Final Mercy

Whenever she heard him call her name, she shuddered.

Mercy knew that when she heard him call her, nothing good would happen next.

It reached the point where she thought that she could never bear to hear him use her name again.

The day she suggested the walk, she was nervous; it was so hard to predict how he would receive any suggestion. If she was lucky, there would only be raised voices. Sometimes, most times, it would be worse.

But today was one of those rare occasions where he seemed content to follow her lead. So, they took a trip out in the car. He drove, as he always did unless he was drinking. This meant his barking voice was reserved for other road users, who were unwitting victims of his torrents of abuse.

Mercy passed the time watching the hard angles of the town soften into the cushioned verges of the country lanes. He took the opportunity bully the motor with flambouyant revving. A bird rose, startled, as he powered the car past its field. The bird climbed rapidly, a vertical ascent on busy wings. Mercy pondered upon the thoughts of escape, attaining sweet freedom with a clear and decisive flight. The bird, hovering now, trilling to the world about its liberty, faded from view. Mercy craned to look, her head hitting the window as he cornered far too aggressively.

“You are so stupid!” he observed.

Their destination was a small village on the estuary. They pulled up next to a marina. Tethered boats bobbed, straining against their moorings, longing to be free. Ropes jangled furiously against the redundant masts.

“Nice boats,” he observed, although she felt that this was more of a curse than an honest, heartfelt appraisal. She led him around the Marina. They passed a clubhouse where the boats owners sat, sharing stories and sipping from glasses that winked indulgence in the warm sunshine.

“‘Non-Members Welcome’,” he read. ” Mercy, you are driving home. I could do with a drinking a beer alongside the right sort of people.”

Mercy mutely accepted his decision. Alongside the customary resignation to complying with is wishes, there was a glimmer of optimism within her. If he had a few beers, he might fall asleep and leave her be. The chore of driving home was a small price to pay for a temporary moment of respite. Besides, there was no need to antagonise him any further; his envy of the rich people with their drinks on the terrace and their boats was bubbling under the surface.

The path ran out alongside the creek. The refined walkways of the marina gave way to ramshackle fences and jetties being swallowed by the deep mud. Brackish water was creeping its way into the marsh as the tide came in, inching past the skeletons of long forgotten boats. A family were making their raucous way along the narrow path, travelling in the opposite direction. Mercy could hear his irritated puffs from far behind her. Childish racket was one of his least favourite things.

“Take this path,” he growled.

She saw the thin worn line leading out onto the marshes. It led over a plank bridge and further out over the stunted plants and channels of deep mud. He led them now, barging past her as she crossed one of the narrow bridges. Mercy wobbled but maintained her balance, deciding not to mention the increasing rush of the water, slowly filling the inlets and closing around them.

Once they reached the river, Mercy stopped in awe. The flow of the tide, the cryptic patterns of the eddies and the currents, stirred envy within her very core. Meanwhile, he glowered at the swirling, brown river.

“This is rubbish,” he said. “Time for a beer.”

They turned and discovered that the route back was largely covered by water. Both moved quickly, heading back towards the safety of the sea wall and its elevated footpath. Merey tried hard to pick out the simple footbridges whereas he splashed and wallowed through the inlets.

With just one bridge to go, Mercy was halted by a yell. She turned and looked back to see him staggering in a deeper channel. The water was up to his chest, then his fitful thrashing caused him to sink further into the marsh. The tide flowed around his chin now. Merey watched, dispassionate, as the water surged still further until it was almost at his mouth.

“Mercy!” he cried. His voice was hoarse and his eyes wide with terror. She watched some more, remaining rooted to the spot. He ordered her to help, bellowing a curse that was filled with threat and profanity. Yelling it caused him to splutter and his curse dissolved into nothing more than him spitting out water.

Mercy carefully negotiated the last bridge. Once she was safely on the sea wall, she turned to see him. His head was tipped back and his face pointed towards the sky. The water lapped around his ears. She decided to return to the marina and to explain about the terrible accident which had just occurred.

“Mercy!” he screamed at the sky.

She heard the word for the final time. This time, she did not shudder. She was with the bird now, stretching her wings and singing of her freedom.

A companion story to this one, based on the narrative oof the tides, can be found here: https://stephenleatherdaleauthor.wordpress.com/2022/07/29/beneath-the-surface/