Lorali Page 2

  Arrrrrrr, but what if it’s not a suicide but a murder? Nope, can’t deal with this. It could be anything. Say somebody’s missing? Then what? I’ll have to live with knowing what I saw and not saying anything for the rest of my life. Like a coward. I am proper paranoid now. Oh please let me get some phone signal so I can call somebody and ask for help!

  But then the elbow moves. It’s alive. I am scared now, trembling. I gulp. Decide to move closer. I take my time, stepping carefully and cautiously. I slowly pick up a wedge of driftwood and hold on to it. I’ve practised this before, self-defence, with my baseball bat at home – hold the wood high, take a step, and then another and another and then another and –

  It’s a girl, about my age, completely naked. I drop the wood and let her eyes carry me towards her.

  THE FLOATING HOUSE

  Liberty is tired now. Old. This is the worst state I have seen her in. She needs painting, mending and improving but she never threatens to sink, or fails to glide on the floor of my wrecking waves. It seems, at times, like the whole of the ocean and everything inside it loves Liberty – or respects her, at least. Although she has been thrashed about and teased she has never capsized, never gone under. Her nickname is ‘The Floating House’ because she looks exactly like a vast Tudor mansion stuck onto a cabin and hull. Some think she looks ridiculous, bobbing about like a grand house that has slid off the edge of a cliff and manages to stay afloat; others find her appearance comforting or reassuring. But she makes everybody smile, no matter what they think of her. Even I know that no matter how much Liberty is done up, she will always slide back to her own ways; she is a creature of habit, a beast of comfort and won’t change for anybody. Not even her boys: for all their effort, she remains a scruffy girl.

  Despite Liberty’s magnificent size – her walls that seem to go on forever, her billowing sails that look like ladies’ bloomers drying on a washing line – she has a certain familiar charm to her, a sense of detail and fragility that makes her feel cottage-like.

  But like all mothers, though she appears harmless, when it comes to her boys, she is a weapon. She is a strong ship and the boys, her crew, they belong to her and she to them. Her anchor, an umbilical cord that reins them in like smooth maternal wisdom. We have a lot in common; her love, just like the ocean, is uncontrollable, never ceasing. It is wild and true. If I do say so myself.

  Otto, a year before twenty, is eldest of the Ablegares and so naturally, by default, the captain. A warrior with a simple heart, he is looked up to and respected for his kindness, yet liked little. It seems the Ablegare boys will go to great measures to get any glimmer of attention or praise from Otto, but when he does reward them with this side of his personality it is heart-rending and powerful. Otto loves nothing more than to play. He lives his life like a child. Everything is a game, a match, a competition. For a pirate, he rarely shows his sword – he is much more interested in mind games. But once the knife is out, the games are over, usually in his favour.

  Otto lives for two reasons: to laugh and to protect his younger twin brothers, Oska and Jasper. Oska looks up to his big brother. He is loyal, enchanted and impressionable. Would do anything for his brother. But Jasper, although he does as he is told, has an inky, wild rebellious streak that will occasionally strike. Jasper is electrifying, like a fork in a power socket. He has dark hollow bullet-black eyes. There are no two ways about it: Jasper is unpredictable, cold and mad, and it is no secret that he is also dangerous – loved very much, but dangerous. If these words fail to convince you of his untameable inner monster, you only have to know of the shiny snake-like scar cut like a gutter down his spine to understand what makes a mad man that mad. Perhaps you’ll hear about that in good time.

  Liberty watches her boys pawing through their newly stolen loot, stripping and dissecting the guts of the treasure-filled potato sacks; this is the Ablegares’ favourite reason to exist.

  ‘We have to hide all this before the yats board.’ Giacomo smiles as he raids the last sack of treasure, pulling it out onto the chest of Liberty, her torso now splattered in clunking, shining findings. ‘They will lose their shit if they see this.’

  Oska skins up on his knee. The tobacco leaves stir in the breeze like a mini autumn scene on his lap. ‘We all know that someone will lose their shit when they see you.’

  Egor grins dirtily. ‘She’s blusky for Momo.’ He is stitching a fix into one of Liberty’s sails. For such a rogue rhinoceros of a young man he has the tiniest and most delicate fingertips that can see to the most fragile of work; he is a truly refined artist in that respect.

