Secret of the Sirens

by Julia Golding

  He thrust into her hand the present she had seen on the kitchen table. She ripped off the wrapping paper: it was an illustrated copy of The Odyssey; on the cover a picture of the Greek hero lashed to the mast surrounded by singing sirens.

  “What else?” Col said with a smile. “You’d better get reading if you’re going to see your friends again.”

  9

  Axoil

  Evelyn, in a new mood of protectiveness for Connie, surprised her by volunteering to drive Connie and her friends to Chartmouth for the interview with Mr. Quick that Wednesday. Connie knew what her aunt felt about the company and was touched by the offer. She didn’t realize that she was now under informal guard, thanks to a few hints to Evelyn from Dr. Brock.

  “I’ll set foot in that building on one condition only,” Evelyn said, looking in her mirror at her passengers. Somehow, they had all managed to squeeze into her tiny car, but the three girls in the back were feeling distinctly cramped. “And it’s that this doesn’t all turn out to be good PR for them. Make sure you get in there with your questions about environmental protection, won’t you? Then I won’t begrudge you the lift.”

  “Oh, we will, Miss Lionheart,” said Anneena, rather too eagerly.

  Col shot her a suspicious look over his shoulder. Connie shifted uneasily. She now understood why Col had been so keen not to draw attention to the missing men: he had been trying to protect the sirens. She just hoped Anneena would stick to their agreement and keep to questions on the environment.

  The Head Office of Axoil was a flashy building—all glass and glistening paintwork—on an industrial estate called “Harbor View Business Park,” a short ride from the terminal building and port. The newly laid lawns and emaciated trees leading up to the entrance announced that the building had only just been finished. Evelyn parked her car by the entrance in a slot with “Managing Director” written over it, next to a glossy black BMW.

  “Miss Lionheart, you’re not supposed to park there,” Anneena said, pointing to the sign.

  “And why not?” Evelyn replied sharply. “I’m sure I’m a director of something if I think long enough about it.”

  Anneena turned to appeal to Connie, but she just shrugged, knowing her aunt well enough by now to be aware when it was useless to argue.

  Evelyn ushered them through the revolving doors into an echoing atrium draped with plastic plants to where a pretty young woman was sitting, minding the phones.

  “Take a seat. Someone will be down to see you shortly,” the receptionist chirped, regarding them with a wide but impersonal smile.

  The leather sofas squeaked embarrassingly as the girls sat down next to Rupa and the photographer, who had arrived before them. Connie gave a nervous giggle, attracting a frown from Anneena, who was trying to look as if sitting in white marble foyers on designer furniture was something she did every day of her life.

  Col remained standing to look at the photographs that adorned the walls, showing the company’s tankers decked out in their livery of blue and yellow. Hardly believing his eyes, he saw that the ships were named after mythical monsters: Cyclops, Leviathan, Minotaur. He nudged Connie and nodded toward the pictures. At first she did not get it, then her eyes widened with astonishment.

  “That’s ironic, isn’t it?” he muttered.

  After a few minutes, a sandy-haired young man, wearing a badge with “Mike Shore—Customer Care Manager” written on it, came to fetch them. He led them through several passages smelling of new carpets and lemon air-freshener to a door marked “Managing Director.” The four friends glanced at one another apprehensively; Col gave Connie a quick grin.

  “Into the lion’s den?” he whispered behind their guide’s back.

  The children filed into a darkened room, oppressively full of black leather chairs and mahogany furniture. The managing director was a powerfully built man with a suit so crisp that it looked as if you could cut yourself on the lapels. He dominated the room without even rising from his seat. His face bore vestiges of great good looks, high cheekbones and piercing gray eyes, but time had hollowed his cheeks and lined his forehead. Mr. Quick greeted them coldly, his mouth pursed in a sour smile. Connie recognized him as the gaunt man from the photo she had seen in the newspaper and shivered. His bald head gleamed in the dull light from a skylight above his desk; the rest of the room was plunged into shadows, as the blinds were down on the windows. In this single pool of light, he sat enthroned in a huge black chair behind a desk, trailing papers like a spider in a white paper web.

