Lorali Page 18

  She was on the outside too. On the other side of the line of what it meant to be accepted. Not the brightest bulb in the box, but she loved to sing and dance and play, and she was pretty. She loved to sit with Iris whilst he did his drawings. Ask what colour he was going to shade each with. He said no colour. He did line drawings. When she asked why, he replied, ‘Because there’s no colour in my eyes.’

  He didn’t mind her being there. He was shy so even if he wanted her gone he wouldn’t have found the strength to say so. Luckily he didn’t want her to go anywhere. Their friendship bound them together.

  The local boys would pick on Iris. Call him names, say he was dumb, lazy, slow. He couldn’t defend himself. They didn’t understand why that pretty girl wanted to sit with that ‘waste’ all day long. They were jealous.

  One day the girl said, ‘Why do you let them speak to you like that? Call you names? Treat you so badly?’

  And he said, ‘They can say whatever they like. It doesn’t bother me.’

  The girl brought Iris some colouring pencils. He said thank you but he didn’t use them. He liked the world best in black and white. Simple. Like the circle.

  The boys sometimes got angry that Iris didn’t react. When they were bored they would throw stones and pebbles from the beach. She would stand up and throw the stones back because Iris didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Just wanted to draw me. Over and over again.

  The boys would eventually get bored and leave. She would turn to him, freckles and eyes and prettiness, and say, ‘What have you been drawing then?’

  ‘The sea,’ he would answer as normal and then ask, ‘Can you draw?’

  And she would say, ‘No. I prefer colouring.’

  ‘Here you are then.’ Iris tore out a sheet of paper from his sketchpad, quickly drew a few circles for her to work with and handed her the pencils. ‘You can colour these. That will give you something to do.’

  And she was so touched. Happy to be included. She coloured and coloured and coloured until every circle was completely stacked with colour and when she was done he drew double the amount of circles and when she was done he drew double again. And each time she filled the lines with colour. I think she loved them all the more because she was filling in his hand-drawn pencil lines.

  And then one day. When the sun was out. And I was calm. He unfolded his sketchpad and he hadn’t been drawing me at all, he had drawn her. She was beautiful. It was perfect and she cried half with joy and half with sadness, and then she kissed him.

  But the boys were watching.

  They had seen.

  This would make Iris angry, they thought. This would make the big tall dumb boy retaliate.

  They picked her up and took her down to the beach with Iris screaming and charging behind. He was cross now. Angry. Mad and strong. He fought them as best he could. But he was outnumbered. They beat him until his skin was punctured, beaten like bruised fruit, his bones like a dropped jigsaw puzzle, splattered on the ground. He still reached for her, bleeding on the stones and sand grains. Until they tore her clothes off and took turns and he was pinned down, cheek and ear kissing the stones, forced to watch.

  At last it was over.

  And he ran to her but she didn’t want to talk or hold hands or laugh or be close and he tried to understand and make it better but she just wanted to not be near him. Not be near anyone.

  And he didn’t draw. And she didn’t ask what he was drawing any more.

  And three days later she threw herself into the sea.

  And Iris … the scars on his body were healing but his heart was not. He went to the petrified forest and he pleaded with the trees to bring her back to him. To make her safe. To make her happy. To pass on messages that he was sorry that he couldn’t do more and that he loved her and missed her but the trees were always numb. His words would ricochet off every trunk.

  So he carved the words in with a key or with his penknife. And dreamt and drew circles and the silence swamped him but it was all he knew, that and the violin. And just when he thought he should give up, that he was hopeless …

  Something very unusual happened. From the carvings a memory was triggered. She remembered a feeling. Iris. His kindness. The way he saw the world. And with the help of the etchings, she trained her mind to remember more and more. They flickered back to her, came in little pieces, like clues. And as rare and as strange as it was for a Mer to remember, Carmine did just that. She remembered.

  And one day there was a message left for Iris.

  I am here. I remember you. I am safe. I love you too.

  SKY RATS

  Gone.

  Gone.

