Lorali

by Laura Dockrill

  ‘They are happy tears,’ I lie as I watch Charlotte Wood’s dad fall to his knees. Petals from the flowers that have ripped off in the wind leap about him.

  And then I see the angry protestors. And I see their placards in flashes. Big and bold. Too much to digest in one take.

  PERVERSE

  WE WANT ANSWERS

  SAY NO TO SEA BAN

  JUSTICE FOR WOOD

  HASTINGS IS IN TROUBLE

  MERMAIDS

  MERMAIDS

  MERMAIDS

  For a second – just a second, I swear – I wish I’d never met her. Undo what I started. This is my home. These people are my neighbours, my friends. What am I doing, betraying them like this? I keep my head down. Sick rises. My tongue seems to expand in my throat, strangling me. Taking all the air away. I manage to have a hot flush, even in the wet air. Lorali’s eyes are letting tears go with the wind. It’s not her fault. She didn’t mean to hurt anybody. It’s not her fault she’s different, special. It is up to me to protect her, but how can I do that here? Under these circumstances? I look to Flynn. ‘They know. They all know. They know I’ve got Lorali. What am I gonna do?’

  There is a cluster of tall narrow wooden-slatted shacks painted black. Each has a hook and a rope for nets. Two small doors and a ladder. They look, especially today, like Victorian prisons. And although I walk past them every day, I’ve never wondered about them. We are out of sight now. I feel sick. I can hear my heart in my ears. Thumping.

  From the outside, you couldn’t really say if it was a nice hut or not, as they all look the same. Tall and wooden and black and unhomely. I am worried about the smell inside. The remains of fish skin and fin. The charcoal stench of old smoke haunting the walls. I put the brass key inside the lock and open the door.

  ‘Is this another shed, like Mr Harley’s?’ Lorali asks as we go in.

  I nod back. Even try a smile. ‘Yeah, kind of.’ Thankfully no ghastly fish smell blows back at us. The only clue to fish ever having been here is the shower of metal hooks that dangles above us, slightly torture-chamber-ish but mostly easy to ignore: the roof of the hut is very far away from us, the hut being so tall and narrow.

  ‘It’s proper old school,’ I laugh, trying to see the positive. It isn’t so bad. It has a toilet and a sink. A deck for a bed … possibly. A wall of strange little drawers and shelves.

  ‘Oh, here.’ Flynn goes to light the lanterns. ‘They used to use fish oil for these.’ Flynn shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, not any more. They don’t use gas lamps any more either. They make people hallucinate. Granddad and I put one on once at the shop and we both had these crazy dreams. I dreamt I was going out with a horse once. Like proper loved her up. We argued all the time about stupid things like whose turn it was to make the tea.’

  Awkward.

  Light fills the room. The lanterns speak of hope and promise, casting huge, ambitious shadows on the walls, long legs and triangles. Flynn drops the blankets. ‘I’ll bring you some more; I’ll come back later. I’ll bring more food. Text me anything else you need.’

  ‘I can’t! My phone’s out of battery.’

  ‘OK, phone charger then. I’ll think of something.’ He looks at me. Why does it feel like this is the end? ‘Enjoy your new home,’ he jokes. ‘Let me know when the moving-in party is!’

  ‘Wait!’ Lorali leaps up and squeezes his hand. ‘Thank you.’

  Flynn grins back. I know that face. Wishing he could do more.

  Now the place is warming up, the smell of wood and sea air gently filling the hut, I start to feel less paranoid. There she is, enjoying looking in all the little drawers, fiddling with tackle and feathers, rope and string. Oblivious to the world outside. In the dark. I feel just as isolated as she does now. Keeping her safe isn’t going to be easy. Nor is trying to let her know everything is going to be OK.

  When I really don’t think it will be.

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  I’ve never understood revenge. However, Queen Keppel, in a state of loss, has chosen revenge as her weapon. After sorrow comes anger. As I said, with the Mer, everything is done with the heart and the gut. The mind’s opinion always comes last.

