by Dan Tunstall
My brain is processing information super-fast. About five-three. Rolling Stones T-shirt and black jeans. Nice skin. Wide mouth. Perfect teeth. Shiny brown hair, loosely tied up. Beautiful without even trying. Something in her body language says she’s the boss of her gang. Don’t know what it is. It’s the way she carries herself. Inner confidence.
I swing into action, grabbing two extra seats and sliding them across. The girls are here now, and they both nod at me as they see what I’m doing. I catch the smaller girl’s eye and my heart leaps.
I sit back down, trying not to stare. I hope my tongue’s not hanging out. In the space of the last sixty seconds, the night has turned into something completely different.
Dylan looks round at us all. His grin is showing no signs of fading. He takes a breath and launches into another set of introductions, pointing each of us out in turn, shouting to be heard over the sound of Mariah Carey on the PA.
“Okay girls,” he says. “This is Robbie. This is George. And this is Chris. Robbie, George and Chris, meet Gemma and Steph.”
Steph. Her name’s Steph. Like a plank, I reach my hand out to shake. Steph takes it, giggling. A jolt of electricity goes through me.
“Chris Norton,” I stutter. My mouth is dry. I let go of Steph’s hand and have a swig of beer.
“Steph Warner,” Steph says. She’s got a soft voice and an accent like Nikita. “Dylan says you’re all from Letchford?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Where are you from?” It’s the best I can manage. I wish I’d had a bit more to drink.
“We’re down here from Streatham. We’ve just finished our GCSEs. We’re staying at Gemma’s granddad’s chalet. Got here this morning. No-one knows, back home. My mum would kill me if she knew where I was.”
I can hardly get my head round what I’m hearing. “No way,” I say. “Same as us. We’re in Robbie’s parents’ caravan. We’re dead if anyone finds out.”
Steph smiles, shaking her head. Up close she’s even better-looking. A bit like Cheryl Cole, or Tweedy, or whatever she calls herself nowadays. Something about her nose and her eyes. Or perhaps it’s not her eyes, it’s the shape of her eyebrows. I don’t know. Whatever. She’s mega-fit.
The night is sailing along now. Me and Steph are talking about loads of different things. I manage to slip into conversation the fact that I’m not seeing anyone at the moment. Steph isn’t either. We’ve got stuff in common. Bands and books and TV shows we both like.
Fifteen minutes pass in what feels like five seconds. Right from the word go, everyone’s getting on. It’s funny. We don’t look like a gang, and neither do they. They’re different shapes and sizes, they’re dressed differently, but somehow they work together.
Me and Robbie go to the bar to get another round in. Pints for us, Smirnoff Ice for the girls. Robbie’s a lot happier now. He’s not worrying about bumping into someone who knows his parents any more.
As we sit down again, I look at George. You can see he’s into Gemma in a big way. George is usually hopeless around girls. Whenever they talk to him at school, he gets nervous, starts biting his bottom lip. Then he gets all clumsy and uncoordinated. Sure enough, he’s biting his lip now, but he’s not fallen over or spilt his drink yet. He looks like he’s doing alright. Whatever he’s saying, Gemma keeps nodding and smiling.
Across on the other side of the table, Dylan and Nikita are laughing about something.
I lean towards Steph.
“Nikita’s enjoying herself,” I say.
Steph drinks from her bottle.
“Yeah. She’s letting her hair down this weekend. Her mum and dad are pretty strict. What they don’t know isn’t going to hurt them though.”
I’m busting for the toilet. I leave Steph in charge of my pint while I head off.
It’s not as packed in the toilets as it was earlier, so I go straight across to the urinals. When I’m finished, I turn round and see someone familiar coming in. Tangerine football shirt. Dylan. He heads for the condom machine and stands there looking thoughtful. He’s not spotted me. I creep up and poke him in the ribs.
“Dylan, you sad bastard. You met her less than half an hour ago.”
Dylan spins round, shoving coins into his pocket. Different emotions pass across his face, one after the other. Surprise. Confusion. Guilt. Within two seconds, he’s back to his usual self. He gives me a wolfish look.
