When The Mermaids Came by Holly Barratt

It was early Valentine’s Day morning when the first one washed up dead near Bridgend. By 10am there was a crowd around the rotting carcass. Eventually three officers broke through, dragged it up the beach, quietly loaded it into a van and drove away. 

 Cassie sent me a blurry WhatsApp of something that looked a bit like a seal with bad hair captioned “WTF???”

The live ones arrived a few weeks later. There were sightings on beaches and peninsulas all down the west coast. Most were reported by amateur fishermen who later became mysteriously obsessive about their hobby, calling in sick to work only to be found soaking wet on the rocks with an empty line and a distracted look.

“Jordan was just looking at fishing rods on line should I be worried?!”

I responded with a laughing face emoji. 

It took some time for the increase in disappearances to be linked definitively to the arrival of the new species, and for the term “mermaid” to be coined. Research was slow: many of the marine biologists collecting specimens were male, and consequently, the specimens often ended up collecting them.

“And this is why we need more women in STEM!” 

Cassie wasn’t a marine biologist, she was an engineer, but any chance to ride that particular hobby horse was welcome. 

Eventually details did emerge, and were disseminated to the general public through a series of pamphlets, TV news bulletins and public information broadcasts interrupting my free Spotify playlist. As a single woman with no interest in water sports, the developments sat in my peripheral vision without bothering me too much. To be honest, I didn’t really get why these blokes couldn’t just stay away from the beach if it was that dangerous and leave it at that. After a while though, I got curious, and did actually start to watch some of the news updates.

The first one I caught was an interview with someone I gathered was some kind of marine biologist. 

“Mermaids are hunters,” she said.  “They do eat their human prey, but we understand that they can also survive perfectly adequately on fish and other marine life. They appear to approach the hunting of humans as a kind of sport, or perhaps a means to establish pecking order.”

“And how, exactly, are they hunting us?” asked the bemused presenter.

“They release a scent from glands in their tails, detectable up to a mile away, but only by males…”

I found myself reminded of dogs in cartoons picking up the scent of a roast dinner and floating towards the source. I was a little sad that I’d never get to know what they smelled like – must be pretty special by the sounds of things. I flicked through to another news channel:

“…men who are prevented from engaging will normally survive the experience, but may feel ill, despondent, over-heated, and unable to focus…”

Sounds a lot like me on the first of the month, I thought. 

I fell down an internet rabbit hole after that. Buried deep in the third page of search results, I did find just the one report of a mermaid-related disappearance of a woman. So maybe we’d better not get too complacent. I found it interesting that despite what I’d assumed, and the sexy-folky name we’d chosen for them, nobody was really sure if the mermaids were all female. They were so genetically different from us that there was no way of figuring that out yet. And the experts were adamant that nothing about this situation was sexual. Not that the popular press seemed to care.

Mermaids were ugly. That first blurry image Cassie sent me wasn’t a one off. From the pictures I’d seen it looks as if they have a roughly human shaped upper body, but with upturned, big nostrilled noses like pigs, loose grey skin and teeth like tusks. They reminded me a bit of walruses. So sexual attraction did seem unlikely, but the vaguely feminine shape of the torso – the breasts, the waist – seemed to have convinced some people otherwise. There was a mostly groundless theory doing the rounds on social media that they were hideous alien women tricking men into believing they were beautiful before trying to become pregnant by their prey, and then going in for the kill.  Several men’s magazines and websites ran semi-serious marine themed shoots, with glamour models posed on rocks, or with fake scaly tails. Bad taste. I sent a screenshot of one to Cassie.

“Yeah I saw. Jordan had one of those open on a tab on his laptop the other day.”

“Well, keep him away from the beach.” 

I didn’t add the laugh emoji this time.

Government warnings suggested males stay away from the sea, and avoid journeys to coastal areas altogether unless absolutely essential. Public sector employers relocated male staff for safety reasons, and several private businesses moved premises further inland so as not to lose customers. Some industries turned it to their advantage: there was a minor explosion of women-only nude bathing resorts and I wasn’t against it.

“Hey sis, you seen this?”

I sent a link to the website for a new ladies only cocktail bar in Porthcawl. Advertised itself as the safest venue in the country. The drink names were in just as bad taste as the glamour shoots.

“Death on the Beach??!”

“I know, right? Still, you fancy being my wing-woman for the night? Mermaids only catch dudes but you know I’m not fussy!”

“Can I take a raincheck on that? Jordan’s not too well at the moment, and besides I might not be drinking for a bit.”

Winking face emoji.

“Does that mean what I think it means? Because this is the worst reveal ever.”

In seaside towns, barriers were built to impede unauthorised access to the sea. It didn’t stop men from falling victim to the scent, but they could at least be saved from certain death: picked up where they lay, and bundled off home or to a support group. In rural areas, walls were impractical, but warning signs were still compulsory and you might find the odd policewoman making a half-hearted attempt at keeping people away. 

