Lorali Read online

  She never comes here, to the Great Cave, alone. Opal always has her whales for protection, a pod of them circling beneath her. They are here now. She can hear the rain outside. A storm growling. One of Queen Keppel’s again. Could the queen at least hold off until Opal has met with the pirates before having a tantrum? Lorali has only been gone a few hours and this rage is already nearly as bad as when Netta … No, she doesn’t want to think about Netta.

  Eventually the ripples of water sneak up Opal’s body, lapping at her almost dried skin and – finally – announce the arrival of Liberty and the Ablegare boys. Opal has prepared herself. She doesn’t care too much about looking pretty when it comes to the Ablegares, but it helps. She wears human make-up that she doesn’t want to smudge.

  ‘Oh, O-P-A-L!’ Otto sings in glee from afar. His smugness makes Opal shudder with doubt and want to leave the cave but she knows she has to be patient and endure this. She awaits the recognisable clunk of Liberty’s anchor sinking into the depths of the unknown, and it comes and goes with a dribbling splash. The sound of Otto’s shoes scuffing on the cave floor makes an effective echo as they clap towards Opal. He leans against the open mouth of the cave, his tongue smoothing his top lip.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling we only meet when you’ve screwed up?’ Otto begins to slowly pace. ‘This weather is NOT OK. Have one of you lot got your period or something?’

  ‘I didn’t screw up anything,’ Opal snaps. She wishes she could get a period.

  ‘So do you want to tell me why it’s raining catfish and dogfish, or is god watching a tear-jerker?’

  Opal regrets calling this meeting with Otto now and almost fancies making up some brilliant news to fob him off with instead, but it would never wash. Mer only ever need the Ablegares’ help in a crisis and the Ablegares know this.

  ‘Spit it out, Opal. I’m here and you need me. My brothers and I are nothing but your little toys to fling round the planet to do your dirty work.’

  At that, one of Opal’s whales snorts out a spray of water from his blowhole aiming for Otto, but Otto knows it is coming and ducks. Otto giggles because he likes games and being kept on his toes, especially with old friends.

  Opal sinks into her tapestry. There are moments when her tapestry makes Opal feel indestructible and times when it makes her feel like the most pathetic waif on the earth; nobody can bring both of these traits out in her in equal measure like Otto can. They either play on her terms, like an out-of-reach fish teasing a cat through glass, or on his, like a flapping fish juggled by a cat’s paw.

  ‘Now let me guess – that’s what you’re meant to say, isn’t it? When you want to pretend you don’t know what somebody’s about to say?’

  ‘Only if you’re a prick.’

  ‘Which you’ve never seen, so that’s not valid.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to think so?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a turbot.’

  ‘Are you going to be nice?’

  ‘Are you going to tell me why your whales interrupted my lunch?’

  Otto takes an ivory comb from his inner pocket and begins combing his oiled hair. He uses ivory to remind the Mer that they are bait, that they are now hunted just like the elephant, that their bodies are precious. He can be a wind-up like that.

  Opal exhales and begins. ‘The princess, Lorali, has gone –’

  ‘Expensive,’ Otto interrupts, thinking out loud with little empathy, his head cranking as if breaking down a sum. ‘I have had no news and I would if poachers had her … They would have tried to sell it to me first anyway. She’s gone. Lost. Stolen. Dead.’

  Opal clenches her teeth. ‘She isn’t dead.’

  ‘They could have taken her … just not patched her yet.’ Otto holds the comb to his cheek thoughtfully. ‘Even a scale of her tail would go for more than you can imagine. And the poachers, they like to keep their stock very private. A buyer would pay no matter the cost – but I don’t have to tell you that.’

  Otto begins to potter about Opal, eyeing up her tapestry; he bites his lip, his eyes sharpening. He often thinks about her. How trustingly she swims into his hands like a little shrimp. The way she looks to him as her fountain of knowledge, when the Ablegares are so removed from Walker society – only creeping and shifting in and out like an invisible thread that gradually tugs away at pockets and purses.

  Opal sinks into the water, her tapestry glowing pink. Blushing.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like what? A hungry fisherman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what I am. I skipped lunch if you remember. I am a hungry fisherman. A very hungry one.’

