Lorali Page 14

  The phone rings. She likes the phone very much and so when Marco gave her an itinerary for ‘phoners’ with journalists for the day, she was elated. She can waffle along to magazines, radio stations, blogs and newspapers for as long as they want her. Her opinions are so important. She speaks about fashion, art, politics and, of course, life in the Whirl. It doesn’t play on her for a moment that she is giving away secrets; they will all come out anyway in her autobiography. Her new frosted Swarovski-crystal-studded nails are twinkling as she admires them next to the feeble, dreary attempt at bubbles in the bath. Bubbles. In my water. Bubbles. How cheap. Disgusting. They are already going scummy. Of course they are. Why would you pollute my purity? Livid.

  This phone call is not an interview though. It is an emergency. A young boy has been eaten. Alive. In front of an audience of Walkers, by … wait for it … a sea monster. You know this. Opal is needed urgently for a press conference this afternoon.

  Opal stays calm, thanks the messenger and dials immediately for her hair and make-up team.

  ‘Thank you, Kelly, mwah, mwah, you too,’ she nibbles into the receiver, giggling. She is getting into this; Marco has taught her well. She glances over to the stack of gifts, the temporary clothes rail that room service has nervously assembled for her. A white rabbit-fur jacket with a matching muff catches her eye. It is only rabbit skin and anyway the thing is dead now; it is too late to save its skin. Besides, it will do nicely for the event. As soon as she puts the phone down she lays her head and hair fully into the bathtub, her hair wafting out like smoke, and then guess what she does?

  She screams.

  DRIFTING

  ‘Build me another, will you, Bingo?’ Queen Keppel is buzzing on seaweed; she and Zar haven’t spoken in ages. He tends the garden, attends his meetings and hunts. Meanwhile, Keppel inhales the gas of puffer fish. In the evenings she doesn’t want to sleep or tessellate or communicate. All she wants to do is cry until she is sick. Zar doesn’t have to see her tapestry to know this; their palace shook when she did. Keppel is trapped in a cycle: sobbing until her tongue swells, combing her hair, plaiting it, unpeeling it and doing it all over again.

  Zar knows what she has done, that she has ordered Opal Zeal to go public and out them. His partner made that decision and in his opinion it was a bad one. But he won’t say so. It would be out of line for him to ask her for reasons.

  Marcia whines; somebody has arrived. Keppel leans over her iron balcony and looks at the smashed green-stone tile flooring of the patio gardens. Glimmering. Lorali had helped choose that effect. Keppel usually loves to look down on it. But now she is too wasted to admire it.

  ‘Carmine? Myrtle?’ she calls down airily. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure? Are we due a committee meeting?’

  They are not smiling.

  ‘Have you heard the vibrations, Keppel?’

  (Hmmm. They should be adding a Queen in front of that, shouldn’t they?)

  ‘Perhaps. A little current here and there,’ Keppel lies. She knows full well that Walkers are already making fast movements towards them.

  They know that Sviley was not on his leash, and they know that Opal Zeal has not been seen in the Whirl, and they know that only one of them had a reason to be angry.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell us, Keppel?’

  SHOPPING

  It is early.

  The air is ripe with bleakness. Muggy.

  I knew I’d probably feel weird but not so … displaced. Out of my skin. The people of Hastings look like ghosts. There is still a big crowd at the beach. More police. Tape. Cameras. With those professional mics too. Not just the crappy local lot that would turn up to an egg-and-spoon race on the hill. I watch reporters speaking into lenses. Career-hungry runners from the TV channels rushing about in puffer jackets, holding flasks of hot coffee and asking questions. Susan’s dad from the offy is there, saying something into a microphone. I am too far away to hear what. But I see some people crying.

  It looks like the old town I know but for some reason it feels like I don’t know it. Like a station I’m passing through on a fast-moving train.

  I look at all the girl shops. They must have grades, like good ones and crap ones. I mean, what about a few months down the line when she’s all … you know … embedded and understands everything and knows the difference between crap shops and expensive shops and thinks I’m a cheapskate? But then again, it’s just clothes. Surely anything is better than wearing my T-shirts and Iris’s antiques.