  Giacomo waves the boys’ comments off, although his brow arches. It is true. One of the Sirens has become a little too taken with him.

  ‘No, it’s just a wax every now and then.’ He sighs, scratching his neck. The mottled purple flower of an ageing love bite sprays up under the collar of his crisp white shirt. He had told her not to.

  Oska snorts. ‘That’s not what she thinks. You always forget the rules – press and duck, press and duck – but it’s your own fault … you keep her hooked with the compliments and presents.’

  ‘I didn’t give her any presents!’

  ‘You gave her the pearls.’

  ‘They weren’t worth much.’

  ‘To her they were. How many presents do you think a skank like her gets? None. So to her it meant something.’

  Egor empathises. ‘Man’s a romantic. He’s a gentleman. He can’t help it.’

  ‘Yeah, and now she’s on you, bruv.’ Oska pats his pockets for a flume.

  ‘Pussy-whipped!’ Egor snickers through the thread in his teeth.

  ‘No! It’s her that’s whipped. You’re like nicotine, Mo. She’s addicted to you; can’t get enough of the stuff!’ Oska licks the Rizla paper of his roll-up, keeping the tobacco inside with his fingertips, the roach in the corner of his mouth making him mumble. ‘She’s on you. Hard. You give her too much affection, then once you try to take it away – OUCH. Cold turkey.’ He laughs affectionately, lighting, inhaling, blowing smoke.

  Giacomo shrugs. ‘The rejection is the connection. What can I say?’ He can’t help but smile, pulling on the roll-up. A largish part of him loves the attention from females, even if it is unrequited. Even if it is from a wild Siren.

  ‘You gonna wifey off that yat?’ Egor asks, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Are you dizzy? Momo wouldn’t wifey off a smatty jezebel like that. She’s grimy,’ Oska answers.

  ‘Maybe my man Momo has an acquired taste.’

  Giacomo cracks his neck. ‘Nah, she’s just a bang. It’s not a thing. She doesn’t care.’

  ‘She will care if you break her heart.’ Egor pierces the sewing needle back into the deep black flesh on his arm. Egor is fed up with losing his needles and the boys like to look fresh so he keeps a whole sewing kit of various pins and spikes in the soft flesh of his upper arms.

  These boys are proud. They always, even – no, especially – at sea, dress in immaculate sharp-collared shirts with starched, pressed suit trousers, braces and polished winkle-pickers or laced boots. Egor manages the grooming of the boys. Egor is Caribbean and keeps a dense afro himself but works hard to maintain the swag of the others’ hair, which is trimmed, oil slicked or clean shaven, with the exception of Oska, who wears pigtails but somehow manages to make them look like the best hairstyle in the world. Their faces are smooth and defined with not even a sign of shaving spots or the shading of new hair roots, apart from Giacomo, who wears a humble well-kept pirate beard, which, for his age of eighteen, says a lot about him. Egor plucks their brows, trims their nasal tunnels and keeps their hands and nails manicured, clean enough to feed new babies grapes. ‘Don’t slip. You gotta look good,’ he grins, his tongue forcing its way through the hippo-like gap in his teeth, ‘always.’

  Some wear more jewellery, but all the boys wear a small silver hoop or cross in their left ear. All also wear a silver chain holding an anchor, but most keep this under their shir
ts, as close to their hearts as possible.

  Oska inks the boys when the days are smooth, but nearly all the boys keep their tattoos to their arms, legs, lower neck and torsos; nothing that would make them look like a bad sort, nothing that would tarnish their impeccable, flawless shine, hinder that chance of a pocketing hand delving into a handbag and getting away with it too.

  The boys have prepared a lunch of octopus spaghetti and vodka. They like to dine big. And there is reason to celebrate: the steeple of stolen Rolexes, wallets, gold, silver and precious-stone jewellery from careless holidaymakers glistens by their table. Otto sits at the top of the spread, his sword at his side and a new Rolex on his wrist; the mother-of-pearl face judges its new owner. His seat is a wooden throne made from odd ends of crate with one of Egor’s own hand-stitched velvet cushions for comfort. He holds his knife and fork upright, like a cartoon imitation of a hungry person, ready and king-like.

