Lorali

by Laura Dockrill

  And then she hears the engines. Just tiny. Miniscule vibrations muttering through me. Far enough away still to not panic, but she has heard right – they are coming. The Walkers. What has she done? Her brain ticking, she starts to panic. She can’t have the council find out that it was she who outed them. She only wanted her daughter to come home. She is queen. She can do what she likes surely? But if it comes to it she can always blame this on Opal, right? Where is Opal anyway? How long does it take to talk on TV? Keppel smokes. Long – hard – drags – puff – puff – puff – breathe. Dealing with the council is one thing, but she needs to do something to scare off these hungry explorers.

  Queen Keppel calls for council member Sienna and her serpents, who are needed right away. She needs their loyalty. Their cold-bloodedness. If she is going to lock horns with the Walkers, she has to make sure they know who is boss. She means business.

  SCHOOL

  Otto, carrying the sea air with him, buzzes the bell on the gate at St Leonard’s Grammar School for Girls. Mer fever is already reaching a crescendo. Time is running out for the Ablegares to find Lorali before anyone else.

  A nasal voice scratches back. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, there,’ Otto says in his most charming chime. ‘We’re visiting visitors.’

  ‘All right, hello there. Names?’

  ‘Let’s not make this about me. What’s your name?’

  ‘Carol from the front desk,’ the voice splutters, as if delivering bad news.

  ‘Well, Carol from the front desk, hello. The pleasure is mine.’

  ‘Are we expecting you?’ the voice of Carol spits back.

  ‘Are they expecting us?’ Otto confers with his brothers; they shake their heads. ‘Do you know what, Carol from the front desk, if I’m totally honest, I don’t think you are expecting us, no. Call it a pleasant surprise.’ Otto then looks right into the shiny hole in the buzzer as if it is a keyhole, running his tongue along his snow-white teeth.

  ‘If you won’t tell me your name and you’ve not got an appointment, I’m afraid I can’t let you in.’

  ‘Oh, please?’ Otto begs. ‘We will be very well behaved.’

  ‘Please leave,’ Carol warns, ‘or I will have school security remove you immediately.’

  ‘Ooooooh! No! Don’t!’ Otto winces with sarcasm. ‘Don’t do it to us, Carol.’

  ‘This is your final warning.’

  ‘But, Carol, I thought we were friends.’

  ‘SECURITY!’ The buzzer flatlines. Otto coughs, cracks his neck and rings the buzzer again.

  ‘I didn’t like that Carol; it was very rude. I like manners.

  ‘Luckily for you, Carol at the front desk, I’ve taken pity on you. And I will, even though you’ve refused, just have to Bring. The. Fun. To. You. Put the kettle on for us.’ He checks his immaculate nails and says in a light, almost musical, tone, ‘Carol, if you’re stupid enough to call for help – the police, the caretaker, the husband that won’t press you any more, ANYONE at all –

  ‘I will carve you.’ Otto revisits what it feels like to have blood on his hands. ‘Oh, and Carol – don’t worry. I’m only being serious.’

  Egor, the largest, stands up against the barbed fence, allowing the nimble boys to climb his body like a staircase in one move. They are up and over the fence completely unscathed. Then Egor with one hand mounts the fence, the barbed wire not even kissing the soles of his shoes. The Ablegares enter through the door to the PE hall, left ajar to let the last of the summer in. The girls should be in their netball skirts, sweaty with competition, sweaty from growing and young blood. Or better still, they’ll be in leotards.

  Otto takes out his ivory comb and Jasper stubs out his fag on the lawn. It sizzles to death under his boot.

  MORNING GLORY

  I am the last to wake. It’s late. I can feel it. But I needed the sleep. Before I open my eyes I panic. It’s like my eyelids are masking reality. I’m meant to be starting college today. Media Studies. I made a little film to get on the course and everything. I wrote the script and directed it, all myself. In the film, Flynn and Elvis play these two gangsters that hold up a casino. They wore pork pie hats and long beige coats that I picked up from Iris’s shop. They looked quite convincing. Elvis’s parents were bare safe and let us film in the arcade and casino too, really early, before all the gamboholic nutters arrived to raid the fruit machines. It was proper good because there aren’t any windows in the arcade to show the time of day. I think they do that deliberately, so punters get carried away with themselves and get lost in time. Like now. Lost in time … I was so happy when I got into college. So was Mum. Now … it just seems like a diversion.

