Lorali Page 12

  ‘Great, just pop them there, thanks. Opal, you are gonna die when you taste this! Cheers!’

  Marco raises his Martini to the sky and Opal imitates him as their glasses chink. Smiling. She is thinking, a) this drink smells abhorrent, and, b) do all Walkers wade in such shallow cosmopolitan waters? She hopes so. This is it. She exhales in relief, her glossy mouth kissing the lip of the glass.

  Marco sips, dramatically gasping. Smacking his lips, he adds, ‘I swear you haven’t lived.’

  MOTHER

  We are up in the attic again. Just like yesterday. The sun is snaking in through the slats in the roof. The lighthouse is drinking up the light. In so many ways it reminds me of home. The way it seems so muted and detached from the rest of Walker life. Like it has fallen off the edge of the world. Like a shipwreck. It is a secret. Back in the Whirl we are all so fearful of being found by the Walkers. Of being outed and exposed.

  ‘The rain has stopped.’ I smile. Maybe Mother has let me go after all.

  But Iris laughs. ‘This is the calm before the storm.’

  ‘You won’t write anything on the trunks, will you, Iris? You won’t tell Carmine I’m here? I don’t want my mother to know I am here.’

  ‘If you don’t want me to, I won’t. But if Carmine asks me, I cannot lie.’

  ‘How about you don’t go down there? In case you see her,’ Flynn offers.

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to get there anyway. The water is too high. But if you feel up to it, Lorali, perhaps we could go down there together one day.’

  Sick. No. I couldn’t. My heart. My head. Bang. Crash. Too soon.

  ‘Maybe,’ I lie.

  Iris ushers us to the piles of newspaper. ‘Get comfortable.’

  Flynn hands out cushions, which he knew to bring up with him this time. Rory looks impatient, twiddling his thumbs.

  ‘I’ve done some work on your mother, Lorali.’

  I feel even more sick. Stinging. My flesh burning. My hair on fire. Then dry. Ashes. My eyes hurting. The sound of voices too loud. My mood dipping.

  ‘Queen Keppel. Do you know her story, Lorali?’

  I don’t know what I want to know. What I don’t.

  ‘Your mother is beautiful. Striking. She got herself into trouble, from what I know. Did you know this?’ Iris asks. He looks serious.

  I can smell my own fear. It stinks. It reeks. It is choking me. Filling up the room. I’m not ready to meet my past yet. I stay silent. But my heart screams. I see these new goose pimples prick up on my skin. A bluey marble blotching over my shoulders. My arms. Blonde hairs standing on end. Rory comes close to me. But not too close.

  Flynn jumps up. ‘I’ll get her a blanket.’

  Iris continues. ‘Your mother didn’t marry for love. She was too young to be married. Especially to this repulsive pig of a man. Their story made the papers. I’ll show you if you want to see. There is a picture of her.’ Iris hands me the soft paper. It is the most fragile thing my hands have felt in this new world. The words mean nothing to me, just strange symbols. Different from Iris’s and Carmine’s circles. In an order that I don’t understand. And all about my mother.

  The page falls open and there she is. My mother. Queen Keppel.

  I don’t recognise her face at first. Even from this old worn picture, I can see she has red colour on her lips. Her eyebrows seem darker and her eyes … bigger. She is standing up. With legs. Like me. Like I have now. Long ones. She is tall. Her hair so yellow it is white. Straight as seagrass. Wrapped in a high ponytail. She is wearing these fantastic clothes. My mum. So strange seeing her in clothes. And jewellery. She always did love jewellery. She is real. She has been here before. She doesn’t have that look of strength that she has now though.

  It suddenly dawns on me what I have done. I am here. I have made it. Look at me, Mother! Look at me. Being a Walker. Making friends.

  Iris gently takes the pages from me. ‘Let me tell you how it was, before you try to understand what was said here. The papers don’t always tell you the truth.’

  ‘I’m used to not being told the truth.’ I hand him back the paper and he begins.

  THE ARRIVAL OF QUEEN KEPPEL

  If only they all had tapestries that read like Myrtle’s. Positive. Healthy. Rich. Green. Pure … happy, even. But remember, the act of salvage is to save. Nobody who is safe ever needs saving. These Mer, they often seem to have terrible taste in partners.