  ‘Fam.’ He grins. ‘We have hit the belly with our booty this afternoon. After we fill, let us laugh at the loot. Salute.’ Otto raises a glass to the roof of the clear sky and all the boys bury their glasses into one another’s. ‘Let us eat! And be wavey!’ Otto announces, and the boys don’t need telling twice as their faces meet the food, as they swirl eel-like ribbons of pasta on silver forks, chink mismatched glass tumblers made from recycled jam jars and stolen crystal, and get drunker and happier under the soft glow of late summer.

  Liberty kisses the rocky shore of Savage Qualm. A little island. It is a clustered mangle of rock and cluttered, clattered sandstone and salt. It is home to the Sirens. The birds of the sea. These chicks are a unique and rare breed. At first glance they are all woman. Tangly, knotty, unwashed hair, harshly rotten but equally striking features. They are attractive in their own way, if you like that sort of thing. They wear feathered scraps that could be described as dresses, skirts, bodices, which they stitch together themselves with the help of Egor. Their skin is thatched in tiny pricks, pimpled like a plucked goose, although olive from their outdoor habitat. They are covered in bruises, cuts and grazes, as they are usually drunk. To me, they are no different from the drunken Walkers – humans, if you like – who sit in front of me in the summer, drinking and smoking and howling until the moon comes. Just more dangerous. They have wings. Huge feathered wings that span across the rock. The wings are splattered in earthy natural colours: greys, greens, blacks, reds, speckles too. They can fly. If they want. But it is dangerous for them. And they are lazy. They prefer their prey to come to them.

  There is another feature that makes them different: instead of feet they have claws. Like a bird. The same almost-dinosaur scaled legs, ankles and feet that birds of prey have, and then huge sharp black claws that they use for attacking. Some of the chicks wear holey fishnet tights too, which makes the entire look even more bizarre. Red lipstick, even. Push-up bras. Suspenders. Cheap browning hoop earrings.

  The Sirens are infamous for their appetite. They lure lost sailors and fishermen to their island with their song, their charming personalities, their eccentric style and flare; some of the Sirens like to stuff their bird feet into Dr Marten boots to appear the real deal. It always works for a gullible, bedraggled, sex-deprived sailor.

  The Sirens are welcome aboard Liberty as they aren’t interested in the Ablegares’ lunch. The Sirens like the delicacy of spoilt, rotten human flesh. Human flesh that they have preferably just had sex with: they like to taste themselves in the blood. The older the flesh, the better. The acrid tangly entrails. The bitter taste of chewy, stringy, decomposed muscle as it knots around their teeth. Hacking at bones with their claws and hands. The Ablegares aren’t at risk of being eaten by the wild Sirens because the Ablegares are useful to them. Powerful. They know my waters well and, besides, they make for a good mate, or at least look like it. And besides, the Ablegares are too skinny. Apart from Egor – but then they would lose their tailor. And no Siren who likes a frock of feathers wants that.

  The Sirens clamber aboard the boat. They are already intoxicated from their own supply of heady whisky. The seven Sirens flock the large table. Help themselves to vodka. Smoke. Some sit on the table: legs open and scraggy hair so greasy and heavy with salt that it doesn’t even blow in the wind. Tanning, giggling, picking old rancid skin from their teeth, they fester the table. They reek of dirty bed. Of nests. Of ripe, warm blood. Cleo, the one that has a soft spot for Giacomo, curls round the back of his chair, hugging his chest close. Her new pearls press against him. Her grubby nails claw into his hair, inhaling him; if she could snort him up her nose she would.

  She giggles, nibbling his ear. ‘I don’t know whether to kiss you or eat you,’ she growls.

  Giacomo laughs politely, batting her off and then pauses. (I am thinking I might have to call Giacomo by his informal sobriquet ‘Momo’ as the others do or else you will end up terribly confused. It never ceases to stun me how a nickname can often knock out a birth name completely … Then again, I’ve had so many myself … the sea, the ocean, the water, the blue, the deep. I could go on. Shall we stick with Momo? Very well. The rest is such a hullabaloo it’s nice to have some simplicity.)

  ‘Wait.’ Momo holds the table with his palms. ‘Do you feel that?’

  ‘What?’ Egor slurps a tentacle, his other hand slung round the shoulders of a Siren.

  ‘Listen,’ Momo instructs.

  ‘Chill, bruv,’ Otto reassures him, his hand stroking the legs of another Siren. The Siren giggles back dramatically.

