Cruel Summer

by James Dawson

Katie swept her arm across the horizon like a game-show hostess. ‘Pool and beach,’ she said. ‘This concludes our tour.’

  ‘You know what we have to do now . . .’ Greg grinned and took hold of Erin’s hand.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ his girlfriend squeaked.

  ‘We have to – it’s the rules! Come on. Phones and wallets out of pockets.’ There was a flurry of activity as phones, shoes and sunglasses were deposited onto loungers. ‘Ready? One . . . two . . .’

  They formed a human chain, hand in hand. Ryan found himself in between Ben and Katie and had never felt more like a third wheel in his life.

  ‘Three!’ Greg yelled.

  With a scream, they leapt into the bracing blue water.

  SCENE 3 – ALISHA

  Alisha Cole had been crossing off the days on her calendar, counting down to the holiday. During the miserable, drizzly weeks in Telscombe Cliffs, the promise of a fortnight in Spain with her old friends had been all that kept her spirit alive.

  The holiday was off to a fine start, too. After their impromptu dip, they had remained around the pool to dry off and catch up; they could worry about unpacking later.

  Alisha let her legs dangle in the infinity pool, the icy water cooling her off. It might not be enough though; a further cold shower might be necessary. Alisha needed nun-like self-discipline to resist staring at Ben’s wet form; his damp white T-shirt clung in all the right places and was pretty much see-through.

  Man, he was looking super-duper fine these days. When he’d met them at the departure lounge she’d hardly recognised him. She’d clocked some Dolce-and-Gabbana-type model, and was about to point the hottie out to Erin, when she’d realised it was the new and improved Ben Murdoch. He’d put on weight, but in a totally good way – he wasn’t the geeky beanpole any more. The light stubble around his jaw said that he’d left for university a boy and returned a year later as a man. She wondered if she’d changed as much as he had. Probably not – it felt as though her friends had all grown up while she’d been stuck at school for another year, retaking her flunked A-levels.

  Ogling Ben Murdoch was seriously bad behaviour. He was off limits. He and Katie had so much history and Alisha knew only too well what it felt like to have your boyfriend taken by a skeezy magpie.

  ‘You OK, Lish?’ Damn. He’d caught her staring. That was embarrassing.

  ‘I’m fine. Just drying off.’ She teased out her wet-noodle hair. Thanks to the low-cost airline’s ‘no reserved seating’ policy, they’d all had to sit separately on the flight – although, if she was honest, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes off Ben, anyway. He’d been reading a course textbook while she’d leafed through photography magazines, trying to find inspiration for her portfolio. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked him. ‘You were pretty quiet in the car on the way here.’

  Ben smiled, or smouldered – Alisha wasn’t sure what the right descriptive word was. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. Adjusting to holiday mode. Got a lot on my mind.’ This new Ben was somehow more closed than the one she’d been to school with – his eyes seemed darker, cloudier.

  ‘Right.’ She knew just what he meant. Nobody mention the dead girl. She swung her legs out of the pool and crossed to the lounger opposite Ben, leaving wet footprints on the tiles as she went. Katie was up in the kitchen making drinks while Greg applied sun lotion to Erin’s shoulders. Ryan was currently drifting on a hot pink inflatable in the pool; with his shades on, it was impossible to tell if he was even awake.

  ‘You know what, though?’ Alisha said to Ben. ‘This holiday is the best idea Katie’s ever had. I don’t know about you, but I’ve really missed you guys this year.’

  Ben thought about this. He didn’t seem nearly as certain. She realised she could see the dark circles of his nipples through the T-shirt. Maintain eye-contact, Alisha.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said finally. ‘I missed you too.’

  Alisha looked out at the horizon and saw a whole lot of nothing. The beach seemed to cook, the air shimmering up off the sand and distorting the view of the sea. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She figured that holidaymakers didn’t need to come this far down the coast because the big resort beaches had all the tourist essentials – cafes, bars and tacky shops with bunches of inflatables hanging above the doors. You’d only come this far down the beach if you were in need of some serious Buddhist-level tranquillity.

  Katie’s flip-flops clattered down the stone steps from the top terrace. Ice cubes jangled in the jug she balanced on a tray. ‘OK, who wants Katie’s Special Sangria?’ she asked in a sing-song Spanish accent.

