by Dan Tunstall
Out of Towners
by Dan Tunstall
Published in 2011 by Five Leaves Publications
PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW
www.fiveleaves.co.uk
© Dan Tunstall, 2011
ISBN: 978-1-907869-40-2
Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England
Five Leaves is represented by Turnaround and distributed by Central Books
Cover photograph and design: Heron
Typesetting and design: Four Sheets Design and Print
To the spirit of The Legend Inn 1990
With thanks to Penny and Jennifer Luithlen, Ross Bradshaw, Bali Rai, everyone at Leicester Libraries, Carey, Alex, Lily, Mum, Dad and all my mates.
one
There are moments in time that you just know you’re going to remember for as long as you live. This is one of them. I check my watch. It’s half past two on Friday 26th of June and the National Express 677 coach is pulling into Whitbourne Bus Depot. Me, Robbie, Dylan and George are grinning like fools. It’s almost too good to be true. We’re sixteen. We finished our GCSEs last Friday. The summer is stretching out in front of us. And we’re on our first lads’ holiday. It doesn’t get any better than this.
As the coach grinds to a halt, brakes hissing, Dylan stands up. He pulls his rucksack down from the rack.
“Right then boys,” he says.
My stomach flips over. From the minute Robbie suggested having a weekend at his mum and dad’s caravan in East Sussex when GCSEs were over, it’s been about the only thing I’ve thought of. Which didn’t help with my revision. Still, I reckon I did okay. And now the exams are done and we’re actually here.
I’m the next one on my feet. It’s good to be able to stretch my legs. Apart from half an hour in Victoria Coach Station in London, we’ve been wedged into these seats since nine o’clock this morning. All the way from Letchford. I get my bag and follow Dylan to the front of the coach. Robbie’s behind me and George is at the back, stooping forward slightly so he doesn’t hit his head on the ceiling.
I jump down onto the tarmac, pulling my bag onto my shoulder. The air smells of diesel fumes and oil. We stand to the side while everyone else gets off and then we wait for George to get his case out of the luggage hold. Me, Robbie and Dylan have got sports bags or rucksacks. George has got a huge bright red capsule suitcase with wheels and a handle. It’s like something my uncle Keith would take on a Mediterranean cruise. As George trundles it towards us, Robbie starts to laugh.
“Can’t believe you brought that.”
George shrugs.
“It’s practical.”
I pat my pockets, checking my wallet, change, key and phone.
“Come on then,” I say. “Are we getting off?”
Dylan and Robbie nod, but George is fiddling about.
“Wait a sec,” he says. He stands his suitcase on its end, gets his mobile out and wanders over to where a bloke in an orange reflective jacket is brushing litter into a big yellow scuttle.
“Excuse me,” George says, holding his phone out. “Could you take a photo of me and my mates?”
The bloke looks at him for a second or two. Eventually he nods.
George gives him the mobile and walks back across to us.
“Right lads. Smile for the camera.”
We all stand in a line. I feel a bit of a nob.
The bloke takes the shot, hands George his phone, then gets back to his sweeping.
“Cheers,” George says, but the bloke isn’t listening.
George has a look at the picture. He tosses the phone to me.
“Here you go Chris. What do you think?”
I squint at the image on the screen, checking myself out. My mum reckons there’s a resemblance to Jamie Redknapp. I don’t know if I can see it, but I’m not unhappy with how things turned out looks-wise. My face is quite long, but my cheekbones are good, my nose is straight, my skin is clear and girls say they like my brown eyes. It’s a bit vain I suppose, but I’m down here for more than the sunbathing. It’s the seaside. There’s going to be girls here.
