by Dan Tunstall
I’m not sure why, but my mind has started acting like a sponge, soaking up pointless details. A Union Jack and an EU flag fluttering on the roof of The Glenroy Hotel. A cloud that looks a bit like a dolphin. Two dogs up on the prom who’ve taken time out from charging around to hump each other in the flowerbeds while a couple of old ladies try to prise them apart with their walking sticks.
Kirkie hauls the waistband of his jeans up over the top of his pants. Like the last time, he’s let his lieutenants have their go and watched them get nowhere. He sucks air in through his teeth and gets ready to take the initiative.
“Right,” he says. “Playtime’s done, you get me? You turn over your money and your phones or someone’s going to get hurt.”
This isn’t good. I swallow and sneak a peek back to where the girls are sitting. Gemma and Nikita have got their hands over their mouths. Steph’s covering her eyes. In a funny way I’m glad. She won’t see if I end up getting my head kicked in. I think about something George said yesterday. Drinking dinner through a straw. Not a nice image. The kid with the mobile has moved round to get a different angle.
So far Dylan’s kept his mouth shut. It’s not like him. It’s a bit ominous. I picture him grabbing his balls in the street yesterday. I picture him shadowboxing in the caravan. I remember the things he said. Kirkie’s lot were pussies. Slobs. We could take ‘em. Any minute now, I’m expecting him to come out with something really aggressive. The thing that will finally light the blue touch paper. I’m wrong.
“Everyone needs to settle down,” he says, cool and collected. “Baywatch is here.”
At first I don’t get what he’s talking about. But then I see. Two lifeguards, big dudes, surfer’s haircuts, yellow T-shirts and red shorts, are on their way over.
Lightbulb Head tugs at Kirkie’s sleeve.
“Kirkie,” he says.
Confusion flickers across Kirkie’s face.
The lifeguards have arrived. They look round at all of us, getting a handle on what’s up. It isn’t hard. Neither of them says anything. They don’t need to.
Kirkie’s up to speed now. He knows it’s Game Over. He snorts phlegm up his nose and spits it down onto the pebbles.
“We’re out of here,” he says.
He turns and leads his crew back up the beach to the prom. When they get there, Lightbulb Head spins round to look at us. He jabs two fingers towards his eyes, then points them at me. I’m Watching You. Next he draws his thumb across his throat. You’re Dead.
I look at Robbie and grin. Tension is bubbling out of me.
“Someone’s good at sign language,” I say.
The biggest lifeguard looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
“Everyone okay here?”
I give him the thumbs up.
He nods to his mate and they start heading back to the strip of beach they came from. The Spanish kids are leaving too. I don’t blame them. They’re probably going off to find the rest of their group. Safety in numbers. The lad with the moustache looks at me and lifts his hand. I give him the same signal back. At least he knows that not all English people are wankers.
George is shaking his head and Dylan’s standing with his hands on his hips. They both look a bit wired, but I’m feeling pretty good. Like a caveman who’s just helped to see off another tribe. I high-five Robbie and we wander back to the girls.
Gemma and George start talking quietly. Dylan and Nikita do the same. I wink at Steph, but she’s not looking amused. She’s upset. She’s trying to smile, but it’s forced. Her mouth is turning up at the corners, but there’s nothing registering in her eyes. The spark has gone.
Robbie sets off down the beach for a swim. I feel like joining him, to work off some of the adrenaline that’s still coursing through me, but I can’t leave Steph. I notice her hands are trembling.
I touch her arm.
“I’m sorry Steph. That wasn’t very nice. But I couldn’t just sit here.”
Steph shakes her head.
“No. You did the right thing. But it seemed like those lads knew you. How come?”
I brush a stone off my towel.
“We had a bit of a run-in with them yesterday. Wasn’t anything serious.”
Steph’s still trembling.
“You’re not keen on stuff like that, are you?” I say.
She winces.
“I’ve seen enough violence to last me a lifetime. I know the damage it can do.”