I went up to Aberystwyth for the day, and found them trialling an odour neutraliser. Ice-cream vans were driving up and down the coastline pumping out chemicals designed to combat the smell of mermaids, while playing the Benny Hill theme tune.  I flagged one down to see if they were still selling ice-cream too.

“Yeah, sure,” said the driver. “The scheme is meant to be self-funding eventually. What can I get you?”

“Two scoop 99 with chocolate sprinkles. Is it working?”

“Not really,” she said. “But the government subsidy is worth having.”

There were obviously demands for a cull. “They are killing our sons and our husbands,” one Welsh politician declared. “Should we not deal with them as harshly as any other threat to our lives? This is our coastline. Some of us have lived and worked here for centuries, and surely all of us deserve to appreciate its beauty. Why must we now live in fear and allow them to take it over?”

Those in favour of a cull had many enemies, particularly amongst conservationists. I read a rant by one online:

“This is still a rare and little understood species. We should treat them with respect. If we behave correctly and accommodate, they won’t harm us, and who knows what we might learn from them? To kill them purely out of fear and ignorance would be an unforgivable crime. We’ve long realised that the killing of tigers because of perceived danger was a mistake, now there are only a handful of them left – do we want that to happen again?”

In the comments I found a theory that seemed half convincing:

“Perhaps they are more sentient than we think? Taking only men might be sensible if they need to eat but don’t want to decimate the population. Like us slaughtering male chicks and only raising the females. Only less wasteful.”

And plenty of disagreement:

“They’re not a native species! I don’t get why you still don’t understand this – they’re not tigers, they’re Japanese Knotweed! Get rid!”

“It’s a tiny snatch of coastline in one country. It really isn’t that hard to holiday somewhere else.”

As public awareness increased, the drownings decreased, and another problem emerged: those men who had caught a whiff of the scent, but were saved from acting upon their urges. Survivors lived with a constant, dry, burning sensation all over their skin. They dreamed constantly of plunging into salt water to find relief. Formerly good employees began making mistakes at work, or simply not turning up. They spent their days looking for ways to climb the beach barriers or searching for confiscated car keys so they could drive to some patch of unprotected coast. The female employment rate suddenly went through the roof. Husbands and fathers became blank and distracted: they didn’t want to eat, or talk, or play with the kids, and they definitely didn’t want to make love. Official advice for families on how to deal with the situation was vague: access to the sea must be prevented at all costs, and vulnerable men should not be left alone.  For those already infected, a visit to the doctor was recommended, along with counselling or group therapy – although no source recorded whether this had any real effect. Partners should try to be supportive and not under any circumstances blame the victim for their condition. Loved ones should try to distract them with normal activities: meals out, holidays and higher than usual levels of affection, even if they appeared to show no interest. It was uncertain how long the state might be expected to last. We were reassured that research was being carried out into vaccinations, treatments, cures – but no news of anything that might work was forthcoming from medical experts.

The popular media was more creative and optimistic with proposed solutions. Certain pseudo-psychologists still insisted that the primary driver was sex. Tabloid newspapers ran articles on how women might “win back” their men from mermaids. Most of these hinged on the purchase of new lingerie and learning new bedroom moves that would “make him forget all about those fishy pests”. Fishmongers’ sales also increased significantly, and in summer, even inland, the usual sun-kissed look was gradually replaced with an edgy new trend for grey-tinged face make-up. A few actresses and models were rumoured to have visited cosmetic surgeons to try and achieve a newly fashionable upturned nose shape. I watched a weird interview with a sexologist who advocated acceptance of fish-based fantasies. She worked with French perfumiers to create and market a scent for human women based on the mermaid gland secretions, and sold it in gift sets with recipe books full of romantic fish dishes. I sent a link to Cassie.

“Can you believe this crap?”

By October, the seaside towns were struggling. A lot of men and families just decided to migrate inland. I had no reason to leave Cardiff, and Cassie and Jordan lived just to the north –  which wasn’t especially high risk provided one avoided the recently walled-off Bay area. Then at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, my phone finally rang.

“He’s not home. He went for a run two hours ago and he’s not back.”

“I’m closer to the Bay. I’ll go look for him. You stay put.”

I was thinking of what might be inside her, growing, she hadn’t told me yet – but what happens if it’s male? Does anyone even know that?

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Her voice sounded small and water-logged.

“It’s not your fault. I’ll find him.”

“He never normally goes near the waterfront.” 

There was a strong wind coming off the Bristol Channel that night and I knew the mermaid numbers were increasing. Maybe the scent blew inland, pulled him off track, down towards the coast. When I found him at 2am, he was pressed up against the barrier with his hands covered in blood from trying to climb. He was weak and uncoordinated. I held him around the waist and used all my strength to drag him into the back of my car and take him home. 

