The Mermaid's Revenge

by Amy Cross

  Instinctively, I reach out and place a hand against the window.

  The glass is cool to the touch.

  A moment later, hearing voices in the distance, I turn and look along the corridor. Two men are talking, and I think I recognize one of them as Mr. Randall. They seem to be having a good time, even laughing, although I immediately flinch and take a step back. The thought of ever seeing Mr. Randall again makes my skin crawl, although at the same time when I look around I realize that there's nowhere else I can go. There are no other doors leading off the corridor, and my only option is to walk straight ahead and see what I find.

  My first thought is to go back into the room and hide, but I know that wouldn't work. I'd have to come out eventually, so it might as well be now.

  Even though I'm scared, I start walking along the corridor, although I'm poised to turn and run back at any moment. By the time I reach the end and peer through an open doorway, I can just about make out what Mr. Randall and the man are saying, but I'm surprised when I look into a large, sunlit room and see Mr. Randall sitting at a table opposite an old man. Almost immediately, before I have a chance to pull back, the old man turns and looks straight at me, and he smiles as I step out of view.

  “I believe that's her now,” he says, his voice sounding rich and full and very English. “Ms. Sykes, I was wondering when you'd make an appearance. Would you perhaps like to come and join us?”

  I wait, fully aware that there's no point running.

  At the same time, I don't think I'm brave enough to go through.

  “There's nothing to be scared of,” the old man continues. “You're among friends here. Well, as far as I'm concerned, at least. I can't speak for Mr. Randall.”

  “Come out, Sylvia,” Mr. Randall says calmly. “You don't want Mr. Flemyng to think that you're rude, do you? He's gone to great lengths to make us both very welcome at his home. He doesn't often receive visitors.”

  I hesitate, still trying to come up with a plan. Finally, however, I force myself to peer around the corner, and I see that the old man is still smiling at me. He has a broad, friendly face, with white hair and an even whiter beard. There's nothing immediately or obviously wrong with him, but I still feel nervous so I watch him for a moment longer and then I pull back out of sight again.

  There has to be a way out of here.

  I have to find a way home.

  A moment later I hear a faint squeaking sound, and then I spot a shadow on the floor. Sure enough, a moment later the old man comes into view through the doorway, although I'm surprised to see that he's in a wheelchair. He doesn't have one of those fancy electric wheelchairs, either. Instead, he's turning the wheels with his hands.

  “Exercise,” he says, sounding a little breathless as he stops in front of me. “Everything else in this place is automated, but I don't want to sit and get out of shape. There are some things that I still like to do for myself.” He gestures toward the table. “Please, won't you come and sit down? I'm sure you have a lot of questions, and it's my understanding that you've been through a great deal during the past week. First, let me assure you that I'm so very sorry for your loss. Your mother was an impeccable woman.”

  I pause for a moment.

  “You knew her?” I ask finally.

  “Not very well. Mostly by reputation, although I bumped into her once or twice in the old days, at charity galas and launch events. She and I were interested in the same industries. We saw the world in the same way. In some regards, we developed our businesses simultaneously, aiming at the same things but always in a friendly manner. We were never trying to tear one another down. Her passing is a great loss to the world.” He pauses, as if he expects me to say something. “If I might add,” he continues after a few seconds, “you look quite a lot like her.”

  I take a step back.

  “It's the eyes, I think,” he continues, tilting his head slightly. “Yes, you have her eyes. And her gait.”

  I don't even know what that means.

  “And her apprehension,” he adds. “When you're scared, you look the way your mother looked when she was scared.”

  Peering a little further around the side of the doorway, I see Mr. Randall still sitting at the table. This time, I notice that there's a black briefcase on the floor next to him.

  “You're an orphan now, Sylvia,” the old man continues. I turn to him. “I'm so sorry, young lady. You're only ten years old, and that seems to be the worst age at which one can lose one's final parent. One is old enough to understand what is occurring, but not old enough to process the matter. You're all alone in the world, but that need not be the case for much longer. I'll admit, I was surprised when Mr. Randall brought you along, but we've been having a nice chat and he's helped me understand the serendipitous nature of this arrangement.”

  I don't know what that means. Taking a step back, I can't shake the feeling that something's very wrong.

  “You're terrified,” the old man says. “That's no shock. Allow me to explain. My name is Jason Flemyng. When you see what I have here at my home, well... to borrow a rather appropriate phrase, I think the scales will very quickly fall from your eyes.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “I long ago gave up the need to have human co-habitants,” Mr. Flemyng explains as he wheels himself along another corridor, past a window that offers yet another view of the ocean. “Almost everything here is automated, although I'm not a complete recluse. I welcome visitors from time to time.”

  “Is there any news about the helicopter?” Mr. Randall asks, walking next to me. He's carrying the briefcase, and after a moment he checks his watch. “I'd like to be out of here by nightfall.”

  “Are we on an island?” I whisper, staring out at the sea. “Is this really an island?”