I nod, partly to show that I understand, partly to let her know she can talk to me about it if she wants to. I get the impression that her dad’s something to do with the violence she’s seen.
Steph stays quiet. She lies back on her towel and closes her eyes.
I take a deep breath and settle down on my front, keeping my eyes open in case anything dodgy starts developing. It seems okay though. Kirkie and his boys have gone. The whole stretch of beach is more or less empty now. It should be nice, having the place to ourselves, but it’s not. It’s like a damper’s been put on the whole afternoon. Nobody’s heart is in it any more.
I look at Steph again. I want to say something to her, but I can’t think what. I’ve not known her for long, but she comes across as a tough kid. Not someone who’d want sympathy. But now she seems so fragile. I feel a big twinge. Some kind of emotion twisting my guts. I can’t explain it, and I’d never say it out loud. At least not when the lads were listening. But maybe this is what love feels like.
ten
It’s around five o’clock when we pack up and start the hike up the hill out of town. By half past we’re coming past the barbed wire and crossing the car park at Wonderland.
Back in the foyer, there’s been a late change to the bill at the Family Entertainment Centre. On Benny’s placard, a red line has been drawn through AWARD-WINNING PSYCHIC COLIN WELLS. Cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances is scribbled underneath.
I look at Dylan.
“Colin’s powers are failing him.”
Dylan shrugs.
“Nah,” he says. “He’d foreseen how crap this place is.”
We carry on into the courtyard. Wherever I look, sunburnt people are wandering in a daze, going in and out of the shops. Red noses and shoulders are everywhere. I’m glad Steph got me to put sun cream on.
“Right then,” Gemma says. “We’re going back to the chalet to get something to eat, but we’ll meet up later, yeah?”
“What time are we going to say?” George asks.
The girls look at each other. Nikita speaks up.
“Shall we call it eight?”
“Eight’s fine,” Dylan says. “We can go back into town, see what it’s like at night.”
Nikita nods.
“That would be great,” she says.
George scratches his head.
“So are you going to come to us, or are we going to come to you?”
“You come to us,” Gemma says. “We’re Blue 29. It’s along the row nearest the shops. Dead easy to find.”
It sounds like everything is settled. Steph’s been quiet since we left the beach. The whole thing with Kirkie and Co has really got to her.
“See you in a couple of hours then Steph,” I say, trying to cheer her up.
It does the trick. The twinkle is back in her eyes.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “Look forward to it.”
The girls start off for their chalet, leaving us standing in the courtyard. The night’s entertainment is sorted out so we need to think about food.
“What do you reckon then?” I ask. “Pot Noodles, crisps and Jaffa Cakes again?”
George isn’t pleased.
“You’re joking. We’ve not had anything decent to eat since we left Letchford. What about a Chinese? I know it isn’t the healthiest, but at least it’s something that’s been cooked. Not just something we’ve tipped boiling water into.”
I look across at Happy Valley. There’s still a patch of puke on the pavement outside, and two seagulls are fighting ove
r the chunky bits. But there’s an Open sign in the window and the smell of sweet and sour is in the air.
“It’s not a bad idea,” I say.
Dylan and Robbie nod their heads.
“Right then,” George says, pleased. “Chinese it is.”
It’s hot inside Happy Valley. Apart from us, only two other people are in the place. A geeky kid with glasses and a Monty Python T-shirt, and a twitchy bloke in a blue jogging suit with a picture of a trainer stitched to the leg. It’s the outfit I saw on a washing line last night. The worst one I’ve ever seen. It looks even more terrible on.
The sweet and sour smell is much stronger in here. I’m absolutely starving. I take a couple of menus and we make for a bench next to the fish tank in the corner. Neon Tetras swim in and out of a sunken galleon while we decide on our meals. I’m having Peking Chicken. Robbie’s having Cantonese Roast Pork. George opts for Shrimp and Beansprouts. Dylan rounds things off with a House Special Chop Suey. Four portions of Egg Fried Rice and we’re sorted.