  Mr. Quick did not offer his hand. He merely said: “Welcome to Axoil. It is gratifying to find there are young people who take the trouble to find out the truth about us, rather than swallow the lies some have been industriously propagating in the local press.” He shot a poisonous look at Rupa and her photographer, who had followed the children in. “I have quarter of an hour now for your questions, then Mr. Shore will show you the refinery.” He looked down at his notes. “Which one of you has a parent who works for Axoil?” Jane shyly raised her hand.

  Col noted that Mr. Quick had done his homework on them, which was a little alarming.

  “I have asked him to accompany the tour. And Miss Lionheart?” Mr. Quick looked over to Evelyn, who was standing quietly by the water cooler. “I understand you’re part of the local campaign against my refinery? I’m glad to have this chance to show you around as part of our dialogue on corporate responsibility.” He gave Rupa a sharp look to see she was getting all this down. Evelyn tensed but nodded her head courteously. “Now, I believe you have some questions for me.”

  As agreed, Anneena acted as spokesperson. Connie watched her closely, relieved to see she was sticking to their list.

  “We’ve been told, Mr. Quick, that you grew up in Hescombe,” said Anneena sweetly. “As a local person yourself, what do you think the refinery will do for us?”

  Mr. Quick fixed each of them in turn with his gray eyes. Connie found his expression strangely blank. “It will drag this place into the modern age, that is what it will do. Hescombe has always been too set in its ways. Superstition and old wives’ tales put people off exploiting the natural advantages of the deep waters around the Stacks—the perfect highway for modern ships. An injection of the no-nonsense approach of big business was just what the region needed. It makes me very proud that I am the one coming back to introduce the change.”

  He continued to extol the merits of his refinery in his dry monotone voice, assuring them repeatedly that the environment was safe with him, for a full fifteen minutes. Even Anneena was struggling to appear interested.

  “Time is up,” he concluded as an alarm beeped on his expensive-looking wristwatch. “I hope you’ll find your visit educational.” He tapped his pen thoughtfully on his desk as they got up to leave, scrutinizing them carefully. Connie did not like his look: she felt he was dissecting them one by one, memorizing their faces.

  “Oh, I’m sure we will,” said Anneena. “Thank you.” Even her usual exuberance was quelled in this room.

  “Good. Enjoy the tour.”

  “No go with him,” Anneena whispered to Connie as they left.

  “No go? What do you mean? Anneena? Anneena?”

  But Anneena didn’t answer. She had rushed after Mike and now struck up a conversation, first disarming him with an innocent smile, nodding and gasping with wonder as Mike continued Mr. Quick’s theme of the benefits of the refinery for the local economy, and humankind in general. Connie watched powerlessly as Anneena fed him dumb question after dumb question. She had him eating out of her hand. Col and Connie exchanged worried looks. What was she up to? This wasn’t part of the script.

  On arriving back in the foyer, Anneena beckoned her sister forward with a nod. Rupa casually sidled up to their escort. “May I ask a question...er...Mike?”

  Feeling very pleased with himself, Mike turned his attention from Anneena and smiled at Rupa. He was like an over-enthusiastic game show host but he had evidently not realized what
game the Nuruddins were playing.

  “Sure, if the children don’t object. This was supposed to be their tour, you know.”

  “We don’t object,” said Anneena quickly.

  “But—” began Col.

  “Thanks,” said Rupa. “I just wanted to ask you about the death of Mr. O’Neill. Do you know what caused Mr. O’Neill to fall into the sea two weeks ago while he was working in the terminal?”

  “Of course not,” Mike said, his eyes darting to the door as if he was contemplating making a dash for it.

  “Then you admit that he was at work when he fell?”

  “Yes—no,” Mike said in confusion. “I mean I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if one of Axoil’s employees was at work at the time he fell to his death?” asked Rupa, her black eyebrows arched in disbelief.