I have another glance at the photo. At everyone, this time. We don’t look like a gang. Me and Robbie are both about five-nine, but you’ve got George who’s six-three, and at the other end of the scale you’ve got Dylan who reckons he’s five-six, but he’s definitely adding an inch or two. And then there’s the haircuts. My brown crop, brushed up at the front, Dylan’s number two, Robbie’s curls, which he gets from his Jamaican mum, and George’s blond Brillo pad. Even our clothes don’t match. Me and Robbie are in jeans and hoodies and Etnies trainers, but Dylan’s in sports gear as usual and George is in the sort of stuff only he would wear. Three-quarterlength shorts and a T-shirt with a picture of Sylvester the cat holding a surfboard. Like I said, we don’t look like a gang. But we are.
I chuck the phone back to George. “It’s a good shot mate,” I say. “I’ll get you to BlueTooth it to me later on.”
George nods.
“Will do.”
All the other passengers have gone now. The coach driver has closed up the luggage compartments and he’s setting off for the canteen.
“Okay then,” Robbie says. “Let’s rock and roll.”
We head for the exit. The automatic doors swish open and we’re out on the streets of Whitbourne. It doesn’t look much different to Letchford. Across the road there’s a launderette. Mario’s Washeteria. Mario’s looks like it closed down a long time ago. The windows are boarded up and someone’s put a brick through the Perspex sign above the door. Every dog in the surrounding area seems to have taken it in turns to crap outside the place and graffiti is daubed all over the walls. A few swastikas and ANTHONY IS A TWAT in big capitals.
Dylan raises his eyebrows. “Welcome to Whitbourne,” he says. “Ain’t exactly St Tropez, is it?”
I laugh. Whitbourne’s just a knackered little resort between Brighton and Eastbourne. It doesn’t matter though. The sun’s struggling to get through a bank of grey cloud. There’s a bit of a wind blowing and a slight chill in the air. But there’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be.
“Which way are we going then Robbie?” George asks.
Robbie rubs his nose. He doesn’t answer.
Dylan cocks his head on one side.
“Robbie,” he says. “It’s your mum and dad’s caravan. You know how to get there don’t you?”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Robbie spits, machine-gun style. “Course I do. Just need to get my bearings. Not come here on a coach before, have I?”
A few more seconds pass. Robbie looks left and then right. A smile spreads across his face. He’s got it sussed.
“Okay,” he says, pointing. “It’s this way. Got to tell you though, it’s quite a long walk.”
We set off. All the buildings on the street look the same. Two-storey, flat-roofed boxes with warped wooden cladding along the front and shops on the ground floor. Most of the shops are shut down, but a couple of spot-cash places are still open for business. We come to a corner by a big CarpetWorld. There’s a sale on and someone’s tied bunches of red and green balloons either side of the doorway. The car park is empty.
Turning left, we come past a red brick building. Magistrates Court, a sign says. A few dodgy characters are smoking on the pavement outside. At the top of the steps, a fat security guard is frisking an agitated-looking bloke in a beige Lacoste shellsuit. Seagulls are wheeling and screeching overhead, but there’s still no sign of the seafront. There’s still not much sign of the sun yet either. If anything, it’s getting colder. I zip my hoody tight under my chin.
After a couple more minutes, Dylan starts up again.
“Shit, man,” he says. “You weren’t kidding about it being a l
ong way, were you Robbie? If I’d known it was a walking holiday I’d have brought my hiking boots.”
“Shut up Dylan,” Robbie snaps.
He’s annoying, Dylan. Always winding people up. Robbie’s usually fairly laid-back, but Dylan’s starting to piss him off.
As usual, George acts as the peacemaker.
“Hey you two,” he says. “Stop messing.”
Robbie and Dylan keep on scowling at each other, but they do what George says. George is the Voice Of Reason. He moved to Letchford from Birmingham when he was eleven. With his Brummie accent and the way he looks, he reminds me of Adrian Chiles off the telly. The one who’s always banging on about West Brom.
On the face of it, George is totally different from me and Robbie and Dylan. We all play football. School teams, Sunday league, that kind of thing. We’re all pretty decent players. But George is the sort who gets picked last in PE. He’s such a good lad though. The soundest bloke you could ever find. And he cracks me up.