  The shopping centre is packed as the rain has just started again. I see a few girls walk into the closest shop. It is also the biggest, so must be most popular. I’ve heard of it anyway. I see a couple of girls I recognise, so I duck behind the wall. It occurs to me that I’m only going to continue to see people I know so I might as well just get on with it. The sooner I’ve got the clothes, the quicker I can get back to Lorali.

  The shop is all bright and girly. It smells of plastic and nail-varnish remover and sugary cola-bottle sweets. I trail the rails. It’s hard to know what to pick. I scratch my head. Why don’t they put all the skirts together and all the tops together? Everything is everywhere! I feel myself getting in a proper fluster. There are a few mannequins dotted about so I just decide to copy one of them. She, this mannequin, looks kind of nice, easy-going, relaxed, but cool; I’d talk to her. I step up to the mannequin, stand next to her, look at us in the mirror. Yeah … we look –

  ‘Rory!’

  It’s Bev. Shit. Not now.

  ‘Bev. Hi.’

  ‘What you doing here, stranger?’

  ‘Shopping! What are you doing here more like?’ I say awkwardly, trying to be funny, but not being at all.

  ‘I work here.’ She flicks the little pass round her neck up at me like some wretched police officer flashing a badge, all smug that she’s sixteen and already has a job. It’s got her photograph on the pass. ‘See? So what about you? Wearing girls’ clothes these days or do you have a girlfriend now?’

  ‘A girlfriend?’ I squeal, sounding like a right dickhead now. ‘A girlfriend, nah, nah, nah.’ I try styling it out. ‘It’s research. I’m doing … fashion … at college.’ Big lie.

  ‘Fashion?’ Bev snarls. ‘You?’

  ‘I thought I’d try it – don’t look at me like that – anyway, what’s the big deal? You’ve always told me to dress better!’

  Embarrassed, she changes the subject. ‘Oh my god, did you hear about that boy on the beach? So sad. Crazy times at the moment, right? Can’t believe it.’

  ‘Sorry, Bev, I really need to – Boy? On the beach?’

  ‘Yeah, did you not hear? Where have you been? A boy drowned … Well, some people are saying he was eaten alive by a sea monster … Then all this mermaid stuff … so mad. That Charlotte Wood girl used to come in here all the time.’ She waves at a girl across the shop floor that she recognises. ‘I personally always believed mermaids existed.’

  I think I am about to pass out. I need to get my hands on a newspaper. I can’t find out news from Bev. Not here, like this. She will see my reaction. Plus, she’s way too smug.

  ‘So, I bet you can’t wait to get away from this manic town! I was hoping they’d give us the day off here cos of all the dramas but no such luck,’ she continues. ‘So what got you into fashion?’

  ‘Who are you, the bloody police?’ I snap.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just Elvis never mentioned it.’

  ‘Do you still speak to Elvis?’ What’s she been speaking to him for?

  ‘Yeah, sometimes we message. Here and there, this and that. He’s a good guy to know if you want to get into the clubs and stuff. He sorted me a fake ID too.’ She flicks her hair. Her eyelashes are long like a camel’s.

  I rub my eyes, proper stressed now. ‘Can I get that jumper and this stuff?’

  ‘Sure. So is your range a bit … mumsy then?’

  ‘Mumsy?’

  ‘Frumpy … like a bit … you know?’

  If you me
an I don’t want to dress Lorali like a tart like you, Bev, then yes, all right, mumsy please.

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘What size?’

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘Oh, Rory.’ Bev places a hand on my chest and giggles. I think about why I kind of used to like her. Her dark skin. Her upturned nose. Her curly hair, her brown eyes, her freckles, her big lips and the way they tasted like sweets all the time. Every single thing about her different from the girl waiting for me in the hut. She scrunches her face up. ‘Ror, sizes come in numbers … Eight, ten, twelve, fourteen and so on …’

  Don’t Ror me.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m a …’ and then her voice disappears. I can’t hear her any more because I’m sure I see a face I can’t quite place, but I know it. It gives me a terrible feeling. Looking at me, peering over the balcony from the floor above, watching me, watching me, boggling at me, before it disappears into the dawdling crowd of window-shoppers.

