‘Yup! Truth or Dare. For us old pals. We’ve known each other ten years. Ten years!’
‘We have.’
‘Ten years! You’re my oldest mate. No doubt.’ He reaches across to pat Martin on the arm, but ends up patting the bare wood of the table instead. ‘So, can’t have no secrets, can we?’ Luke slumps forward on to his arms, letting out a sickly burp. He lifts his head, screwing his face up at the taste.
Martin drinks his wine down in one mouthful, reaching for the new bottle and attempting to uncork it in the way Luke has shown him before. The cork snaps off halfway, and he has to go in again with the corkscrew, eventually pulling it out in little crumbly lumps.
‘You go first,’ Luke says, sitting back, holding his palms out towards the ceiling. ‘Arse me anythin’. Anythin’!’
Martin stares at a space on the ceiling, appearing to think hard.
‘Anythin’,’ Luke repeats.
‘OK, I’ve got one. Who’s your favourite songwriter of all time?’
‘No!’ Luke shouts, bringing his hands down on the table with a slap. ‘Not that kind of thing. I’ll start. Truth or dare?’
‘Truth,’ says Martin hesitantly.
‘Have you ever done anything with a girl?’
Martin’s face goes blank.
‘Truth or dare,’ Luke reminds him.
‘Dare, then,’ says Martin, inspecting his fingernails.
Luke flops against the table. ‘Oh, my God, man. You might as well have said no.’ He shakes his head so that his hair swings over his face like a curtain. It’s nice and dark behind his hair. ‘Tell you what, I’m too wasted to do dares. Let’s just play truth. Your go,’ he mumbles, flicking his fringe off his face.
‘You OK?’ Martin says. It sounds muffled to Luke. ‘You look a bit weird. You’ve gone all creamy.’
‘Creeea-mmy.’ Luke murmurs, before attempting to straighten himself up. ‘Truth.’
‘OK,’ Martin says. ‘Did you really sleep with Tina Jarman in the fifth year?’
‘Nope. I made that up. Didn’t even get a kiss.’ He splutters into his fist.
Martin snorts. ‘Knew it. Go on, then.’
‘Do you fancy Diana from next door?’
Martin avoids eye contact until Luke gives him a nudge across the table. ‘OK,’ he concedes. ‘A bit.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ says Luke. ‘She’s a cracker.’
Martin scans the room while he searches for his next question. Cautiously, he asks, ‘D’you believe the rumours about these parties?’
Luke scowls, shaking his head slowly. ‘No. That’s a stupid question.’
Martin pushes a long strand of hair from his face. ‘Sorry.’
‘S’alright, mate. My go. Does your dad hit you?’ It doesn’t come out as he means it to; it sounds as if he’s taking the piss.
Martin pauses, then shrugs.
Luke covers his face with his hands. ‘Oh, man. Tha’s not cool.’
Martin shakes his head, a brief jerking movement, and pours them both more wine.
‘Man,’ Luke repeats under his breath.
‘My go. Are you embarrassed when we go out together?’
Luke drops his hands and gazes across the table at Martin. ‘Sometimes.’
Martin looks down at the table and fiddles with the stem of his glass before taking another swig of his drink.
‘But hardly ever,’ Luke quickly adds. ‘You’re cool, man. It’s all cool. My turn. When are you gonna leave your dad and do what you wanna do, like the photogravvy?’
Martin pushes himself out of his chair and lumbers over to the sink, where he runs himself a large glass of water.
‘Mart? Truth! Tha’s the deal!’
‘No deal. It’s a shit game, man. And you’re only trying to put off phoning Samantha Dyas. ’Cos you’re scared.’
‘I’m not scared,’ Luke replies, getting to his feet and falling back on to his seat. He tries again, this time managing to move away from the table and walk towards Martin with his finger outstretched. ‘I’m not scared, and I’ll prove it. If – if –’
He staggers back against the dresser, knocking the McKees’ party invitation from the shelves. It drifts to the floor and lands beside the open back door.
‘If what?’ Martin asks, stooping unsteadily to retrieve the card.
‘If I had her number.’