  Erin’s hand shot up first. ‘Oh, I do! I love sangria!’

  ‘If you’re forcing us,’ Ryan agreed, peeking out over his sunglasses.

  ‘I’m quite proud of my sangria, actually,’ Katie said as she reached the poolside. ‘The housekeeper taught me her old recipe. It’s a special blend of red wine, sparkling apple juice instead of orange, cinnamon, mint and fruit. It’s summer in a glass! There’s a little secret ingredient too that I promised to take to the grave.’

  ‘What is it?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Some of us, Ry, can keep secrets,’ Katie told him.

  Ryan raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m better at secrets than you might think.’

  Alisha scoffed at that. Ryan had a notoriously big mouth. It was hard to imagine him keeping anything to himself.

  ‘I’ll have a taste,’ Greg said. Katie gave him a beaker and, in typical team-sports fashion, he downed it in one mouthful. ‘Hot damn, Kate, that stuff is lethal.’

  ‘They make it strong out here. Like it?’

  ‘Yeah! It’s freaking awesome. Give us a refill.’

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ Katie said. ‘Lish? You want some?’

  Alisha thought about it for a moment. She was aware her reputation as a hot mess preceded her. ‘No, I’m OK for now. I’ll have some later . . . I’m feeling too dehydrated.’ She waggled her bottle of water at Katie and took a sip of that instead. Then she fanned the back of her neck with her magazine. She loved her Beyoncé ’fro, but it was a blessing and curse in equal measure. ‘Greg can have mine.’

  ‘Good lord, that’s an actual first.’ Ryan grinned from his lilo in the centre of the pool. ‘Alisha Cole refusing alcohol. Hold the front page! Hell has officially frozen over!’

  ‘You little bitch!’ Alisha laughed.

  He blew her a kiss.

  Ben changed the song on the iPod and light, summery R ’n’ B floated over the pool. Alisha recognised the songs. These were the tunes that reminded her of the summer before Janey. Before everything had gone wrong.

  ‘Can you do my shoulders again?’ Katie asked as she returned to her spot in the shade.

  ‘Sure thing.’ Alisha put down her magazine and grabbed the bottle of sun cream. As she massaged the lotion into her friend’s shoulders, Katie picked up the camera resting by Alisha’s feet. She took it with her wherever she went. Who knew when inspiration might strike? Frankly, if inspiration didn’t strike soon, she faced the very real prospect of not having a portfolio ready for September: a prospect that kept her awake at night.

  ‘Is this for school?’ Katie asked, reminding her that, in theory, this was a working holiday.

  ‘Afraid so. It’s that time again.’

  ‘Portfolio?’

  ‘Yep. Assuming I get the grades—’

  ‘This time!’ Greg hollered from the other side of the pool. Erin sat between his open legs as he gave her a shoulder rub.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Greg. I’m not talking to you.’

  ‘You know I’m only messing. Don’t be hating.’ He smiled broadly and she smiled back, unable to stay mad at her twin for long. That’s the thing with twins. You’re always connected, whether you want to be or not. He could be such a tool, but she actually cherished the weird psychic bond they shared.

  She turned back to Katie. ‘Assuming I get the grades this time, I’ll be starting the art foundation course in September, so I n
eed some stuff in place before I start.’

  ‘How’s it been this year?’

  ‘Repeating Year Thirteen? How do you think? It blew. All those little bitches in Year Twelve . . . well, guess who had to have classes with them.’ It had been a tough year. One by one the gang had left her behind to fester in Telscombe Cliffs while they went on to bigger, better things. The abandonment, however, had brought out the fighter in her. She was getting out.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Katie rolled onto her side to face Alisha properly.

  ‘It’s not your fault I messed up first time round, is it? Man, I better get the grades this time. I’m properly freaking out.’ She attached a lens to her camera and pointed the thing in Katie’s face to take a test shot.

  ‘Don’t! I look like a hag!’ Katie held a hand over the device like a papped celebrity. ‘You’ll be fine. How did the exams go? Better this time?’

  Alisha exhaled, expelling the toxic nerves in her belly. ‘I think so, but I don’t wanna jinx results day.’