I drove down to pick him up again every time he found his way back there. My little bit of Krav Maga training came in handy for sure, despite the weakness, he was willing to fight anyone who stood between him and the creatures. Examining my bruises in the bathroom I started to wonder if my sister’s husband was worth it. Even before the mermaids came, was he really that special?

I visited Cassie and Jordan regularly after the first incident. We never used to see each other that much, but something about a difficult time makes you want to hear somebody’s voice, look at their face. Make sure they’re not lying when they say they’re OK. Usually if he was home, he’d be hidden away in the bathroom.

“I’m making smoked kippers for breakfast tomorrow, just hoping it’ll bring him back for a while.”

“He’s not coming back, Cas. I know it’s hard. I wish you could just let him go. I’m not saying let the mermaids take him, but honestly, next time I could just drop him off at the rehab centre instead of at home. You don’t need this. It’s killing you.”

“No-one ever comes back from those rehab centres. You know that.”

“He’s not coming back either way. Why torture yourself? Send him to the professionals.”

“I played our song last night, when he came back. The one from the night we met. Nothing.”

She started to cry, with quiet little choking sounds, just like when we were kids. I put an arm around her, drew her so close I could smell her strawberry shampoo. I thought of all the times she’d fallen over, trapped a finger, or got caught doing something stupid. I’d yell at her and call her an idiot, but then she’d start sobbing and we’d end up like this. What else could I do? 

“When I go get him, I’m doing it for you, not for him, you know that?”

“I know.”

“I’m thinking next time maybe I shouldn’t.”

Two days later he was gone again. Enough, I thought. I stayed home and waited. It took a week, and I heard nothing from Cassie in the meantime, but the news was unmistakable:

“Cardiff man Jordan Sutton is missing, suspected as the latest victim of the mermaids after a gap of six weeks with no reported fatalities in South Wales. Mr Sutton’s car was found close to Oxwich Bay in the Gower. He seems to have driven there overnight and slipped through the police cordon. Items of bloodied clothing and a wallet were found on the shoreline….”

I drove straight to Cassie’s and banged on the door. There was no answer. Peering through the window I could see things scattered over the kitchen table – bits of wood, metal and tools. On the fridge there was something black and white and fuzzy. An ultrasound?  I banged on the door again. I brought up her number on my phone and called as I ran back to my car with no idea which direction to drive in. On my third attempt she finally picked up.

“Cass? Cass, where the hell are you?”

She didn’t speak. I heard gulls in the background.

“Cass? You must want to talk to me if you picked up. Say something, anything…”

“I’m…. I don’t know if I can do this…It is a boy you know. Poor bugger.”

The sobbing and sniffling were gone. Her voice had a calm clarity to it. A resolution. I could hear the gulls again, the sound of waves hitting rocks. A boy. And then I remembered the early case early that confused everyone – when they thought the mermaids might have started taking women after all. Until it turned out the woman in question was pregnant, and recently had one of those dumb gender reveal parties so everyone knew for sure it was a boy.

“Cass? Cassie, where are you?”

I could hear the smile in her voice and my heart started pounding in my ears.

“Oxwich, of course.”

“Stay put. I’m coming.  Don’t do anything until I get there. We’ll talk. That’s all… I’m not going to… Oh, Cassie. Just stay where you are… stay put.”

She laughed.

“Sis, you’re always telling me to stay put.”

I started the engine and set the SatNav for Oxwich.

The policewoman at the checkpoint peered in through the windows and asked in a bored voice what my intentions were.

 “Sunbathing,” I told her.

“Good luck with that,” she said, glancing up at the pale sky as she waved me through. I got out of the car and approached the beach down the lifeboat ramp. The tide was half way in, gulls were circling overhead. There were a handful of men, dotted around on the damp sand below the tideline. Some of them were crawling towards the sea, others just standing and staring blankly as the waves began to tickle their feet. In the centre, where a strip of sunlight broke through the clouds, was my sister, waiting on the beach as the water rolled in. 

A few dozen snub-nosed heads bobbed up out of the water and started to swim towards the shore. Cassie stepped forward. I began to run. Then I saw her raise up the crossbow and loose an arrow at the closest head.

I kept running.

“Hey sis, glad you could join us,” she shouted over the roar of the waves. “There’s another bow if you’re ready.”

“I…”

“I know you never thought much of Jordan, but I loved him. And someone no doubt loves these poor sods too.” She waved an arrow at the men scattered on the sand. “And you’re going to love this one too, I know it.” 

She patted her belly.

 I gave her a kiss on the cheek but she didn’t break focus. I shrugged and picked up the second bow.

Holly Barratt lives in Wales, UK. She writes stories in many genres. She has previously been published by Wyldblood , Kalopsia, Lucent Dreaming and Fudoki amongst others. She is inspired by history, folklore, nature, memories and dreams. She can be found on Twitter/X as @hebarratt