  Keppel’s was rich. He was more than twice her age. It was their honeymoon. He was drunk on fizzy bright beer. He never seemed to fill up, this stocky, bronzed, foul-breathed, sour human. His chubby, stubby digits fingered the laminated beach bar menu. His Rolex sparkled in the sunshine. He ordered my guts, everything I had to offer: the fruits of my belly. Slaughtered. Fleshy, fatty, soggy, rubbery rings of squid, deep-fried crisp mounds of whitebait, and oily mackerel, the skin blistered to a char. And heaps upon heaps of shellfish, the clatter of grilled orange claws, clasping, pegged up like miniature gravestones. Arched over his plate, scoffing, to make sure nobody would beat him to the platter beneath him. Occasionally, between snorts, truffling out the tender oysters, he’d look up to check I was still there, lapping in and out, making waves. And yes, I was. I saw it all. As he chewed rapidly, spitting out the tiny white bones from the small fish, grease splashing onto his big belly and cleavage, the soft grey rug of chest hair coiling round his gold neck chain, she watched him over her small black coffee. Hating every second.

  She couldn’t eat. She resented him. The ‘arrangement’ that her family had made. The only thing she loathed more than him was her own father. How she had been sold off by him. Bargained like the dead fish that lay before her after she had clearly proved to not taste of anything to him any more. He had had his fill. And then this. This violent, cowardly, disgusting husband of hers. She despised everything about him; he was an embarrassment.

  Her arms were laced with jewellery; he had dressed her in opulent stones, which hung from her ears and studded her fingers.

  It was a hot day on the beach. He was infuriating her, repelling her. She was trying to quash the memories of his trailing hands smoothing over her obscure tan lines from the designer swimwear he had bought for her. Triangles. His heaving restless thumps on top of her. His muffled grunting breathing in her young ear. She was angry with herself now just as much as she was with him – no, angrier.

  She stood. Walked towards me. The sea. To swim. He called her name in between stuffing his greedy grease-smeared cheeks. She stepped into me – one foot. A little lighter, a little easier – the next foot. Breathing. Further and further. He called her name. The white sand was a red carpet for this soon-to-be queen to walk on. I was light. Cooling from the hot sun. Sanctuary. I was her friend. Up to her knees. Her sun oil left her body, balanced on my surface. Its sheen poisoned my purity. I didn’t mind. Come now. Come now. Come now. Chest. Neck. He called again. I was calling now too, but loud enough for only her to hear. I was too inviting. I offered escape. Freedom. The jewellery was heavy. A weight. Like I said, I was too inviting. I offered escape. Freedom.

  A PERFECT CIRCLE

  ‘No matter what costly heavy jewellery you wear, nothing weighs a person down more than when they no longer put up a fight. When their heart is heavy. She felt she had no other option. She couldn’t escape her circumstance. She was a caged animal. She never came up again. Keppel. Lorali, that’s your mother,’ Iris mutters, his eyes are wet.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask Lorali quietly. She nods in a short certain reply. I look around; the attic is full of Iris’s strange scribbles. I can see the circles now, over and over again. I once heard a rumour that if you can draw a perfect circle it means you’re insane. These circles look pretty accurate to me. I clench my jaw. I know Flynn so well, we grew up together, but I am starting to realise I have no idea who Iris is whatsoever. Does Flynn, even?

  ‘So who salvaged Keppel? Netta?’ Flynn asks. He is getting the hang of this; I feel ten steps behind everybody else. It is
all too much, going way too fast. Perhaps living with Iris makes it easier to connect with his craziness.

  ‘Keppel was salvaged by Netta, indeed, who recognised a will inside her, a determination. She took pity on this young girl. She knew how it felt to be ground to sand by a man. She salvaged her, she mothered her, she took her in.’

  The question is on all of our lips. Tugging like a loose thread on a wool jumper, a flapping edge of wallpaper you can’t leave alone. I take a breath, plucking up the confidence.

  ‘So … how were you salvaged, Lorali?’ I ask her gently. Because if Mer remain the age they were salvaged, how old does that make Lorali? What was her past?

  But it is too late; she is already up and scampering down the ladder.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  Iris stares at me as though he is to blame, even though we all know it was my doing. But with her gone I can quickly raise something with them both.

