SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories)

by Belinda Jones

  ‘What kind of interest?’

  ‘My, aren’t we a nosy little girl? How about you answer some questions for a change?’

  I glance out to sea. The boat has drifted further away in the last hour or so – it’s still bobbing about, alone, on the clear, blue water. There are no other boats that I can see. With its dense jungle and tiny stretch of beach this is one of the least popular islands off Phuket. Most of the tourists will be at the festival in the town – drawn by the noise, the booze and the dancing. We could be alone here for hours yet.

  ‘Okay.’ I look back warily at Beachball. Just because Greyhair is dead doesn’t mean I’m out of danger. ‘What do you want to know?’

  He looks me up and down again. ‘Why would a young girl like you earwig on two total strangers in a bar and then ask if you could share their boat to a deserted island? It’s weird. Where are your friends?’

  I want to tell him that he’s the weird one, coming on holiday with someone he barely knows and then killing him without a moment’s hesitation. Instead I say, ‘My friends are back in England. None of them could afford to come travelling with me.’

  ‘So you’re a rich girl are you?’ He openly sneers. ‘A Trustifarian living off Mummy and Daddy?’

  ‘Actually I’m an orphan. My mum died of cancer last year, I was only seventeen. And my…my…’ I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, ‘…my step-dad passed away recently. He left me some money.’

  ‘Oh.’ The expression on Beachball’s face changes but it’s not one of pity. Is he planning on stealing from me? Worse? He hasn’t shown the slightest regret for braining Greyhair whilst I was grappling with him. What’s to stop him killing me next? He rubs a hand over his lips and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘Why us? Why ask to share our boat?’

  I look him straight in this eye. ‘I overheard you talking and when you said you were coming here it seemed like an opportunity too good to miss. I’m not in Phuket for the beaches or the bars. I’m looking for dangerous species.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Now who’s the nosy one?’

  We stare at each other, neither of us saying a thing and I brace myself, all the muscles in my body tensing as I prepare to run but, instead of lunging towards me, Beachball throws back his head and roars with laughter.

  ‘Touché!’

  His laughter turns to a wheeze and he reaches into his bag and pulls out his inhaler. He puffs on it twice then looks up at me. ‘Two more questions for you, clever girl. One – what are we going to do with the body? And two, how the fuck do we get off this island?’

  *

  Sweat rolls off my eyebrows and drips into my eyes and I pass a hand over my face for what must be the third time in as many minutes. Beachball is doubled over in front of me, puffing on his inhaler like his life depends on it. We’re standing in near darkness in the middle of the jungle, a canopy of leaves blocking out the sun, an army of cicadas chirping frantically. Greyhair is lying dead at our feet. We striped the sand with his blood as we hauled him from the beach to the jungle, pausing every couple of seconds to catch our breath and wipe the sweat from our eyes. It must have taken us hours and we’re both scratched and bleeding. The vegetation was thicker than I thought.

  ‘Now what?’ Beachball looks up at me, still bent over, his hands on his knees. ‘We can’t bury him – we don’t have a spade.’

  ‘I know.’

  He frowns. ‘So we just leave him here?’

  I nod.

  ‘But they’ll find him. Sooner or later someone will find him here.’

  ‘I know that. His body will serve as a warning.’

  ‘For what?’ Beachball straightens up but it’s an effort and he presses one hand to his chest as he shakes his inhaler with the other.

  ‘A warning to paedophiles.’

  ‘What?’ His cheeks pale and he stares at me open-mouthed.

  I crouch down, pick up my bag and slid my hand inside, keeping my eyes on Beachball the whole time.

  ‘He was a paedophile?’ he says, his eyes darting to his left, his right, to the trail we created that’s directly behind me. ‘Fuck. That’s awful. How do you know?’

  ‘Same way I know you’re a paedophile – from the forum where you discuss your shared interests.’ I spit out the last word.

  ‘You’ve made a mistake, girly.’ Beachball shakes his head. ‘You’ve got me confused with someone else. We’re into trains, me and him, not kids; that’s sick.’