  ‘Do you want to come over to the tills?’

  I follow her and she starts bagging my stuff up. I’ve annoyed her. I’m not paying her enough attention.

  ‘Do you want to keep the hangers?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah. No. No. It’s just going on a model for my, erm … portfolio. Thanks.’ This one outfit isn’t going to be enough. ‘Can I get some knickers too?’

  ‘Knickers?’ she snarls. ‘Are you designing underwear too?’

  ‘Just in case the … erm … model doesn’t wear knickers,’ I say in a rush.

  ‘Surely this model, if she’s professional, will wear knickers?’

  ‘Best to be safe.’

  AN OLD FRIEND

  I knot the last feather to the others, using the fishing wire to attach them all together. I loop the feathers round the beams. Softly curling. Floating. Feathers belong to the sky. If we ever saw a feather float, we assumed it was bait anyway. That the hunters used. We never trusted them. We were trained to never trust. An unforgiving, harmful species are the Mer. The Walkers are different. Open. Smiling. Positive. Welcoming. Natural. They don’t lie like my species. Not to the ones they love.

  I can hear footsteps shuffle along the pebbles. Rory must be home. I am hungry. I missed him.

  There’s a knock at the hut door. We aren’t expecting anybody. The door is locked. Only somebody with a key can enter. Only Rory and Flynn have keys. It isn’t Rory. It isn’t Flynn.

  ‘Hello?’ It’s a male voice. ‘Anybody in there?’

  I stay quiet. I’m good at hiding. I must be good at hiding.

  ‘Hi,’ says the voice. ‘If you’re in there, can you let me in? I know who you are. You can trust me.’

  Never trust anybody who says that.

  I stay completely still. I watch my feathers. Twirling. Gentle. Gentle.

  ‘Rory sent me.’ Rory? I creep closer towards the door. ‘Do you know Rory? Tall-ish … brown hair? Green eyes? Too good-looking for his own good? Wonky teeth that somehow look better than anybody in the world with straight teeth?’ the voice jokes. They do have a point. And a sense of humour. And they obviously know Rory.

  ‘Why did he send you?’ I ask. The words jump out. Big loud words.

  ‘He’s in trouble,’ the voice says. ‘He needs our help.’

  Trouble? And so I open the door. Just like how a real Walker would.

  TAILING

  ‘All right, Rory?’

  ‘Just act normal. Look like you’re expecting me,’ I say through gritted teeth, and Flynn awkwardly pats me on the back as he lets me shove past him. He looks about before closing the door behind us.

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘My phone’s run out of battery! For the millionth time, Flynn! No bloody thanks to you!’ It’s not his fault but I’m scared.

  ‘Where’s Lorali?’

  ‘At the hut.’

  ‘On her own? You left her?’

  ‘I didn’t have a charger, a newspaper. I had to find out what was going on and how much everybody knew about us … her, I mean. Listen … quick … I think I’m being followed. Back from the New Town. I couldn’t risk walking back to the hut.’

  ‘Followed? Who by?’

  ‘I was in a shop getting clothes for Lorali and I think it’s one of those blokes. You know from The Serpent, that night, when they were all there.’

  ‘The pirates?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so?’ I am breathless. ‘I was being followed. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But why would he be in a girls’ clothes shop?’

  ‘Probably looking for girls. Probably trying to find Lorali.’

  ‘Pirates?’ Iris bear-foots it down from the attic, his rickety ladder twanging with every step.

  ‘He’s up there all the time now, since he met Lorali,’ Flynn whispers to me. He watches his granddad plodding down the ladder and has to stop himself from trying to help him, like a parent with a curious toddler. I notice blood on Iris’s neck but I don’t mention it. Flynn bites his lip and stares at me. I don’t know what I’m meant to say.

  Iris frowns at us.

  Flynn speaks. ‘Pirates, yes. We think.’ Flynn looks to me to speak but I don’t. The more Iris remains silent, the more Flynn stammers. His mouth won’t close. ‘W-we’ve seen them before, in the pub, Rory and me – we saw them. Five, I think, pirates. Not a hundred per cent sure though, Granddad. I’m … I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, Granddad … Sorry.’

