Aurabel Read online

  And pointed arrows.

  Eyes in every cranny and crook.

  And shapes that overlap and play and torment and fuse these brave colours.

  And pumps and wires.

  And stuffed animal guts.

  Jack-in-the-box, square bluntness, repeat.

  HA HA HA.

  Everybody looks happy but their smile is so forced.

  On the walls of this dreamland set-up.

  A curiosity that maybe I can understand …

  Maybe I can find solace in this fallen amusement? This terrible joke. This comedy of errors. Is there sanctuary for me in the burial of this monster den?

  Have I landed in hell or made a friend?

  OOPS … ONE MOMENT

  Before we return to land I just want to stop in on Sienna. See if guilt has anything to say.

  Sienna is there, yes, but guilt, sadly, is nowhere to be seen. The king has sent many messengers but Sienna has not responded; let him sweat it out before he hears the news himself. The serpents take turns to vomit up the pieces of raggy tail, sections of a mangled puzzle that together make up Aurabel’s tapestry. Evidence that the deed is done is rewarded with treats and cuddles in the parlour.

  She will sleep soundly tonight, no doubt, knowing her precious monsters had their bellyful, in the form of a little harmless Mer from the poor, wet town of Tippi.

  But what she does not know is that they only got the half of her and will go to bed hungry.

  TANKED FISH

  Opal Zeal now calls the Royal Penthouse suite at the five-star luxury hotel The Dorothy, in London, home. Mainly for the golden bathroom, the deep-lipped tub and the penthouse view of the River Thames. London: a blurry spill of soggy ink coughing into a wet newspaper. But it is the spa in the basement of the hotel itself that has become useful to Opal. A hiding place to exist on a diet of room service. A den in which to crumble, to cringe, to confide, to celebrate.

  In this clear-watered, naturally salted pool (when they say ‘naturally’ they mean thanks to me, of course they do) just for her, complete with frothy massage jets, Opal whiles away the days. It even has a vibrating bench that she can sprawl across whilst she has her meetings. But not everybody is quite so keen on the waterworks. What was once a novelty for the hotel is now becoming tiresome. At first the accommodating staff were more than happy to laminate any paperwork Opal had to oversee, but she can tell some of the younger Walkers are getting slightly fed up of her constant demands. The way she sits here today like always. She is a mermaid. And STILL a celebrity.

  Marco, her shiny publicist, is also tiring of the makeshift ‘office’ spa attire, having sported every eccentrically revealing designer Speedo imaginable. Maintaining the ginger-biscuit spray tan and Abs Attack classes whilst taking care of Opal and her demands isn’t always a doddle. He hasn’t factored in the time for her depression. ‘Emo’ doesn’t look great on the schedule. Marco prefers the fruitful highs of their relationship: slurping expensive cocktails on luxurious roof terraces, designer gifting days, high tea at Claridge’s, eggs benedict at The Wolseley, pistachio ice cream at Fortnum & Mason, front row at the fashion shows, screenings, red carpets, parties at the Serpentine. Yes, the highs are great but the lows are dismal.

  Opal’s false nails are being aggressively filed, furiously, beside her. She slurps coconut water that has never touched a coconut. Her curves hug her bikini top – designer, of course – creamy, juicy butterscotch flesh squeezing out, a plunging cleavage couching her solid-gold name necklace: ZEAL, written in italics. That way she can always spell her name when it comes to signing contracts – just hold the pen straight and follow the letters.

  ‘Take my hair out, would you?’ Opal scratches at her scalp with her free hand. ‘Can’t stand this stupid wig. They bake it, you know? In an oven. To set it.’ Another therapist nods and begins to unpeel Opal’s hair, pins and clips, unleashing the smell of muted hairspray. ‘Ouch! Be careful!’ she spits, angrily reaching inside her jewelled bikini top and fishing for a little pill. Opal pops the warm-upper, washing it down with a tepid glug of ‘coconut’.

  ‘I’m fat, aren’t I?’ Opal prods her belly. ‘I’ve put on weight.’

  ‘Darling, never!’ Marco lies, but this is something he’s been intending to bring up with her – now just isn’t the time.

