Secret of the Sirens

  “What were you talking to Col about, Connie?”Anneena probed, getting out her pencil case. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on,” Connie whispered so as not to catch Mr. Johnson’s attention.

  “Oh, come on. It’s clear you two were up to something,” Anneena hissed back. Connie realized that she was as persistent as a thrush bashing a snail against a stone when she wished to crack a secret.

  “I suppose you know about the campaign against the oil refinery?”

  Anneena nodded. “Of course. Rupa’s been following all the local stories about Axoil. She thinks there’s something fishy happening at the refinery.”

  “I saw her article. I wondered if she was related to you.”

  “You did?” Anneena glowed with pride. “Well, Rupa had real trouble getting them to print even that short piece. She thinks her boss is scared of being sued for libel.”

  “Well, my aunt and Col are involved in a group campaigning about the refinery—he’s been helping out after school. They were on some kind of protest last night out at those rocks everyone calls the Stacks. I think it’s where he got that scratch.”

  “Oh, is that it?” Anneena asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. It wasn’t only her older sister who had a nose for an interesting story. “What was he doing?”

  “Anneena, are you going to share with the rest of the class what you and Connie are whispering about, or are you going to do some work?” Mr. Johnson said loudly, coming to stand behind them.

  Connie had come to expect that Anneena would rarely be lost for words. Looking the teacher straight in the eye, she said a little brazenly, “I’m very happy to share with the class what we’ve been talking about. It’s very important—for everyone in Hescombe, that is.”

  “Oh yes?” Mr. Johnson said sceptically.

  “We were talking about the Stacks and what we could do to protect them from Axoil tankers,” Anneena said piously. Connie flushed with embarrassment and glanced over at Col. He sat up as if he had been stung and looked daggers in her direction. The last thing he needed was for the whole class to be interested in the wildlife of the Stacks. It would be a disaster if they started asking questions that led to the discovery of the sirens. In contrast to Col’s hostile gaze, Mr. Johnson beamed down at the girls in delight, rapidly switching from reproof to praising Anneena’s subject. As he turned away to address the entire class, Anneena grinned at Connie.

  “Connie and Anneena are quite right: we should take an interest in these things,” Mr. Johnson announced. “That’s exactly the sort of subject we need. Once it’s finished, the new Axoil refinery is going to have a profound effect on our local community—that means on you and me. Let’s use it as an example of how you can work up your project ideas. I want you to divide into groups of four. Discuss what your group thinks would be an interesting way of covering the opening of the new refinery in our area. Put down your ideas to share them with the rest of the class. Off you go. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  As quick as a flash, before he could be asked to join other groups, Col left his table and came over to Connie. Jane Benedict, sitting on the other side of Anneena, made up the fourth. Connie and Anneena exchanged surprised glances at Col’s sudden move.

  “Hi, Col. Nice of you to join us,” Anneena said. “Don’t usually see you on this side of the classroom.”

  “No. You don’t usually have anything to say that I want to hear,” shot back Col, giving Connie a poisonous look.

  Anneena was momentarily taken aback, wondering what had caused Col to be so hostile, but she never let anything daunt her for long. “Well, you might be surprised. Shall I write things down?” She picked up her pink gel pen and looked expectantly at her three companions. Connie and Jane readily agreed; Col stared out of the window, as if he was only half there. The others took his silence as agreement. “Right then. Where shall we start? I think we should do something to find out what people really think about the refinery instead of all this brainwashing that Axoil is putting in the local press.” Connie watched with amazement as Anneena roughed out three columns, heading them: “local government,” “media—radio and print,” and “local industry.” Jane chipped in with the addition of “local community,” making four headings.

  “Hey, you two are good at this,” said Col with an ironic grin. “Done it before, have you?” He had come over to hear how much Connie would say about his injury, but as she had not raised the subject, he was now enjoying himself watching his classmates doing all the work. Perhaps his decision to cross the classroom hadn’t been so rash after all, as it looked as if the girls were sparing him the effort of thinking.

  “Of course,” said Anneena. “My dad asked me to help him draw up a plan to publicize the restaurant last year. We had to start by finding out what people knew about it already. Jane helped with the Web page.” She tapped her pad of paper with her pen, looking at what they had written down. “What do you two think?” she asked, realizing that Col and Connie had been silent so far.

  “Good of you to ask.” Col laughed, rocking lazily back on his chair.

  Connie hesitated then said, “But what about the Stacks? What I want to know is how can we make sure that oil tankers don’t go too near and disturb the wildlife?” She was thinking about Scark and the other seagulls who she knew nested on these inaccessible rocks.

  “Hmm.” Anneena thought for a moment. “I think we’d have to go to the company and ask what they’re doing about it—get a promise on record that they won’t harm them. It may give us a chance to ask them about something else, too.”

  Knowing her friend well, Jane was not deceived by Anneena’s throwaway remark. “What else?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like the missing men, for instance,” said Anneena, her light tone failing to disguise her excitement.

  Col sat up with a clatter as his chair legs hit the floor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said firmly. Hadn’t Horace said the sirens might be responsible for the disappearances? Too many questions would put them at risk.