  Gone.

  I cannot believe it.

  I stare into the sea for answers. I look to Mum.

  ‘Come on, let’s get back in the car. We can get anywhere we want in this banger.’ She is trying to be positive but there is something inside me that knows she has gone. She isn’t here. I left her once and was warned, and then I’ve gone and done it again and lost her. My organs are thumping. I am bleeding. It feels like my heart is bleeding. Everything is hot. I gulp. Dry throat. Mum grips me tight. ‘It’s OK. It will be OK. We will find her, I promise.’

  ‘Mum. I …’ I can’t stop shaking my head. ‘FUCK!’ I scream.

  ‘Oh, Rory.’

  She holds me. I wrestle the hug, then she breathes me in, deep. I feel special. Loved. Important. I feel sick that I’ve had a parent all this time, one that I’ve shared a home with, that has loved me, fed me, watered me, washed my clothes, taught me everything I know, wanted the best for me, and all I’ve done is waste my energy on my dad. Wondering why he left. When I couldn’t change that. I couldn’t make him come home.

  ‘Come on. Ror, come on. Pull it together, son.’ She strokes my hair.

  ‘She’s gone. I know it. I just know it.’

  ‘We’re not giving up yet.’

  But the thoughts in my head and my exhaustion are making me delirious. And I can’t seem to move out of my mum’s close hug. Then I feel warmth. The sun beating down. The sun. Now. Warm on me and Mum. On our skin. I look up. It’s orange. Blinding.

  And then, out of nowhere, these crows start crowding above me. For the first time in my life I actually want one to crap on me – bird poo brings you good luck, so it might be worth a go. But they get closer, and closer. They are more like eagles … vultures … and they come even closer and swoop down like they are about to attack me.

  ‘Mum … Mum … watch out!’

  We duck and it’s then I notice their actual size and features and faces and they aren’t eagles or vultures at all.

  They are women.

  And their claws, as if I am prey, snatch me up. They are cawing. And I feel myself being lifted. They are prising me out of Mum’s hands and I am screaming. And then the strangest thing happens: Mum starts to attack them back.

  ‘No you don’t!’ she growls, slapping the crow women, scratching blood streaks into their faces. She punches and kicks, clawing the birds. She’s not even frightened. She doesn’t care.

  One topples over. She’s angry. Wipes her face. Lipstick smears. Who are they?

  Mum wrestles with me, pulling me back as I start to rise into the sky. I am shouting for her. ‘MUM! MUM! MUM!’ She grabs my foot. My mum, she holds me. Screaming, still fighting. My trainer in her hand, all at once, falls off.

  I hear her cries as the bird woman snatches me away. And all I can think to do is just shout, ‘Mum!’ I fill my lungs and make my voice louder. ‘Mum, I love you!’ I shout into the air.

  And before I know it I am in the sky and Hastings is tinier and tinier and tinier and tinier and tinier. And then nowhere to be seen.

  ABOARD THE CETUS

  I thought I would never make it this far once I surfaced. If I surfaced. But I never ever thought this was going to be my destiny. Here. Of all ships. Do I really deserve this? My mind swims back to my resolution. My interest. My thirst. My curiosity for this Walker life.

/>   I remember waking up on the day of my resolution. The water was clear. My hair was coloured. I was ready. A woman now. My mother wrapped me up in her arms. Held me to her chest. I looked at her tapestry. The shades. Soon I would have one like hers. Would it be like hers? I wouldn’t have the light coloured slip I was used to. I would form. Change. Resolve into something. I was excited. Nervous too. It feels so long ago now.

  Zar met me. He stood proud. Strong. His chest was a landscape of muscle and shape. The body of strength. His long straight dark hair. His beard. He didn’t salvage me, but he raised me and he did well.

  I remember what he said: ‘Whatever happens, no matter what, we love you. We are proud of you. You have made me the happiest father a Merman could wish to be. You will always be our little girl.’

  He smelt of blood from hunting whale for my celebratory meal.

