by Amy Cross
Copyright 2017 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
First published: December 2017
Terrified of the world, Sylvia lives with her mother in a luxury penthouse apartment. For Sylvia, everything is a cause for fear and panic. Isolated and friendless, she has no interest in the outside world at all. And then, one day, her mother unveils her latest purchase.
A mermaid.
A real, live mermaid, captured and placed in a water tank.
For Sylvia, the mermaid is both terrifying and fascinating. Repulsive and beautiful. Soon, however, Sylvia discovers that the mermaid hasn't just been brought to London so it can be put on display. And as the mermaid makes plans to escape its terrible fate, Sylvia is thrown into a horrific battle for survival.
The Mermaid's Revenge is the story of a scared little girl who comes face to face with the true horrors of the natural world.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
The Mermaid's Revenge
Prologue
I see it now. There's a light ahead, calling me. It's the only light left, the only light that could possibly break through the all-encompassing darkness that surrounds me. It's the only light in the world, and now I finally know what I have to do.
I have to stop resisting.
I have to stop being scared.
I have to go into the light.
Chapter One
Today
The crane swings across the sun, and in the distance a man calls out:
“Heavy load coming! Heavy load coming!”
I blink away the sunspots and watch as the crane continues to turn. At the end of the crane's arm, a large shipping container is hanging from some chains. The shipping container was just lifted from the deck of a huge boat. The boat is called the SS Ossingham. Mother has been talking about the SS Ossingham a lot lately. I think this is why we're here.
It's not often that she lets me come with her on these trips, so it has to be something important.
“Easy!” a different man shouts, although he too sounds as if he's far away. Maybe he's at the other end of the dockyard. I'm not used to having so many people around. “Steady!”
The crane starts lowering the shipping container. A moment later there's a very loud banging sound, and I instinctively step back, only for a hand to grab my shoulder and hold me in place. I can already feel long fingernails on the ends of the hand's fingers, and I can smell Mother's perfume. I know it's her. She wants me to not be scared. If I look scared again, she'll start making comments about how I have to be braver.
“Gently does it!” a man yells. Maybe the first man I heard yelling, maybe not. “Bring her down nice and easy!”
Mother lets go of my shoulder.
The shipping container continues to be lowered down from the sky until it's just a few meters above the concrete ground. Now the crane seems to be slowing slightly, although a moment later there's another loud clank and I again step back. I couldn't help myself.
Again, Mother grabs my shoulder, harder this time.
“Stop that,” she says under her breath. “Sylvia. Be brave.”
“I'm sorry,” I mumble, although I don't think I said it loud enough for her to hear.
The shipping container is moving very slowly now. I think they're being careful. There's still a loud banging sound, however, when it finally hits the ground, and this is followed by the sound of slack chains suddenly slipping through hoops that connect them to the crane. I've never been to a dockyard before, and I don't much like it now. I've seen one on TV, of course, but on TV you can't smell the smells or feel the ground shuddering. The place is so noisy, with the sound of so much metal being thumped and banged, that I don't know how anyone can possibly want to spend time here.
Mother lets go of my shoulder again.
“Everything's in order?” I hear her ask.
“You don't need to worry about anything,” one of the men replies. “I've arranged for a customs bypass. Nobody's going to be looking inside that thing. I sent all the documents straight to Randall.”
“I'm going home,” Mother continues, her voice sounding just as calm and flat as ever. “I'll wait for the installation there. Let me know how they're both doing.”
Suddenly she grabs my shoulder again, and this time I can feel her starting to pull me around. I turn, because I know that's what Mother wants, and I start following her back across the dockyard toward the limousine. Mr. Randall is waiting with the door open for us, so I slow enough to let Mother get slightly ahead. As she climbs in, I look down at her long legs, and I'm amazed by how black and smooth her tights look. Mother always dresses so well, as if she really wants to make an impression. She dresses like people dress on TV.
And then Randall swings the door shut.
“If you'll follow me, Miss Sylvia,” he says with a friendly smile, gesturing for me to go around to the other side of the car with him.
I do as I'm told, although I can't help stopping after a moment and looking back toward the shipping container. Mother has been going on and on about this delivery for months, and I think she's actually been sounding quite excited. I don't know what she's bought now for her collection, but I think it must be something very exciting. Maybe it's some more African art. Even now, lots of men are fussing around one end of the container, although I can't help noticing that several of them seem to be doctors. I wish I could be a little older, so that I could understand.
