Page 151 of The Island of Lost Girls

64 | Mercedes

He takes so long to come, she begins to think he must have passed out. There’s been no sign of him in the bar for an hour, and the bottle is gone as well. It’s almost dawn. He must sleep soon.

Maybe he’s just passed out. Maybe he’s lying there, snoring, face up to the awning, throat exposed.

I could go to the galley and find a carving knife. Finish him off with a stab to the throat, plunge it into that great fatty heart. If he’s that drunk, he won’t fight back. If he’s that drunk, he’ll just bleed out over his white leather, gaping in astonishment like a landed fish.

She is so tense her muscles hurt. Yes, she thinks, I’ll do it. And after, I’ll …

A cough. A loud, phlegmy cough only a few metres away. He’s bumbling down the gangway to bed.

Mercedes tenses. Edges into the doorway. Waits, hidden by deep shadow, and musters her might. One chance. You have just one chance at this.

His shadow falls across the doorway. She waits.

A foot.

One more pace.

The great bulk of him waddles into the doorway, glass in hand.

Mercedes charges.

It’s like running into a brick wall. The impact is so violent she thinks for a moment that she’s snapped her collarbone. But she keeps pushing forward, like a bull at full charge. And Matthew Meade, taken by surprise, falls back against the gate, and the gate gives way and carries him over the edge.

He makes a good effort to save himself. Manages to hook one arm over the swinging barrier, feet paddling the empty air beneath, mouthing bleary shock as he stares up at her. She stands over him, slips her arm through the loop at the end of the rope, and watches. Enjoys the watching. The pleasure of his fear is intense.

And then his weight is too much for his ham-hock arms, and he starts to slide. Slowly. Then faster. And with the splash of a whale breaking surface, he is gone.

Mercedes opens the slip knot and dives. Dives out like a swooping gull and swims for her life, for when the rope reaches its limit it will drag her beneath, and the boat is carrying him into their wake.

She sees his white face momentarily illuminated by the deck lights, and then she plunges her face into the water and swims like an Olympian.

Suddenly sober, Matthew is raging.

‘What the fuck?’ he yells. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Mercedes doesn’t respond. No time. No need. She throws her arms around his thick bull neck. Lifts her legs and wraps them round his torso, and his torso is so huge her heels barely reach his back. Her skin crawls as she touches him. But still she clings on.

‘What the fuck are you—’ he begins. And then the weight of the anchor catches the end of the rope. Mercedes sucks in one gigantic breath, and they are dragged beneath the surface.

Face to face in the dark. Matthew Meade struggles as they drop, and Mercedes grips him with every strand of her rage. She feels his fear pulse through her and feels wonderfully, blissfully calm. Gazes into his eyes lovingly, wrapped around him like a netsuke geisha. I am a mermaid. I’ve been a mermaid since I was a child. This is my habitat, Matthew Meade.

She looks up at the receding moon, at the bubbles that rise above their heads, and looks back into his face.

Smiles.

You’re in my world now, Matthew Meade. And you will never leave.

Nine minutes. Nine minutes, I can hold my breath. How long can you?

He starts trying to swim upwards, carrying her with him, fighting against the dead weight below. His huge hands clutch at the moon. Claw to reach the air. And Mercedes rides him like a bronco, and waits as they fall towards the deep.

I can wait as long as I need, Matthew Meade. You don’t know what you can do till you don’t care any more. I’ve waited thirty years already. What’s a few more minutes, between friends?

His attention turns back to her. Confusion. Fear. Death coming at him from a cloudless sky. He looks her in the eyes. For the first time since she met him.

She smiles and nods.