  Flynn is making coffee and Lorali is dangling her head into the sink, underneath the tap, drinking water and humming. I think about the chances of Flynn having found her instead of me. Would he have come to me for help? Involved me at all? Would he have left her on the beach? Would Flynn have dressed her in his clothes? Would I have let me in if I were him? I rub my eyes. In the new morning light I notice that the sun, for the first time in ages, has properly come out.

  I stand from the couch. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Rory!’ Lorali runs to me, her new legs clumsily pounding over, her arms in the air. I’ve never heard anybody say my name with such happiness. It feels good. She wings her arms round me. ‘I missed you!’ she laughs.

  ‘No you didn’t.’ I blush, laughing, brushing her off to not look obsessed with her.

  ‘I did!’ She squeezes me in. ‘I didn’t see you for all those long hours! My eyes were closed. I was somewhere else … in my head. Sleeping is so lonely. I wished you were there in my dreams.’

  Flynn is trying not to laugh. I can tell he thinks I am a right soppy mug. The way she is behaving like some brilliant Disney princess, with her guard completely down. This isn’t far off a Disney film though, is it? And I had always accepted that I was going to be one of those people that nothing extraordinary ever happens to. Nothing that would make me an anything.

  ‘Well –’ I pat her shoulder in a friendly way, fluffing my hair, trying to unhinge the grasp she has round my neck – ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘And Flynn was sleeping.’

  ‘I was.’ Flynn’s sense of humour is completely out of the bag now – it is so unlike him to be relaxed with a new person so quickly, but Lorali seems to have that effect on everybody.

  ‘And Iris. He was sleeping too.’ She stretches, and I gulp at the curve of her back, the lightness of her ankles as she bounces onto tiptoes. Strands of her hair are wet from the tap. I shake the soft thoughts out of my head.

  ‘He was,’ Flynn says, pouring coffee out into clay mugs.

  ‘I enjoyed the weight of the sleeping. It was heavy. Like a stone in my body. I woke only once and that was because I was so entirely thirsty but the tap was there and so were all these strange shadows. Then I went right back to sleep again. Like a stone. In my body. That I had accidently swallowed.’ Lorali tilts her head, expecting me to agree.

  Flynn breaks the silence. ‘Iris has been rummaging up in the attic. He’s got loads to show you.’ Flynn froths the milk. He is so domestic. He knows I’m meant to be starting college today but he hasn’t mentioned it. We both know I know.

  ‘I can’t wait to see him on this brand-new WONDERFUL, TERRIFIC, EXCELLENT day.’ Lorali opens up her arms and spins around, her toes slapping on the floor of the lighthouse, the dust particles spiralling around her. There are bruises all up and down her legs. Evidence of her clumsiness, her fun, her brand-new skin and muscle. Flynn shakes his head, a big dummy grin across his face, as if to say What have we got ourselves into? And I smile back.

  Lorali suddenly stops spinning; she has twirled herself into a dizzy frenzy. Her heels seem happy to keep twirling her round but she finds her balance and says, blistering the mood, ‘Who was that other boy that came to the window in the night then?’

  BACK TO SCHOOL

  I am in the air, sneaking i
n through the windows. The girls are in the sports hall, lined up on benches. As young as eleven, some as old as eighteen. It is the first day back after the summer. There is no talk of new haircuts, mischievous secretive piercings or dodgy tattoos, no whispering chatter of which boys and girls they’d snogged. Just apprehensive tension squashing the room.

  Otto is pacing the front of the hall. He has found himself a metre stick, which will do nicely as a cane of some sort.

  ‘Why don’t I have a cane all the time?’ Otto asks Egor whilst he parades about, the suspense exciting him. The young girls silently shiver in fear, their hands under their bottoms and their mouths shut. This is all they need. A local girl has just died and now five strange men have galloped into their building.

  ‘We’ve never considered it before, Captain, but I think it looks dope.’ Egor admires Otto. Egor is a fine believer in it’s not what you got, it’s what you do with it.

