Lorali Read online

  ‘Shine,’ she would have said. ‘And you will.’

  Lorali did wonder why nobody else seemed to be changing at the rapid pace that she was. And even though both her mother and grandmother had assured Lorali that it was because she was royal, and that it would all become clear once she resolved, she knew that other Mer in the Whirl spoke of her as though they knew more, saying things they would never say to her face.

  Everybody tried to steal a moment with Lorali. But she avoided the confrontation. The older Mer drunkenly congratulated her, some with bellies flopping over the lip of their tapestry (walrus milk is very fattening, taking a toll on the appearance). With goggled eyes boggling down her chest as they pulled her close, Lorali would excuse herself and wriggle free of their embraces. She avoided the nattering pecks of the gossiping ones, the scenesters, who licked powdered-starfish lollipops that made them rush. Who dissolved the dried coral candy on their tongue, letting the cracking electric tingle dance on their buds and became all tactile. Touchy. Seductive. Brave and daring with the added courage from a little celebratory buzz, suggesting and assuming how Lorali’s tapestry would resolve:

  ‘It will be beautiful, the best we’ve seen yet.’

  ‘I think white and gold. Pure and innocent.’

  ‘I think it will be the texture of moss. Soft. Natural.’

  Of course none of them could predict really.

  Then there were the Mer whom Lorali wanted to know but was always kept at a distance from. Like Yurline, with her knotted cables of dreadlocks entwined with rope and bark; she seemed like fun but Queen Keppel never let Lorali roam with her. Or the girl with the flame-orange hair and the heavy chest, who seemed to know everyone. Or the male with the long hair in plaits that hung either side of his chest. With the beard. He was always laughing. Or Opal.

  Opal was there tonight with an emerald-green sequin band wrapped round her chest. Her hair towers were mossy green, with gold chains looped round them. She wore big lashes, and glitter and shiny gold lipstick. She had a lip stud today. Gold tattoos. Lorali watched her. The way she moved with superiority; the power she absorbed by knowing so much more about the universe than the rest of them. What had she seen? Where had she been? What were the Walkers like?

  Even I felt young Lorali watching Opal. The tug she felt towards her. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when Lorali got the confidence to speak with her that evening.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Opal,’ Lorali began, her eyes drinking her up.

  ‘I am honoured to be here.’ Opal was very professional and knew to keep smiling at all times.

  Perhaps it was the buzzy heat of the walrus milk or the lull of the squid ink, but Lorali had a sudden wave of confidence that she decided to ride.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘What’s what like?’ Opal pretended ignorance but I knew she knew what the young Mer was thinking; she’d have been lying if she said she could not feel her curiosity.

  ‘The surface. Beyond.’

  Opal’s eyes rummaged the gathering, desperately checking on the queen and her mate before she answered. ‘Why are you concerned with the surface, Princess? You have everything you need here. You live in paradise.’

  ‘What if tomorrow isn’t …’

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  I could hear both their hearts taking turns to thud.

  ‘What everybody expects?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What if … I’ve been thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking? Dreaming of things …’

  ‘Have you been thinking of things you shouldn’t be?’ Opal already knew the answer to this.

  ‘What if … Say I had … Say I had been thinking …’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Opal ordered.

  Lorali ducked her head, politely smiling as onlookers waved, beckoning her to dance. ‘If I had been wondering what life was like … up there … would those thoughts show on my tapestry?’

  ‘It depends how much you think about them.’

  Lorali sipped her cocktail; she was tipsy. Opal sensed as much and gave the young princess some insight.

  ‘At my resolution, my tapestry spoke loud. No matter how I tried to tell my mother that I wasn’t interested in humans … Walkers … whatever … I could only lie to a certain point. My tapestry was covered with what I wanted from life.’

  ‘And what happened to you?’

  ‘I was an outcast for a while. I was bullied. I was … Some would slash my tapestry, cut me … deface me. They were angry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ Opal took a big glug from her cocktail then took another from a passing waiter’s tray. She clenched her ringed fingers round the trunk of the glittered clay tumbler filled with coral sour, her favourite cocktail.

