In Her Wake

by Amanda Jennings

  Dawn tries to step between them and us. She ushers me and Mum behind her with protective arms. A flash of a camera goes off. Then another. There’s a man fiddling with equipment in the parked van. Another van with a different logo pulls up on the kerb.

  I snap my head round to look at Mum. Her eyes are wide. There’s a distance in them, a glaze. Or is that my imagination? Her cheeks have lost their rosy tinge. Perhaps that’s just the powder Dawn has put on her. Then she makes a quiet sound, a whimper, like a kicked puppy. Her head shakes back and forth as her hands clench and unclench repeatedly at her sides.

  ‘We don’t want to talk to you,’ Dawn says, trying to shut the door.

  One of the men with a camera puts his foot against the door to stop it closing.

  ‘We have a few questions for the girl that went missing,’ ivory-suit woman says, her voice lifting in its persistence. ‘Morveren, what do you feel about the Campbells? Do you feel in any way responsible for Dr Campbell’s suicide?’

  Dawn kicks the man’s foot away. ‘Go away.’

  She slams the door closed then falls back against it.

  Another soft moan comes from our mother.

  ‘Mum?’ Fear shoots through me. ‘Mum? Mum!’

  Dawn grasps her shoulders but she doesn’t respond.

  ‘I don’t understand. Only we knew,’ says Dawn. ‘You, me and Craig. Did you tell your husband anything? Could he have found out from that doctor’s will? Maybe there was another letter?’

  I turn away from them and pace a few steps down the hall.

  Everyone knows now. Bella and Tori have gone like a vanished mirage. There’s nothing I can do. I think about David. He’ll hear the news. He’ll see my picture. His students will post things on social media. I have nowhere to hide.

  Dawn shepherds Mum back into her room. I follow and stand in the corner and watch as she strokes Mum’s hand and sits her in her armchair. Alice is quivering, her lips move with silent, indecipherable words.

  I see Greg’s face, recall his understanding, and a wave of nausea rises up inside me.

  You bastard.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Morveren,’ Dawn says gently. ‘We couldn’t keep it quiet forever. It had to come out.’

  ‘But I wasn’t ready. I’m … not ready. And look … look at her … she’s terrified. She’s not with us. What if she doesn’t come back again?’

  Dawn turns to me and puts her arms around me. ‘It’s fine. She will come back. It’s a shock, that’s all. It’s a shock for all of us. You too. Oh dear, you’re white as a sheet.’ She strokes my cheek with the back of her hand, but I pull away.

  ‘I should never have come back.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  I look at my mother’s stricken face. Guilt sets like concrete in my stomach. All her worst memories exhumed as newsworthy gossip. My head aches. I’m not sure if I’m more worried about how I am going to deal with the fall-out, or how my poor mother will, being dragged from her grief-stricken silence only to be thrown back there. And all of it because of me.

  No. Because of Greg.

  How stupid you were. How stupid to trust a man like him.

  ‘I … trusted … why would he tell…? I’m … I’m not ready … for this. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you told someone. It doesn’t. It’s done. It’s out now. In a way it’s good because we couldn’t have hidden forever.’

  ‘But people…’

  ‘People will tire of it in no time at all.’

  Dawn’s voice is soft and coaxing, but I want her to scream at me again. I want her to tell me it’s all my fault. Tell me how spoilt I am. How selfish and disconnected from reality. I want her to shout at me for meddling. If she was angry it would give me something to rail against, something to fight, but her compassion leaves me feeling contemptible and hopeless.

  ‘Hey,’ she soothes. ‘Sweetheart, it’s not that bad.’

  She blurs as my eyes well.

  ‘People had to know. It couldn’t stay a secret,’ she reaches out and wipes away my tears, her damaged hand rasping my skin like sandpaper. But I turn my face from her. I don’t want her sympathy.

  You bastard.

  SIXTY-THREE

  I push through the braying journalists and tear down the hill. Dawn shouts after me, but I ignore her, ignore the air burning in my lungs, and I keep running.