  ‘Me too. I might get one.’ Otto inspects the stick and looks around for approval from some of the girls. ‘Or I could keep this one, I suppose. It’s just too short and I don’t really like the numbers down the side.’ He explains himself to a tiny girl with round glasses who thinks it might be a safe moment to gently roam her eye up to the strange man. Her hair is neatly stretched into two plaits, her centre parting like a gutter between two roofs. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Otto teases the metre stick underneath the young girl’s chin, following the ripe little swellings of chub around her face. The girl immediately returns her eyes to her lap. A brave teacher, a round fuzzy thing, attempts to mouth something soothing towards the child, but fails.

  ‘You lot are dull.’ Otto clanks his boots as he struts about. ‘I never liked school. My brothers hated it even more than me. That’s why we burnt it down.’

  One girl gasps. A hand clapped over her mouth.

  ‘You’re allowed to be shocked. It is quite shocking. You can’t imagine what they want to do with little boys that burn big buildings down, can you? Especially schools?’

  The girl shakes her head.

  Another lets out a splutter of nervous laughter.

  Jasper enjoys keeping the girls in line, making sure their attention is up to scratch, even though there is no need for his abusive surveillance. He has recently taken to biting and his teeth are starting to feel soft and loose under his tongue. Keen to feel a clench. Jasper paces the rows of young women, looping the seats, inhaling their cheap perfume, flowery deodorant, toothpaste and hairspray.

  Meanwhile, Egor just has to stand. Say nothing and stand. His bulk and height do the talking for him; he reminds some of the older girls of the nightclub doormen they meet on Fridays and Saturdays, the ones they lie to about their ages and star signs.

  The teachers shrink. They are invisible to the Ablegares, who are not threatened by their presence whatsoever.

  ‘You.’ Otto points to a sixteen year old. She has long hair that is frizzy but pretty. It is bleached blonde and strands of hair have snatched away like slapped wrists, recoiling, where the bleach was on for too long, burning it to a rusty tinge of orange. But it doesn’t matter because she has run a Parma-violet purple through the ends and a smatter of deep blue at the sides. A tie-dye impression of me almost. Hair like the sea. I am flattered.

  ‘Come here.’

  The girl points at herself. Amongst the sea of faces it is hard to know exactly who he means. This is a real-life spin-the-bottle. A roulette of absolute terror. All the girls look to each other, lots of hands cling to throats with noose-like grasps, and there’s an audible shuffle of confusion and bitten lips.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  The girl is used to being disciplined for her appearance. She is often made an example of. The girls are not meant to dye their hair. She does. They are not meant to wear masses of inky blue-black mascara or lashings of dirty kohl round their eyes. She does. They are not meant to have their skirt up above their knees, their nails painted. She does, and yes she does paint them, black, and then she bites them furiously.

  The girl pads up towards Otto, her tanned, shaved thighs strong and juddering gently as she excuses herself to her peers. They whisper. Her sleeves are rag-ended and her cuffs drag over her hands. She has a wry, smug look about her. She is clearly rebellious. Adventurous. Swamped in youth. She likes being chosen. Some of her friends giggle and snigger. ‘Shut up,’ she giggles back. Otto is handsome to their eyes, you can tell.

  When she reaches Otto she stands in front of him and attempts to put her hands on her hips – all that practising she has done in the mirror of how she will one day stand on the red carpet forgotten. A waste of time. She is vulnerable and cowers as Otto creeps forward.

  ‘She’s a spice,’ Egor throws across the room.

  ‘Indeed.’ Otto sniffs her out. ‘She is nice.’

  The girl gulps.

  The teachers flinch.

  The other girls wince.

  Some are jealous.

  Jasper bites his lip.

  Egor crosses his arms.

  Oska rolls a cigarette.

  Momo sucks his cheeks in.

  ‘But she is not fish.’ Otto teases his metre stick around the girl, as if fiddling a bit of pork fat with a fork. ‘But you do look so very much like her.’ Otto pauses.