  ‘And that’s why you came to Thailand is it?’ I smile. ‘In search of trains?’ I’m breathing quickly now, in and out through my nose, but not because I’m scared. My fingers graze the rough lining of the bag and then touch the object I’ve been searching for. I close my hand around it.

  You’d think it would be hard to crack an online paedophile ring wouldn’t you? Not if your stepfather suddenly died and left you everything, including his computer. Not if he was logged into the forum when he breathed his last breath. Not if the last thing he’d typed was ‘Yeah. I’m up for a trip to Thailand. We could have a lot of fun.’

  ‘That’s right, girly. We came to Thailand for the trains.’ Beachball’s gaze drops to the ground. His own bag is lying on the forest floor, an equal distance between him and me. I saw what was in Greyhair’s bag when he tipped the contents onto the sand in search of his note but Beachball didn’t do that. There could be anything in his rucksack, anything at all.

  ‘Any particular kind of train you were hoping to visit in Thailand?’ I ask as I slowly, slowly slip my hand from the bag. ‘A steam train perhaps, or a TGV. Maybe a—’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Beachball looks from Greyhair, who’s still face down on his stomach, to the thick streak of blood that stretches from his feet to the path we created from the beach. ‘I hit him on the back of the head. That blood can’t have come from…’ I jump back as he throws himself at Greyhair’s body and, grunting with the effort, flips him over onto his back.

  Beachball takes a step back, one arm outstretched, pointing at the gaping wound in Greyhair’s stomach. He stands there, staring, pointing, saying nothing for what seems like an age then, ever so slowly, ever so deliberately, he turns and points at me.

  ‘You.’

  I smile. It’s a genuine smile. A proud one. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did that.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I did. Poor thing. He only wanted to know if I had some loo roll.’

  His gaze flicked towards his bag, now less than half a metre from him. ‘You fucking bitc—’

  He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. I cut it out of him, twisting the knife in his guts until his knees buckle and he tumbles backwards. He lands on top of Greyhair and slumps onto him, their heads nestled together like sleepy lovers entwined.

  *

  I’m slightly out of breath when I get to Phuket airport. It took me longer to swim out to the boat than I’d anticipated, then I had to drop the knife into the sea, speed back to the shore and pick up my laptop and belongings from the hut I’d rented on the shoreline.

  I wasn’t lying when I told Beachball that I was a county swimming champion. I took up swimming after mum died and it was just me and my stepdad left in the huge, sprawling house she’d inherited from my grandparents. I trained every Monday, Tuesday, Friday and Saturday – a weights session followed by three miles in the pool. Training made me fast and strong. It also meant that, four times a week, I’d be miles away from home – and safe – when he’d peel himself out of bed, stumble into my bedroom for a bit of ‘fun’ then log onto the computer in the dining room. I try not to think about the other three days a week.

  ‘Got anything nice planned in Kuala Lumpur?’ the check-in desk steward asks as I hand over my passport and ticket.

  I killed my stepdad instead of serving up Sunday lunch. One minute I was standing beside the dining-room table, a carving knife in my hand and a steaming turkey in front of me, and the next I’d driven the knife between his shoulder blades. He was sitting at the computer des
k in the corner of the room at the time. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was the sound of his fingers tap-tap-tapping on the keys, the squeak of his chair’s wheels on the dirty tiles, or his groans of pleasure as he looked at image after image after image, but something inside me snapped. I stabbed him again and again and again; feeling a delicious rush of satisfaction each time the blade crunched against bone. So much for going to the police. Now I had to run from them instead.

  I spent four hours on the forum, notebook in hand, and then half an hour inputting my stepdad’s credit card details into a travel website. I knew exactly where I was going to go.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I look up at the check-in steward as she slides my boarding card and passport back across the counter. ‘You just asked me something?’