I go across to place the orders with the old Chinese chap behind the counter. It comes to twenty-eight quid. I pay up, sit back down by the fish tank and watch the TV bolted to the wall.
Ten minutes later our food turns up in two brown paper carrier bags. We head out and go into the Supermarket. Food’s taken care of. It’s time to get something to wash it down with.
Robbie disappears off to the back of the shop and comes back with two four-packs of Fosters.
“This should do the trick,” he says.
“Too right.” I’m glad he’s gone for lager. I didn’t fancy another session on the White Thunderbolt.
We’re almost running on the way back to the caravan. We’re all gagging for food. Robbie yanks the door open and goes into the kitchen cupboards to get plates and forks.
Sitting at the low table, I start dishing up, tipping Egg Fried Rice out of plastic tubs and plonking the main courses on top. George puts the TV on, flicking over to Britain’s Next Big Thing. Dylan passes the cans of beer round and we crack them open.
It doesn’t take me long to scoff my dinner down. Five minutes tops. I slide the plate onto the table and slouch back in my seat. I take a long swig of Fosters.
“That was cracking,” I say.
There’s a few grunts in agreement. On Britain’s Next Big Thing a young lad with ironed hair is yowling his way through a power ballad. He’s straining for the high notes, twisting his features so it looks like he’s trying to shit a pineapple.
Everyone’s finished their dinners. I look at George. This meal was his idea, so I’m expecting him to be happy now. He’s not though. There’s a haunted expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
George lines up his cutlery.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about tonight,” he says.
“Why’s that then? Because of that aggro on the beach with Kirkie’s lot?”
George nods. He seemed alright earlier on, but perhaps that was because the girls were there. Now he looks rattled.
“Come on mate,” I say. “It’s going to be fine. A night to remember. On the beach, that was sod-all. A bit of handbags.”
“I’m not so sure. We keep on bumping into those idiots. A town this size, it’s hard not to. If we see them again there’s going to be big trouble. We’d be better off staying here.”
“George. We can’t go round to the girls’ chalet and say ‘Sorry ladies. Tonight’s off.’ We’d look like tossers. I mean, you didn’t say anything when the whole thing was getting organised.”
Dylan’s keeping out of it, but Robbie’s joining in.
“Look. No way are we staying cooped up in this place. You know what’s on down at the Family Entertainment Centre. Bingo and line dancing. Even the psychic’s bailed out. I want to go into town, Chris does and Dylan does. Trust me. It’s going to be okay.”
George bites his bottom lip. He’s outnumbered and he knows it.
“Well, it’s your call. But I’ve got a bad feeling about it. There’s going to be some bother. It’s like Instant Karma. Punishment for lying to our mums and dads.”
Robbie pokes his finger in his ear and wiggles it about.
“Instant Karma?” there’s disbelief in his voice. “You’ve not gone Buddhist on us have you?”
George shrugs.
We spend the next hour staring at the TV, letting our food go down. It’s the decision stage on Britain’s Next Big Thing. We’re with the young lad with the ironed hair again. He’s mooching moodily around a sunlit garden in a vest and flip-flops, waiting to learn his fate. I’m not paying much attention, but it doesn’t look positive. He’s blubbering on the shoulder of the presenter’s shiny suit. Seven o’clock is coming around.
I finish my can and push myself upright.
“I’m going to make a start in the bathroom,” I say.
There are no objections.
In the bathroom I sit on the toilet. I’ve eaten some serious junk over the last twenty-four hours, and judging from the sounds underneath me, my body is letting me know it doesn’t approve. I hardly dare look into the bowl when I’m done, but out of curiosity, I take a peek. It’s not a pretty sight. Pale and floaty. Not the bowel movement of a healthy man. I flush it away and spray a bit of George’s deodorant round to mask the smell.
It’s time to get ready. I have a quick rinse in the shower, getting all the dried sea salt out of my hair. I can taste it as it runs down my face. Afterwards I brush my teeth, spray my pits and work my way through my going-out checklist.