  ‘Go on …’ Lorali was hooked. My waters were shifting.

  ‘I was made an example of.’ Opal sipped, her mouth continuing to smile even though her eyes were shrinking with the painful memories. ‘I was an embarrassment to the Whirl. But it didn’t curb my fascination … not that I didn’t feel bad … but I just couldn’t help my feelings. I collected anything I could to do with humans. I was addicted. Even though it meant I was a freak. I don’t want you to have to go through that.’

  ‘But now you’re so valuable. Your work is precious to the Whirl.’

  ‘That’s only because they need me. I am the only one with enough experience for the job. I was halfway there already; in my mind I was already gone. Ready to give it all up anyway to transform … Why unpick the stitches of my tapestry and train somebody else when I had taught myself so much? But I am lucky. I get to do something I love. I get to enjoy both worlds, but it’s not easy. I’m not stupid. I’m not supported, and I’m certainly not protected. They allow me to do this job because it’s high-risk and, yes, although my work is precious it’s not valued. They all know they could lose me at any moment. I sacrifice myself for the Whirl. I belong to them. They know that.’ Opal looked angry. She was angry at everything. ‘Now they try to pretend that they never hurt me the way they did. That they never made me feel like a monster. They let me pretend I’m glamorous. But I’ve seen the way they look at me. When I wear make-up. When I cover up. When I do my nails.’

  Lorali admired Opal’s nails. They were glittery. Long. Fake.

  ‘They look beautiful,’ Lorali said, but she wasn’t sure. Were everybody’s nails like that on the land?

  Opal sank her cocktail. ‘I like them.’

  ‘Why don’t you surface?’ Lorali asked. She whispered it. It was one of those words that just didn’t get thrown around.

  Opal laughed. ‘I tried to. They think they saved me from it. They said I never would have made it, not have survived surfacing. Even though my tapestry was full of Walker threads, they said it would kill me. They said they would find a way to make life work for me. And they did. And here I am.’

  ‘You would have survived surfacing,’ Lorali said bluntly.

  Opal’s eyes filled. ‘Well … that doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘You’re strong. You’re probably one of the only Mer that I think could make a surface. You could go now! You could go today!’

  ‘I wouldn’t now. I am in a good position. I’ve convinced them that I know what I’m doing. And I have my whales.’

  The more drunk they became, the more their heart-to-heart was becoming more obvious. They had been speaking privately for too long. Queen Keppel became suspicious and swiftly left the group she’d been speaking to.

  ‘What about you?’ Opal quickly muttered. ‘You’re stronger than you think.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Lorali watched her mother motor over. ‘I haven’t even had my resolution.’

  ‘And what if you don’t like what you see?’

  ‘I’m not ready. I am not even fully grown.’

  ‘How many Mer grow anyway, Lorali?’ Opal winked. The strong warm fuzz of the cocktails perhaps, maybe that was what made her say it? Or perhaps it was just an inner burn? Somet
hing she had to get off her chest?

  She left Lorali with the sting and trailed off to meet Keppel.

  ‘Queen Keppel! Are you having a euphoric time?’ Opal switched on her professional warmth with the perfected persona she always employed: forced white teeth, eye contact, a straight back and both hands wrapping round Keppel’s.

  ‘Is Lorali all right?’ Keppel asked, a drawn-out look of paranoia snatching at her eyes. She isn’t one for trusting.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘What were you talking about?’

  ‘Her resolution, Your Majesty.’

  ‘What about it?’ Keppel tried to look calm. She hadn’t managed even a sip of drink all night and her nerves were getting the better of her.

  ‘Only how ecstatic she was.’ Opal was well trained in reeling off interpreted information as fact: lying.

  ‘Of course. I am sorry, Opal. I am so paranoid for tomorrow. Zar and I have worked so hard on Lorali. I wish I had my mother here; she loved Lorali so. I just don’t want to disappoint. Or be disappointed.’

  ‘You won’t be, Your Majesty. You have a good girl there. She is happy. She is golden.’

  ‘Thank you, Opal. For everything.’