  ‘It’s fine, you don’t need to lie; I’m getting there. You can tell me. It’s not my fault. It’s the food here. Ugh. It’s all those Krispy Kreme donuts, cheeseburgers, brownies … the chocolate milk – what evil person even invents something so good?’

  The click-clack of high-heeled shoes rattles over the slate tiles. It’s the receptionist with her stiff jaw and slick hair and triangle red lips.

  ‘You have guests.’

  Opal looks disappointed. She just wants to get drunk and relax, not have a meeting. Still, she has a plan up her sleeve, as always, to make the meeting a little more … fun.

  Two Japanese chefs. Let’s call them Chef A and Chef B to avoid confusion. Both Chef A and B politely refused the suggestion of wearing bathing suits to the meeting and attempt to shuffle in, propping themselves at the edge of the pool on chairs. Ugly blue carrier bags over their shiny black leather shoes for ‘hygiene reasons’. Hands awkwardly splayed on kneecaps like smooching starfish.

  ‘Why not roll your trousers up? Dip your feet in?’ Opal pushes.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Zeal; we are more than happy as we are.’ Chef A bows his head. ‘Did you get the sample menus?’

  ‘Oh yes. Lots of them are new to me but I trust your taste. I can’t wait to try the dishes.’

  ‘It is very funny for us, Miss Zeal,’ Chef B dares to joke. ‘We never thought a mermaid would choose to serve sushi.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a cannibal bitch.’ Her face gives in to a sarcastic sideways smile the shape of a leaf. ‘You could argue that one would never think a human would eat a pig … but here you are, eating it.’

  Marco tips his head back, snorting boyishly. The gentlemen politely laugh and the sake arrives. Just to make things a little more awkward.

  ‘A-MAZE-BALLS!’ Marco shrills and greedily snatches the bottle from the waitress’s tray. Opal blushes; she feels the eyes of the chefs on her. Are they judging me? she asks herself. Marco fills the glasses. ‘Gents?’

  The chefs refuse. Chef A addresses the matter head on, as he is Chef A after all. ‘It is too early for us to drink, but thank you. Please go ahead.’

  Opal tries not to take their refusal personally. The nail therapist shifts her gaze to me, the water.

  ‘What a bore! Suit yourself. More for us!’ Marco turns to Opal. ‘To you, Opal, and your stunning restaurant, Zeal.’

  ‘To Zeal – thank you, Marco.’

  Marco and Opal chink glasses and Marco proceeds to down the glass of sake like a shot of sambuca. The two chefs try to keep straight faces. Chef B considers nudging Chef A in the ribs but decides against it.

  ‘Bleugh!’ he winces. ‘It ain’t no pina colada, is it?’ He coughs in the faces of the chefs.

  ‘It’s an acquired taste,’ Chef B offers, proudly.

  ‘Hmm. For those that like horse piss. Anyway, cheers.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Chef A smiles, ‘but there is a lot of work to do before we can relax. And then still no time to relax!’ He chuckles. ‘Owning a restaurant is just about the most stressful job on the earth.’

  ‘This is the calm before the thunderstorm!’ Chef B chips in.

  ‘Let’s press on then.’ Opal takes out a piece of chewed-up bright-pink bubblegum from her mouth and sticks it to the poolside. ‘Would you mind coming in? You sitting there is making me feel awfully uncomfortable. I just can’t be myself.’

  ‘I am sorry, we didn’t bring our bathing suits. We have a long day of meetings ahead of us.’

  Opal smacks her lips together, unimpressed. Her eyebrow arched, she glances down at her nails.

  ‘You want us to get into the water –’ Chef A shakes
his head – ‘naked?’

  ‘Nobody said naked,’ Opal says.

  The chefs glance at each other and then at Marco. But he isn’t interested – he is on Opal’s verified Twitter account tweeting to her sixty-five million followers the word ‘ZEAL’ followed by a prayer emoji. How mysterious.

  And so the men step down into the Jacuzzi bath, fully dressed in their suits, as Opal’s claws become hot pink.

  ‘We have the plans here; photographs of how the building work is coming along.’ Chef A glances at his papers only to see them soaking up a puddle of water on the side of the pool, spoiled into an inky blur. ‘However it seems you’ll have to come and see it in person.’