Martin leaves the room, bouncing off the doorframe as he goes. The room sways and recedes as Luke steadies himself against the dresser, listening to the sound of the toilet flushing down the hallway.
‘Luke?’ Martin calls out. ‘Come ’ere a sec.’ In the hallway, he’s standing at the telephone table beside the front door, flicking through the pages of the phone book. ‘It’s Dyas, isn’t it? Samantha’s surname?’ he says without looking up. He brings his index finger down on the page with a thump. ‘Only one of ’em round here.’
Luke looks at the page miserably.
‘So, are you gonna phone her?’ Martin lifts the receiver and holds it towards Luke, starting to dial the numbers.
In a sudden burst of courage, Luke grasps the receiver and holds it to his ear, listening to the tinny ringing at the other end. It rings and rings, then, just as relief starts to wash over him, there’s a voice at the other end of the line.
‘Hello?’ It’s a man.
Luke grimaces at Martin. ‘Hello?’
‘Who is it?’ the voice says, gruffly. He sounds familiar, and too young to be Samantha’s dad. ‘Hello?’
Just as he realises it’s Len, Luke hears Samantha grab the phone at the other end. ‘Lenny,’ she says. ‘Give it here!’ She lets out a little yelp as if she’s being tickled. ‘Hello?’
Luke drops the phone receiver back into its cradle with a hard crack, and leans out of the front door to puke in the lavender. Martin looks on, his long arms dangling uselessly by his side, until finally Luke seems to have brought everything up. He slams the front door shut and staggers into the bathroom opposite, where he splashes his face with water and gazes critically at his grim reflection in the mirror.
‘She’s still with Len. He answered the bloody phone,’ Luke says, glaring angrily at Martin. He makes a grab for the hand towel and rubs his face vigorously. ‘Mart, is it just us? It is just us that’s not getting anywhere? All the other buggers are doing alright, aren’t they? Len and Samantha! Tom next door – the bloody French exchange students! Even, urgh, my mum and dad! They’re all at it like rabbits! What’s wrong with us?’ He chucks the towel in the bath and lurches past Martin with a groan.
Martin rubs his nose thoughtfully, and follows Luke back down the hall and into the kitchen.
‘So what’re you gonna do, then?’
Luke looks up at Nanna’s cuckoo clock, and staggers purposefully across the room to pick up the McKees’ invitation card and wave it in Martin’s face. ‘What d’you reckon?’ he asks with a drunken gurn. ‘Wanna go to a party?’
The lads cycle along the esplanade from Sandown to Yaverland, skirting off up the inland roads, where they stop briefly alongside the small airfield so that Luke can throw up again. He does so astride his bike, bending into the gorse bushes to avoid soiling his fresh shirt.
There are no lights on Martin’s bike, so he cycles at the front with a camping torch gripped in his fist, while Luke follows, his feeble dynamo lamp flickering at the rear. It’s a breezeless night, and despite the advancing hour the heat of the day is still in the air as they divert through the holiday parks to Whitecliff Bay, picking up pace on the approach to the high coastal edge that slopes down to the pebbles and beaches below. The tide is on its way out, and a wide expanse of sand stretches between the rocks and the water where little clusters of youngsters congregate around small flickering fires, or whoop in and out of the water, half-naked and carefree. Martin and Luke prop their bikes against the wooden railing and stumble along the footpath, until they stop at a spot where they can watch unseen. Among the youngsters Luke recognises kids from the year be
low him at school; he wonders how they came to be here, so at ease, so uninhibited, as he stands hidden in the shadows, merely a spectator.
Directly below them, two young women sit on the rocks in bikinis and floppy sunhats, with towels draped around their shoulders. A bearded man in cut-off jeans tends to a driftwood fire on the sand beside them, and the muted rhythm of their conversation rises and falls against the gentle lapping of the sea in the distance. One girl starts to sing; it’s ‘Saturday Sun’, one of Mum’s favourites, and Luke pictures her standing at the sink with her back to him, her head tilted in thought as she listens to the radio, unaware that he’s watching. He looks away from the people below and gazes out across the calm water, his thoughts dividing as his wine-soaked mind trespasses on last night’s dream, in which they lost Kitty on this very stretch of beach. It was night-time in the dream too, and as he and Dad ran down the pebbles towards the water’s edge they spotted her in the distance, teetering at the end of the furthest breakwater. Luke ran to catch her, and as she fell, he looked into her face and saw it wasn’t Kitty at all; it was Mum.