  She smiles widely, her overly made-up face the picture of professional interest. ‘I asked whether you had something nice planned in Kuala Lumpur?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going in search of… one second,’ I reach into my bag and pull out my notebook. I flip through the pages, pausing momentarily on a blank, lined page to chastise myself for pressing too hard with my biro. You’ll be dead by dawn is imprinted in the page. ‘Oh yes, I’m going in search of BlueBottle78 and MyTurnNow.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She inclines her head to one side and frowns. ‘What was that? I didn’t catch—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  She’s still frowning as I turn and walk towards the departures lounge.

  About the Author

  C. L. Taylor lives in Bristol with her partner and young son. She started writing fiction in 2005 and her short stories have won several awards and been published by a variety of literary and women’s magazines. Cally works in Higher Education and has a degree in Psychology, with particular interest in abnormal and criminal Psychology. She also loves knitting, Dr Who, Sherlock, Great British Bake Off and Margaret Atwood and blames Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected for her love of a dark tale. Her new novel THE ACCIDENT, a dark psychological thriller, was published in the UK by Avon HarperCollins in April 2014 and as BEFORE I WAKE in June 2014 by Sourcebooks in the US.

  Website: www.cltaylorauthor.com

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/callytaylor

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/CallyTaylorAuthor

  Visit www.sunloungerstories.com to discover more about the authors and story destinations.

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  Bride Comes Before A Fall

  ***

  Jo Thomas

  DESTINATION: France

  Cedric the peacock lets out an almighty squawk as he marches across the lawn, making me jump and jangling my nerves. I can hear Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major from the other side of the wall. That’s my cue. It’s time. I pull at the heavy bronze bolt on the door but it won’t move. I can’t pull it back.

  ‘Bugger!’ frustration and nerves get the better of me and I run my hot, shaking hands down the swaths of white netting and try again.

  ‘Bugger, bugger,’ I say again when the bolt refuses to move.

  I need to get out of here, now! But as hard as I try, as tight as I grip it, as much as I cajole it, the bolt won’t budge. Cedric squawks again. A hot, red rash of anxiety spreads up across my chest, round my neck, filling my cheeks and making them burn.

  ‘Nooooo, nooooo.’ Panic starts to bubble from the pit of my stomach and I have no idea what to do. ‘NO!’ I slam my hands against the door panel and stare at the lock hopefully. But nothing happens. It doesn’t move. Tears of frustration threaten, but I have to calm down I tell myself. Emilie, the local hairdresser, has done my make-up and I don’t want to ruin it. It took her an hour and a half; an hour and twenty minutes more than it would usually take me. I really do want to look my best for Jean Pierre. I want to make him proud when I walk down that aisle. As proud as I feel marrying him. I can’t mess that up now. I try to turn around the best I can in the mountains of tulle and grab a piece of toilet paper to dab my top lip.

  I see my reflection in the mirror as I turn and catch my breath. It pulls me up short. I don’t recognise myself. I look like a complete stranger, and a very stressed one at that!

  ‘Breathe in,’ I tell my reflection, like I’d tell any of the nervous brides getting married here. I do as I’m told and hold it. It’s just one day.

  ‘And out,’ I say calmer and blow, ‘Phhhhhhwwww,’ long and steady; hoping to slow down my galloping heart. There are 150 guests waiting for me out there in that wedding room. Panicking isn’t going to help. I make a really concentrated effort to try and push the image of their faces to the back of my mind. But my mother-in-law-to-be’s keeps pushing its way back in, rising up into full focus, staring right at me, looking like she’s sucking a lemon. I can still hear Mozart playing in the background. In fact, this could well be the second time I’ve heard it now.

  I put the top of my forehead against the heavy door, its panels covered in deep aubergine wallpaper with little silver fleur-de-lis. I cup my hands over my mouth and muster all the breath I can.

  “Helllllll…..” my voice catches in my throat and trails away. I bang on the door making my hands hurt. The dark room, with its yellow atmospheric low-lighting, is making me feel like the walls are closing in. My chest’s tightening like someone’s squeezing it and my breathing is becoming more and more shallow. I’ve never had claustrophobia before but I’m guessing this is how it feels.