  Imagination, a cruel disease, is now snacking on the brain of Queen Keppel. It tells her that Lorali has been kidnapped. Opal has not returned with news. Those Ablegares cannot be relied on. Her little girl has been captured by Walkers and she is angry. Her daughter is not dead. But not at sea. Keppel is in denial at the possibility of surfacing. She cannot conceive of it.

  There are many beasts and monsters in my waters. As host to many species I have to endure all beings, no matter their traits, but if there is one thing that I deplore more than any other characteristic it is the dark trait of crookedness.

  Sviley is quick, too quick, and oversized, bigger than he needs to be, this pot-bellied oily serpent. He enjoys nothing more than being instructed and sent on a mission by his mistress, Sienna, to whom he is totally devoted. And once he is let out of his shackles, where he lurks in the dark frozen depths of my gut, he makes up for lost time. Sviley’s hair is ropey, his skin greasy and blubbery and an off-white colour. Sneaking and snaking, he roams with a gentle distressing hum. He is dirty too, and wherever he moves he leaves a smoky trail of grotty deposit behind. But that is all in the nature of beasts; I celebrate it. But there is something else about him that makes him rather dastardly.

  I didn’t know it would be a child.

  There are lots of people on the seafront today taking pictures – a camera crew, reporters, mourners for the deceased girl Charlotte and, of course, the angry people with the signs showing their urge to dissect me. Others are where the cliff face crumbled, trying to work out why and how it happened, interviewing each other and just staring at it, helpless, like a wedding cake has collapsed. And at me. I was that endless enigma. The one with no answers.

  The child is chasing the dog. Dogs’ hearing is heightened and sensitive. The vibrations of Keppel, I imagine, have been fidgeting with their nervous systems. The boy – I’d say … age seven, maybe eight – strays away from the vast group of people and runs towards the water, further and further away. The dog stops at the water’s edge and begins to bark furiously. It is busy, as I said, a lot going on, and the boy isn’t a baby, he is at the age a Walker gives a child independence. Nobody is keeping watch, all distracted by the commotion.

  ‘What is it?’ the boy nervously asks his dog. He wears dark colours, bottle greens and greys and blues. He is dressed for the sky.

  No, he is dressed for me.

  Of course he is.

  The boy is confused. He looks back at the swamp of people huddled under the cliff, the crowd of questions – his parents are in that swamp somewhere, sticking their oars in no doubt.

  The dog barks again and cocks his head. The boy looks out to the water. ‘I don’t see anything, Smudge.’ He pats his dog on the head. ‘And stop woofing like that,’ he adds quite rightly. ‘It’s annoying.’ The dog, I mean, Smudge, barks again. The boy is about to walk away. I’m never one to side with a Walker usually; they pollute me, use me like a dustbin, but I wish this Walker would walk away. But he doesn’t; just like the dog, he sees it now too.

  The drowning hand, bobbing up and down and sucking itself back under, coming up for air and then back down again. The boy panics and calls for his parents amongst the carnival of chaos, but with the wind and me and all those people over by the cliff, his voice is like the breath of an insect. They are stupid. Ignorant. Careless. The irony. Arguing about the sea, and right under their noses … ah. They know it isn’t a safe time. The dog changes his mind now, begins to pull at the child’s leg. That’s it, Smudge, take him home. Not today, he’s not ready. But the boy can’t forget what he has seen, and jumps in to save the drowning person.

  The dog barks loudly now and runs back to the crowd to try to bark some sense into them instead.

  I am ice. The boy swims towards the hand, closer and closer. ‘I’m coming,’
he gasps, and I am so cold. ‘Hold on,’ he reassures with his small breath. He probably thinks he will win a medal at school for this. A Blue Peter badge, even. The boy is out so far, and I am so deep, he can’t stand. I even try to lap him back with flicks of my wave, tilting myself off-axis to scoot him away, which I really shouldn’t do. It’s not right to mess with destiny. He is a strong swimmer. He wants to make his parents proud. He wants the cameras on him today for a good reason: for saving somebody’s life. His will is fierce. The little town of Hastings needs something positive to raise the spirits. To bust holes in the clouds and let the sun shine through. It will be him! Him and Smudge on the front of the Gazette, arms wrapped round the person he will rescue, smiling greatly. ‘MY HERO!’

