Lorali Page 23

  But then, it seems from out of nowhere, more of the Cavities suddenly hurtle from the lower deck to Liberty, roaring, swords in the air. The Ablegares are too slow to stop them and the attackers begin hacking into the boat, and before I can think I hear Momo shout, ‘The grenade! The grenade, Rory! In your pocket!’

  I act quick. Too quick. I do it. Find the small grenade in my inside pocket. The one Momo gave me. I gather its weight and pull the detonator, hurtling it at Liberty, aiming for the members of the Cetus, and as the cold metal hardness leaves my hand I remember Otto.

  It’s all too quick. The fog. The fire. The cloud. The ash.

  Down.

  Floating empty pieces.

  Sailing.

  The shouting stops.

  Momo steps on the last of the snakes’ skulls. They crack beneath his boot. He nods at me.

  The Cetus is bobbing.

  The Ablegares stand.

  I paddle loosely now. Not as fierce.

  ‘Otto!’ Momo screams. ‘Where is Otto?’

  Nothing comes back.

  I paddle back a bit closer.

  Otto?

  Otto?

  ‘He was still on the boat!’ Momo screams. ‘Did you know he was still on Liberty, Rory? Rory? I thought he had got off!’

  RORY

  ‘Leave him. He’s gone!’ I shout. ‘Row. Row. Row!’

  I grab the oars. They are too heavy for me to row alone. I try to turn them as much as I can. We have to get away. ‘Rory, row. Come on, row, row. We have to get away!’ But he doesn’t seem like he can. He is bound. To these, these pirates. I force the oars into his tightened grip and try to close his palms round them.

  ‘I just want to make sure he’s OK. Let me just make sure Otto’s alive,’ he says gently but sternly. His hand holds mine and his touch makes me know this is important to him. I nod. ‘Momo. Momo told me to. Momo …’ he mumbles. But I know Otto is gone.

  ‘Otto!’ he shouts. ‘Otto!’ But it is over. It is clear. The rafters of that sailing house floating. What a beautiful sight she was. Now drifting. Down. In pieces. After the explosion.

  One of the boys, the pirates, leaps into the water; he dives down and searches through the broken ship. Under. Down. Watching his head emerge each time makes me swallow. Deep. Hard. I can taste the sea on my lips. He doesn’t look at my Rory once.

  Under again. Another breath. It’s like we all take a breath with him. Find him. Come on. Find him. So we can leave. So we can escape. So we can go home. So we can go back home to Hastings. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to hurt anybody.

  And then he finds him. Otto. Asleep. No. Gone. But it wasn’t Rory’s fault. He was instructed. He was told what to do. He was trying to help.

  And then it happens. Before Rory can even react. Right then.

  Rory is shot.

  He falls backwards out of the little boat. No. No. No. No. He falls into the water before I can catch him. My arms and hands have no choice but to follow in after him. The sea salt hurts my cuts from the rope. But I don’t feel. Not really. I shake. Shake. He is silent. His blood already losing itself. Like sand, dancing. Like seaweed, floating.

  ‘Rory! RORY! It’s OK. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.’ I hold him. The boat is tipping with the weight of us. I am flapping. Boiling. Burning. Rage. Love. ‘I love you. I love you. I’ve got you. It’s OK. It’s all right. I love you. I love you and I won’t let you go.’

  But he is heavy for me. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t come back. He doesn’t hear me. His eyes are closed. He looks young in the water. Beautiful. I don’t recognise him. In those clothes. That way. That hair. My love. I love you. I love you. I want to fall in too but I don’t know if I can swim in there and he’s too heavy.

  ‘I don’t want to know who my father is! I don’t care if I find him any more because I found you! You are all I need!’ I cry. Hard. I don’t care what they think of me. ‘Please don’t leave me!’

  If only somebody would just help me. I’m shouting. Yelling. Screaming. Not making sense. Talking in another language it seems. My mouth too slow. Or too fast. Talking from the heart. And then before I know it. That one, that big one who untied me, with the hair, he is somehow in the boat too. Only felt the weight changed and before I know it he is holding me and he puts a hand deep down, right into the water, on Rory’s neck, two fingers, right on his vein. Where the blood pumps. And he is telling me to let go. He is telling me to let go. That I have to. I don’t want to. He calms me down. He says, ‘It will be OK. But you have to let him go now.’

  ‘How do you know he is dead? He isn’t dead! He might be alive!’ His hands are forcing mine to let go of him but I don’t want to, I can’t. He’s my Rory. ‘How do you know he is gone? How do you know he isn’t alive? Check!’ I scream. ‘Check again! Check again! Why don’t you check again!’

  ‘I know he’s dead,’ he says. ‘Oska never misses a shot.’ And then he looks up to Momo who shakes his head in remorse, itching his beard, wondering if the pistol will be aimed at him next.

  OTTO

  I don’t like seeing the little scabs round her wrists. Little cuts. I’ll clean those up for her. Like Egor did for me. Otto won’t be dead. He will have found a way. He will have got through the sea. The sea is a breeze to him. Liberty won’t let him down. She’ll have a plan. I just want to check he is OK. Momo didn’t know. Momo wanted me to save the day. He didn’t mean any harm. Oska was probably only honouring his brother. Nobody wanted to hurt anybody. I know what it’s like to fight for love. I don’t blame anybody. Even as I realise how vulnerable and fragile I truly am. Just flesh and blood and bone and water. Let’s go home now. Let’s go home. Back to my mum. She’ll be happy to see me and Lorali. Really happy. We could all live together. I’ll buy a camera. And we can take photographs of Lorali. And we’ll put them in frames. And have them up all round the living room like normal people do. Without the heads cut out.