I look around, taking in a bit of the local colour. There’s a cross-eyed bloke in a flat cap with a can of own-brand lager in his hand weaving our way. Outside the Health Centre over the road, a junkie is staggering up and down with a handful of prescriptions and a dog on a string. I can hear a thud-thud-thud sound coming from somewhere. Loud music on a car stereo, getting closer.
Robbie’s calmed down now.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get going.”
A few hundred metres further and we come to a pedestrian crossing. We’re just stepping out when we nearly get cleared up by two cars screaming past, music blasting. Before I can register what’s going on, Dylan’s jumped into the road grabbing his balls.
“Tossers!” he shouts.
There’s a sudden screech of brakes. The cars have stopped.
Dylan lets go of his balls and gets back onto the path.
Two seconds later, six white lads are bundling out of the motors. Four from a sky blue Peugeot 205, two from a black Citroen Saxo. They’re a few years older than us. About eighteen to twenty. Baggy trousers, logos and chunky jewellery. They’re heading our way.
“Oh shit,” I say. “Great start to the weekend. A slapping from the local chavs.” We’re all rooted to the spot. Running’s not an option with all our luggage.
The lads from the cars are right in our faces now. A big geezer with gelled black hair and a green hoody seems to be the leader. He doesn’t look the sharpest tool in the box. He’s breathing through his mouth, eyes half-closed. There’s a tattoo on his neck. KIRKIE. I assume it’s his name. Having it tattooed probably comes in handy if he ever forgets what he’s called.
“Got a problem?” he says, diamond earring glinting.
Dylan’s straight in there. He’s got a habit of acting the hard man.
“You virtually ran us over,” he says.
One of Kirkie’s mates pipes up. He’s about Dylan’s height, wearing a red baseball cap. He’s got the kind of acne I thought people didn’t have in the twenty-first century.
“You should watch where you’re going, shouldn’t ya?”
Dylan’s puffing out his chest, like he always does when he’s in a confrontation. He’s about to say something else but George steps in.
“Yeah, we’re sorry,” he says.
Kirkie’s little mate spins round to stare at George.
“You what?”
“We’re sorry,” George says again. “We don’t want any trouble.”
For some reason the lad in the cap looks like he wants to kill someone.
“Shut your mouth you lanky twat,” he snarls. He seems to have taken George’s height as a personal insult. It wouldn’t be the first time George has ended up as a target.
Another of Kirkie’s crew comes forward. He’s got fag burns in his tracky bottoms and a pair of very clean fake Timberlands on. His head is the shape of one of those old-fashioned lightbulbs, hair receding at the temples. He looks at our bags and George’s case. You can almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain.
“We don’t like out of towners,” he grunts.
I don’t know why, but I find this dead funny. I bite my tongue and stare down at the ground. I look across at Robbie. He’s trying not to laugh too.
“Are you two taking the piss?” the kid in the Timberlands asks.
Robbie shakes his head.
“Nah. We just want to get on our way.”
There’s a moment of silence. Our two gangs are sizing each other up, in case things go off.
Kirkie sniffs. He’s decided it’s time he took charge again.
“Anyway,” he says. “We need to get this sorted, you get me? If you’re staying in Whitbourne, you’re going to have to pay for it.”
The hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. My hand goes to my pocket.
“You ain’t having my money,” I tell him. I’m not in the mood for giggling any more. I’m gearing up for a brawl.
A fat lad with buck teeth and a roll-up fag behind his ear moves towards me.
“Are you sure about that?” he says.
I take a step backwards and look at Kirkie. His expression is changing. Glancing over my shoulder, I see why. A police car has pulled up. It’s a Ford Focus. A pair of coppers are getting out.
The bigger of the two policemen comes over. He’s about six foot, barrel-chested and bald, with two cauliflower ears. Plays a bit of rugby in his spare time. He looks at us, and then at Kirkie and his boys.
“Are we having difficulty here, gentlemen?”