  ‘Just a disappointing version of –’

  ‘Glorified, I’d like to say.’

  ‘You would.’

  ‘Now, now, sea cow.’

  Otto crouches down to the whales below. He begins to clack his tongue, calling them up towards him. Opal watches as her whales gently emerge on the surface. She feels light as she watches Otto tickle the chins of her baby darlings. For a moment, she almost understands the attraction of domesticated bliss that Walkers crave. For a Walker, true love is not loving somebody so obscenely that one could eat them. For a Walker true love is security. A brick house. A little patch of garden to grow vegetables. Somebody to nudge under the table at an awkward gathering. Breakfast. An armful of dirty washing. Her own father, he would scoop her up and flip her over his shoulder. She can still taste the aftershave he used to wear. Or had she invented it? She decides to murder this pirate with kindness if it makes him help her.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I am grateful,’ she says with purpose.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Otto replies but continues to pet the whales. ‘It’s nice to see a pretty face anyway. You’re much more piff than those wild Sirens.’

  Opal is stabbed with nausea. The Sirens are the base of base. They are savages. She hates being compared to them.

  Otto then begins to imitate the dialect of a whale, as if in conversation with a baby. Opal can see her whales having fun and it suddenly angers her, the way Otto has wormed his way under every single living thing’s skin. Her patience begins to dissolve. ‘This is the princess, a loved princess, who is missing. Haven’t you got anything useful for me at all?’

  ‘Taxidermists could have her. They know that living scales are precious, better than dead – far more … beautiful. They could be keeping her in a tank blah blah blah –’

  ‘What do you mean by “blah blah blah”?’

  ‘It’s my catchphrase. Blah blah blah. Do you like it?’

  ‘Otto, that’s not a catchphrase, that’s dismissive.’

  ‘Wait a second, babes –’

  ‘Don’t babe me.’

  ‘Easily done.’

  ‘Don’t think of me as easy then.’

  ‘Don’t act it then.’ Otto smiles, his white teeth shining like the inside of a red apple.

  The fidgety child inside Otto makes him pick at the walls of the cave, where dehydrated seawater crystals cling and hair-like weaves of silky moss spread like reaching fingers.

  ‘In detail, Lorali could be being fed and watered in a tank, having patches of her scales removed … It’s very painful and there’s a lot of blood –’

  ‘I’ve got that bit, thank you.’

  ‘Cutting a long tale short … Apologies. Pardon le pun.’

  Opal glares at Otto. His Dickensian waltz is riling her.

  He continues, trying not to laugh. ‘Even if just a small square of tail was removed, some yuppie would have still made a nice purse out of it thinking it exotic snake or fish skin. But there are people on the black market. Disgusting people, of course, that want what you’ve got.’

  ‘Otto. Please!’ Opal turns on him, her voice ringing through the cave, causing loose rocks to quiver. The whales murmur; her vocal current has electrified them.

  ‘Too far?’ Otto acts sincere.

  ‘We are well aware of this black market
you speak of Otto. We’ve already lost too many of our Mer from the Whirl. It’s been an awful time for everybody … It makes me sick to think of the tapestries of our species being worn by Walkers. We can’t have Lorali gone too. Keppel thinks she’s surfaced.’

  ‘So that’s why the weather has been so bloody marvellous. She’s trying to smoke us out. She’s blaming us. This is nothing to do with us – it’s not our fault, you know?’

  ‘Oh, Otto, you know what the High Queen is like; everything is the Walkers’ fault.’

  Otto rolls his eyes. No, he does not know the High Queen. He sort of wishes he did, rather than being bossed about by her skivvy. And he does not like being referred to as a Walker, but he knows he is caught between a rock and a hard place. When Netta was strung up Liberty had refused to move a muscle because of the bad weather. He hates being driven like a slave by the Mer but they have monsters that could take down Liberty. Threat of Keppel’s temper alone is enough to keep him listening.

  ‘She’s not going to give, is she?’

  Opal shakes her head. ‘Not at this rate. Until we find Lorali your life on water will be made hell.’

  Otto cricks his knuckles, pounds his clenched fist into his palm.