“You’ve got to be prepared,” he says. “This is why you never get laid.”
I grunt.
“So you think she’s going to get ‘em off then, do you?”
Dylan’s full of himself.
“Never underestimate The Cawsey Boy. Tonight is Nikita Kaur’s lucky night.”
“Get real Dylan,” I say. “A bird like that isn’t going to drop and go for it. She’s got more self-respect.”
Dylan shrugs.
“Maybe. But she came and spoke to me. Not the other way round.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she must have liked what she saw. And who can blame her?”
I grunt again and leave him to it. There’s no arguing with Dylan’s logic.
Out in the hall, I slalom through the holidaymakers back to our table. I’ve thought of something funny I can tell Steph. But there’s a problem. Robbie’s shifted into my seat and he’s turning on the charm. A sick feeling starts to churn inside me.
It’s not surprising that Robbie’s making his move. George and Gemma already look like they’re paired up, and so do Dylan and Nikita. Which leaves me and Robbie competing for Steph. I suppose I knew it already. I just hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The thing is, me and Robbie have got a bit of history when it comes to fancying the same girls. Becky. Natalie. There’s one or two others. And Robbie always seems to come out on top. Robbie’s my best mate. But sometimes he’s my biggest enemy.
I sit back down and try to act casual. George and Gemma are still locked in conversation, so I lean across and chat to Nikita until Dylan comes back from the toilets. I wonder what he’s got hidden in his pockets. I flash him a sideways glance, but he’s giving nothing away. He gets talking with Nikita again. I look over at Robbie and Steph, seeing if there’s any way I can butt in. It’s not looking good. Robbie’s doing all he can to avoid my gaze. I’m starting to feel left out when Tony Curtis throws me a lifeline.
At last, the Erection Section is coming to an end. I reckon it’s been at least three quarters of an hour. For most of the time it’s been a pre-recorded CD playing automatically while Tony’s crammed his face with chips, standing outside the Fire Exit with a fag in his hand. But now he’s back, and he’s opening his new set with some Killers. Somebody Told Me. It’s not exactly a recent release, but at least it was recorded in our lifetimes, unlike the other dross he’s been playing.
Steph’s face lights up. She gets to her feet, grabs my hands and drags me out of my chair.
“Come on,” she says.
My night is instantly in gear again. I’m well chuffed. We’re on the dance floor in seconds flat. Robbie’s following, but you can see he’s pissed off. This doesn’t usually happen to him.
Soon all seven of us are up giving it loads, and we keep it going for most of the next forty minutes, with the odd pitstop for toilet breaks. Tony Curtis’s music is much better now. It’s pretty much all from the twenty-first century. There’s no awkwardness when we’re dancing. It’s not like anyone’s together in a couple. We’re all just having a good laugh. And it gives me a chance to properly check Steph out.
It’s closing in on midnight. All the kids have gone to bed. Most of the people in the Family Entertainment Centre are utterly wrecked. A fair few of them have probably been here since six o’clock. The atmosphere is getting rowdy and it’s not long before a massive fight starts off to the side of the dance floor.
It’s hard to see what’s going on with the flashing lights and Tony Curtis’s smoke machine working flat-out. Basically though, it’s members of the Kettering Posse and the Colchester C
rew having a turf war. Someone’s sat in the wrong seat and it’s all gone ballistic. A table has been turned over and bottles have started flying about.
Tony Curtis is oblivious to it all. He’s put on Y.M.C.A., and he’s doing the dance, in a little world of his own. Everyone else knows what’s going on though. People have started running for cover. Women are screaming and there’s a big space opening up in the middle of the hall with various tubby blokes thundering about, trying to hit each other and falling over. It’s quite funny.
But then I look across at Steph. Steph’s not laughing. There’s a strange expression on her face I haven’t seen before. Partly frightened, partly sad. I click into protective mode, putting my arm round her waist and steering her away to the far side of the room.