  ‘Lorali said she saw someone come to the house last night. I asked her who it was but she didn’t know. I didn’t want to worry her so I didn’t say anything but I think it’s time we moved on. I don’t want to bring troub—’

  ‘Oh no, no, no!’ Iris mutters, pounding his head. ‘No, no, no, no!’ He starts to pace, groaning and wringing his hands round his throat.

  ‘What’s wrong? Iris?’

  ‘Granddad? You OK?’ Flynn looks worried. ‘Granddad, you’re overexcited. Calm down, come on, let me get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Flynn, wait, does Iris know who it was? Who was it?’

  Iris closes his eyes. Covers his face as though his hands are a mask. ‘Pirates,’ he says.

  And Flynn looks at me with hard eyes as if to say told you so.

  KEYS

  ‘A boy. Not a man. That’s all I can tell you,’ she says. She is fiddling with the corner of a flattened worn cushion on the couch. I can feel Iris watching me, wanting to know more.

  ‘Any other details? What clothes was he wearing? What did he look like?’

  ‘It was too dark. I couldn’t see.’

  ‘You can’t risk staying here, Rory. You cannot trust anybody. Anybody could find you.’ Iris is peering into his wooden crate of keys and metal bits. The thick stench of old brass, copper and iron is making my teeth hurt. It smells of blood. Lorali is wrapped in an itchy wool blanket and a certain sadness that she can’t give us any more information.

  ‘Why is it such a bad thing that somebody came to the window? I don’t understand. There are Walkers everywhere all the time aren’t there?’ She feels she has let us down. ‘If I had known I would have concentrated much more.’

  ‘Even the garage? That’s taken too?’ Flynn suggests.

  ‘Yes, even the garage. It wouldn’t be suitable anyway … It’s right in the centre of town. It’s not discreet.’

  ‘You know she can stay here, don’t you, Rory? You both can. It really isn’t a problem. We can work it out,’ Flynn tells us.

  ‘They can’t. They can’t!’ Iris yelps. ‘Not if we have trespassers, lurkers, strangers. We can’t trust anybody. They will come straight for me and find her here.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Flynn asks.

  ‘The cliff face fell, like a great big sign. The pirates are here already.’

  I look to Flynn, who looks to the ground. He obviously hasn’t told his granddad about the boys we saw at The Serpent. And obviously, by the look of things, isn’t planning on doing so now either.

  ‘There is a fisherman’s hut. Although it was used for fish smoking for a bit.’ Iris peers at us over his glasses. His kind eyes want safety for us. I know that.

  But how do I know that Iris won’t write about us on the trees in the forest? However, the sheer thought of somebody coming to the lighthouse in the night is sending some cruel chill blazing through my bones. Someone knows we are here. Somebody who knows more about us than we know about them. We have to leave.

  ‘We’ll take the smokehouse. The hut. It’s fine.’

  ‘Rory, are you sure?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to your mum? I really think if you explain … she won’t want you staying in the hut. It’s like the bloody house made of sticks in The Three Little Pigs!’ Flynn tries to stretch a smile but I’m not in the mood.

  ‘But at least it’s hidden.’ Iris is trying. But I feel turfed out. Like I’m on my own. I know I don’t have to be but it’s obvious that Iris, for whatever reason, doesn’t think it’s fine for us to stay here. I don’t want to put them out or endanger them either.

  Flynn’s eyes look clear but in the centre of them is a misty mucky grey, like a swamp. He knows me. Since we were kids. He knows I’m gonna do this my way no matter what he says.

  ‘Please don’t worry about us any more; you’ve been so helpful. I really am grateful. How much do you want for the hut?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Iris says, insulted that I even asked. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Flynn, give them some jars of what we have in the cupboard. The ginger biscuits … the honey too … whatever we’ve got … and blankets. Take what you need. It’s cold down there.’

