Cruel Summer

by James Dawson

  CRUEL

  SUMMER

  James Dawson

  Indigo

  Dedication

  In loving memory of Amy Breen

  1921–2008

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players:

  They have their exits and their entrances;

  And one man in his time plays many parts . . .

  From AS YOU LIKE IT by William Shakespeare

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Dedication

  FADE IN: ONE YEAR AGO

  SCENE 1 – RYAN

  SCENE 2 – RYAN

  SCENE 3 – ALISHA

  SCENE 4 – RYAN

  SCENE 5 – ALISHA

  SCENE 6 – RYAN

  SCENE 7 – ALISHA

  SCENE 8 – RYAN

  SCENE 9 – ALISHA

  SCENE 10 – RYAN

  SCENE 11 – ALISHA

  SCENE 12 – RYAN

  SCENE 13 – RYAN

  SCENE 13 (CONT.)

  SCENE 14 – ALISHA

  FLASHBACK – LAST YEAR (ALISHA)

  SCENE 15 – ROXANNE

  SCENE 16 – ALISHA

  SCENE 17 – RYAN

  SCENE 18 – RYAN

  SCENE 19 – ALISHA

  FLASHBACK – LAST YEAR (ALISHA)

  SCENE 20 – ALISHA

  SCENE 21 – RYAN

  SCENE 22 – RYAN

  SCENE 23 – RYAN

  SCENE 24 – RYAN

  SCENE 25 – ALISHA

  SCENE 26 – RYAN

  SCENE 26 (CONT.)

  SCENE 27 – RYAN

  SCENE 28 – ALISHA

  SCENE 28 (CONT.)

  SCENE 29 – RYAN

  SCENE 30 – RYAN

  SCENE 31 – ALISHA

  SCENE 32 – RYAN

  SCENE 33 – ALISHA

  SCENE 33 (CONT.)

  SCENE 34 – ALISHA

  SCENE 35 – RYAN

  FLASHBACK – LAST YEAR (BEN)

  SCENE 36 – KATIE

  SCENE 36 (CONT.)

  FLASHBACK – LAST YEAR (KATIE)

  SCENE 37 – ALISHA

  SCENE 38 – RYAN

  SCENE 39 – KATIE

  SCENE 40 – ALISHA

  SCENE 40 (CONT.)

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  FADE IN: ONE YEAR AGO

  Against the white cliffs, the girl in the red dress was as vivid as a drop of blood. Even by moonlight, the rugged shoreline was visible for miles at sea: two vast cave mouths yawned, black stains scarring the chalk. The tide was coming in, advancing on a dark, rocky beach; the surf sighed over the shingle as the waves crept closer.

  The girl knew the cliffs like old friends. She’d lived in Telscombe Cliffs her whole life. This was backwards though; usually she looked up at the cliffs from the beach, not down on them from the top. They seemed bigger from up here; the pebble beach was a long way below. It was dizzying. Vertigo played tricks with her eyes, so that they focused then unfocused like a wild camera lens. The tips of her shoes were level with the edge of the cliff. All it would take was one step forwards. One step and it’d be over.

  The shoes were brand new, never worn before tonight. They pinched her toes and heels. She’d bought them especially for the ball. Red satin to match her equally new dress. Fresh tears rolled down her face.

  How could he do this to me?

  What a state she must look, the folds of her dress flapping in the wind. The sheer fabric clung to her legs. Streaks of eyeliner stained her cheeks. Angry gusts of wind whipped around her, blowing ribbons of her thick chestnut hair across her face so that it caught in her lip-gloss. Only hours earlier she’d had it curled at the salon, excited to the point of giddiness about the night ahead. Her leavers’ ball. It should have been the night of her life. Now it would be her last.

  They humiliated you. You are a laughing stock.

  She looked again at the beach. A mosaic of sand, shingle and seaweed. Salt air filled her nostrils – a promise of what was to come. The tide would roll in to collect her body, to swallow her. She would become part of something bigger, joining all those souls lost at sea. The thought spurred her on. It was dangerous, romantic and dramatic. Another inch. If the soil crumbled, she would go over. How long would it take to die? Would it hurt? She edged her toes another centimetre over the edge.