Tony’s finally caught on to what’s happening. He turns the music off and starts appealing for calm, without much success. The fighting shows no signs of stopping. A pint glass sails over and shatters against the side of the DJ booth.
We’re all standing in the corner now.
Steph shakes her head.
“I hate violence,” she says. “It spoils everything.”
Another glass arcs through the air.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “I’ve had a brainwave.”
“What’s that then?” Robbie asks.
“We should go down to the beach.”
Dylan looks at me like I’ve gone mad.
“It’ll be a laugh,” I say.
One by one, everyone starts to nod their head. It’s a daft idea, a spur-of-the-moment thing, but it looks like we’re all up for it.
Robbie clears his throat.
“Right then,” he says. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Skirting round the side of the people still scuffling, we go out of the main doors and into the courtyard. It’s nice to be in the fresh air. It was like a sauna in the Family Entertainment Centre. The Supermarket and most of the other shops are closed up for the night, but all the takeaways are open and doing good business. Outside Happy Valley a group of women are gathered around, taking it in turns to pat and rub the back of their mate who’s emptying her stomach onto the pavement.
Gemma’s got something on her mind.
“Just a mo,” she says.
There’s not time to ask what she’s up to. She’s off into Blue Zone with Nikita.
I look at Steph and raise my eyebrows. Steph shrugs.
It’s not long before Gemma and Nikita are back. Gemma’s holding a canvas bag. I can hear a clinking sound, like glass. A quick peek in the top of the bag confirms it. Two half-full bottles of vodka.
“Gemma, you’re a star,” I say.
Gemma curtseys.
We’re ready to go. We nip straight through the foyer, blinking against the glare of the strip lights. On the other side, we go across the car park and through the gates. There’s no traffic about, so we walk in the middle of the road like a group of gunfighters on the way to a showdown.
Whitbourne is gradually coming into view down below us. Rows of orange streetlights cut across one another and white lights glow from the buildings. Over to the right, lit up like a Christmas decoration, the pier juts out into the sea. The sea itself is inky black and glistening, reflecting a moon that’s probably a day off being full. The sky is clear, with a few splodges of cloud. There are more stars out tonight than I’ve ever seen.
The walk down into town is a lot easier than the uphill slog we had this afternoon. Nobody’s saying much. It feels like we’re off on a big adventure, and if we say anything we might spoil it. Before long we’re coming to the end of the seafront road, with the hotels to one side and the beach on the other. Somewhere in the town I can hear a clock striking half past midnight. We go past the bandstand, then down a flight of concrete steps to the prom. Fifty metres further, another flight of steps, and we’re on the beach.
It feels amazing. Unreal. This sort of thing doesn’t happen. Not to me, anyway. The whole place is dead. The lights from the seafront are casting crazy shadows as we run off in all different directions, screaming, scattering stones about, spinning in circles before joining together again and flopping down, panting and exhausted.
Gemma takes one of the vodka bottles out of her bag. She passes it round and we all take a swig. Then we sit in silence, staring out into the darkness across the Channel.
six
“Tell you what we need to do,” Dylan says, after we’ve been sitting for a while. “Build a fire.”
He’s not wrong. The night is mild, and there’s no more than a gentle breeze blowing, but we’re all shivering. The fact is, I didn’t think this through. We’re sitting on a beach at one in the morning in T-shirts. About ten minutes ago, a fox trotted past. It stopped to look at us and I swear I saw it shake its head.
Robbie snorts.
“How you going to start a fire then? Knock flints together?”
Gemma rummages in her bag again. She brings out a box of matches, shaking them like a single maraca.
“Thought these might come in handy,” she says.
George puts his arm round her shoulders.
“That’s my girl,” he says.
Gemma giggles.
I look at George and chuckle to myself. He’s turning into a bit of a smooth operator. It might have something to do with the amount of booze he’s necked tonight.
I unwrap my arms from round my knees.
“Better get some things to burn then,” I say.