  “Money doesn't mean anything beyond a certain point,” Mr. Flemyng continues, apparently ignoring the question about the helicopter. “When one has ten billion in the bank, one doesn't especially notice when the eleventh billion arrives. Well, at least that is my experience. I made my fortune in the weather industry, working on advanced cloud-seeding techniques and the like. I literally helped men create technology that allows them to conjure whatever weather they desire. But money can on occasion be used to gain possession of certain items that put one beyond the knowledge and understanding of common men.”

  Before I can ask what he means, I see several stuffed animals up ahead. There are camels and zebras and ostriches, and then a little further there are several lions, all lining one section of the corridor.

  “In my former life I hunted game,” Mr. Flemyng explains, sounding a little breathless as he continues to wheel himself ahead of us. “Until the thrill wore off. The thrills always wear off, don't they? Or are you too young to have experienced that yet?”

  “I want to go home,” I whisper, but I don't think anyone can hear me.

  It's true, though. I just want to go back to the apartment and climb into my bed and pull the covers over my head and never come out again. At least I was safe when I was at home, and I didn't have to deal with mean people who did bad things. Until last week, I'd never even seen anyone in pain, I'd never heard a scream, I'd never even witnessed blood being spilled. Maybe I began to wonder what the rest of the world might be like, but now all my curiosity has drained away. I just want to go home.

  “The helicopter's on its way, isn't it?” Mr. Randall asks, checking his watch again. “I don't want to wait too much longer.”

  “What time can we leave?” I ask, looking up at him. “Why did we even come here?”

  “Haven't you worked it out yet?” Mr. Flemyng asks.

  I turn to him and find that as he continues to wheel himself along the corridor, he's also looking over his shoulder at me. There's a smile on his face.

  “I am the only person in the world,” he continues, “who can offer you what you need.”

  I wait for him to explain, but it's almost as if he expects me to know already.

 
“What do I need?” I ask finally. “I... I don't know.”

  “A cure, of course,” he replies. “Don't you want to be cured?”

  “Sylvia's mother didn't want her to know about her condition,” Mr. Randall says. “She was always told that the patch on her shoulder was simply dry skin. She was told that the ointment was to keep it from cracking.”

  “I do have dry skin!” I say firmly, looking up at him. “Mother told me every single day!”

  “You have a type of carcinoma that is extremely slow-acting,” he replies, stopping ahead of us next to a large double door, “but which will one day undoubtedly spread to your organs. It's precisely the same type of cancer that killed your mother, except that in her case it first appeared when she was in her late twenties. I'm afraid, Sylvia, that you're showing signs much earlier.”

  “There was a fire,” I reply, “and -”

  “There was no fire.”

  “Mother said -”

  “Your mother lied to you,” he continues. “We all did. What was the alternative? To tell a little girl that she's dying?”

  I shake my head, but he's staring at me with a completely blank expression.

  “That's not true,” I tell him. “I've got dry skin!”

  “Your mother searched desperately for a cure,” he replies, “but it wasn't until your symptoms showed that she went into overdrive. There was nothing she wasn't willing to do, in order to save your life. That even included diverting all her resources to an ambitious project designed to breach international embargoes and acquire one of the last examples of the mermaid species. As it happens, she seems to have acquired the final two specimens in the world, only one of which actually survived to reach the tank in the laboratory.”

  “No,” I stammer, “that doesn't make any sense!”

  “I can help you,” Mr. Flemyng says, touching my arm.

  I pull away from him.

  “I'm an old man,” he continues, “and I want to do something good for the world, something that will persist after I'm gone. While I am alive, I wish to know the joy of owning something that is secret. I admit, I am selfish and greedy, but that is what I desire. After I am gone, however, I shall turn this miracle over to the world, and all her secrets will be discovered. You just have to wait a -”

  Suddenly he starts coughing. I take a step back, disgusted by the sound of something nasty coming from his throat. After a moment he takes a piece of tissue paper and spits something out, and then he turns to me again.

  “You just have to wait a short while now. Weeks. Months, maybe. Not much longer.”

  Shaking my head, I can't help thinking that none of this makes any sense. He keeps contradicting himself, and I don't think the problem is just that I'm too young to understand. Something about this Mr. Flemyng guy is a lie.

  “And now you must want to see her,” he continues, still sounding a little short of breath as he wheels himself over to the set of double doors. “I saw photographs and videos of the set-up in your mother's building, Sylvia. I'm sure she did her best, but perhaps desperation drove her to acquire the mermaid before she was completely ready. Fortunately, having craved just such a specimen myself for many years, I long ago had adequate provisions made.”

  Reaching up, he taps a sensor and the doors slide open.

  I open my mouth to say that I want to go home.

  And then I see her.

  Stepping past Mr. Flemyng, I'm stunned to see that we're in a truly vast room, bigger even than an aircraft hangar. At the center of the room, a massive water tank has been set up, and a moment later I spot the mermaid swimming around the edge as she checks the area where the curved glass meets the polished floor. I can immediately tell from the way she swims that she seems more frantic, as if she's desperate to get out.

  “She's alive!” I shout, rushing forward and hurrying all the way to the tank, stopping right in front of where the mermaid is examining another of the joins. “You're alive!” I continue, reaching out and touching the glass, and for a moment I feel genuinely overjoyed to see her again. “I thought you... I mean, I was worried...”