  “Look, it’s nothing to do with me. I’m public relations not personnel,” blustered Mike. “But I do know this: Axoil maintains the highest safety standards at all times. Of course, if one of our employees is depressed, wants to take his own life when at work, it’s impossible to stop...” His voice trailed off. He realized he’d said too much. His eyes flicked back to the children. “Now, if the young people have any more questions?” The wattage of his smile had considerably dimmed.

  Col scowled at Anneena. Connie clutched his arm, afraid that he might start an argument in front of the Axoil man. “No, I don’t think we have,” she said rapidly.

  “In that case—let’s go and see the refinery.”

  Trying to repair his mistake, Mike kept close by at all times while he ferried them by minibus to the new refinery. Jane’s father, every inch the scientist Connie had imagined with his lab coat, pebble glasses, and flyaway hair, greeted them at the door and led them into the vast hall that housed the refinery machinery. Connie was astonished by the scale of the enterprise. Amidst the gleaming pipes and vats, the white-coated technicians on distant gantries looked like worker bees in a hive, their scurrying lives serving a single purpose: the production of black honey.

  “We opened the initial phase on Monday—you probably saw it on the news,” gushed Mike. With a slightly desperate enthusiasm, he directed his comments to Rupa while her photographer took pictures, trying to get her back “on message” after his earlier indiscretion. “But it will not go into effect properly until the winter. We are training staff and testing the equipment at the moment. Axoil has worldwide experience of this process and we know we can’t afford to make any mistakes when the tankers start coming, now can we?”

  Rupa smiled politely, moving to the other side of a computer bank to where Mr. Benedict was showing his daughter some technical drawings.

  “So tankers will start to arrive in winter, will they?” asked Connie, making a quick calculation of her own.

  “Around then, yes,” Mike answered.

  “About the same time as the worst weather?” Col added, realizing where Connie was going with her inquiry.

  “Yes,” Mike replied, a little put out by the implication of their questions. “But don’t you worry about that,” he said patronizingly, “these tanker captains are experienced people. I am sure the worst that Hescombe can throw at them will seem like a fine day in the Atlantic.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Connie muttered to Col.

  “Anneena, how could you!” Connie and Col were surprised to hear Jane was the first to speak. They were waiting in the car for Evelyn as she argued with the security guard who had clamped her front wheel. “You promised.”

  “That Mike’s a real chump, isn’t he?” said Anneena delightedly. “Walked right into it!”

  “So are you going to apologize to Col?” Jane asked.

  “Apologize?” said Anneena innocently.

  “Oh, come off it, Anneena, you can’t pretend you and Rupa hadn’t planned that,” said Col.

  “So what if we did? I knew as soon as we walked into Mr. Quick’s office that we wouldn’t get anywhere with him. I had to soften Mike up for Rupa instead. The answer was worth it, don’t you think? It’s opened the scandal right out.”

  “You’re impossible,” said Jane in exasperation.

  “I know.” Anneena grinned. “But Rupa’s got her story. People have got to know what’s really going on.”

  “That’s what I was worried about,” said Col, speaking quietly to Connie. Anneena and Jane were now cheering as Evelyn approached the car in triumph, having won her argument. “You’ll have to warn your friends. Tell them they’ll be found out if they attack anyone else.”

  Connie nodded. The only problem was that she wasn’t sure if the sirens cared if they were exposed. They were on a collision course with humanity, and she doubted she’d be able to deter them from the path they had chosen.

  10

  The Trustees

  The lead story in the Saturday edition of the Hescombe Herald was spread out on the breakfast table when Connie went down. “Death at Axoil!” the headline declared above a picture of Mr. Quick behind his desk. “Oil company confesses to school children that latest casualty may have died at work,” it continued. Turning to an inside page, Connie found a longer piece about their visit, complete with a picture of the four of them on a gantry in front of one of the refinery vats.