  ‘Oh yes –’ Opal bats them away, almost disinterested – ‘I have a glass bath on wheels, so I can come in that, no problem,’ Opal reassures them. ‘And we are still having the black cod?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Opal Zeal.’

  ‘And the cocktails?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Miss Zeal.’

  The receptionist trip traps in again: click, clack, click, clack …

  ‘Your guests have arrived, Miss Zeal.’

  Three more chefs enter, also Japanese. Let’s name them Chefs C, D and E, for clarity. Chefs C, D and E are all very surprised to see chefs A and B in the pool. They know of each other’s work, this is clear – they are all owners of competitive Michelin-starred restaurants. It gives the new arrivals great pleasure to see their rivals fully clothed in a Jacuzzi with a mermaid and an imp. Until Opal wipes the grins off their faces.

  ‘Get in,’ Opal orders.

  ‘But we –’

  ‘Do you want the job?’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Zeal, but I thought it was us designing the menu for Zeal?’ says the already soaking Chef B.

  ‘Your ignorance is forgiven.’ She gives a rough, forced grin. ‘You are designing a menu for Zeal. I didn’t say I would choose it.’

  ‘You cannot do this. We have a contract.’ Chef A argues.

  ‘I can do whatever the hell I like. I’m a mermaid. Who is going to tell me anything?’

  ‘She has a point,’ Chef D admits and gets down into the water. Chefs C and E follow; E is murmuring in Japanese under his breath; both are taking their phones and wallets out of their pockets, their watches off.

  ‘In a moment –’ Opal sinks another sake – ‘I’m going to release a sea bass into the water.’ The chefs look stunned, confused, pissed off. ‘The first to catch it, kill it and turn it into sushi before my eyes will become head chef.’

  ‘This is going to be brilliant.’ Marco sits back, giggling. ‘Opal, you’re crazy!’

  ‘This is a joke. You can’t humiliate us like this,’ Chef C argues. ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘Don’t do it then, your choice, but you will not be working at Zeal.’

  ‘I’ve worked hard on that menu!’ Chef E frowns.

  ‘I haven’t even brought along my knife,’ Chef C says in Japanese but don’t worry, I’ve taken the time to translate it for you.

  On cue, Opal’s security enter, each carrying a sharpened Yoshihiro Shiroko Kasumi knife, and begin handing the knives to the seated, soaking-wet chefs. Next, a fish, tanked, is set on the side next to Opal. The fish is springing about, darting about in a panicked rush. Gluey, grey eyes teary and pressed. Its skin silver, electric. The chefs murmur to each other. Take the knives. One loosens his tie; another cricks his neck. Eyes focused. What if they cut Opal by accident? Now that would be funny.

  It is hot in the sauna; pearls of sweat begin to trickle down the chefs’ foreheads.

  ‘What are the rules?’

  ‘Just as I said: first to make sushi is head chef. Simple as that.’

  The men nod. Opal turns her half-manicured nails to the clasp of the tank, ready to submit the vulnerable sea bass to the thrashing knives.

  But what is the click-clack of the receptionist doing here again now? Her twisted lip-glossed mouth clenches. ‘Miss Zeal, your guest has arrived.’

  Not more chefs, surely?

  Or better yet … a shark?

  ‘Who now? We aren’t expecting anyone.’ Marco shrugs.

  And through the licking flames of fire she appears. In an oversized rib-knit jumper, faded denim blue jeans and worn, tired pumps, it is her.

  Lorali.

  Opal freezes. Her heart in her throat. She speaks calmly, her eyes not moving from Lorali’s for even a second to blink. Lorali does not say a word.

  Opal gestures with her hands for privacy. ‘Gentleman, you may leave. I’ll have Marco be in touch once we have revised the menus.’

  ‘But what about the fish?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. Release that fish back into the sea. Now.’

  TAPESTRY

  With bloody fingers.

  Rifling, mending, mixing.

  Feels wrong.

  Transforming.

  Like borrowing a set of wings.

  I could use the metal to bash my brains out …

  Nah. That’s the easy route.

  Come on you – you’re all right.

  I stitch up the new scales.

  Shaking, this needs a dainty hand.