  Just do it, you coward. Show him what he made you do. They’ll never forget you after this.

  But what about Mum and Dad? What about Harry? Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. She couldn’t do it. Another gust and she staggered away from the cliff edge and fell to her knees, her dress fanning out across the grass. The sobs came heavily now, wracking her body.

  You are so weak! You’re pathetic. You can’t even do this right.

  She wiped away the trails of make-up that ran down her cheeks, her breath shaking. What was she meant to do now? She was shamed. Everyone had seen. Everyone knew. It felt red and sore and fresh. In the course of a single evening, her perfect world had been broken into pieces and stamped on for good measure.

  Footsteps. Even over the wind ringing in her ears, she heard footsteps. She turned away from the sea and looked towards the path. She pulled a damp tendril of hair out of her eyes. There was no one there. The pub had long since closed and only a few windows of the hotel cast light over the grassy clifftop. A cloud drifted across the moon and suddenly it was too dark. In the dim light of the coast lamps, the grass seemed to ripple silver as the breeze rolled over.

  The town was dead at this time of night and she felt like the only person awake in the world. More footsteps, though: the telltale crunch of gravel. She wasn’t alone. In the other direction there was a car park, but that only held the icecream van, which, all closed up, was a sad-looking shell.

  So why did it feel like there were eyes on her skin, watching her every move? She still couldn’t see anyone. It must have been someone arriving at the hotel. No one was coming to save her. No one cared enough.

  They didn’t even chase after you.

  The cloud rolled off the moon. When she was younger she had often sat on the beach and asked the moon questions. Her father had been away so often, but it had brought her comfort to know that, wherever he was, they both looked up at the same moon. ‘What am I meant to do now?’ she said aloud, her voice trembling.

  The moon, as ever, didn’t answer, but gazed down at her sympathetically.

  More footsteps, someone running, coming closer. She whirled around. There was someone there.

  A figure watched from the shadows, almost blending into the night. Whoever it was now stood motionless, arms hanging at their sides. Her heart fluttered, her chest suddenly tight. If it was a dog-walker, they wouldn’t just stand. Also, no dog.

  The figure started towards her, but walked clear of the coastal footpath and its lanterns.

  ‘Who’s there?’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Fumbling with her gown and unsteady on her heels, she rose to her feet and scanned the plateau, worry furrowing her brow.

  The silhouette came closer. She squinted at the shape.

  ‘I said, who’s there?’ Moonlight revealed who approached. ‘Oh, it’s you. Don’t come anywhere near me! I mean it. I don’t wanna talk to you.’ She took a step backwards, her heel only inches from the very edge of the cliff.

  The figure came closer. Arms reached out towards her.

  ‘Stay away!’ she snapped.

  As she fell, she didn’t even scream. The red dress. The white chalk. She really did look like a drop of blood.

  SCENE 1 – RYAN

  ‘Katie? What do you think really happened to Janey?’

  The first line is a voice-over. Open
ing shot: Pan from endless, star-spattered sky to a linear and deserted stretch of road in the middle of the Spanish countryside. You can tell it’s Spain because of the arid landscape, chatter of crickets and accompanying overture of flamenco guitars. The vista is barren; almost alien. It’s late at night. Slivers of wispy cloud trail over a jaundiced, sickly moon. Zoom in on a lonely silver rental car. It’s caked in thick orange dust as it pelts along the asphalt.

  The headlights, even on high beam, only managed to cast a feeble pool of light along the abandoned highway. The road was rod straight – to Ryan, this really was the road to nowhere. He suddenly felt a long way from home.

  RYAN HAYWARD RETURNS FOR A FEATURE-LENGTH HOLIDAY SPECIAL. Ryan often imagined his life as a long-running TV show in which he was the star. The high-school series had come to an end with Janey’s death and the last year had been his solo spin-off: Ryan: The Drama School Years or possibly Ryan: Acting Up. This holiday was supposed to be a ‘summer special’ – a ratings-winning reunion of the original cast: Ryan: One Year On. It was pretty sick, but what had happened to Janey had made quite the series finale. He knew it was wrong, but thinking of it all as a TV show, with himself and his friends as famous actors, made it somehow easier.