  Opal takes a breath. ‘Assuming I have your attention, a cliff face toppled down today from Keppel’s vibrations. It won’t be long until they start detecting something’s wrong down here and sending out the marines again. They will find out what this is about. Then they will want to find Lorali. They will want to resurface us all or get rid of us. We don’t know what Walkers are capable of in a situation like this. But Keppel won’t stop either.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Find her. I just don’t want her to fall into the wrong hands. Keppel wants to offer a reward but Walkers will do strange things when there’s an incentive. I don’t feel ready to expose this to the Walkers yet, not unless we are sure.’

  ‘OK. Where did this cliff face fall then?’

  ‘Somewhere in England, along the Sussex coast.’

  Otto rolls up his sleeve. Tattooed on his arm are maps. His forearm is the British Isles in pastels. Opal slices her eyes at the ink. Pretends not to find his gift for navigation attractive.

  ‘The cliff fell on this coast. We can go take a cruise down there; I could do with a trip to the seaside. I’ve always liked those little towns. Hastings is nice.’

  ‘Hastings? I’ve never heard of it. Not even on my radar.’

  ‘Don’t get snobby. Do you want me to go or not?’

  ‘It’s a place to start.’

  ‘Wait. Remind me why I’m your little errand boy again?’

  But before Opal can reply the sound of thunder speaks instead, crushing the sky. Otto, comb in hair, licks his teeth and leaves the cave in a patter of echoes.

  BODY LANGUAGE

  I can’t call for her because I don’t want to make a scene. I also don’t have a name for her. I should never have let her out of my sight. It’s too late now. I stand in the garden trying to remember her body language, what it was telling me. We learnt this stuff at school about bullying, about how even if somebody might not actually tell you to stop, their body could be shouting it right in your face by simple things, like folded arms or a frown. I’m trying to remember if she was giving off signs that might read ‘GO AWAY’ with her elbows or something, but I don’t think she was.

  I’m still holding the slab of birthday cake, wrapped inside a piece of kitchen roll. I am hoping she will eat something. It feels heavy. I can only see the rain pattering, making tiny drum patterns as it ricochets off the rusty watering cans and forgotten paint tins of our makeshift garden ‘features’. A snail trails the wall.

  She’s gone, hasn’t she? Maybe it’s for the best anyway; best she leaves now before she ruins my entire birthday. Now I won’t be responsible for her. I can see the lads and get mashed up, celebrate my birthday and pretend none of this ever happened.

  I start to head indoors for a shower. I text the boys without too much thought: where u at? – but then something makes me turn round. I notice a new gaping crack in the fence; the storm has bitten a gash into it. An open jaw of splintered wooden teeth making an entrance into the neighbour’s garden. Mr Harley won’t like that. Pedantic old Mr Harley with his fussy, neat, award-winning yard, with its sprinklers and acid-green freshly cut lawn that always makes Mum jealous. The rows of perfectly planted flowers and plants, the cabbages and strawberries (that now look a bit ropey after the storm), the homemade bird table and the huddle of opinionated gnomes looking on. Today they’re the luckiest gnomes who ever lived, because in Mr Harley’s pond is the naked girl, swimming in the rain.

  CAKE

  I AM SO HOT. DRY. Bone. It’s raining but it isn’t enough. It’s different. It isn’t the same as the seawater. I crave that. My skin isn’t drinking. Absorbing. My hair is dry. My eyes are dry. Red. Itchy. My nose aches. When I breathe in. It still hurts. Like ice melting. I can’t sit out there. The male was kind. But I was desperate for my air. And when I saw the water. The big pool. I just couldn’t help myself. In. In. Down. Relief. I swim. I stretch. It isn’t right. Not the same. But I have to submerge. I have to be under. And then I do. Splutter. Choke. In my nose and eyes and mouth. Agh. Choke. Cough. Drown. Splutter. UNDER. PANIC. Wretch. Up. But still afloat. JUST. Gasp. Breathe. Lungs. I try again. Down. Can’t breathe. Splutter. Choke. I try again. And then it’s OK. Breathe. Normally. Naturally. Hair under. UP FOR BREATH. Head. Eyes. Closed. Heart. Bu-boom. Listen. UP FOR BREATH. Tick. Tock. Legs. Heavy. Sink. Flap. Flap. Flap. In. Out. Calm. Like the frog. Like the frog. Like the –

  And then I hear him.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he says.