  “Why not?” challenged Anneena. “Rupa’s not been able to get inside the building to ask them; they’re no longer returning her calls; we could help.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Connie stared at Col in astonishment. She had never seen him so serious about anything before. He usually treated lessons as a bit of a joke.

  “What’s got into you, Col?” mocked Anneena. “Afraid?”

  Col grabbed the pad from her and struck a thick line through “Interview with company.” Afraid? If only she knew the half of it! “I said no,” he said fiercely.

  Anneena snatched the pad back and was about to make a tart response when the teacher called them to order.

  “Right, time’s up,” called Mr. Johnson. “Let’s hear your ideas.”

  The offerings from the other groups were uninspired. Nobody seemed to have thought of much beyond drawing a few boring pictures of ships and oil refineries. Mr. Johnson turned to Anneena.

  “My hopes rest with your group. Have you got anything else to contribute, Anneena?”

  “Well, sir,” she began, standing up, reading off her pad. “Col, Connie, Jane, and I thought we should find out what people think about the refinery and the local environment. To get a grip on all sides of the argument, we thought it would be a good idea to take a survey of local opinion, and then interview the company.”

  “No, we didn’t!” Col hissed.

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Johnson as he scribbled Anneena’s ideas down on the whiteboard. He stood back to admire them. “I think this will really capture this moment in time in our local history.

  “Do you know, girls—and Col, of course—I think you should take this on as a project for the term. I particularly like your idea of interviewing the company in person—that’ll make a good centerpiece for your contribution to the display. I’ll help you if need be. Draw up your list of questions for the company and l
et me see them next week. And now, who’s going to take on the history of the lighthouse for me?”

  The teacher turned his attention to the rest of the class. Col was fuming: Anneena had trapped him into doing the very last thing in the world he wanted. The three girls looked at him warily. Unexpectedly, they had become stuck with Col. The uncrowned king of the class had been partnered with some of its least cool characters. Well, it was too late to do anything about it now. They would have to get along somehow, even if he did look as if he was going to make a start by strangling one of his teammates.

  The following Tuesday, an elegant leather suitcase by the back door announced that Number Five Shaker Row had a guest. Evelyn was serving coffee to the stranger at the kitchen table when Connie came in from school, their conversation stopping abruptly on her arrival.

  “Oh, Connie. Our guest has arrived today, as you see. This is Signor Antonelli,” her aunt said, waving the coffeepot in the direction of the newcomer. Looking uncharacteristically embarrassed, Evelyn sat down quickly behind an ostentatious bouquet of flowers, a gift from her visitor.

  Connie nodded shyly to the Italian. Signor Antonelli was a short, round ball of a man, with sleek black hair swept back from his forehead and a luxuriant beard. He bounded to his feet as Connie entered and swooped down on her to seize her hand.

  “Carina, I am enchanted to meet you!” he said in broken English, bowing over her hand to kiss it. He pulled up, touching her fingertips with his warm fingers. “But your leetle hand is frozen!” Then, quite bizarrely and unexpectedly, he burst into song. A powerful, beautiful voice boomed from his chest like the cry of the bittern. “Che gelida manina,” he sang, smiling into her bewildered face. He let the last note ring out in the kitchen and bowed again, this time as if to imaginary applause. He turned to Evelyn. “Your daughter ’as no gloves, signorina?” He clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

  “Niece, Signor Antonelli, she’s my niece,” Evelyn quickly corrected him with mounting embarrassment. She looked anxiously at Connie as if imploring her not to laugh at their guest. Connie had never seen her look so uncomfortable.

  “Is she one of us?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “She ’as da look.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Perhaps. But we’ve not had time to find out. Connie’s only been here a week.”

  Somehow Connie felt sure they were talking about the Society. She was pleased that Signor Antonelli mentioned that she had “da look”; Col had said something similar. Not knowing quite what to make of this strange little man, she took a seat at the table, wondering what was going on.

  “When will we leave for boats?” he asked Evelyn, sitting down on the chair next to Connie with a flourish of his coattails like a pianist taking his seat at a grand piano.

  “A few hours yet. It’s a busy time of day just now, what with the day-trippers coming back and the fishermen going out. We’ll wait till the evening.” Evelyn threw a significant look in Connie’s direction—Connie was sure she was signalling to him to be quiet.

  “Certo.” He then tactfully but rather obviously changed the subject. “ ’Ave you ever been to Italia, carina?”

  Connie shook her head. Signor Antonelli began to tell her about his home, Sorrento, a seaside town near Naples. He paused for a moment, rose to his feet, and then broke into a jaunty Neapolitan song, bouncing on the balls of his feet with every beat. Connie sat transfixed. She had never before met anyone who seemed to regard singing as interchangeable with talking.

  Coming to the end of his rendition, he said in explanation: “Now you ’ave a picture of my home—more good than words—more good than paint.”

  Connie smiled encouragingly and helped herself to a glass of juice. Perhaps this nice man would give more details about the Society than she had so far been able to extract from her aunt? He certainly seemed less buttoned-up than Evelyn.

  “And what does the Society do there?” Connie asked.