  ‘My absolute pleasure.’ Opal curled her manicured hand round Keppel’s rattled wrist. Keppel’s cuffs chinked. Opal smiled sincerely. ‘You should get some rest,’ Opal suggested and Keppel laughed in relief. Her high yellow-blonde ponytail held her glass-like features in place as she glided away, like a swan on ice.

  A FAIR EXCHANGE

  I can hear him. He is trying to flag down a boat. Why is he doing that? In this emptiness. In this stillness. It seems anything is possible. My brain is torturing me. It could be that Rory never loved me, never wanted me the way I wanted him. I was just a novelty. I feel angry. Weak. Small. Sad. And then I hear the clang.

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  The clang. The knell. No.

  GA-DANG

  I know it too well. I panic. I know it. It can’t be … but I smell their smell. That oil. That stench. It is unmistakable. The one we feared. We have been taught this sound. Told to avoid it at all costs. Then here he is. This one. Tracking down the Cetus. I am raging. NO! He is calling for the Cetus. Why is he doing that? I hear the bell again.

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  GA-DANG

  The bell that was wrapped round my – no. No. I have to get out. But I can smell the salt too. The water. I don’t even know if I can swim in the sea any more with these legs. It’s too vast. Too big. Too forever. We are out too deep. Too far. What would happen to me? And how would I jump? I have never practised a jump before. Gravity. What happens there? And the Cavities … they would get me anyway now. I am too close. But what would they want with me when I no longer even have a tapestry? Surely I mean nothing to them … Could I be bargained? Swapped? Exchanged? Tortured?

  The boat seems too slow.

  I have to jump.

  I feel sick.

  I have to jump.

  I have to –

  He has got me. A knife to my throat. Traitor! Before I can even think I wrestle but I don’t know how to use these limbs to fight. Kick. Kick. I can feel each bone rubbing against the next. Like teeth grinding. Clunk. Grind. Snap. Brittle. Chalk. Rock. Flint.

  He drags me up to the deck. I am wriggling. I am wriggling. But my fear of the water is strong now. Even the smell. I am out too deep. In the middle of nowhere. Darkness. Wrapping. Freezing. Teeth chattering. Warping my vision. The Cetus. I see it now. I smell his fear. Be scared, you coward! Be afraid, you tiny soul! Their boat. Them. The Cavities. The bell, the gap between each ring becomes longer, further apart. Lost its rhythm. It’s slowing. It’s coming closer.

  GA-DANG …

  GA-DANG …

  GA-GA-DANG

  I can’t look up. I can’t look up. Netta. Netta. I can’t look up. The two boats bob. Engine purring.

  ‘Far out for a boy like you,’ one of the Cavities snarls. I wait for more words. I wait for them to settle. Bargain. Argue. I close my eyes. They are sneering. Laughing.

  Then I am lifted. Seized.

  It is the easiest lift in the world. I’m not heavy. No, not me. I am a fish bone. I am a slice of moon. I am a teardrop. I flop. Like a dress. Fall. Faint. I can’t move. Paralysed with fear. Every inch of me feels too human. Too soft. Too weak to … find the strength. Tense. Breathe. Find it. Remember why you came.

  I fight. Scrap. Scratch. Claw. Dig. Punch. Kick. Scream. Scream. Throat ripping. Bloody. Snag. My nail. Blood. More. My hair. Pulled. Dragged. Snatch. Slash. Slit. Weep. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. Pull. Wrest—

  To the ground.

  No air.

  ‘Oi! Oi! She’s mine! She’s mine! You can’t just steal her away like that … I want to be a pirate! I want to be a pir— I’ve shown my worth, now give me MY spot!’

  ‘Shut up, boy.’

  ‘Kill him.’

  My wails are uncontrollable. I taste iron in my mouth. Blood. Biting my tongue.

  ‘Just be done with him,’ a gravelly voice orders. The Cavities. The heartless crew of the Cetus, and they are not Walkers. They are capable of anything and I don’t want him to be dead, this boy, even though he has led me to this. I don’t want that to happen. He is still my only chance. My only hope. Clinging by a thread. A Walker. Somebody with a soul. I doubt. I can’t even work out if this was planned or not. Did Rory know about this? No. He couldn’t have. Was this part of my kidnap?