I get to my feet and lead the way down to the strand line, picking through the stuff left behind by the last high tide. Chunks of driftwood, fragments of yellow planks, broken pallets, bits of cork, netting, fishing wire, polystyrene. Anything flammable, we’re having. Further up, we find some newspapers and fish and chip wrappers. The beach wasn’t busy yesterday, but there’s a lot of litter.
It doesn’t take long to get a decent pile. While we keep foraging, Dylan tears up a newspaper and scrunches it into balls. Then he starts laying some of the bits and pieces we’ve gathered on the top. You can tell he was in the Cubs.
Pretty soon it’s lighting-up time. We sit in a ring around Dylan’s pyre. Dylan takes the box of matches from Gemma and strikes one, his face lit by a yellow glare. I’m hoping his cheap polyester Letchford shirt doesn’t spontaneously combust. He cups the match in his hands and shoves it into the newspaper, moving it about, trying to spark it into life. To begin with there’s only smoke, but then the first flames start licking their way through the wood and plastic.
Dylan looks up. He’s beaming. We all cheer. Gemma passes the vodka round again, and then we sit back and watch the fire burn. It takes quite a while for it to get going. Everything’s damp, hissing and spitting. There’s an acrid smell in the air. From time to time moths flutter by to investigate, circling warily. One or two get too close and end up barbecued.
When the fire’s crackling away nicely, I glance across at Steph. She’s talking to Robbie, but I’m not so bothered this time. It doesn’t feel like such a threat. Gemma and George are laughing quietly. They look good together. She’s like a female version of him. Dylan’s showing Nikita something on his phone. I glance at Steph again. This time she sees me looking and smiles. Not for the first time tonight, my heart leaps. I shuffle across the stones to sit next to her.
“Hopefully the fire should warm us up,” I say. It’s a bit of a dumb comment, but Steph’s not put off.
“Yeah. And even if it doesn’t, it’s nice to watch isn’t it? The flames make beautiful shapes.”
“Mmm,” I say. “I love fires.”
Robbie looks a bit put out.
“I’m going to see if I can find anything else to burn,” he says, standing up.
As I watch him go, I almost feel guilty. But not quite. Robbie’s getting a taste of his own medicine. He’s done it to me plenty of times.
Gemma hands me the vodka and I take a swig before passing it on to Steph. Then we get back to talking.
It’s an unus
ual conversation. Not because we’re talking about anything weird. It’s just that after the ropey start, I’m finding myself telling her all types of things that I wouldn’t normally come out with. Personal stuff. Stuff that I don’t talk much to the lads about because they’d call me a ponce. Things I enjoy doing. Writing. Sketching. Watching old films.
It’s not one-way traffic. I’m getting to know all about Steph. She plays the clarinet. She goes to gym classes. She likes old films too. Her dad separated from her mum when Steph was twelve and she isn’t in touch with him any more. It’s all getting pretty deep.
I decide to take a chance.
“Shall I tell you something embarrassing?”
Steph hooks a tendril of hair behind her ear. I notice her fingernails are painted black.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“This sounds mad,” I say. “But I reckon this is the first time I’ve had a proper conversation with a girl.”
Steph nods, encouraging me to carry on. If what I’m saying is embarrassing, she’s not going to make me feel bad about it.
“I mean, I’ve got a sister, Beth, who’s two years older than me, and we get on alright. But we never actually talk about anything. We just mess around and try to get each other in trouble.”
Steph nods again.
“What about girlfriends?” she asks.
“Well, you know. I’ve taken girls out to the cinema and for meals and shopping in the Ainsdale Centre in Letchford. And, don’t get me wrong, it was okay. But I didn’t really have a connection with any of them. I didn’t feel like I could open up and be myself.”
“And you do with me?”
My breath sticks in my throat. I’m going red. I’m hoping that, in the flickering light of the fire, it won’t be too obvious.
“Er, yeah,” I say. There’s no going back. I’ve started talking about feeling a connection and opening up. I sound like one of those crappy Self Help books my mum reads. If Steph takes the piss now, that’s the whole weekend ruined.