  He is worried for me; I know this. Why does he care when he does not know me? Is this a Walker characteristic?

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ He looks at me, all big eyes. He looks at me. Then looks away. Am I wrong? My body. My new body. And me not knowing what to do with it. He holds his arms out. ‘Are you OK?’ he says again. Tender.

  I don’t know.

  I am shivering. Cold. New. Then hot. Flush. Sick. Nausea. Vertigo. Dripping. Cold. Rough noises in my ears. Dizzy. He is warm. Wet. Soft. Kind. I have done something bad. Or stupid. I can tell. Instinct. Worry. Panic. Mutter. Oh, I don’t know anything. It’s all big. And new. I think I fall. In my new legs. Clumsy. Into him. His chest. His arms. All around me. Close. Like a child. I feel protection. I sense. But he doesn’t know how to carry me. I am so heavy. I am the heaviest Walker probably that ever existed. With metal bones. He pulls me out. Safe. Safe. Down again. Up. Up. Safe. Clutch. Close. Secure.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he says.

  I can focus. Suddenly. Understand. Male. Sniff. Same male. As before. Same Walker. Safe. Sniff.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he says.

  Blur. Blank. Blank.

  Cake? What is cake? ‘Cake,’ he keeps saying. ‘Have some cake.’ I’m only used to eating weeds and fish. Plants. Plankton. The odd bit that floated down. Sometimes fallen bird. But feathers were for our hair. The only bird I ever saw until today was dead and now they fly over my head. But cake? What if it kills me?

  I try to think back to when I surfaced. How the fear meant nothing to me. How I didn’t really care if I even made it or not. And then I did. Then I came through. Then I emerged. Then I tasted air. So bright. My legs. I saw those and those other big flat things. With skin all wrapped round them. Individual were the feet. Different but the same. Like fishes. From a distance they look the same but up close they are unique and not alike at all. Legs. Like arms but longer. With flat things on the end. Like hands but bigger. Feet. Of course. I have feet. And the little things on the end too. Just like they’d said. Like fingers but shorter. Less useful. Toes. These were toes. I remember saying: Why are they there then? Why do humans have toes if they aren’t useful? For balance. For balance. For balance. Wait … where is my balance?

  After everything I have been through, why am I now sca
red of this fluffy white blob of food?

  ‘Please eat,’ he says again. Holding the cake towards me.

  He has been so kind. I still haven’t spoken. I don’t know what to say. Where to start. I don’t want to confuse him. Or encourage him to ask questions about me. Or who I am. Or what I am doing here. I don’t want him to turn me in to the government. That is my fear. They all went on about it. I have heard this from Opal too. About what the government would do to us. They would do tests on me. Probe me. Use me for science. I know the horror stories they all spoke of in the Whirl. To scare us.

  I want to find him. I was so naive to think I could get to him without being noticed. Without being found. And now I am here, with this one, cursing him with my surfacing. Maybe he can help me find who I am looking for. Yes. Yes. But … what if he becomes frightened of me? How could I explain? Where do I begin? How can I trust him? I wish I had prepared better for this moment. Opal might have told me more.

  ‘All right, forget it,’ he says. He goes to crumple the cake up. To throw it away.

  I have to eat.

  ‘Wait.’

  Suddenly it comes out. My first word. Wait. Like a bubble of thunder it explodes right there. My voice sounds different from before. From what I knew. From what I expected. Clear. Loud. Sharp. Strong. Its vibration judders my nose and jaw. I pierce the air. He raises his brows.

  ‘I want the … ca—’ I say. I am hungry. And curious. And eager now. I am shivering.

  ‘Cake. Sorry. Cake. Of course.’ He hands me the white squish in the napkin. We are sitting in a little wooden hut. I have seen something like this before. Just with less torture equipment and weapons inside. Although they are off-putting I can tell that he isn’t interested in hunting me.

  ‘This is Mr Harley’s shed. I live next door.’

  ‘Is he a hunter?’ I ask. Afraid.

  ‘A hunter?’ he asks. ‘Why?’

  ‘Or a sorcerer? Or a king?’