  I remember feeling sad. I was nervous about the change. Sometimes a resolution can give away so much about a Mer that it plants seeds. Changes the way the Mer is, the way they carry themselves. Although necessary, sometimes the resolution can do more harm than good.

  I knew that.

  My mother wore a peach netted veil. Her hair was up high, away from her face. She wore nipple jewellery and a body chain that wrapped round her ribs and hips and pierced her stomach. I will never forget that jewellery. How each stone shone. The cut of every ice.

  Mer came from all over to watch from the coral balconies. Many were already drinking. A royal resolution was not one to be missed. It was an event. Only the council and my closest were invited to the ceremony.

  And then it was time.

  I lay on the white rock, where the light comes through in slants. My mother looked sick. Ill. Nervous. But she smiled at me whenever I looked to her for reassurance. Opal Zeal was there too. Her whales clacked, but I think they were grieving for Dad’s hunt. I felt sad for them and their sad song.

  Then it began. They bound me up. In seaweed. My family and I drank blessed oysters. My mother held my head. They bathed me in the kissed water. This is water from the deepest part of the ocean. It is freezing cold. So cold the top is frozen sleet. Dark blue. It is sacred seawater that has been kissed by all the council members. Then the projections began. It is a show, for all. Of me. Complicated. A concentrated montage of illusions. Shapes. Patterns. They were amazing. Everyone was gasping. I was royal. Yellows, greens, silvers, golds, iridescent illumination, moonshine, purple, cream. The tones were spiralling, winking, twinkling. The public were gasping, clapping. My mother was laughing, in awe, relief. Zar was proud. Tears in his eyes. I was watching too. It captured everything about me. My likes, my dislikes, my wants, my hopes, my thoughts, of independence and music, of food and conversation and movement, and my love of animals. Of Walkers. Of beautiful things. Of innocence. Of my love for the petrified forest. Of purity. These colours and shapes would soon be on my tapestry and I would be complete. Able to salvage. To hunt. To perhaps visit the top of the Whirl even? Not just the forest. To tessellate. To be an individual. Uncaged. Not a pearl trapped inside an oyster shell.

  And then suddenly … the shadows crept in. Shadows translate as secrets. Images jarring. They didn’t stop either. At first the crowd thought this was my personality. I was cheeky. I was blunt. Sometimes I was naughty. I had been known to pull tricks. To dream. To be devious and rub some up the wrong way – but then more shadows came, and more and more. Hatched, spiked lines. Shrinking grooves and shapes that looked like strangling hands. Terrifying. Mer looked away. Couldn’t watch. Hands over mouths and eyes and ears. And eventually a tumble of big blotchy red came. A sun of red. Blood. My mother began to cry. It was written on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to my father. I was thinking, why is she sorry? Why would she be sorry? He tried to stay strong but then couldn’t. He swam away. My mother wanted to go after him. But she couldn’t. She had to be present during the resolution as she had salvaged me, otherwise the projections would be incomplete. I remember panicking. Where had he gone? I wanted to go after him myself. I would have if I hadn’t been wrapped completely, nearly paralysed in seaweed. I remember thinking, What did they mean? Opal tried not to look as the other Mer watched intently like they loved it. This was drama. Royal drama. They were glad it wasn’t smooth. That it wasn’t perfect. Everybody wants to be at the top. The imperfections tickled them. But then more red came. Shadows. And then groaning. A sound. Audible. Then they weren’t so happy. They were shocked. Stunned. Scared. Horrified. I remember knowing this was wrong. I had been to lots of resolutions myself. This had never happened before. And then the resolver dipped his head.

  ‘I wanted it to work. I’m sorry, Your Majesty.’

  My mother held her stomach and then I understood. A deep purple scar with a silvering line emerged on her abdomen. Right before where her tapestry began.

  I was panicking. Wrapped in the seaweed made me helpless. I wanted to swim away to the petrified forest. Anywhere – but everybody was watching and I was trapped.

  ‘Tell me, Mother, tell me!’

  But she wouldn’t.