  I am wracked by the shock waves of my worlds colliding. Bella’s heartbeat pulses in my chest, memories of her mother who died calling out her name, her father who slit his wrists, her husband waiting for her, waiting to make her decisions and cook her food and fetch her sweaters. Then this new person. Morveren. Who exists in a world of just three people and a terrible tragedy. A drowned girl who returned to the family left destroyed by her disappearance. And Tori. The imaginary friend who kept me company as a child, who held my hand and listened to me cry, who helped me find those moments of rebellion in an otherwise controlled existence. Tori, who provided me a mask when I needed one.

  How do I become one person?

  I am an amalgamation of us all. There’s no common ground. What am I expected to do? Erase Bella and become Morveren? Remove any last traces of Elaine and replace her with Alice? David with Dawn? Forget my reliance on Tori? I can’t do it. As I run, anger and fear battle inside me. Anger at life and fear of life.

  I turn towards Porthmeor beach, then pause briefly at the top of the concrete steps to scan the shoreline. There are a couple of children on body boards and a crowd of surfers making the most of the large waves that herald the approaching storm.

  I leap down the steps two at a time, then jump onto the soft sand. I weave in and out of stalwart holiday-makers, determined to enjoy their summer break, in warm clothes with thermos flasks and raincoats packed in their beach bags.

  I reach the beach hut and fling open the door.

  Greg is naked from the waist down. He stands between the legs of a girl. Her skirt is hitched up, her soft, brown thighs encircle his moon-white buttocks. His weathered, untrustworthy hands rest on the wall either side of her head. That cruel, inked tiger slinks across his back, snarling nastily at me, saliva dripping from his sharpened teeth.

  ‘You utter bastard.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He pulls back from the girl who flushes red as she desperately tries to pull down her skirt. Her long blonde hair partly covers her face, but not enough that I can’t see she is barely out of her teens.

  ‘How could you?’ I spit.

  ‘I never told you I wouldn’t see other girls, Tori. It’s part of the job—’

  ‘Fuck the job, you prick. I couldn’t give a stuff who you screw. And it’s not Tori. Remember? I told you something. In confidence. Something more serious than you could ever dream up in that vacuous head of yours. How could you tell the press? Why would you? Why the hell would you go to a newspaper when what I told you was private?’

  He pulls up his shorts and ties the drawstring. Runs a hand through his hair. The girl behind him starts snivelling. ‘It’s not that big a deal, is it?’ he says. ‘People would’ve found out sooner or later.’

  The contempt I feel for him burns my insides. ‘You have no idea of the harm you’ve done.’

  He steps closer to me, reaches a hand out. ‘Look, Tori, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘How much did you get?’ I slap his hand away. ‘How much did my story get you?’

  ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘Can’t have been much, not nowadays, not when stories get out for free. Maybe enough for a couple of drinks, yeah? A few shots of tequila with the next piece of London skirt stupid enough to fall for your bullshit? You’re nothing. Enjoy your pathetic life while you can, Greg, because one thing I’ve learnt is that tomorrow it might all be gone.’

  The man in the off-licence gives me a meaningful stare when I hand him my credit card. Concern for the woman with tear-swollen cheeks who stands shaking in front of him clutching a half-litre bottle of vodka is et
ched into his face. He opens his mouth to speak.

  ‘No need for a bag,’ I say, before he gets the chance.

  The wind has whipped the sea into cross tufts of white on charcoal. I walk with my back straight, as erect as I can. My hair knots around my face, the sea air encasing each strand in a stiff, salty wrapping as I place one foot in front of the other and count my steps.

  One, two three, four.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I pass walkers who hurry through the dark beauty of their surroundings, their hoods flapping, zips pulled up as far as they will go, people so desperate to get home before the storm that they hardly notice the green-eyed woman striding the cliffs in the opposite direction. There are no more tears. I’m past crying. I wish for the thousandth time I’d never found out. I wish Elaine had stayed alive to keep Henry strong, to stop him from revealing the truth to me. I walk and drink and mourn my life before his letter.