  I am alive. I have never felt more alive. And then for some reason I’m just not. Not alive at all. And I hear Lorali’s screams go from loud to quiet as I fall into the water. Don’t scream. Don’t scream. It’s OK.

  SALVATION

  The Whirl has never felt a pull like this before. This scent is pure Walker, but why does it feel so true of Mer? Why does the rhythm of Lorali ripple through me the way it does?

  Walkers drown all the time. They often die in me but this one is different. A magnetism. A pull. What bravery. What heart. What a good one he was. Such spirit and identity. So pure. So pure that even I warmed up when I felt him fall. His glow. Like the rich sun. And even my beasts leave him for the Mer; they know he is precious, worth saving, and don’t dare take a bite of him. He falls into the hunting ground of a Mer, and the empty desperate haunting hole of Lorali within Zar is what draws him close, makes him go that extra mile the moment he decides to do what he does. When he doesn’t come home with a whale for Lorali’s welcome home dinner, but a young boy instead, one he has decided to salvage. In smart trousers, a white shirt and with a puncture to the chest, his memories already are nothing but foam on my surface.

  EPILOGUE

  One year later

  I am the sea air.

  I sift, like a spray of stars.

  Time has passed and things have changed.

  Let me show you around.

  You want to go under first? Very well, let me lead you. Hold your breath, human. Five-four-three-two-one …

  Mer culture is protected and safe. Opal, from a salt pool in her ground-floor mansion flat in Kensington (very nice actually, Farrow & Ball Elephant’s Breath-coloured walls and Conran Shop interiors) kept her promise, and the Whirl is a sanctuary. Still and sound. King Zar sits on his throne at his palace. His strength and kindness weakened the council of the Whirl to grant him the position of king after Keppel’s rash, selfish and thoughtless disloyalty to her kind. He is the first merman to hold such a position. This is revolutionary. He flourishes. And does what all good leaders do when fa
cing an obstacle. They lead. Guiding, supporting, diffusing. Gently dissolving the tension. Calming the weather and the spinning Whirl to make it impossible for Walkers to visit. He’s a tonic, a rationaliser. Balanced. Leads accordingly. It was about time my waters freshened up. A good leader is a good leader, regardless of their sex.

  Keppel tends to the garden. Hunts. Grieves for her daughter still. For her throne still. Collects.

  And then there’s the boy. Zar’s salvation. His first salvation too. So young. But already making waves. Here he is now, playing with the pups. Not long until he will be ready for his resolution. As with every Mer there are triggers for memory, aren’t there …?

  Above water, the town of Hastings has become itself again. The summer is long and warm. The market is full. The cobbled streets are busy and bustling. Whipped ice cream on paper-light cones, cawing gulls and laughing dogs. The crackle of fried fish and the stench of malted-vinegar chips on the dirtied nicotine- and coin-stained fingers of the fairground workers. Salt in the air. The greyness has lifted. Through the keyhole, there she is. Lorali. Fully grown. A Walker. Walking. Running. Her room simple. Just as Rory had it. The windows are open, music playing. She and her adopted mother are singing together, taking turns to do the lead vocal. They will be having dinner together on the patio. It’s a nice evening and they’ve fixed the lawn. They talk as they stir the pots and pans, chinking wine glasses. Iris and Flynn are coming over too. They’ve brought chocolate mousse for desert. They talk of Rory, whom they miss desperately, but always with laughter and fond memories of their brave boy, who they think of every day. Bound by their love for him. After dinner they walk down to the beach. The sun is lowering in the late-evening pink sky. Although Carmine has been helping him, they still know it’s too soon for Rory to write, but they often find themselves at the trunks of the petrified forest. Just in case.

  But today is no ordinary day.

  There, on the trunk, a new circle has been engraved. Inside, two grooved words, and Lorali, who has been taught to read by Flynn and her adopted mother, says the words from Rory aloud …

  I REMEMBER.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the Cathryn Summerhayes and Becky Thomas and all the staff at WME. Especially Siobhan and Antonia for the readings of the initial chapters.

  Thank you to Sarah Odedina and Meg Farr for welcoming my glittery boots into the Hot Key Books keyhole.

  Thank you to my agents at United Agents: Jodie Hodges, Julian Dickson and Jane Willis for all of their hard work.

  A very big thank you to the Hot Key Books team. The talented Jan Bielecki for the beautiful twinkly cover art. Thanks to Sanne Vliegenthart for her amazing creativity, and Jennie Roman for the copy-edit. To the WONDERFUL press and marketing team, Rosi Crawley and Jennifer Green, for their fantastic, hysterical and bravely ambitious ideas (and the framed merman on your wall. One day we WILL eat sushi on his hairy gut!).

  Thank you, Jenny Jacoby. My knight in shiny shoes, stripy top and blue frock. You rocked up, slayed all the monsters and made me love my book. You are more than oven gloves.

  Thank you to my friends and family for listening to the ideas and letting me be a bit of a hermit with this book. I appreciate that. This is for you. I owe you all a drink. Obviously.

  Thanks to my pug, Pig, for being patient when my brain was lost out at sea and all you wanted was a walk in the park.

  Thank you to my readers. So glad you came back for more of the madness. I hope you like what you read. See you soon.

  Laura Dockrill

  Laura Dockrill is a poet and novelist whose wonderfully inventive and creative approach to life is reflected in the rich and vividly imagined worlds she creates. Laura lives in London, and you can follow her on Twitter @LauraDockrill.

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  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hot Key Books

  Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT

  Text copyright © Laura Dockrill 2015

  The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-4714-0423-8

  This eBook was produced using Atomik ePublisher

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  Hot Key Books is part of the Bonnier Publishing Group

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