  ‘At least she turned up to sit them this year.’ Greg threw a grape at her head. Cackling, she picked up the grape and hurled it back.

  ‘True. I think that was the key to success. Sitting the exams . . .’

  Ben raised his drink from where he sat, his legs dangling in the pool. ‘I propose a toast to Alisha finally getting the hell out of Longview High School!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Alisha raised her water. ‘To graduating! A year after everyone else!’

  They chatted around the pool for what felt like hours, Greg and Ryan name-dropping from the worlds of professional football and theatre school. Ryan told them all how he’d come out to his mum and dad after being busted for some questionable online material. Love lives were discussed but, it seemed that aside from Greg and Erin, romance hadn’t been a priority. After what had happened at the ball, that kinda made sense.

  A nasty twinge of envy nipped at Alisha’s insides. Greg and Erin, Katie and Ben. When was it her turn? She wanted the cuddles and secret glances, the little phrases whispered in her ear. It had been a long time, too long, since Callum. As she thought of her ex, a familiar bilious sensation burned the back of her throat. However much time passed, however ‘over it’ she was, that episode still left a bad taste. A bad taste called ‘Roxanne Dent’. Boyfriend-stealing, manipulative, two-hundred-faced witch.

  Alisha made a conscious effort to shake it off, refocusing on the merriment around the pool. She intended to spend the rest of the afternoon taking candid black-and-white shots of her old friends as they laughed and joked. If they didn’t make her portfolio they’d do for her Tumblr.

  Erin settled herself on a lounger. ‘It’s so weird. Don’t you lot ever chat on Facebook? It’s like you haven’t seen each other all year.’

  That was awkward. There was a reason they hadn’t spoken all year. Alisha pretended to fiddle with her camera. Ryan held his nose and jumped back into the pool.

  Ben spoke first. ‘I guess we’ve all just been doing our own thing.’

  Katie stood, acting like she’d failed to hear the question. ‘I’m going to make more sangria. Does anyone want some?’

  There were a few nods. Erin looked puzzled, aware of the ripples her harmless comment had made. Alisha caught Ryan’s eye and knew they were sharing the same thought: When are we gonna tell her about the whole dead girl thing?

  The track on Ben’s playlist changed, creating a perfect diversion from that conversation. Alisha sprang off her lounger. ‘Oh, my God! TUNE! Can you remember this? Can you remember the routine?’

  Ryan clambered out of the pool and ran to Alisha’s side. ‘The routine! Amazing! Katie, quick!’

  Katie panicked but ran to join them. ‘I can’t remember that – it was years ago.’ It was some now-defunct girl band, and it had been the summer tune three years ago. It was time travel – Alisha swore she could actually taste the Cherry Coke and Monster Munch.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Greg smiled.

  ‘Wait, wait, wait!’ Alisha said as Katie took up position to her left and a touch behind so she could follow her lead. ‘Here comes the chorus.’

  ‘Left, right, arm, arm,’ Ryan called as he performed the moves. It came back to Alisha like it was programmed into her. She wasn’t as slick as Ryan, but their amateur dance routine had muscle memory. She howled with laughter.

  ‘And dutty wine!’ Alisha sang, winding her rear end down like a corkscrew. It at once hurt her thighs; she was so out of shape.

  ‘And again,’ Ryan laughed.

  Alisha could hardly breathe. She saw Ben laughing and Greg clapping along. It had been a long, troubled year, but she finally had all her friends back in one place. She vowed to find a way to keep them together this time. Looking up, she saw only endless blue – the bluest baby-blue she’d ever seen. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  SCENE 4 – RYAN

  Menace builds drop by drop. You don’t know when it will strike, but you know ‘the conflict’ is coming. The audience knows something is about to happen – something lurking just out of sight. Here they all were dancing around in the glorious sunshine; it must look like some sort of skincare commercial with loads of hot, skinny people partying around the pool. But the audience has the upper hand. They know that while the beautiful people frolic, they’re ignorant to the alien invasion or impending train wreck or, in this case, the shadow of . . . murder?

  Ryan didn’t like being ignorant.