  I am on their boat now. There would be a plan. There is always a plan. But the Cavities of the Cetus never bargain with anybody.

  It stinks. Rancid. Fish. Blood. My own blood. The floor is sharp. Wet. It is dark. I don’t know what is blood and what is seawater. What is dirt. Death. Spit. Too dark. What comes from me? What doesn’t? Fluid. My knees. A filthy woman is sitting on my back. My face squashed into the floor. Sweat in my eyes. Seawater in my eyes. Stinging. Red.

  He is scared. The boy. I can hear it in his voice. He pretends not to be, but he is. He is an actor, I suppose. He is a fraud. A trickster. He fooled me. He is no friend of Rory’s.

  He is holding his nerve. ‘Oi!’ he tries again. ‘I want to be … you know … a part of this. I’ve shown you I’m good. Now reward me.’ The boy’s voice wobbles.

  ‘Give him some. We might need him again,’ a voice from a Cavity demands.

  ‘I’m not giving him any. He ain’t done us anything,’ another argues back.

  ‘We have the girl, don’t we?’

  ‘I ain’t giving him any. We worked hard for that load.’

  ‘Don’t make out that it’s work, you love it,’ another cackles. ‘The thrill. When they cry and scream “Oh, don’t!” Those pretty little brainless mermaids.’

  ‘Give him some or I’ll give him you!’

  And then it falls. Through the air. A big sack of I know just what. Skin. Tapestry. Patched tapestry. It lands in my kidknapper’s little stolen boat with a slosh. He knows to sail away. He does it quick. He leaves me. He sold me. And away he goes. Smaller. Smaller. Smaller. On the choppy waters away. Leaving me. In the blinding empty darkness. My flickering flame of hope blown out.

  ‘Good lad,’ sniffles the gravelly voice.

  ‘We know who you are,’ the dirty Cavity woman whispers in my ear, her wet crackly breath splatting my eardrum. Her hands are gritty, like sand, her grip clenching. With her nose snuffed into my neck she lets her voice slink up the vertebrae of my spine gently, like sneaking up a ladder. ‘We know exactly who you are, pretty little girl,’ she sniggers, taking pleasure in holding my body up against her own. She rocks me. Her pelvis shoved into the base of my back. I gag from her smell alone. She wrangles for my breasts with her worming stiff fingers. ‘Now let’s see if your skeleton is as pretty as your grandmother’s.’

  STUNTING

  The cameras wink, the crowds cry out, ‘Opal!’ and she waves like a queen herself. She smiles big. Almos
t forgetting that she was meant to be defending her kind. I am there. Keeping her hydrated. Today her hair – a masterpiece, said Kelly, her stylist – represents my waves themselves, in smooth ripples as though the sea (being, yes, me) had kissed her on the forehead with its blessing. I mean, AS IF! REALLY?

  I am just speechless. Absolutely speechless.

  The white rabbit-fur coat has been pinned at the back by her stylist and Opal wears twinkles on her lashes. Each one studded with a new jewel. She looks very … jovial. Carnival-ready if you ask me. But apparently she is in mourning, remember, here to show her ‘deepest’ and ‘most sincere’ ‘sympathy’ and ‘condolences’ to the families of those lost – the Woods and the family of the little boy. Not, of course, that it was anything to do with her.

  The cameras flash. The reporters take their notes. Record her. And it is then, in that moment, that she decides to do something else, something unplanned. Something spontaneous. Her publicist Marco shifts in his chair and coughs.

  ‘In fact,’ she breathes, her silhouette warming under the blinks of lenses and artificial light, ‘I would very much like to cut my ties with the Mer and the Whirl entirely. I realise that I have been poorly educated and employed by individuals within the Mer elite in order to facilitate sickening and perverse behaviour.’

  The journalists gasp. Take notes. Marco smirks.

  ‘They bullied me. They cut me. They ridiculed me for my human interest. This has been an escape for me. Finally I am no longer a fish in a net. I am home. I do not wish to ever return.’