  Not mine.

  To assemble, threading, blood slice, thin line of red streak.

  And curdling.

  Wound salt is a bitter mix of wincing and messy work.

  What with the blood and grit and sand.

  But it feels that the water is somehow on my side and keeps as still as she can be to help me.

  Let the speed slow. I am an empty cup. Dizzy and faint and clumsy and missing the point.

  Lost my bite.

  Sewing up the old stump first and keeping the right bits in that need to be left in.

  Like the stomach, of course, and the liver, the heart, the lungs …

  I shake my head. I’m mad. Fear is here, of course – Oh hi, fear. But not just that – it’s all laughable. No. Not now. Gentle work. Quick, quick.

  Shake. Again. Nearly fade away. Need food. All these sugary packets on the floor of this stolen place but I can’t tell what’s safe to eat.

  Dig for sap.

  Mud in nails and scab.

  Eat sap.

  Better already.

  Rushing. Blood.

  Under the lights.

  The sky beating bold blue. Black. White. The stir of clouds mottles the surface and paints pictures on the roof of the sea.

  If I’m going to make my own tail, I’m going to make it the best tail ever, with gadgets of snatches and wheels and hooks with speed.

  An industrial hulk of metal.

  Of odd ends and findings, its make-up, a clockwork skeleton of machinery bones.

  Slithers of rusted baked-bean tins replace scales and springs and soft coils behave as muscle.

  Even if I die doing it.

  Least I’ll kill the time until I do.

  MURRAY

  It was like she knew.

  When she didn’t feel her arms around her waist, didn’t hear her annoying humming first thing and woke to find no eel by her bed. She knew that something was wrong. And it felt like all the eyes of Tippi were on her that morning … the morning that Aurabel never came home.

  Why didn’t she come home?

  It was like she had woken up on the wrong side of the earth.

  She left Aurabel’s slam without even trying to tie up her hair, her make-up still caked around her eyes and her heart mashing in her chest.

  ‘Murray?’ Titi shouted after her. ‘Murray, what’s wrong?’

  But she ignored the voices of her Tips as she rushed past the morning bustle, desperate to know more, annoyed at herself for falling asleep; she’d wanted to know how her day had gone. But now she was numb, out of her body, heading for the Whirl …

  Imprisoned within the perimeter of the palace walls, outside there is nothing Kai can do, nowhere he can venture, nobody he can talk to without the fretful eye of his father, Zar, hawking. Yes, he has a luxurious gra
nd room of his own with instruments and games, the best food, the best protection … but as he peers his head over the gates or wanders down from his room, it does make him feel glum and envious to see the other Mer flipping and swimming about whilst he is kept to the gardens. He has no friends, no company … he doesn’t want to do anything dangerous … he just wants to live.

  Not long now though, boy, Zar reassured him. After you resolve you can be as free as the ocean itself. But the likeliness of that promise ever realising seems to dull by the day.

  It is harder now. Mer often cling in clusters around the gates in protest. Zar told his boy to ignore them as he plays in the garden but it isn’t always easy for Kai to not retaliate when these Mer make scathing comments about his father. Easier said than done to switch his ears off from the rebelling and rioting. Locked up, upstairs in his tidy little bubble, where everything is all right. It will be better once the forest is open. They will have somewhere to vent. Maybe he can even convince his father to let him venture there too?

  Today Kai plays with the seal-pups, supervised under the watchful eye of the palace guard, the sea snake Marcia. But then he sees her.

  Her hair is long, falling in swirls around her back. She has helpless purple eyes. Pretty, yeah, Kai decides. Marcia is resting her head on the seagrass – he could just go over whilst she sleeps.

  ‘May we help you?’ Kai asks her nervously in that same way he has heard Zar speak to Mer in the past. Using the ‘we’. His voice getting lost in the braids of vines wrapping the railings.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Murray, a novice herself in these situations, utters in her most formal and responsible tone, in the same way she has watched other Mer approach the gates of the palace. ‘May I please … err … speak with His Majesty Sir Royal Highness please, the king?’

  Kai can’t help but crack a smile. He clenches the pups’ ball in his hands, the pups snuffling around his tail, waiting excitedly for him to throw it once again.