“I swear she could have been you. Look! This girl is your long-lost twin.”
Fi nudged me, and I smiled.
“Never had or wanted one.”
I stood up.
“Let’s go, or the bargain hunters will clear the shelves before us.”
We dived into the vintage emporium across the street, and I shuddered.
“As if someone is watching me. Nonsense.”
I reached for the silk top. “Try this.”
“I can’t wear terracotta,” Fi said, horrified.
“Oh yes, you can,” I replied.
Clients always needed reassurance.
***
By the time I got to Regent’s Canal, my slingbacks had pounded at least ten miles. My tiny flat overlooked the water, the minuscule garden, and a pier with an old boat hosting frogs and their singing contests.
Dropping my bags, I went to the window. Moonlight silvered the roofs, and the canal barely moved in the sultry air. The night breathed an almost tropical heat. Distant thunder rumbled, and something moved on the pier. I could only make out the outline of a black dress—and then the water quietened again.
I thought about another night, thirty years ago, when a late passer-by heard a baby’s cry from the abandoned barge on the canal. Having grown up in an adoptive family, I never found out who my mother really was. I drew the curtains and went to bed.
***
Fi’s éclairs were the best in London, and I planned to turn my former classmate and neighbour’s new café into the trendiest place on the canal.
“All you need is a social media whizz,” I winked. “I’ve built my online presence from scratch, and now I have thousands of followers. Look, there’s more!”
My phone pinged, and I read the latest comment under yesterday’s column: Five Reasons Never to Wear Black.
“Black is our colour. See you soon.”
I opened my mouth, but Fi—who was catching the sunshine over the first cup of coffee on the terrace of the yet-closed café—almost screamed.
“It’s her again! Your double! On the bridge!”
This time I saw her—the thin girl with raven curls, clad top to toe in the blackest black, the one colour I have never worn. The canal water trembled, and I blinked.
The stranger cast no shadow.
“She’s gone,” Fi said. “How weird.”
Rummaging through the post I’d brought to the café, I took a handwritten envelope with no postal stamp on it. Tearing it open, I stared at the swatch of black silk.
For your shroud,
a note was pinned to the fabric.
“Who sent you that?” Fi reached for the delicate square. “Everyone knows you hate black.”
“Just a stupid mistake,” I snapped my bag shut.
***
“Here you’ll be comfortable.”
The velvet curtain of the changing booth rustled, and I was left alone with my new underwear. Something glistened on the floor, and I frowned. The previous customer must have brought in a cup of coffee.
“No, it’s black,” the liquid smelled of river mud. “What is it?”
I tried to shout, but my voice failed me. The sliver of black fabric under the booth wall moved and grew, pinning me into the corner. We were the same height.
“We are the same,” her icy hands lay on my throat, and her breath carried the whiff of bog.
“Mermaids always give birth to twins. One girl stays with humans, and the other goes back with the mother to the water. I always longed to be you…”
She squeezed my throat, and I collapsed under her feet, catching her triumphant hiss.
“Black is my colour!”
The End
Bio:
Nelly Shulman’s prose has been published in numerous literary magazines and anthologies and she has authored three collections of short stories. She is a member of The Society of Authors (UK).