Nobody says anything.
The other copper has crossed the road now. He’s shorter than his partner, with red hair combed forward. He looks closely at Kirkie.
“Callum Kirk isn’t it?” he says.
Kirkie raises his chin.
The copper smiles.
“I hope you’re keeping out of trouble, Callum. And that you’re bearing in mind the advice we gave you the last time we met.”
Kirkie shrugs. He looks down at his trainers. Nasty brown and cream Nikes.
The copper carries on.
“Anyway, I’m sure you and your friends have got something constructive that you could be doing. Am I right?”
Kirkie glances up.
“Yeah,” he says.
Kirkie’s mates are already making their way back to the cars. Kirkie follows them. He climbs into the driver’s side of the Citroen Saxo. It’s got fibreglass skirting round the bottom and an exhaust like an overflow pipe. On the rear bumper there’s a sticker. Driven Well? 0800 Fuck You. Kirkie winds the window down and looks at us.
“See you around, lads,” he says.
There’s some revving, a thud-thud-thud as the music kicks in again, and then the cars move off. They crawl slowly up to the end of the road and round the corner. As soon as they’re out of sight there’s a squeal of wheels and the sound of both cars roaring away at top speed.
The two policemen give each other a world-weary look. Then the rugby-playing copper turns his attention to us.
“So you young men are here on holiday, I take it?”
“Yeah,” Robbie says. “We’re heading for Wonderland Holiday And Leisure World.”
“First time without the parents is it?”
We all nod. I didn’t think it was that obvious.
“And where have you come from?”
“Letchford,” I say. “It’s in Lincolnshire.”
The red-haired policeman is looking at Dylan.
“How old are you all?” he asks.
A tingle goes through me. I know where this is going. If he thinks we’re too young to be down here on our own, he’s going to want to contact our parents. And that will mean big trouble. Because our parents don’t know we’re here. They’re completely in the dark. We’ve managed to spin an intricate web of bullshit. It’s pretty complicated, but basically everyone’s folks thinks their lad is at someone else’s house until Sunday evening. Letting off a bit of steam and chilling out after the exams. Safe and cosy
back in Letchford.
“We’re all eighteen,” Robbie says. He sounds a bit too confident.
The coppers exchange a glance.
“I see,” the red-haired one says. “You don’t look eighteen. Have you got some ID on you?”
Robbie starts stuttering, trying and failing to get his words out.
I’m just getting used to the idea that the holiday’s over before it’s even started when I hear a crackling noise. It’s the big copper’s radio. He unclips it, listens for a while, then mumbles something in reply. When he’s finished, he looks at us.
“Got to go lads,” he says. “Duty calls.”
I feel a wave of relief splashing over me. But we’ve not got away with it yet. The red-haired policeman is having another long hard look at Dylan.
“You chaps have a good time then,” he says finally. “And take care. There’s an element amongst the local fraternity who aren’t so keen on visitors.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I think we found that out.”
The coppers get back in the Focus and pull away.
I let out a big breath. Then we all start laughing.
When we’ve got ourselves sorted, we carry on the way we were going. We’re starting to see more and more people, which I take as a sign that we’re getting nearer to civilization. We take a left and we’re in what looks to be the middle of Whitbourne. It’s a square with block paving and benches and wooden planters full of flowers gasping for water. There’s a big shopping arcade over to one side, with all the usual places. Boots. WH Smith. Costa Coffee. I can see a McDonald’s down a lane to the right.
Robbie points to a signpost. Directions to the pier and seafront.
“There you go Dylan,” he says. “You think your little legs can keep going for a bit longer?”
Dylan says nothing.
We cut through the town centre and the market place then head down a road filled with cafes, ice cream parlours and shops selling seaside stuff. Rock and windbreaks and buckets and spades. Up ahead, the seafront is coming into view. Everyone’s gone quiet. The excitement is building. I feel like I’m five years old again. I’ve forgotten all about Kirkie and his mob now.