“Miss Sylvia?”
I turn and see that Mr. Randall is waiting for me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, hurrying around and climbing into the limousine. As I slip into my safety belt, Mr. Randall swings the door shut, and I jump slightly as I feel the frame shake. Then I freeze, waiting in case Mother saw this latest example of me being scared of everything.
“They'd better not fuck anything up,” Mother mutters under her breath, using a naughty word. “I've waited too long to get my hands on this pair.”
I don't know what she's talking about, but it sounds important. I'm sure she'll tell me eventually, if I need to know.
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Chapter Two
“And here's your sandwich,” Mr. Randall says as he sets a plate on the coffee table in front of me. “Your mother wanted me to remind you that you must drink your zero-calorie protein shake first.”
“Where is Mother?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Your mother is busy attending to something downstairs,” he continues, as if he'd anticipated the question. “She'll be up shortly. You need to focus on your snack.”
“But what's she doing?” I ask. “Is it something to do with what came off that boat today?”
“I am also to advise you,” he replies, “that your cello lesson for tomorrow has been moved. You'll now be having a double lesson next Wednesday.”
“Has Mummy got something new for her collection?”
“I'll be through to collect your empty crockery once you're done,” he adds, and it's clear that he's not going to answer my questions. Mother probably told him not to, and he'd never disobey Mother. “Remember to eat up. You're a growing girl.”
With that, he turns and walks away across the marble floor. I watch him until he disappears into the next room of the apartment, and then I turn and look at the huge TV screen on the far wall. My favorite game – Master Fish Hero V – is on pause, waiting for me to resume playing. Mother likes me to play for at least one hour each evening, so that I can improve my reflexes (whatever that means) but right now I feel particularly bored. I mean, hunting fish on a video game can be fun sometimes, but not when Mother's acting so strangely.
Reaching over to the coffee table, I'm about to pick up the plate of sandwiches when I remember that I'm meant to have the shake first. So I take the glass instead, slip the straw into my mouth and begin to drink. I don't really like these shakes, they taste too much like plastic, but Mother insists they're good for me and Mother's always right about these things. Mother's always right about everything, and I can only hope that one day I'm as smart as her so that I can understand. I want to be like Mother one day.
“Fuck!” she shouts suddenly in the distance, and I turn to look over at the far door. I can hear Mother storming up the stairs, although after a moment her footsteps seem to go through into the kitchen. “Fucking idiots!”
I flinch as soon as I hear glass smashing. Mother's having another of her rages, and sure enough a moment later I hear the sound of more breaking glass. I think she's throwing things in the kitchen again, which means she's mad at someone, which means something must have gone wrong. As I listen to the sound of her tantrum continuing, I actually feel glad that she's not in this room with me. I know that makes me a bad daughter, but I don't like it when Mother gets really mad. Sometimes she scares me a bit.
“Argh!” she yells, or something like that.
Then I hear Mr. Randall's voice, although I can't make out what he's saying. He always speaks so softly.
“I don't care!” Mother screams. “Do I look like I give a damn right now?”
This is followed by the sound of more glass breaking, and then by the sound of Mother stomping away once more. She must be going to her bedroom, and sure enough a moment later I hear a door slamming shut.
Then silence.
I sit with the straw still in my mouth, although I'm not sucking.
Finally I hear the sound of Mr. Randall starting to sweep up all the broken glass. I think it'll take him a long time, but I don't know what else to do so I simply sit and listen for several minutes until eventually I realize that I might get into trouble if I don't finish my snack. I start drinking the rest of my shake, and then when that's done I eat the sandwich, chewing carefully as I continue to listen to the sound of glass being swept into a pan.
I don't know how long it takes before Mr. Randall's done. Ten minutes, maybe, or even fifteen. Finally, however, I hear him coming back through.
“Your mother will not be joining you this evening,” he says as he takes my by-now empty plate and glass. “She has a headache and will be retiring to bed early. She asked me to tell you that you're to finish your session on the video game, and then you're to go over your assignments for Ms. Harper tomorrow. Is that clear?”
I nod.
“Oh, and have you had a chance to check the list of invitees for your tenth birthday party next week?”
I pause, trying to remember.
“Are there any friends you want to invite?” he asks.
“I don't have any friends,” I point out.
“But your mother has friends. And her friends have children of their own.”
I pause again, and then I nod.