  And we all just had to suffer as my tapestry morphed and it was written right there in the pattern.

  My father was a Walker.

  I was half Mer and half human.

  I was the first child ever to be born in the Whirl.

  I was born in change.

  I was a miracle.

  After my mother’s salvation, I was cut from her womb.

  Zar had acted as my father but he had lied.

  Even Netta.

  Everybody had lied.

  And it was then that, without thinking – I was embarrassed – I wrangled free from the seaweed and off the white rock. The resolver was warning. Threatening. Panicking in fear of my mother’s punishment if he got it wrong. Even though it was too late already. ‘You still need a tapestry, child!’

  But I didn’t care.

  I swam. AWAY. I wanted to find him. My real dad. And all I had were the incomplete images on my tapestry. Of the coast. The English coast. England. Where my real father was from.

  Up

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  Into the centre of the Whirl. And I held my breath. Just how you’re not meant to and when I burst through I did not hold my breath any more and then I swam and I swam. Inhaled. I thought about my real father. Who was he? What did he think when his wife and baby had drowned in the sea? My mother hadn’t given him a chance. Given me a chance to know him. To even meet him. And then she had lied. Kept me in the dark. Wrapped inside a lie. I breathed. Deep. And I thought I saw the stars above me, the ones I had never been allowed to see, but everything was happening so fast that I didn’t have time to look and I breathed new air. Human air. Walker air. I had to concentrate on breathing; the air was flooding my lungs. I was dying, I was sure of it. I closed my eyes.

  And then I woke.

  And I had legs.

  And then I saw Rory.

  PREY

  They dump me on what seems to be an island. I am just about catching my breath. Then they fly off. Their wings are so big that when they flap they nearly blow my hair off. They are feathered, their wings black, green, orange, grey … speckled in places. They have hair. They have women’s faces, women’s bodies. But then these claws and their wings … They are bird women. It is so weird. Eugh. It stinks. Everything smells. I am in an oversized nest, bigger than a double bed, hanging from a tree. It is made of twigs and sticks and net. Feathers. There are odd things in the nest too: a lighter, a pen, an empty Coke can. It is like a bedroom. It smells so bad. Of blood. Of fag ash and coffee breath. Like bedhead. Of sweat. And dirt. Like your sheets after you’ve had the flu for two weeks and are finally ready to get out of your pit. I don’t want to touch anything because it feels so animal, like everything is made up of scent. I look up and see more nests above me, like balconies on a tower block. Except they are all made inside the branches. Clothing hangs
lazily over some, looking like washing, although I doubt any of it has been washed. Grubby knickers, tights, bras, dresses, jackets, men’s shirts.

  I can hear the sea. We flew over it. I was too afraid to wriggle free. I would have drowned. We were too fast anyway, and the grip of the bird was so tight. I can still see the red rings round my wrists and ankles where they held me.

  It is pointless trying to figure out my location. I look beneath me. I am high up. I see rock. Bird shit is splattered all over it like a distressed artist has flicked white paint everywhere. And red too. Blood. Gross. So they shit like birds and have periods like women? Or do birds get periods too?

  I can hear cawing. Giggling. I’m not sure what is woman and what is bird. I can’t see them either.

  Then I see the skulls. Heads. Head after head. In piles. Human skulls. Legs. Arms. Bones. And soggy entrails on the floor just all there. I feel sick. Repulsed. Then I see this heap, like a mountain of stuff from lost sailors and amateurs on the sea: glasses, wallets, shoes, walking sticks, maps, hats, clothing, bags … Items collected from what must be the victims.

  And then I notice a little makeshift kitchen. Made from wood and crates. A little table, chairs, cupboards, a sink of some sort. It is covered in empty bottles. Beer, wine, vodka, whisky, gin. Fag butts. Ashtrays. Biscuit wrappers. Knives. Rotten, rancid fruit – pineapples, oranges. Maggots. Fruit flies buzzing about. Strange-haired rat-like creatures sneaking in and out of the cabinets. Scavenging.