  The closer the child gets, the more violently the hand shakes. It goes under and keeps flapping back up again, teasing, which makes the boy rush. He grunts, ‘I’ve got you.’ And wraps his young hopeful grip round the drowning hand. ‘I’ve got you. Hold on. Don’t let go. You’re all right.’

  But it is no drowning hand. This is the fin of Sviley. That’s the thing about Sviley; he has a human’s hand for a fin and has perfected the mechanics to move it like a human in distress. Panic. Fluster. Flap. Flap. Flap. Flap. And then: Got you. Hook. Line. Sinker. The grin on his face after the catch. The boy, right in his palm, can hear the screaming voices of his parents and the bark of Smudge, as he meets the gluey eyes of Sviley. He takes a gasp as his bubbles of hope pop. One by one. Sviley dashes the young child into the air, and circles up, lolling him like a ragdoll, his small spine spinning. Snapped. Right before he is splattered into the insides of Sviley’s guts.

  I had been certain that the boy would be salvaged. He was a good one. He is just the type of Walker that the Mer take home with them. And they are a Mer down after all.

  But if there’s one thing other than salvage that Mer partake of, it’s revenge. An eye for an eye does not take the pain away. But it helps.

  BITTERSWEET

  I stay quiet. I am sad. I know he is sad. I may be new but I am not stupid. I may be a different species but I have a gauge. A dial. I may not be able to read words and I may struggle with language but I can tell when somebody feels fear. I can taste it. I can smell it. That’s how we stay alive in the Whirl.

  It won’t go away. I know my mother. I have ruined everything for him. I have trampled over his life with my virgin bones. Crushing everything he had. My so-called family and me. We are communicating through violence that impacts everybody.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry? Why?’

  ‘That I ever came here. That you found me.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Lorali. I’m so glad I found you.’ He looks shy and uncomfortable. We are cold. He is scared.

  ‘Are we going to be OK?’

  ‘Of course. It’s … great here. I’ve always wanted to be inside one of these.’

  He is so sweet. I know he doesn’t mean it. I know he would rather be at his lovely warm house with the cake. And the butter. And the kelp wash.

  The fire is crackling. There’s a strange smell from our wet clothes steaming in the heat. The fire is fantastic. Beautiful. I wish the mood could be happier. I like the air. Even though my lungs hurt. I like the sound of the waves. The hush of them. I like being this side of the water.

  ‘How do you, you know, keep memories … from when you were a child? Do your memories show on your tails?’ Rory asks me. His head is cocked to the side, his jaw clenched. I can feel his heat. He is trying to keep upbeat.

  ‘Tapestries. Yes. If a Mer wants to remember something they leave it on their tapestry. The important things will imprint there anyway. Like a birthmark. If you want to remember something in particular, you have to scratch it in, or scar it.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not as much as forgetting.’

  Rory leans forward. The clothes he wears are like skin. I have words that I can’t use. They are hard. Every one is sharp. Ready to kill the moment. Down in the Whirl we can often go days without speaking. If we feel a feeling we show it. We don’t say it. Hardly ever. Words are powerful but they are spiky. Big. Strange. I want to tell him what I saw. What I know. Why I surfaced. If we were Mer he could read me for himself by my tapestry. He wouldn’t need to ask questions. He would understand. But he’s not. So he can’t. We are a different species. I am stupid to think that the physicality of a set of legs is going to change all of that.

  But I want to touch.

  I take his hand. It’s cool.

  He turns to me.

  I can hear his heart. It is rapid.

  In the Whirl, as the dominant sex, the female Mer always instigate. Not that I have ever done so myself. But I am not nervous.

  Rory looks confused by my confidence.

  I place my fingers in his. Interlocked. A friendship.

  I lay his hand on my body. Where my tapestry would be.

  He looks at me. He is not sure.

  I place his palm open, unpeel every finger.

  He is tense.

  I show him the way around. Until he finds his way.

  Then I let him explore.

  COMING

  They are. Their toxic engines spurting gunk. Their tanks infecting my purity. The Cavities have heard of the missing princess. They are not leaving empty-handed. Gossip sails fast but not as fast as the Cetus. The price for the return of the mermaid? Keppel will rise to the challenge; she will give everything.

  THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE

  I have imagined this morning before. You know. After. I thought I would be in the greasy spoon. With the boys. After I’d walked the girl home or whatever. Cos I wouldn’t have taken Bev out to eat. No way. I’d go in big. I’d be hungry. Like I am now. Eggs. Bacon. Sausages. Hash browns. Fried bread. Beans. No black pudding though. That’s gross. Might even get chips. Tea. With sugar. Lots of it.

  It would go like this. I’d say, ‘Boys, guess what?’ and then I’d tell them. They’d want to know all the details. And I’d exaggerate. Biting into my fried bread I’d laugh off their comebacks with a wink and a slurp of tea, and possibly buy them both breakfast to celebrate my maturity and how bossy I was.

  That I was a man.

  But that is the last thing I want to do today.

  She wakes as I am putting my coat on. The rain has settled slightly. I can feel it.

  ‘Where are you going?’ She yawns and stretches across the sheets, her hair tumbling after her. She winces and covers her eyes as I crack open the door of the hut. I’m not scared of her vulnerability any more because she doesn’t seem as fragile to me now. She is stronger than I thought.

  I figure it is early enough to risk going out. I have to get a charger for my phone, I can’t wait for Flynn, and I am also anxious to find out about what has happened to Hastings since Lorali’s arrival. I feel so paranoid. Like the world is watching me under a microscope, laughing at my every move. Like there are eyes everywhere. Flies on the wall. Judging me.

  It would be too risky to take Lorali with me. She is safest here, in the inconspicuous hideaway of the smokehouse.

  ‘It’s early,’ I say. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘If it’s so early, why are you up?’

  ‘I’m going to get you some clothes.’

  ‘Clothes?’ Her eyes light up. ‘Woman clothes?’

  ‘Nah, baby clothes!’ She looks confused – often her humour can be a little off … then again, mine isn’t always on point to be honest. ‘Course I’m going to get you some nice woman, you know … clothes.’

  She leaps up. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’ll draw too much attention. Look how excited you are! Imagine trying to discreetly take you around the shops, you nutter!’

  She laughs. ‘Please? What’s a nutter? I won’t be excited,’ she squeals.

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I’ll hide it. I’m good at hiding. Remember?�
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  ‘Errr, I seem to remember finding you!’

  ‘But I’ve thought about what I would wear for so long. Opal used to bring us pictures of all the girls in magazines, in long dresses and skirts and ball gowns … and high heels.’

  ‘No. No. See? Already way too excited. High heels! You haven’t even managed bare feet yet!’

  ‘I’ll wear trainers. I want to wear trainers like you.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m getting you the basics. Then, soon, we can go together.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise. I’ll be back soon. Do you want some tea before I go?’

  ‘Yuck, no. All you Walkers ever do is boil up water and drink it. It’s so strange.’

  ‘You’d better get your head around that,’ I joke. Then I wink at her, which makes me feel a bit like one of them sleazy old men that hang around outside the betting shop, so I nervously pat my pockets to check I have everything, which I know I do, and open the door to leave. She falls back into the heap that we slept on. Our weird little home on the seafront. What some people would pay for a house on the seafront! If Dad could see me now …

  BUBBLES

  With the flames of Diptyque candles melting fudge-like to a syrup, Opal Zeal is clearly in no rush whatsoever to get back to the Whirl. Her presents from PR companies are stacked sky high, in a furious mountain with a hideous bow on top. So materialistic, the Walkers. Designer handbags, clutches and purses from Moshino, Burberry, Saint Laurent, Prada, Mui Mui, Chanel. Sunglasses. She had waited so long to just be under the sun and now she can shield from it. Not that she has seen much of it in drizzly London. Then there was the fan mail. The love letters. The stalkers. The admirers. The haters. But that was to be expected, of course. Now, she is relaxing in the free-standing gold-tapped bathtub of her suite at the Dorchester. She has just cancelled her room service order of a hot chocolate fudge sundae because she has caught sight of a paparazzi shot of herself in a magazine and was surprised by how voluptuous her bottom half was in comparison to the Walker models. And the thought of a thigh gap?