His stomach tenses at the memory.
On the beach below, the second girl joins in the song, and another man comes into view, stooping to pick up a guitar from the shadows. He sits on the rock beside them, the notes of his guitar falling in harmony with their voices, and, although they’re only a few years older, to Luke they couldn’t be more different. Luke feels stunted in contrast, pathetic.
Martin’s eyes flicker in the glimmer of firelight, watching as the first girl drops her head against the shoulder of the man, their voices lifting above the sound of the waves. She turns her face to meet that of the guitar player’s, and their lips connect.
Luke and Martin leave the beach and cycle out on to the main road. When they reach Bembridge, they slip along the quiet residential paths, heavy with the night scent of honeysuckle. At the Crab and Lobster they cut around the rear entrance, where the landlord is ejecting a few late drinkers and locking up for the night. They wait in the shadows until they’re sure the last customers have moved on, before wheeling their bikes across the small car park and up the grass bank to where the horizon comes into view.
‘Leave your bike here,’ Luke says, carelessly shoving his bike into a hedge before jogging down the deep concrete steps to the rocky beach below, picking his way over the uneven surface of pebbles and driftwood until his feet finally settle on firm sand. Martin does the same, readjusting his rucksack as he follows with the aid of his torch.
Luke walks out across the empty beach, stopping to scrutinise the seafront properties that overlook the water. ‘Mum said it’s a modern place – sort of upside-down, with the living room on top.’ He points towards the sea wall. ‘We’ll get a better view of the gardens from up there.’ Sprinting towards the crumbling steps, his limbs now move effortlessly, up on to the wooden ledge at the top of the beach, which edges on to the large gardens and gated perimeters of the various seafront houses and bungalows.
Martin follows close behind, his torch light juddering as he jogs to keep up. ‘Aren’t we a bit scruffy to be going to a party?’
‘We’re not going in, you donkey! We’re just gonna have a look. See what’s going on.’
The night seems to grow darker as they tread further along the sea wall, the light from the moon frequently disappearing behind wisps of light cloud cover. As they reach the border to each of the grand houses, they peer over high gates to see if they can spot the party house. Many of the gardens are huge, stretching up towards large properties, most of them too old-fashioned to be the McKees’.
‘Bloody hell, there’s a bit of money round here.’ Luke points to a private tennis court beyond a high screen of wire fencing. It’s bathed in floodlight, although there doesn’t appear to be anyone on the court, and he uses the light to check his watch. ‘Quarter to twelve. It’s got to be along here somewhere.’
‘Do you think they’ll still be there?’ asks Martin, as he clambers over a tangle of old buoys and rope.
‘They never get back from these things before about two. The party’ll still be in full swing.’
As they turn the corner, they hear it: the faint hum of music and laughter in the distance. Luke grabs Martin’s elbow, stopping to listen for the direction. He snatches the torch from Martin’s hand and breaks into a run, stumbling on the pebbles and dried grass underfoot. The sounds grow sharper in the still night air, drawing Luke on, ever faster, until finally, breathless and alert, he arrives at the boundary to the McKees’ property. He knows it’s their house; the brightly lit top floor is just about visible through the gaps in the tall wooden gate, showing it to be a fairly new build, unlike any of the other houses along the row.
‘This is it!’ he whispers when Martin eventually catches up. He shines the torch into his face and sees he’s got a smudge of dirt across his cheekbone. ‘What happened to you?’
Martin checks the palms of his hands and wipes them down the back of his shorts. ‘I slipped back there. It’s pitch black without the torch. I’m lucky I didn’t smash my camera.’
‘You brought your camera?’
‘It’s in my rucksack. First rule of good photography: always be prepared.’
Luke presses his face to the crack in the fence, trying to get a better look. ‘Here, give us a leg up.’
He hooks his arms over the top of the gate while Martin supports him from beneath, a surge of drunkenness passing through him as he’s lifted. Beyond the gate is a long, sun-scorched lawn, sloping up towards a manicured box hedge that runs the width of the house. Luke can hear voices coming from the space beyond, but his view is completely obscured by the hedge.
