub. Sundays were made for moments like this. Kiera dropped her robe and prepared to step into the enamelled basin.
The sound of the practical but rather drab doorbell broke her perfect moment and even brought forth a little swear word. Kiera's inclination was to ignore the door until she heard the frantic banging of the never used door knocker. Who in their right mind would be giving it lardy on a Sunday afternoon? Well, they were about to get a piece of her mind.
Opening the door she was confronted by an out of breath Donald, face dripping in sweat. In his arms was a topless brunette with a distinctly fishy smell and a dull scaly tail.
"Donald! How the hell did you find the mermaid? What are you doing with her here?"
He barged past, heading straight for the bathroom but she clocked his appreciative glance at her legs and short white gown. By the time she had closed the door and followed, the sound of a splash had been heard. Entering the room, Kiera saw water running across the wooden floor and a mermaid lying, eyes closed, in her bath.
"Warm water," said Donald. "That was good thinking."
"Did you leave any water in the bath?"
"Sorry. Didn't know where to go."
"It's okay, all my male visitors bring their half-naked amphibian girlfriends with them."
"Kiera……..Kiera, I think she's dead."
"Dead?! You killed her?"
Donald looked at Kiera in horror. How could she think such a thing of him?
"No, flippin' heck Kiera, no! She was in the water, just lying. Look at the tail. Look! It's gone dull, lost the colour. Like mackerel when they've died. I think she's had it."
Kiera leaned over the bath, regardless of her inadequate attire, and tried for a pulse at the neck. There was nothing. She tried an arm and again there was nothing. Donald crouched on the floor, looked like a puppy, hoping for a treat but found no hope from its master.
"There's nothing, Donald. I'm sorry. Just nothing."
Trying to find something to say, Kiera found herself at a loss. Donald was exhausted, totally at a loss and looking for some sort of comfort. All she could do was crouch beside him and place an arm around. She nestled her head on his shoulder and felt his shoulders sharply rise and fall as he fought back tears of exasperation.
"You tried, Donald. God love you, you tried."
For several minutes she held him in her embrace before rising. Briefly, she left the bathroom to put on a pot of tea before returning and standing a little aloof from him. While he fought to get back his composure, she busied herself by glancing round the bathroom, anything but looking at the body in the tub: the bright coloured curtains she had worked so hard to put up when the plasterboard would hold no screws; the green and white mat on the floor with its giant shamrock bought by friends from the university she had attended; the small hippo that squirted water when squeezed. That last one was from Donald.
Poor Donald, she thought. He didn't even see the mermaid at her wonderful best. Kiera thought how beautiful she had looked and how now, with all life gone, the vision was so cold.
The kettle whistled, and Kiera retired to make two teas. Donald didn't usually take sugar, at least not at the wake. Still, she thought, he needs something to pick him up. Coming back into the bathroom, she found Donald now standing in the corner looking grimly at the deceased. His eyes were red from the tears and his face totally crestfallen.
"Where did you find her?" asked Kiera, passing him the tea.
"By the jetty, right down at the water. Face down. Turned her over. Tried mouth to mouth but nothing."
"Why up here then? I mean, I don't mind that you did, but why here? Surely there were a few houses a bit closer."
"Sunday. Bloody Sunday. I couldn't. Stood on someone's doorstep, breasts showing, tail there. I just thought. Well I thought you would know what to do. At least you wouldn't freak or be shocked. Although, I have to admit, I would have thought you would be a little more surprised…"
"Okay, Donald. I don't know what we'll do from here, but okay."
"And I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Why?"
"For all this trouble, Kiera. Sorry. I mean interrupting you. At bath time too. Like every Sunday afternoon, it’s your regular bath time."
"How do you know that?" Kiera shuffled nervously.
"You said. At the wake. Bath on a Sunday, shower every morning except the Sabbath. Lie in is what you said. I remember from the wake. We were chatting. Not for long, but that's what you said. It was because of when your friend passed on. You never got your bath then. Oh, sorry. Shouldn't have brought that up."
Kiera was choking back some tears, memories of Christine's death still fresh. The pain of finding her friend that way. Peaceful, but a shell of the life she had. As the image built up in her mind she erupted into a cry before burying her hands in her face and wailing loudly.
Donald stepped across the room and held her tight. This time he felt the judders. He ignored the pain of her tea spilling on his wrist and kept whispering that it was okay.
After the moment had passed, she looked up into Donald's eyes. She saw he had been crying again. She saw his pain at her anguish, his plea to make it all go away being unanswered. That male desire to fix it all, but finding all physical action to be impotent, was clearly taking a toll on him. And for that, she was moved inside. Reaching up with her lips, she engulfed his mouth in a deep and prolonged kiss. Donald reciprocated and quickly took her tea from her hand lest she burned him again. Safety assured, he held her hips with both hands, felt her reach round to his backside and grip it tight. As the adrenalin pounded through him, he started to slide his hands up her sides dragging the gown with him.
There was a sudden splash in the bath.
Kiera and Donald screamed together and held onto one another lest they collapsed.
"She moved! Donald, she moved!"
Donald stared hard at the motionless mermaid in the bath. Her tail still seemed devoid of colour but her arms were developing a redness. The eyes were still closed but the gills at her neck seemed to move in the faintest of fashions.
"Kiera, she's not dead." Donald gripped Kiera's hands tight. "She's not dead, Kiera. Look, there's life there. Her gills, they're moving."
"Not that there's much chance of them being any use what with them being out of the water and that."
Donald raced over to the bath, grabbing the mermaid's hands, rubbing them like the insides would be gold. Kiera joined him, but in a more calculated fashion, placed her hands at the neck and then the wrists.
"There's still no pulse, Donald. Nothing. It might just be body reacting to the heat."
"No, Kiera. Definitely not. Look! Kiera, just look at her chest. Damn, that's beautiful."
"Sorry?"
"It's rising and falling. Don't you see? She's breathing." The mermaid was starting to breathe and her nostrils were soon opening and closing ever so slightly as her body started to pull in the oxygen it required. Fascinated by this resurrection, Kiera could only stand there staring on, all reactions of her inner photographer silenced in wonder. Over the subsequent minutes, the mermaid started to show a flesh of deeper pink, and the rise and the fall of her breathing deepened enough for Kiera to feel the need to cover the mermaid's exposed torso with a towel.
"The tail's changing colour too. Can you see that Kiera? The sheen’s returning. I did it! She's coming back." Watching the smile leap across Donald's face, Kiera felt an enormous pride in the man she'd been holding just minutes before. His total disinterest in the mermaid's state of undress whilst acknowledging hers was also exciting her. She walked over to him and took his hand in hers. Together they watched the mermaid for a few brief moments before turning to each other, eyes glazed over. Resuming their previous embrace, they sought out each other, happy that their patient was now okay.
She screamed. Piercing their eardrums enough for the embrace to be broken, the mermaid was shrieking now and violently turning. White eyeballs with deep dark centres were wide open and the sharp teeth of her mouth were exposed.
"Donald, what the hell’s up with her?"
"I don't know," said Donald clutching his ears. "She's my first mermaid."
"She must be in pain, surely. Gotta be a pain reaction."