  I miss my bed. My room. My normal life. Tea. TV. My music. Pulling the curtains open in the mornings. Mum. Mum. I miss my mum. Now that I can step away from it, be out of the house. I am starting to unravel. Mum has been a different person since my dad left. She doesn’t wear colour any more. She doesn’t wear lipstick or perfume. She doesn’t dance barefoot in the kitchen and ‘knock up’ something to eat just cos. Or do her art. Or her reading. Or her herbal teas. Or the car boot sales. She is sad. I know why keeping Lorali safe means so much to me. I want to be a gentleman, something my dad could never be. I wish I could just go home but I know I can’t take Lorali back. If somebody has come to the lighthouse in the night I can’t risk bringing trouble right to my front door. Not to my mum.

  When I was little, if I used to cry, Mum would get out the photo album and show me photographs of us. Of me and her. It would calm me down. Pictures of me riding a horse, playing football, me with Flynn and Elvis as kids, eating ice cream at the fair. As she got sicker, she started cutting them up, cutting the heads off pictures of Dad, editing him from every picture. No more Dad, just a gaping hole to spy through. You could replace that gap with whoever you wanted. I often put the faces of wrestlers or football players there instead. To look like I met them instead of just being with my dad. I had got used to my old man being a faceless hole.

  And I don’t want that to be me.

  The sky begins to swirl, and the windows are rattling furiously with the returning wind. I am keen to get moving. We haven’t got time to be emotional.

  ‘We should make a move,’ I say to everybody but mostly to try to stir Lorali out of whatever daydream she has vanished into.

  Iris is gazing out of the long windows. ‘Yes, go now. Don’t waste any time. Now. Go. Go. Hurry now … Where’s my violin?’

  Flynn rolls his eyes at Iris. ‘I’ll take you down.’ Flynn puts his coat on and leads us out.

  Iris stops us. Placing a brass key into my hand he says, ‘Take care. What a thing to happen to a person. You were chosen. What an experience. Let instinct be your guide. Trust no one.’ He pats me roughly on the shoulder. It is the most sense he has ever made.

  Then he hugs Lorali, really tucking her in under his arms. ‘Lorali, what you did was a great risk but you made it for a reason. You are not like the others. Remember that.’

  And then we leave.

  Not like the others? What does he mean by that?

  The rain is on its way. A blurred lurk of sky above us stirs. Like a black eye. We walk quickly. Lorali still isn’t speaking. We go down along the seafront; it is like a ghost town. So strange.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Flynn shrugs. ‘Weird.’

  We continue past all the shut shops. It feels unnatural to be here without the cheap warm smell of greasy donuts and fatty chips, the sugary cloud from cooking popcorn and to
ffee apples. No screams or laughter from the fair, no creepy arcade music, no shatter of coins. No splash of dropped ice cream on the floor. The festoons unlit. I can’t even hear the caw of seagulls.

  Further down the beach, even in this threatening weather, stand a cluster of locals. I can’t make out why. The fallen cliff, maybe? There is police tape all round the seafront and police officers are ushering people away. I try to move past quickly, with my head down, holding Lorali close, under my jacket. Flynn frowns, as baffled as I am. I can’t help but think that this is to do with her.

  Then I see the lampposts. All decorated in cards and letters. Bunches of flowers taped on. Photographs of this girl’s face. RIP Charlotte Wood. I gulp, recognising her from around the New Town.

  ‘Shit,’ Flynn mumbles, his hair flipping like grass. ‘I’ve seen her before. What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. We stay away for a moment and the whole town falls to pieces.’

  ‘Look.’ Flynn points.

  There’s a shrine. More people are standing by it. We mean to keep moving but hesitate long enough to hear a woman in a wolf-themed fleece mutter, ‘Fourteen. Fourteen. Poor thing. Can you believe it?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Flynn politely replies and then smiles shortly, rushing after me.

  The shrine is covered in mermaid crap. Photographs, books, toys. I gulp at the sight of it all. Makes me realise how young this girl was. I never know why people spend money on the dead. What’s the point buying stuff from shops to just dump on a pile of pebbles with other crap that nobody is ever gonna appreciate? Why am I so angry?

  And then I see Bev down there. Her braids. But she doesn’t see me. She looks like she’s crying.

  ‘Why are all those Walkers doing their eye-sneezing by the water?’ Lorali asks me.

  She doesn’t have a clue, does she? Eye-sneezing. She is like a child herself.

  ‘They’re called tears.’ It is all I can think to say.

  ‘Why are there tears?’