  Janey wasn’t dead, she was just some actress whose contract was up.

  ‘What do you mean?’ His companion, Katie, was a pretty redhead with alabaster skin, almost luminous in the dark.

  ‘Oh, come off it! You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Katie wrinkled her nose. ‘She . . .’ a difficult pause, ‘killed herself.’

  Ryan put his feet on the dashboard. The night was sauna-dry, like that wave of hot Spanish air that greets you as soon as the plane doors open. His bare legs stuck to the leatherette seats. He popped a duty-free sweet in his mouth. ‘And you believe that?’

  Katie grabbed a sweet too. ‘Must we talk about Janey? Maybe we could pick a more cheerful subject, like vivisection or famine or something?’ she quipped. She focused on the road ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter.

  When someone young and beautiful dies, a shroud falls over a community. The sun stopped shining on Telscombe Cliffs when Janey Bradshaw vanished. It felt as though there were a blanket ban on laughter and no one was allowed to say her name except in reverence. You certainly weren’t allowed to ask questions. Ryan had questions.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t you think—’

  ‘Ryan, knock it off!’ Katie interrupted. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide, blue and sweet. She’d grown up this year – like all of them. She looked tired and thin, even a little gaunt. That was the ‘story arc’ this year – the aftermath. Katie Grant was Ryan’s high-school best friend and, quite literally, the ‘girl-next-door’. She was the first person he’d told that he was gay. She was pretty, but relatable; she was clever, but never aloof; she was deep, but not tortured. Or perhaps he was overthinking it slightly. In Ryan’s head, she was second in the credits after himself.

  ‘Talking about Janey was not the purpose of this holiday,’ Katie continued. ‘I think . . . I think we need to jolly well move on. It’s been a whole year. A monumentally hard year. You’ve been in Manchester. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in books. What we need now is R and R. I have had my fill of teen angst. I was starting to feel like the protagonist in a vampire novel.’

  Ryan laughed. ‘So not a good look. Maybe you’re right.’ He wanted the reunion to be a touching, heartfelt comedy, but since they’d left the hypermarket at the airport he’d had an odd displaced feeling – a sense of being lost. The bright lights of Madrid were far, far behind and Katie seemed to be driving them into oblivion.

  He tried to shake it off. Unsolved mysteries had always bothered Ryan. That feeling of something you’ve forgotten to do – the weird panic in the night that you’ve left the oven on, or neglected to pay a bill. That was how he felt constantly about their dead friend. Things just didn’t add up. ‘You know, I miss her, though.’

  ‘Oh, God, I do too!’ Katie conceded. She tucked an escaped auburn curl behind her ear.

  Ryan smiled. ‘Do you remember those plays we used to put on?’

  ‘For your poor mum? Gosh they were terrible!’ The car passed through what looked like orange groves. The crickets were out in full force – a cacophony. It took Ryan a moment to realise the shadowy triangles darting among the trees were bats, not birds.

  ‘Do you remember how I was always called David? I always wanted to be called David. What a lame-arse character name! You’d think I’d have been more creative. Something like Javier or Storm would have been better.’

  Katie laughed, cloudy eyed on memory lane. ‘Janey and I were always twins. We were obsessed with Sweet Valley High. I was the good girl and she was the evil twin . . . what did we call ourselves?’

  ‘Shana and Lana!’ Ryan cackled. ‘Do you want to know a secret? I always longed to be Dana!’

  Katie laughed so hard, she almost hit a stray dog in the middle of the road. She stood on the brakes and swerved around it. ‘Oh, my God! He came out of nowhere!’

  Ryan took his feet down and steadied himself on the dashboard.

  Katie gave his thigh a pat. ‘I missed you this year, Ry.’

  ‘I know. That old-school, romantic letter-writing thing never really worked, did it? But, after what happened . . . some serious drifting was probably inevitable.’

  Katie adopted the ropey Californian accent she’d used in their old plays. ‘Dana, promise me we’ll never drift apart again.’