When I’m finished, George makes for the shower and I go into the bedroom, wrapped in my towel. I get clean socks and boxers and the jeans I wore on the trip down. I’m running a bit short of clothes I haven’t already used this weekend, but I’m pleased to see I packed my turquoise polo shirt.
I stick on my Etnies, transfer my wallet and mobile into my jeans and wrap my watch round my wrist. When I’ve stuffed my pile of change into my pockets, I just need to get my bangles from the bedside cabinet where I dumped them last night, and I’m ready to roll. A quick glimpse in the mirror in George and Dylan’s bedroom confirms what I’d thought. I’m looking good.
Back in the living area I crack open my second can. Britain’s Next Big Thing is still in full flow. It’s been on for two hours now, and shows no signs of ending any time soon. I’d got it all wrong about the lad who was on earlier. He’s not been eliminated. He’s through to sing in the live part of the show. It’s Big Band Night and he’s dressed up in a dinner jacket complete with loosened bowtie, murdering a Frank Sinatra song.
Dylan’s in the bathroom now. With George off getting changed, it’s just me and Robbie watching TV.
Robbie takes a mouthful of beer and looks me in the eye.
“So you going to go for it with Steph tonight?” he asks.
I cough, caught off-guard.
“Dunno mate. Reckon I should?”
Robbie nods.
“Yeah yeah yeah.”
I wipe condensation off the side of my can.
“D’you really think she’s into me?”
Robbie pulls an exasperated face.
“She’s mad for you,” he says. “You’ve done all the negotiation. It’s time to seal the deal.”
I know he’s right. But something is still nagging away in the back of my brain.
“I thought you fancied her,” I say.
Robbie sighs.
“I did. But she wasn’t interested. She likes you. Must be something wrong with her.”
I laugh.
“No hard feelings?”
“Don’t be a cock,” Robbie says. “It’s not your fault she’s got no taste.”
I look at him and smile. Robbie can be a bit of an arse, but it’s at times like this that I remember why he’s my best mate.
George is coming out of the bedroom. It looks like he’s finally got the lads’ night out clobber situation cracked. He’s in a black and white striped T-shirt a
nd dark blue jeans. His hair’s still ropey, but he looks sixteen, not sixty. He sits down next to us, making a start on can number two.
It’s twenty-five to eight. Dylan seems to be taking a lot longer than usual in the shower tonight, so I go to find out what he’s up to.
It’s steamy in the bathroom, but I have no difficulty seeing Dylan. He’s standing in front of the mirror. And he’s got my bottle of moisturiser in his hand.
“Oh. Alright Chris?” he says. There’s a guilty look on his face.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
He holds up the moisturiser.
“Er, I wanted to have a go with this. Don’t mind do you?”
I smirk. Dylan’s discovered the joys of men’s grooming.
“Help yourself,” I say. “Nikita likes a well-turned-out man, does she?”
Dylan’s got his composure back.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
I laugh and leave him to it.
Five more minutes and Dylan’s winding up his male model routine. He strolls into the bedroom looking very happy with himself. He’s fully moisturised, he’s put a bit of my wax in his hair and he’s splashed himself in aftershave.
Robbie wolf-whistles him.
“You’ll be shaving your bollocks next, you tart.”
Dylan grins.
“I’m not a tart,” he says. “I’m a metrosexual.”
Because Dylan’s had such a session with the beauty products, Robbie’s up against it. He doesn’t let us down though. He’s showered and dressed in fifteen minutes flat. And his standards haven’t slipped. He’s looking as sharp as always, in black jeans and a grey V-neck T-shirt.
It’s five to eight. Dylan’s been sitting with me and George for the last few minutes, but he nips back into the bathroom to check himself out one more time. He’s upped his style game all-round. There’s no football top and baggy trousers tonight. It’s straight-cut jeans and a check shirt with a button-down collar. On the TV, the lad on Britain’s Next Big Thing is in tears again. And this time it definitely isn’t good news. He’s been voted off.