  I fall silent for a moment. And then, suddenly, the mermaid turns and looks straight at me.

  She looks angry.

  “I'm sorry,” I stammer. “If my mother hadn't stolen you, you'd never be in this position. You'd still be out there in the sea, swimming about and going wherever you wanted. You'd have a perfect life and nobody would be able to hide you away like this. She didn't mean to do all these bad things, she would have let you go eventually.” A tear runs down my face as I see the sadness in the mermaid's expression. In this moment, I finally know without doubt that she hates being held in captivity. “You'll get out of here,” I tell her. “I don't know how or when, but you will. Soon! When the world finds out about you, people won't let you stay here like this, they'll -”

  Before I can finish, I spot a bloodied wound on her waist, just below the area where her scales start. I immediately realize that it's the place where she was keeping her eggs.

  “Mother would never have done that to you,” I explain, trying not to panic. “She was a good person! She -”

  “You told them,” the voice says suddenly.

  Startled, I take a step back from the tank.

  “I thought you were going to help me,” the voice continues. “Why did you betray me instead?”

  I shake my head.

  “I didn't mean to,” I tell her. “I... I...”

  The mermaid stares at me for a moment longer, until I hear the squeak of Mr. Flemyng's wheelchair coming closer. This noise caused the mermaid to immediately turn and swim away, and I watch as she disappears into the vast dark blue of the tank.

  “Isn't she magnificent?” Mr. Flemyng says. “Based on the blueprints I saw, the tank here on my private island is more than twenty times larger than the home your mother provided.”

  I watch the water, waiting for the mermaid to reappear.

  “She's perfectly safe,” Mr. Flemyng continues. “The temperature of the water is perfect, as is the filtration system. She'll want for nothing while she's here.”

  I turn to him and see that he's smiling.

  “That Doctor Collier fellow wrote up the most marvelous report about her,” he explains. “The conditions inside that tank are absolutely ideal in every possible way.”

  “And you reinforced the glass, I hope?” Mr. Randall says, watching from the doorway. “I trust you read about the dangers this creature poses. She might look okay, but she can kill.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” Mr. Flemyng replies, staring in wonder at the tank for a moment before turning to me again. “I've always been fascinated by the endless variations of the natural world, Sylvia, but that doesn't mean I'm blind to the dangers that one can face. I know how infinitely clever these creatures can be, especially when they're protecting their young. This specimen, for example, will undoubtedly go to any lengths in order to save her eggs.”

  “Why did you take her eggs?” I ask, turning to Mr. Randall. “Why did you kill them?”

  “Nothing was killed,” he replies. “The eggs are perfectly viable, if they're reintroduced to suitable environment.” He checks his watch. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I -”

  “Listen!” Mr. Flemyng says suddenly, his voice filled with excitement as he puts a finger to his mouth. “Do you hear?”

  Before I can answer, I realize I can hear a very faint banging sound coming from somewhere around the other side of the tank.

  “She's trying to escape,” Mr. Flemyng continues, as a smile grows across his face. “Isn't that magnificent? She's been trying to open one of the filtration units ever since she arrived. She won't have any luck, of course, but it's fascinating to see her try.” He looks into the tank for a moment, as the banging sound persists. “I can't wait to see the full extent of her potential,” he adds. “That's when you see somebody's true nature. When they're forced to fight for their life. When they have to escape.”

 
Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Hello!” I yell, standing at the shore with my hands cupped around my mouth. “Somebody! Help me!”

  I wait, but all I see is the empty horizon, and all I hear is the sound of the sea lapping at the shore. A moment later I spot something in the sky, a tiny speck moving calmly from right to left, and I realize it must be a distant plane.

  “Hey!” I shout, waving my hands furiously. “I'm down here! Help me!”

  This is hopeless.

  The speck continues on its way, and I know there's no way anyone could possibly have seen me down here.

  It must be at least an hour since I ran out of Mr. Flemyng's house. He made no attempt to stop me. In fact, I think I heard him calling after me, telling me to enjoy exploring his private island. As soon as I was outside, I began to look for someone who can help, but I've now run all the way around the shore and I'm back where I started, and it's clear that there's no-one else here.

  Turning, I look up toward the top of the cliff, and I can just about see the edge of Mr. Flemyng's house. He really lives here all alone, on his own private island. I can see to the horizon in every direction, I can run along the shore all day and all night, but I won't find a way off.

  I'm trapped.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “But the helicopter will be along soon, won't it?” Mr. Randall asks as we sit at the dinner table. “I want to be back on the mainland by midnight.”

  Outside, thunder rumbles in the darkening sky. I turn and look out the window, and I see a faint hint of light on the horizon. The sun has almost set, and soon it'll be night. I know it's dumb of me, but I always miss Mother the most at night.

  I'm about to look back at my plate of food, when I notice another stuffed lion over by the door. This one is much larger than all the others, with a more fearsome face. I don't know why anyone would want such horrible things in their house.

  “South Africa, 1985,” Mr. Flemyng says.

  I turn to him.