  It’s dusk when I reach the church in Zennor. The heavy clouds hang low and black. The wind lashes the trees so their branches dance a frenzied jig, reaching down as if to pull me in to join them. I heave the heavy door open and peer in. There’s nobody inside. I step in and close the door, which shuts the storm out and plunges me into still, dark quietness.

  I go straight to her side. Crouch down next to her. Graze the fingers of one hand against the polished smoothness of her rounded belly.

  Why did you abandon me?

  I see my mother’s shaking body, the fear in her eyes mirroring my own. I close my eyes tightly to shut it out, but all I get is a barrage of more. Dawn’s hurt face, her bitter words, the cat in her box with the writhing maggots, the journalists, Greg between the legs of that girl, Henry’s gaping wrists.

  I drink from the bottle and lean my forehead against the Merrymaid, pushing it hard against the wood so it begins to hurt. And then from the back of the church comes a noise.

  Someone is in the church.

  My heart misses a beat and I scuttle backwards into the shadows, clasp my folded legs tight to my chest and hold still. I try not to breathe. Every hair on my body stands proud. I don’t want them to find me. I don’t want sympathy or pity or questions.

  There are footsteps but they are light, barely perceptible, tiptoeing perhaps. I tuck more tightly into the shadows and bury my head in my arms. The person turns into the mermaid’s chapel and stops.

  I catch a scent. It’s a comforting fragrance that I’ve smelt before but can’t place.

  I tense every muscle, squeezing myself into the smallest space possible, hoping I can stay hidden, hoping whoever it is will take a look at the pew and then leave. But there is no sound of footsteps leaving and no surprised voice asking me what on earth I am doing huddled up in a dark corner of church. I lift my head a fraction and see a girl standing no more than three metres away. She stares down at me. Her face is placid, expressionless. She says nothing. She is thin, her skin yellowed, tinged purple in places. Her eyes are sunken and she wears a white nightdress.

  I know her.

  I place the bottle on the floor, lean forward onto my hands and knees, and crawl closer to her, then I sit back down and cross my legs, my movements hindered by the vodka I’ve drunk, the church tipping around me in loose loops. I squint in an effort to focus.

  ‘Tori?’

  There is a peel of gentle laughter. ‘No, I’m not Tori.’ Her voice is faint and thin. I recognise it. It’s not Tori’s voice, not the voice I hear in my thoughts, but I have heard this voice before. And this voice is real.

  But what is real?

  I push my hands into my eye-sockets. When I take them away I expect to see her gone, but she’s still there, not moving, contemplating me, her demeanour restful and knowing.

  ‘Are you here to see the mermaid?’ I ask. I gesture behind me in the direction of the pew so she knows what I mean.

  The little girl shakes her head.

  I look at the carving then back at her. ‘She’s lovely.’ I pause, waiting for her to say something, but she stays quiet. ‘Where’s your mummy?’

  Still she doesn’t move. Her silence is beginning to unsettle me and my anxiety heightens. With my weight on one hand, I reach back for the bottle of vodka. There’s a little over a third of the bottle left. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s bad to drink neat spirits in front of a young child. I tip the bottle to my lips, keeping my eyes on her. The little girl stares back at me and then slowly sits down. She crosses her legs and folds her hands neatly in her lap. I breathe in and catch her smell again.

  What is that smell?

  We sit on the cold floor and I drink as she watches.

  ‘I enjoyed our swim,’ she says.

  A chill shivers its way down my spine. ‘What swim?’

  She laughs, a soft giggle, as loud as organ music against the silence. ‘The swim where I saved you from that nasty black seaweed. You remember.’ She giggles again but the giggles are lost beneath the noise of my hammering heart.