  ‘Yes, Momo, my love, relax,’ Cleo says, trying to massage Momo.

  He wriggles out of her desperate tug and stops chewing his lunch. ‘Be quiet! Listen …’

  Cleo smacks his hand. ‘Stop dicking about. If you don’t like me, just say so.’

  Momo ignores her fishing for compliments and asks the table, ‘Don’t you hear it?’

  ‘Mo. Mo,’ Jasper says snakily. He likes to break names up when he is cross at somebody, as if verbally demonstrating the physical pain he could cause. He doesn’t like his mealtimes interrupted, even the Siren combing her hand through his hair is beginning to severely irritate him. ‘You’re doing my head in,’ he barks at her. ‘I’ll bite off those fingers of yours if you do that any more.’ She snatches her hand back as though she has just got an electric shock.

  Momo hushes him, his heavy eyebrow perched at an angle. ‘There. Did you hear it?’

  The boys simmer down to quiet, the Sirens keep their lipstick-painted mouths shut, and Momo is thankful that they do or else he will have to face Jasper’s temper later. He is right. Under the water are vibrations. The deepest, bluest, unmistakable moan of whale song. Which means one thing: they have been summoned, and when they stand to leave the sky opens and the rain, like diamonds, falls on their haircuts.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY

  I have already decided not to tell Mum. Not because I want to keep a secret from her but she’s just such a law-abiding citizen; she would go ape-shit. I’m not certain of anything yet and the girl has said nothing, just keeps looking at me with those eyes like she wants something from me. There are some people who have the eyes of babies or animals, not the actual eyes themselves, but the look within them. It’s innocence maybe, but she looks wilder than that, almost untamed; yes, that’s it, wild. Feral. This girl, she has that look. Eyes that look into you rather than at you.

  I can’t bring my own eyes to her body. Other than on TV and the few porno mags that Elvis has knocking about, the only women I have seen seen are my mum (which is a view I wish I could forget) and Bev. And that was just the top half. Sort of. This doesn’t count anyway … The only thing this girl really looks, if I’m honest, is chapping, like, proper cold. Blue lips, hairs on end and pale. It makes me freeze just looking at her.

  Without being weird, I can’t think for the life of me how I am going to get a naked girl through the Old Town. The town where everybody knows me and everybody asks questions.

  She is pretty, I know. But it isn’t like that. I find my
self more intrigued. Curious. Even more scared of her than anything.

  My phone has no signal so I can’t make any calls and I can’t risk leaving her here alone. Be normal. She’s just a person, Rory. She’s just a person.

  I take my jacket off and hold it out to her. She flinches from my sudden gesture and her eyes get even wider. ‘Here,’ I say, and shake the jacket. ‘Here,’ I say again.

  She says nothing but lets her teeth chatter freely. I check left and right as if crossing a busy road. I’d die if somebody I know sees me like this. I get closer and wrap the coat over her, trying to not touch my skin on hers; I do it how the barbers do it with those gowns you wear when you get your hair cut – swift and professional and all in one move. I keep my eyes away from her chest and pretend she is a mannequin in the window of a clothes shop. Except with … nipples.

  Right.

  I dart my eyes down.

  I can tell she is proper nervous. ‘OK?’ I ask, as the jacket clings to her small shoulders and then, just as I think she might crack a smile, the jacket slips off with the wind and onto the wet stones with a slap. I have no choice but to put it on her properly.

  ‘I’m NOT going to hurt you, OK? MY name is RORY and I AM FIFTE— no – SIXTEEN.’ Great start, she’s never going to trust a boy – I mean, man – who doesn’t even know how old he is.

  I am speaking to her as though she is one of the French kids who came to our school for the exchange and everybody spoke to them like they were dumb old people with hearing problems. ‘KEEP WARM,’ I say and then I act out the look of freezing, which is really embarrassing. I try again with the coat, closer this time. I take her arm. It’s the exact temperature of the air, cool and smooth, and her skin is a new level of softness that I can’t even compute. Then I realise I haven’t really touched anybody before. I haven’t hugged my mum proper proper in years and, well, I don’t go round holding hands with the lads or people would start talking. I think about how this is one of those things most blokes look forward to in life, putting their jacket round a girl. I never thought this would be my first experience of it.