“So have you thought about which of those children you'd like to invite?”
“I think so,” I say finally. “I saw a list that Mother showed me.”
“I'll check with her,” he replies. “Tomorrow.”
“Is Mother okay?”
“Of course. It's just a slight headache.”
“Did she throw stuff again?”
“Absolutely not. Now please, get back to your game.”
“Is she upset about something?”
“Remember your goal for the week,” he continues. “If you can attain a high score of three thousand for the first time, you'll be allowed an extra cookie on Saturday. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
I think about the suggestion for a moment, specifically about how hard it'll be to get three thousand points, but then I nod. I'm supposed to say that I can rise up to these challenges, because then people will think that I'm determined. Mother wants me to be a go-getter.
“Your mother will be very pleased if you can hit your target,” he adds, before hesitating. He seems a little concerned, as if he doesn't quite know what to do next, but then finally he reaches out and pats the top of my head. “Good girl, Sylvia. I'll be through to check on you a little later, and to help you with your ointment.”
I wait until he's done, and then I watch him walking out of the room. I know he didn't tell me the truth about Mother, but that's okay. I'm used to him pretending she'd not mad when she is. I'm used to him telling me she's calm or tired when I can hear her screaming in one of the other rooms. That's just part of his job.
Realizing that I should get on with the game, I pick up the controller and un-pause the level I'm on. I'm nowhere near three thousand points, and it's going to take a whole lot of practice to get there by the end of the week. Then again, Mother says the game is good for me and that it helps me get better at learning, so I suppose I must keep trying. I'll get better eventually. After all, I'm only nine years old, and as Mother always says:
Growing up means getting better at things.
Chapter Three
“I think it's starting to heal nicely,” Mr. Randall says as he runs more ointment down my right arm. “How's the pain?”
“It's okay,” I reply, standing still and not mentioning how cold the ointment feels against my sore skin. I'm only wearing my underwear, and I really wish Mother would give me my treatment instead of Mr. Randall, but I'm not allowed to complain. Anyway, Mr. Randall does so much for me, it'd be wrong of me to complain. I've had a particularly bad outbreak over the past few days, stretching all the way across my shoulder, and the ointment will make that go away.
“Does it hurt?” Mr. Randall asks.
I hesitate, before nodding.
“If it hurts,” he continues, “then why do you say it's okay?”
“It just is.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It's hurt since it happened,” I reply, glancing down at my bare right arm and seeing the scarred, twisted skin that runs all the way to my wrist. “I know it's supposed to hurt, so it's okay.”
“I can speak to the doctor,” he explains. “I can see about getting you some better pain-killers.”
“Mother spoke to him last week.”
“She did?”
“She said she was going to get someone to speak to him.”
“That would usually be me,” he replies, sounding a little cautious. “Maybe she ju
st forgot. I'll call him first thing in the morning, just in case he -”
Suddenly he stops speaking as we both hear Mother screaming in the distance. She sounds furious, and I can immediately tell that she's downstairs, which means she's probably screaming at one of the workers. I've heard her getting angry before, but this time she sounds like she actually wants to hurt someone. I wait, hoping that Mr. Randall will finish giving me my ointment, although right now his hand is simply resting on my bare shoulder. I don't like it very much when people touch me. Only Mother.
“Mother's angry at someone,” I say finally.
“She's fine,” he replies, immediately starting to rub the ointment into my skin again. “Don't pay any attention.”
“Who's she angry at?”
“Do you remember what we said about asking too many questions, Sylvia?”
I nod.
“What did we say?” he continues.
“We said that it's rude to be nosy,” I reply, “and that if I need to know something, someone will tell it to me.”
“That's right. And can you think how that might apply to this situation?”
I pause, before nodding. Mother's still yelling, and I can only imagine that someone down there must have done something very wrong. Mother gets angry at a lot of things, but she usually reserves her real fury for when people make mistakes or don't do what they say they'll do. I suppose someone down there must have done a screw-up. Mother will probably fire him, or her. I sure wouldn't like to be that person right now.
“There,” Mr. Randall says, suddenly pulling away, and a moment later I hear the reassuring sound of the cap being put back on the bottle. “All done for another night.”
I immediately grab my dressing gown and slip into it, so that I'm warmer and more covered.
“You're not still having nightmares, are you?” he asks.
I turn to him.
“No,” I lie.
Lying's bad, but sometimes telling the truth gets you into more trouble faster.
