Out of Towners (11 page)

I push myself onto my elbow and squint my eyes in the direction she's pointing. Up to the right there's a group of the Spanish kids we saw earlier, two boys and two girls. Only they're not alone. They've been joined by what looks like local lads. Six of them. The locals are sitting with their backs to us, but it's not too difficult to see what's going on. A bit of good old-fashioned sexual harassment. A flavour of England that probably wasn't in the brochure.

The Spanish girls are getting flustered. One of the lads looks scared, but the other one isn't taking any crap. He's a little bloke, skinny with floppy black hair and a bumfluff moustache, but he's standing up, waving his arms around.

“Piss off,” he's saying. “Piss off. Wankers.”

I'm impressed. He's obviously been learning something useful at the Language school. The problem is, the lads aren't pissing off.

I sit up and get my sunglasses. Quite a few people have clocked what's going on. Families are picking up their stuff and moving away in case things get nasty. George is still flat out, but Robbie and Dylan are on the alert.

Robbie looks across at me.

“Better keep an eye on this,” he says. “Six on two isn't exactly a fair contest. There's no other Spanish kids to help them out.”

I nod. I start putting my trainers and socks on, just in case.

The other Spanish lad is joining in the verbals now. He's taller than his mate but if anything he's even skinnier. His grey hoody is hanging off him. One by one, the locals are getting to their feet. The two Spanish girls look close to tears. It's about to kick off.

Robbie and Dylan have got their shoes on. Robbie pokes George in the ribs. He finally realises what's occurring. He puts his shoes on too.

I stand up.

“Come on. We need to go and have a word.”

Earlier, Steph was looking concerned. Now there's fear in her eyes. It's the way she looked last night, when the fighting started in the Family Entertainment Centre.

“Chris, be careful,” she says.

I don't say anything. I just nod.

Up the beach, things are reaching a critical point.

As the four of us crunch across the stones I'm completely psyched up. I don't know what we're going to do. But we can't sit around sunbathing while some kids get a shoeing.

The Spanish lads have seen us coming. They both look terrified. For all they know, the six kids they thought they were dealing with has become ten. But we're here to even up the numbers. If it gets physical, it's six-on-six.

The first of the local mob has seen us coming. He's a little shortarse in a red cap with a face like pizza topping. I know him from somewhere. He nudges the big bloke next to him. And when he turns round, everything clicks. Gelled hair. Brown and cream Nikes. Tattoo on his neck. Kirkie.

“Well, well,” Kirkie says. “Look who it is.”

His whole gang is catching on. It's like a chain reaction. They've forgotten all about the Spanish lot.

The kid with the head shaped like a lightbulb leers at us. He's still wearing his box-fresh fake Timberlands. He's got a black eye since I last saw him, a big comedy shiner like something you'd see on
Tom and Jerry
.

“The out of towners,” he grunts. He runs out of inspiration after that.

For a few seconds we all stand looking at each other. In the end it's George who speaks up.

“Now come on,” he says, chewing at his lip. “Let's all stop messing. There's no need for any aggro.”

Kirkie's mate in the red cap takes a couple of steps forward. He seems to have got the wrong end of the stick.

“You want aggro?” he says. “I'll give you some aggro, boy.”

I look at him and sigh. Watching him having a pop at George is like watching a Chihuahua biting the ankles of a Great Dane. But I'm getting a sinking feeling. We shouldn't have got into this.

A thin kid in a cheap white anorak with red tartan across the shoulders starts staring me out. His bottom jaw is wider than the top of his head. His ginger hair is shaved round the sides and spiked on top. The ends are frosted blond. He's got his phone in his hand, pointing it round, taking the whole scene in. Something to post on YouTube.

Lightbulb Head glares at me and Robbie.

“Were you cheeky twats taking the piss yesterday?”

I wish he hadn't asked that. I feel like laughing again. I glance across at Robbie. I can see he's thinking along similar lines.

“Look,” I say. “This doesn't have to get out of hand. Let's all get on with our own business, yeah?”

Even as I'm saying the words, I know how lame they sound.

A fat kid with sticky-out teeth, the one who had a fag behind his ear yesterday, gets involved.

“Kirkie told you. You come to Whitbourne, you pay for the privilege. We're taxing you.”

The rest of the mob starts laughing. They seem to be taking it in turns to have a go. It's like a shit boy-band all doing their solo spot. Kirkie's standing back and watching.

The next member is stepping up. He looks a bit like a bulldog. He's broader than he is tall, in baggy shorts and a vest, topped off by a woolly hat with earflaps. He's got phoney tribal tattoos on both shoulders. Something tells me he's the token bitch of the bunch. He's even more badly-dressed than the others, and he's got the saddest pair of trainers you've ever seen. Lime green Adidas. The kind they have on the sale rack outside JJB Sports.

“So come on. Wallets at the ready. It's taxation time.” For some reason he's got a Jamaican twang to his voice. Robbie's mum's parents were born in Jamaica, but their accents aren't as broad as that. When he's finished, he looks up at Kirkie for approval, but he's getting blanked.

Robbie shakes his head.

“We all know that's not happening.”

It's a proper standoff. The Spanish kid in the hoody tries to butt in, but no-one's listening. My thoughts are all over the place. I don't know what's coming next. I've got no idea if I'm any good at fighting. I've never had to find out. Sweat is running down my back. It's got nothing to do with the temperature. I start to wish I wasn't wearing my sunglasses. They cost me twenty-five quid from Top Man, and I could see them getting smashed here.

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.

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.”