  I tip the bottle to my lips. It’s the vodka. She is an alcoholic hallucination. Perhaps I am asleep beneath a tree by the river and she is my white rabbit.

  ‘I’m properly here, you know. I’m not made up or anything. You kind of call me.’

  ‘Call you?’

  ‘I can hear your voice calling me. You sounded very sad today.’

  ‘I haven’t called you.’ I am beginning to feel scared, the unease that’s building inside me tumbles around like a burgeoning snowball. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘You do.’

  I want her to leave. I had come to the mermaid for peace and reassurance, not to be freaked out by some peculiar child, real or otherwise. ‘Can you go back to wherever you came from now?’

  ‘But I want to talk to you.’ She scratches one arm and I notice there is a white plaster in the crook of her arm, with a tiny dot of brown blood at its centre.

  ‘Do you have a mother?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone has a mother!’

  ‘Won’t she be wondering where you are?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘Oh, that’s awful. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And my dad,’ she says. ‘He died too. Everyone’s dead. Will you swim with me again?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘We could pretend to be mermaids?’

  I tip the bottle to my lips. My head swims drunkenly. She smiles at me and, as she does, my trembling unease begins to fade.

  I look at her and then at the carving. I beckon her nearer and lean in close. She does the same. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’ I whisper.

  Her eyes light up and she claps her hands together three times in quick succession.

  I put my finger to my lips and raise my eyebrows, and she nods again, this time with more solemnity. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone, but I am a mermaid.’

  She sits back, a disappointed look on her face. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is actually.’

  I tip the bottle to my lips. I can hardly taste the vodka now; it slips down my throat like silk over satin.

  The girl looks at my legs, her forehead wrinkles and her mouth curls in doubt. ‘You’ve got no tail.’

  ‘Don’t you know anything? Mermaids can change their tails into human legs if they want to come on dry land. It’s very painful to walk on their new feet though. Every step is like a thousand needles stabbing into our soles.’

  ‘If it hurts so much, why do you come on land?’

  ‘We all have our reasons.’ I gesture at the carved mermaid behind me. ‘She came to find her one true love. She heard him singing and knew she couldn’t live without him.’

  The little girl considers the carving with wonder and admiration. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’ I think for a bit. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you why I came here? Well—’ I pause, buying myself time to dream up a story for her. ‘I came looking for my mother. She’s a human, you see, but nobody told me she w
as. I was taken by mermaids when I was just a baby, and I always thought I was pure mermaid. All my life I lived in the sea in the most beautiful underwater palace that had golden walls and a seaweed garden in a rainbow of colours. I played with the fish and hunted for pearls in the oyster beds, but all that time my real mother was up on the land crying for me. She sung lullabies all the time but I couldn’t hear them.’

  ‘Poor her!’

  ‘Absolutely. Poor me too!’ I smile. ‘So when I found out I had a human mother—’

  ‘How did you find out?’ she interrupts.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, waving her question away.

  ‘I want to know.’

  I pause to think. ‘I started having dreams about humans, especially this one human. A beautiful lady with soft, clear skin who sat on the cliffs all day and all night and wept so many tears they made a stream down to the sea.’

  The girl inches closer to me.

  ‘So I went to my father, the king of the Mermaidland.’

  ‘Mermaidland?’ She frowns at me. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Fantasia Miracula, then.’

  She grins. ‘Yes, I knew it was something like that.’

  ‘I asked him if he knew who the lady in my dreams was. He didn’t want to tell me, but I begged and begged and begged. And then he told me how he’d fallen in love with a mortal—’

  ‘A mortal?’

  ‘That’s another word for a human being. Anyway, they had a daughter. And that was me. I’d been born with a tail, so my mother couldn’t keep me, and my father took me to live in the sea with him. If I’d been born with legs, I’d have stayed with her on dry land. My father told me how she cried every day for me and every day it broke his heart to listen to her sobbing.’

  ‘How could he hear her?’

  ‘Her crying came in on the wind.’

  ‘That’s sad.’