  “We watch after an ancient temple,” he said, his warm brown eyes smiling back at her, but Connie thought she could sense a guard had gone up in their depths.

  “Is that threatened, too, like the Stacks?”

  “No...but in a way, yes. My English is not so good enough to explain. I am sorry.”

  The signor deftly turned the conversation to what Connie thought of Hescombe and what her family were like. Connie dutifully answered him but with growing frustration as she failed to get any more information. She doubted very much that Signor Antonelli’s English was inadequate for what he wanted to say: Connie suspected that he had stopped because he would tell only others in the Society. And, as her aunt had made all too clear, Connie was still on the outside of these secrets.

  Evelyn and Signor Antonelli departed at around seven to go to the quay, leaving Connie to another lonely evening with just the television for company. Even Madame Cresson was out hunting. Half-watching a program about vet trainees, Connie wondered if Col would be allowed to go out again, feeling envious that he was in all likelihood part of this mysterious expedition. What did they hope to achieve by going to the Stacks a second time? They’d just disturb the birds again. How could that possibly help their cause? And what had the Italian to do with it anyway?

  The boats limped back into port as the first stars came out. A chill breeze blew inland ruffling Col’s hair like ghostly fingers. A light gray mist had settled over the sea like a shroud. Standing on the quay with his binoculars, Col could make out six figures in the boats. He heaved a sigh of relief: they were all back safely then. He had not been allowed to go out since the siren attack—too dangerous, his grandmother had said—so he had spent a frustrating evening keeping watch at the harbor. The boats seemed to take forever to sail home. As he waited, an emergency siren sounded close-by. He turned around to see a police car screech to a halt on the quayside right behind him, blue lights revolving frantically on its roof. Another siren wailed in the distance, and a white ambulance emerged from the High Street.

  “What the...?” murmured Col.

  “Stand aside, son,” said a policeman as he began to unroll a reel of blue and white tape, cordoning off a section of the marina where Water Sprite usually had her berth.

  “Hey, that’s my grandmother’s mooring!” Col objected. “She’s just coming in.”

  “We know,” said the policeman as his colleague moved to push back the small crowd that was gathering. “She’ll no doubt explain everything when she gets here. Just stand to one side for the moment, please.”

  Col fell back, but only as far as the mooring for Banshee. The boats were now only feet away. He could see Dr. Brock standing on the bow of Water Sprite in readiness to tie up; his grandmother was at the wheel.

  Col waved to Evelyn in Banshee and caught the rope she threw to him. Signor Antonelli was sitting beside her, his head in his hands.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked Evelyn anxiously, unable to see his grandmother clearly in the gathering gloom as the policemen jumped on board Water Sprite.

  “Not exactly,” said Evelyn.

  “What?” exclaimed Col. Horace—Mr. Masterson—everyone seemed to be there. “Did they attack again?”

  “No,” she replied guardedly. She tapped Signor Antonelli on the shoulder to rouse him, and Col offered him a hand as he climbed from the boat. Out of the corner of his eye, Col could see the policemen bending over a blanket mound on the deck of his grandmother’s boat.

  “We heard not a sound this time,” continued Evelyn in a low voice. “Floated about for a good half hour before calling it a day. Signor Antonelli sang himself hoarse trying to raise them.”

  “So what’s all this about?” asked Col, gesturing to the police.

  “Dey ’ave killed ’im!” burst out Signor Antonelli, close to tears.

  “Killed who?” asked Col desperately, double-checking that everyone was safe.

  “Col,” said Evelyn in a voice like steel as she gripped his arm, “we did not see the sirens, but they sent us a message
this time—a very clear message. It’s exactly as we feared. They’ve been killing Axoil employees. We’ve found one: they’ve sent us his body.”

  Col turned his eyes back to the blanket just as one of the policemen lifted the corner to look at the dead man’s face. Col felt sick: he could still see the expression of rapture that had been on the man’s face as he drowned.

  “Come,” said Evelyn, turning her eyes away.

  “But how can they do this!” Col exclaimed in disbelief. “And we’re trying to help them!”

  Signor Antonelli appeared to have regained some of his composure. He took Col’s other arm to help Evelyn tow him away from the scene.

  “It is natura—la natura of le sirene. Do you blame cat for killing mouse? No. We are mouses to them. Mouses who ’ave tried to drive them from their home.”

  Col shuddered.

  “I know it is ’ard—very ’ard to comprehend. But we deal with wild creatures—not pets. And they no understand that we in the Society try to help them.”

  A quarter of an hour later, in Mrs. Clamworthy’s kitchen, the Society members sat around the table in silence. The vision of the dead man hovered over them like a ghost. They all knew they had failed him.

  Dr. Brock sighed deeply.

  “Now you see, Luciano, what we are up against,” he said. “The refinery opens for business very soon. Hundreds of tankers of crude oil will be passing through these waters unaware of the danger, flocking to a place where deaths have already happened—and the sirens are understandably angry. They feel they have been hounded from place to place. Now that their last sanctuary is being violated, they are refusing to move again. These three deaths are only the start: we’re told by other creatures that the sirens have threatened to use their powers to bring about a catastrophe—an all-out assault on the refinery. The sirens feel they have nothing to lose.