He drops back down, crushing Martin’s foot before he regains his balance.
‘Gotta be another way in.’ He waves his arm loosely towards the dark pathway that runs along the side of the house. ‘This way?’
Leaving the beach behind them, they follow the hedge-lined path all the way up to the side of the house, passing upturned wooden dinghies and tangles of rope, until the voices on the other side can be heard distinctly. The lads pause silently in the shadows; strange to be standing so close to the partygoers, unsuspected, invisible.
‘Darling!’
Luke almost cries out in surprise, the woman’s voice is so close.
‘Are you going in? Put the Donovan on, will you? It’s five to midnight!’ Her voice is shrill, as distinct as if she was standing right beside them. ‘Everyone! Five minutes!’ It must be Marie McKee; she sounds as if she’s in charge. There’s a clamour of voices, and it’s impossible to establish how many or few people there are.
‘We need to get a better look,’ Luke whispers to Martin. ‘This hedge is like Fort Knox.’
Martin takes the torch and wanders back and forth a few times, dimly illuminating the hedge to look for gaps. ‘There!’ he says, holding the beam on a small opening where the foliage meets the ground.
Luke drops to his belly and carefully wriggles through, stopping far enough back that he’s still concealed by the hedge on the garden side. The house and garden are brightly lit with lanterns and candles, and around ten or fifteen guests stand about in their evening wear, their faces hidden behind masks. There’s much laughter as one woman prances through the group like a gazelle, lifting her skirt high to show her knickers to all who happen to be looking. Her thighs are toned and athletic.
‘Why, Laura Drake, you temptress!’
Luke follows Mike Michaels’ voice to where he’s standing against the box hedge, a glass in his hand. He’s wearing an evening suit, his bow tie open at the neck, and a Batman mask, which looks mental on his puffy bald head. The woman curtsies, lifting her gown even higher. Hard to believe a headmaster’s wife would behave like that.
Martin has his camera in his hand. ‘What’s the light like?’ he asks.
‘Well, you can see them all quite clearly,’ Luke replies, ‘though they’ve all got masks on. I can’t see Mum and Dad. Yo
u take a look.’
He retreats, and Martin crawls through the narrow hole and lies there a while, fiddling with his camera and shifting position.
Luke hunches down beside the hedge, speaking softly into the hole.
‘Won’t they hear you taking the pictures?’
‘No. The music’s too loud. And it’s bright enough that I won’t need to use a flash.’
‘What can you see?’
‘Just a load of people in masks.’
Luke wanders along the dark path to pee in the shadows; the music volume rises suddenly, startling him and making him stumble. As he zips up his flies, his house keys drop from his pocket, falling at his feet in the darkness. ‘Shit,’ he mutters, stooping to retrieve them.
Over the hedge, it sounds as though the number of people out in the garden has increased, judging by the growing voices and chatter. Marie McKee starts counting down: ‘Five – four –’ and others join in, while Luke blindly scrabbles about in the dirt, trying to find his keys.
‘– three – two – ONE!’ The party crowd cheer and hoot, their merry voices drowning out the music and the roar of the distant tide.
A discarded mask lands with a crump on the path ahead, just as Luke’s fingers fall upon his key fob. He snatches them up, and sprints back along the path to join Martin. ‘What did I miss?’ he whispers urgently, dropping to his hands and knees. ‘Did I miss anything?’
Martin reaches his hand back through, to pass Luke a spent roll of film. ‘Take that, will you? I’m just putting a new film in.’
‘What did you see?’ Luke asks again, nudging Martin’s leg in the darkness.
There’s a shriek from the garden, silencing Luke instantly. ‘Simon! Stop it, you cheeky dog!’ It’s a woman’s voice, but not one Luke recognises.
More sounds of merriment follow, and from inside the house the music level increases further, so that it becomes hard to make out much more than the closest voices. ‘Joanna!’ a man’s voice bellows, and again it sounds like Mike Michaels. Luke listens intently, his head cocked.
‘Who was that?’ he asks Martin impatiently.
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