  After months of refusing to come clean to the media, Axoil employee Mike Shore admitted to children from Hescombe Primary School that William O’Neill may have fallen to his death while at work. The exact circumstances remain shrouded in mystery, raising fears of a cover-up at Axoil. The local community, led by Mr. O’Neill’s widow, is now calling for an immediate inquiry.

  Evelyn entered the kitchen carrying Madame Cresson.

  “What do you think of that, Connie?” she said, stroking the cat as she leaned over her niece’s shoulder to read the headline. “When I asked you not to let the visit turn into good PR for them, I didn’t quite have this in mind. That poor fool’s bound to get the sack from Mr. Quick for talking to a reporter without clearing it with him first.”

  Connie grimaced. “But you saw them—Anneena and Rupa were unstoppable. Col’s not speaking to Anneena now.”

  Evelyn gave a wan smile. “Don’t be too angry with the Nuruddins. They’re right. The families are owed the truth,” she said, stroking the cat with firm, even strokes just as Madame Cresson liked it. “They just wouldn’t believe the truth—nor can we afford to tell it to them. It would be the end of the siren colony if we did.”

  “We must stop the sirens from doing anything else. I don’t know how long their promise will last—they’re really mad at the invasion of their territory. Can I take this?” Connie asked her aunt, pointing to the paper.

  “Of course, I expect your mom and dad would like to see it.”

  “No...I mean, yes, of course they will, but I meant to send it to the sirens. I’ve got to warn them.”

  Evelyn shrugged. “Do as you wish. But I doubt this will change their minds. They won’t understand what it means.”

  “I know. But I’ve got to try something. And we should warn the company, too—tell them not to let workers out on their own—put them in groups or something.”

  “But, Connie,” said Evelyn gently, seizing her niece’s trembling hands in her own as she folded up the paper. “What’s to stop the sirens taking whole gangs of men? They could, you know. And just how would you get Axoil to listen to you?”

  Connie realized her feverish thoughts of warning the company were pointless. No one would take the Society seriously: they’d be laughed at, mocked for suggesting that the company take steps to defend their workers against a dangerous “song.” It was up to her to persuade the sirens. No one else could.

  Connie went down to the quayside, hoping to find Scark. Clutched in her hand was a tightly wrapped bundle with a string loop. Scark was there before her, wading on the strand just outside the harbor wall where the high-tide mark was usually littered with interesting flotsam and jetsam, much of which was edible—for a seagull. Connie jump
ed down onto the terracotta sand and crunched her way over to him, splashing through the rivulets of fresh water that made the pebbles shine like jewels. He was pecking at a dead crab with only half its claws still intact.

  “Scark!” she called. He flapped over to stand at her feet.

  “Good morning!” she greeted him. He bowed in response, his eyes shining with pleasure to see her. “Were you saving that for your daughter?” She pointed to the crab. Scark tapped his foot.

  “I’m really sorry to be a pain, but would you mind taking this to our friends on the Stacks instead?” she asked, showing him the little bundle. He dropped the crab but stood with his head to one side. “Are they angry with me?” she asked, noting his hesitant stance. Scark shook his beak, ruffled his wings, and hopped from one foot to another. “No? But they’re excited about something?”

  That was it, according to the seagull.

  Perhaps the sirens were agitated after meeting a companion, or maybe they were anticipating the arrival of that creature Kullervo? Connie could not be sure and wondered if she could go to see them again to find out? Perhaps she had better wait to see what effect her message had? In her note she had both written and drawn pictures, trying to explain what was at stake if they were discovered. She had begged them not to attack any more men at the refinery. But she should definitely go out to them soon before any more lives were lost.

  “Will you explain to them that I’m trying to help them?” she asked Scark.

  He tapped his foot.

  Connie held out the parcel. Scark took the loop in his beak and bid her farewell with a rapid volley of “ach, ach, ach.” She watched him fly as long as he was visible against the cloudy sky, the parcel swinging to and fro like a pendulum suspended beneath him.