  ‘Before? When?’ Iris is serious.

  ‘Rory’s birthday.’ Flynn chews the skin round his thumb.

  Iris looks annoyed at Flynn. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d go all crazy like this and because anything to do with pirates or the whole sea in general makes you crazy … well, crazier, and, well … because we were in the pub and you don’t like me going to the pub.’

  ‘The law doesn’t like you going to the pub, Flynn, not me. Now, there are levels of secrets. This is too big a secret to sit on. What do they look like, these pirates?’ His urgency begins to frighten me. He seems stressed and he begins to pace. I know Iris is protective but this seems extreme. What does he know about pirates anyway? Flynn looks worried.

  ‘Kind of … good,’ I offer. It’s true. If it was them from the pub.

  ‘Good?’ Iris shakes his head in disagreement. ‘There is no such thing as a good pirate.’

  AWAY

  ‘I don’t understand … why can’t Rory just take me himself?’

  ‘He says it’s not safe.’ We are walking across the rocks and stones. It is near where I first met Rory. Where he showed me that kindness. It doesn’t make any sense to me that he wouldn’t be here himself. I know he would want to take me. Want me with him at all times.

  ‘Is somebody after him?’

  ‘We are not completely sure but he doesn’t want to risk it.’

  ‘And where did he say he will meet us?’

  ‘On the boat.’

  ‘But we aren’t going to sail?’

  ‘No. I’ve told you this.’

  ‘So you won’t lift the anchor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is after him?’

  He falters and then he says, ‘Pirates.’

  ‘Pirates?’

  ‘Unfortunately. That’s why we’ve got to get you out of Hastings.’

  ‘Why? Why are they after him?’

  But his eyes look at me and he doesn’t even have to answer. They are after him because of me. I’ve put him in danger. The first time I am happy, and I ruin it. I bring trouble everywhere I go. I look back towards Hastings. The rolling thunder above it. The little houses. I had always wanted to live in a proper house. With windows and a door. With a knocker. And a letter box. And letters addressed to me. I want normal things too. But I am so far away.

  I let him lead me towards the boats and say nothing. The crunch of the stones beneath my feet crackles. The wind batters my ears. His grip is hard.

  The clos
er we get to the water, the sicker I begin to feel. I feel ill. Like I might pass out. Like I might die. Like I might lose oxygen.

  ‘Please … I don’t think I can … Can we please just wait here?’ I dig my heels into the stones.

  He pulls me towards the water. ‘No, somebody might see us … you, I mean. Somebody might see you.’ He pushes me a little harder. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’

  ‘But I can’t. I don’t want to go back. I can’t. Not there.’

  He knows who I am. He must be a friend of Rory’s. I can hear the waves rushing. The water spitting. It’s angry with me. It’s calling me. It’s just like how Iris told me. The way it called my mother. The way it tempted her. The way it took her under. The way it beckoned her down. And she was choiceless. But she had a chance. She was salvaged. I won’t be salvaged. Once you surface you can’t reverse. I don’t even know if I can even swim in there any more, let alone breathe. Survive. Down. Down. I feel sick. The rabid waves are licking. Like a fire. My knees are jelly. My legs are loose. I fall. Onto the stones. My skin is young. It bleeds. It hurts. The sharks sniff me. I fear. The beasts sniff me. Hear my heart. He collects me up. The salt seeps into the new pores on my skin.

  ‘Quick. Hurry,’ he says. He is impatient but he keeps smiling at me. Reassurance. Every time I think not to trust him, he just smiles. Softly. He reminds me of Rory. There is an essence of familiarity. I can smell Rory on him. ‘Think of Rory,’ he says. As if I need reminding. But he reads my mind. The thought of Rory. It gives me strength. I pull myself back up. My bones crack. I flop forward. He holds me up. His arms round me. The water. The sea. It laughs at me.

  A HOMECOMING

  Come, child. Come.

  Don’t listen to me, child. Don’t trust this one.

  Come on, child. This is your home. Come swim.

  Run. Use your legs. Use your legs. Muscle. Bone. Veins. Nerve. Blood. Run.