  ‘I am looking for a girl!’ Otto’s voice bellows through the high ceiling of the hall. ‘She is this girl’s age, this girl’s height, she’s as pretty as this girl but she won’t wear make-up. She is slimmer than this girl – a-few-less-chippy-wippies-and-cider-after-school slimmer – and her hair …’ Otto breathes in the girl’s hair, then takes a knife from the back of his slacks. The girl takes in the size of the blade and begins to wriggle from Otto’s grasp. The rows of students squeal and begin to shriek and cry. Otto brings his arm round and slices off the girl’s hair into a blunt bob.

  ‘That’s one less girl with long hair that I need to watch out for.’

  He pushes the girl to the ground, who with her hand on her heart, gasping for her breath as though she has just had her soul ripped away, shuffles back to her friends who pick her up. Otto clambers up onto the shoulders of Egor, like a child that wants to get a better view at a carnival, and leaves, shouting, ‘You see our girl … you see her anywhere … you come find me!’ The door opens, letting the breeze in, which comes in the form of a mini hurricane, picking up the dead purple hair from the floor, making it dance.

  And even after all of that, the girl, streaky mascara pools dribbling down her face, exhausted from even the touch of Otto on her skin, feels her belly full of butterflies. All the girl wants to ask is, ‘But how will we know where to find you?’

  NAILS LIKE A CHANDELIER

  Under the hot electronic breath of lavender mist hissing from an aroma diffuser, Opal admires the manicure that Lucky the technician is applying to her nails. She wants fingers that look identical to the chandelier in the foyer of the hotel. She still hasn’t managed a moment to herself. A moment to think. I am there too of course. In the portable bath that the hotel has provided. No ask is too great for Opal Zeal. There are paparazzi outside the hotel and the deliveries have not stopped coming in their oversized square bags and stripy ribboned boxes. Inside decadent beddings of coloured tissue paper sleep personalised jewellery: rings, necklaces, bangles, bracelets, nose studs. And then there are the ridiculously vast amount of bikinis. Very funny. Mac, Nars and Clinique make-up, perfume in all its lavish shapes and sizes, like mini women’s figures: Chanel No. 5, Christian Dior and her favourite, Prada Candy. The sharp, rich fragrance from the perfume along with the deep creamy aroma of heavy scented candles makes Opal dizzy. Her manicure is making her head rush. She almost feels a nosebleed coming on. But she isn’t complaining. She loves the big everything. The woody intoxicated scent of richness and decadence and luxury is everywhere, hidden in the waxy leaves of the plants, the loops of the posh towels, the grand marble floor, and the smiles of the overly friendly Walkers. This is exciting. She is admired. Taken
seriously. She is now meeting her appointed publicist, a tiny bleach-blond imp type of a boy/man thing named Marco who laughed dramatically at every line she said and kissed her twice on each cheek when they said hello.

  ‘Have you ever tried an espresso Martini?’ he lisps, and when Opal shakes her head he looks as though he has been shot to the heart and immediately flounces off to get the waiter’s attention.

  ‘I ordered the kale, beetroot and quinoa salad too. This is all on expenses I assume.’ He sniffs hard, rubbernecking the lobby and restaurant to see if any celebrities are about. Not that he cares – he is with an A-lister now all right. Wait until his other clients and competitors get wind of this.

  ‘Lucky, is that Louis Vuitton?’ He tries making conversation, forcing a hinged grin at the manicurist who in turn looks back at her suitcase on wheels full of nail polishes, and grunts back, ‘Elephant and Castle market.’

  ‘Perfect. Just perfect.’ Marco beams sarcastically and puts on some hand sanitiser. ‘So, Opal, your schedule is looking pretty busy. Vogue and Elle both want you for the cover, which I mean just does not happen overnight so we should nab those whilst we can. You’ve had lots of endorsement requests too but I really want us to be picky with those before we get ahead of ourselves. I think we should hold out and wait for the right product and partner rather than making you the face of some bottled teenage-girl deodorant. You’ve got a few interviews here and there. It’s a balancing act, sweetheart, making sure you’re doing all the high-brow stuff whilst talking politics, and being accessible at the same time. Likeable. Not intimidating. I thought we’d dine at Sketch tonight, then I can show you a timeline.’

  A nervous young waitress rattles a tray carrying two cocktails. Her hair is dyed a washed-out powder blue. She can’t help staring at Opal.