  I sit on the loo seat and the large layers of skirt rise up to meet my chin. I push them down but like helium balloons they try to spring back up. This opulent bathroom is such a long way from the plastic B & Q sale suite me and the rest of my family used to share. I say rest of, but it was only me, my mum and my brother, just the three of us. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Mum’s face when she arrived at the chateau two days ago for the family dinner; a cross between impressed and terrified. She’d stressed about what knife and fork to use and which colour wine to drink with her meal. But I was so proud of her; she got stuck in, even though I knew she was feeling way out of her depth. The furthest she’d ever gone from home was Brighton when we were kids. She’d never been abroad, so it had come as a shock to her when I told her she’d be staying in a chateau just outside Saint Emilion. We’d had to get her a passport especially for the trip. She’d even tried a few words in French at the dinner. No-one had understood her but who cares, I was so proud. My brother Lewis just seemed intent on trying to get off with every waitress before his weekend in paradise came to an end, no matter what language they spoke. They’re out there now, waiting for me. My Mum will be worrying. I try calling for help again.

  “Hellllll…..” my voice cracks and I find myself collapsing into nervous, hysterical laughter. Laughter for god’s sake! Why was I laughing? This was as far away from funny as it could get. 148 of Jean Pierre’s family and friends were out there waiting for me and typically, I’ve let him down by getting myself stuck in the bloody bog!

  Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be at all. I’m making a terrible mistake and so is Jean Pierre. I’ll never be good enough for him. I mean, look at this! I’ve organised this wedding to within an inch of its life but I can’t actually get myself to the altar on time.

  I look around for another means of escape. There’s just a high window, but it looks like it’s the only way. I have to get out of here. And it’s not like I haven’t done it before, is it? It’s a skill I learnt back home, helping to get as many of the gang as possible into Cinderella’s nightclub and then leaving again as quickly as we could once spotted by the bouncers. It was getting away from that crowd and their brushes with trouble that had pushed me into coming to France in the first place. A night in the cells after a busted house party was enough of a wake-up call for me. Mum had been delighted when I answered an advert for an English-speaking waitress to work in a chateau at a vineyard just outside Bergerac. Not that she knew where that was, b
ut it was away from trouble.

  And Mum’s cup of PG tips had practically overflowed with happiness when I rang to tell her I’d been promoted. Of course things weren’t entirely perfect, not with a tyrant of a boss like Nicole: a hard business woman who didn’t suffer fools gladly, which I knew only too well. There was this one day I’d dropped a knife into a businessman’s pocket when clearing the table and tried to retrieve it without him knowing. Not so much silver service as slippery service. An almighty row had broken out. Nicole told me I was a terrible waitress. She also told me in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t the first time I hadn’t made it to the kitchen without dropping a tray of glasses or a pile of plates and she was reassessing my future at the chateau. I was pretty sure I was going to be on the next flight home, but instead Nicole promoted me. She said she’d noticed how good I was at handling drunken guests, organising and placating people and packing them onto the minibus at the end of the night with a joke and a firm shove. That was another trick I’d picked up from my days hanging around with the wrong crowd; how to talk my way out of trouble. I’d learnt how to turn on the charm when it was needed. So instead of sending me home, Nicole put me in charge of wedding parties. That was nearly a year ago now, yet I was still messing things up. Here I was, unable to get out of the toilet at my own wedding, for heaven’s sake.

  But I can’t talk my way out of this. And I don’t think I can make it out of the window in this get up either. I let out a huge sigh and turn and lean against the door. Every morning I wake up to see miles and miles of vineyards from my bedroom window, cream-coloured stone houses set up on the hillside and field after field of bright yellow sunflowers. I am surrounded by all this and I’m about to marry Jean Pierre, Nicole’s son. This is the wedding of my dreams. Well, actually, back home I couldn’t have ever dreamt of a wedding like this. And Jean Pierre? He is most definitely the man of my dreams, way beyond my dreams. So why then do I suddenly feel like a sodding great trout out of its pond?