  ‘I promise, Lana.’ He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. He’d missed her too, but things were different now. There was a question mark looming large over last summer. Loose plot ends that needed tying up. Viewers had been waiting on tenterhooks for a whole year. In TV you can’t leave loose ends; everything has to be resolved or you end up with a mess like Lost.

  What really happened to Janey Bradshaw? Ryan had to confess that, although he’d been dying to catch up with the gang, part of the reason he’d agreed to the holiday had been to try to clear up the niggles he felt over Janey’s death. He just wanted some answers. Ryan didn’t believe for a second that Janey Bradshaw had killed herself.

  SCENE 2 – RYAN

  Ryan’s favourite time of day was about nine in the morning. He’d woken ahead of Katie and was glad of the time to himself. He was vile before a cup of coffee and a shower – as Katie was already well aware from years of witnessing his early-morning post-sleepover hissy fits. A cool, wake-up breeze rolled in off the sea and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders but, without a cloud in the sky, it was going to be a scorcher. That was what he liked best of all – the promise of the day ahead; anything could happen. Anything except rain, by the looks of it.

  He took in a deep breath of holiday: sun cream, ocean breeze and a trace of seaweed. Ryan loved it. One whiff and a million childhood memories came flooding back. If only you could stay young forever, Ryan thought, pulling his knees up to his chest. If only last year hadn’t happened.

  Ryan ran a hand through his off-blond curls, longer than they’d ever been before. His hairdresser – some tattooed bear in a Manchester salon with a ring through his nose – had convinced him to grow it out a little: ‘Michelangelo style, like David’ apparently. He messed it up further. Might as well go for beachy – they were on the beach, after all.

  It was quite the setting, Ryan had to admit. Katie’s dad had great taste. Everything as far as the eye could see was turquoise and white like a photo in some high-end holiday brochure. White walls, white sand, white tiles. Blue sea, blue sky, blue infinity pool seeping over the horizon. Everything was stacked in perfect horizontal stripes: white, blue, white, blue. The only splash of orange was the traditional terracotta roof.

  The villa was built into the slope of a bleached rocky hillside, the levels of the house like a flight of stairs. Bedrooms at street level, living room underneath (very Mediterranean) and then the terrace level and the pool below that.


  Ryan closed his eyes, angling his face to the sun. He felt the heat on his skin, imagining how the light must bounce off his cheekbones and full lips. Where was a photographer when you needed one? In photoshoots, Ryan had learned, you must always work your angles and find your light.

  Eyes closed, he listened. Gulls squawked as they picked for worms in the wet sand near the surf, and the boat clinked against its mooring on the jetty. This was paradise.

  A certified caffeine-addict, and miles from the nearest Starbucks, Ryan gulped down the remains of his first cup of coffee and was making a second when he heard bare feet slapping across the floor tiles. A creased and bleary-eyed Katie padded into the kitchen. She wore a pretty kimono over her polka-dot bikini. As ever, her red hair tumbled over her shoulders.

  ‘OMG, I had the most bonkers dream!’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘I had to marry your dad and you were demanding a dowry!’

  Ryan laughed. ‘I wonder if it’s a portent.’

  ‘Ooh, maybe!’ Katie chuckled. ‘You’re dad’s such a silver fox – I could do worse.’

  He mimed puking all over the tiles. ‘Gross. You’ll put me off my cornflakes! You want a tea?’ Katie always drank tea, never coffee – she was so, so English.

  ‘Yes, please. My head feels positively crusty.’ She came over and gave his abs a prod. ‘Check out the six pack!’

  He tensed and breathed in for maximum effect. ‘Thanks. I got a trainer. He’s called Fabrizio, and he’s straight – although you’d never think it to look at him. It’s such a waste.’

  ‘Well, it’s paid off! Ryan, you have never looked better.’

  He felt himself blush and busied himself at the kettle. It was true, he’d worked really hard to bulk up; never again did he want to be the skinny dweeb he’d been at thirteen. ‘Gracias,’ he grinned. He pronounced it grass-ee-ass.