  Maybe he was being dramatic. OK, he was definitely being dramatic, but it just didn’t make sense. Some major drama had gone down at the leavers’ ball last year, but he just didn’t accept that Janey had killed herself. He couldn’t get Janey out of his head.

  The media loves a missing white girl, so Janey Bradshaw’s death had been the biggest thing ever to happen to the sleepy seaside town in which they’d all grown up. Her only press competition had been Tilda Honey’s prize-winning marrows – it was no contest. The suicide of a promising, beautiful teenage cellist had ‘stunned the community’ as the papers were so fond of saying.

  According to the coroner, Janey had jumped from Telscombe Cliffs and was carried out on the tide. Her body had been found by fishermen almost four weeks later. Those weeks had been torture for everyone. God, what her poor family went through: the TV appeal for witnesses, camera crews cluttering their front drive.

  Because of what had happened at the ball, people had jumped (no pun intended) to suicide conclusions, but Ryan knew Janey pretty well. If she’d killed herself she’d have left a note – hell, she’d have left an essay! Janey loved the drama almost as much as he did. She’d have wanted the final word on the matter, he knew it.

  So while everyone else had been sobbing, he’d been suspicious. He figured there were only so many possible explanations for Janey’s death . . .

  1. Suicide. He wasn’t buying it.

  2. Random murderer. Ryan had researched this. People are very rarely killed or attacked by strangers, which brought him to . . .

  3. Family. Everyone always assumes it’s the dad, and Janey’s death was no different. The ghoulish townsfolk had seemed almost disappointed when it had turned out that Mr Bradshaw hadn’t molested his daughter; he had an ironclad alibi, as did her mother. That just left . . .

  4. Friends. Someone from school. One of them.

  Ryan squirmed on his lounger. It was such an awful idea, he almost felt bad for thinking it. And what was the motive? Why would any of them have wanted to kill Janey? It made little sense, but then neither did the official version of events. Janey had seemed like a normal eighteen-year-old girl from a nice town with a nice family in a nice house with a nice dog. But Ryan knew it was never that simple; there’s always something going on backstage. Behind every smiling mantelpiece photo, there are secrets. Ryan wondered what secrets Janey had had, and whether Greg, Alisha, Katie or Ben had known them too. Ryan hoped his Ray-Bans hid his suspicions.

  Greg sat on the other side of the pool, fiddling w
ith his mobile phone. ‘Can anyone else get, like, any bars?’

  Katie replied, ‘Good luck with that. Reception out here is atrocious. Sometimes you can get a bar or two in the bedrooms. You’re more than welcome to use the landline, though.’

  ‘We’re meant to be on holiday,’ Erin moaned, going over to the pool. Even in bare feet she walked on tiptoes like she was wearing invisible stilettos. ‘Not constantly bloody texting.’

  ‘I wanna check my Twitter.’

  Katie gestured towards the villa. ‘There’s wi-fi in the house, just no phone signal.’

  A thought occurred to Ryan and he sat upright on his lounger. ‘You know what?’ he said, snapping out of his Janey funk.

  ‘What?’ Alisha replied. She took a picture of him and he poked his tongue out.

  ‘This is so the beginning of a horror film!’ Right on cue a door slammed inside the house. They all jumped; sangria sloshed over the side of Erin’s glass.

  ‘Christ! What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘The doors slam if you leave windows open, that’s all,’ Katie reassured her with a smile.

  ‘It so is!’ Ryan went on. ‘Think about it. We’re in this remote villa, with no one else for miles and miles around. Our mobiles can’t get a signal. We’re all young and beautiful, especially me. We’re dead meat! We should run a sweepstake – what’s it gonna be? Axe-murderers? Zombies? Matadors? Spanish fishermen ghosts?’

  ‘As long as they’re cute fishermen ghosts I’m down with that,’ Alisha said, to much approval from Katie and Erin.

  ‘Witches are on trend right now. I’m putting my money on witches.’ Katie poured more sangria for herself and Ryan.

  ‘Dude, there is no way I’m getting killed by witches.’ Greg turned his nose up. ‘That’s chick-flick territory right there.’

  Ryan almost spat his sangria out. ‘Please! Greggle, you are so dying first.’

  ‘How the bloody hell do you figure that out?’ Greg demanded.