Out of Towners (2 page)

“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.

Another thirty seconds and we can see the pier. Against the backdrop of grey sea and grey sky, it's fairly rickety-looking. A jumble of wood and concrete and metal, all flaking white paint, peeling roof lead and seagull shit. It looks like one big gust of wind could send it crashing into the English Channel. But then the sun breaks through the clouds and the pier suddenly seems a whole lot more impressive.

Robbie looks at us. He points to the sky.

“How's about that for timing?”

Nobody says anything. We're too busy grinning again. The temperature seems to have gone up by five degrees in the last couple of seconds and the rays of the sun are bouncing off the surface of the sea. We all put our sunglasses on.

“Right then,” Robbie says. “The lads are officially on tour. Wonderland here we come.”

We go along the seafront, away from the pier, heading out of town. On the left of us, beyond a row of yukka plants, some fancy flowerbeds and the prom, is the beach. Grey, white, yellow and red pebbles slope gently down to the sea. Every hundred metres or so, a heavy wooden groyne stretches out into the waves. The tide is going out, but it's still quite high. It's a good time for swimming, but nobody's in the water. There's a few family groups dotted about on the stones and a bloke in big earphones ambling up and down with a metal detector, but not much else.

“Not very busy, is it?” I say.

Robbie pushes his sunglasses up his nose.

“It's not really the holiday season yet. The schools down here don't break up for weeks. It livens up at the weekends though. Londoners, mainly.”

I look across to the other side of the road at the big old hotels with their fading whitewash, dirty net curtains and dusty windows staring out to sea. The Devonshire. The Heatherdene. The Glenroy. They're impressive buildings, but they've seen better days. It looks like Whitbourne was a pretty upmarket, swanky place, years ago. The glamour has faded now.

We keep going, past the bandstand, the crazy golf and the bowling greens. After the lifeboat station there's a cluster of pine trees and then the road starts to wind uphill. Over in the distance I can see the coast curving round and climbing up towards a huge white chalk headland.

“There are some serious cliffs over there,” I say.

Robbie nods.

“Yeah. The big one's called Bellevue Point. It's like Beachy Head's little brother. Hundred and twenty-five metres above sea level. It's nice up there. I've been with Mum and Dad. There's a pub and a visitors' centre. But I don't think we're going to be doing a lot of sight-seeing this weekend.”

I laugh. Sight-seeing isn't too high on my list of priorities.

It's warming up now. The road away from the seafront seems to be getting steeper. I'm just thinking it's turning into another hike, when I see the gates of Wonderland looming at the end of a long road lined with tall trees.

“So what's this place like?” Dylan asks.

Robbie scratches his chin.

“Poor man's Butlins. You've got a mini-village with shops and then there's this big entertainments place where they've always got stuff going on.”

I laugh.

“Knobbly-knees competitions and Glamorous Grannies?”

“You're not far off,” Robbie says.

We're up at the entrance now. There's a trail of red concrete paw prints leading the way across the car park in the direction of a big grey bunker at the top of the slope. Chalets and caravans stretch away into the fields all around us.

Dylan grabs my elbow. He nods at the perimeter fence. It's five metres of mesh topped off with barbed wire.

I grin.

“Is that to keep the locals out, or keep the holidaymakers in?”

“Dunno,” Dylan says.

We go through a set of double doors into the grey bunker and enter a sort of foyer area. A payphone is bolted to the wall on the right, next to a shelving unit filled with brochures for local attractions, old newspapers and dying pot plants. Straight ahead, a six-foot cardboard cut-out of a bear in red dungarees is holding a placard.

George smiles.

“They're keen on bears,” he says. “Paw prints in the car park, big cut-outs in here. What's that all about?”

“It's Benny the Bear,” Robbie says. “Disneyland have got Mickey, Wonderland have got Benny.”

George and Dylan nip to the toilets. I take off my sunglasses and wander across to the big notice board on the far wall. It's covered with posters for forthcoming events. There are a lot of tribute nights coming up. T-Rexocet. Stasis Quo. Seventies bands. The music my Nan listens to. Tickets are still available for Jack Jones and David Dickinson from
Bargain Hunt
.

I walk over to where Robbie's still standing and we wait for George and Dylan. When they're back, we go through another set of double doors and come out into a courtyard. It's the mini-village Robbie was talking about. There are shops to the left and right of us. The Wonderland Supermarket, a hairdressers, a chip shop, a bakers, a couple of coffee places, one or two takeaways. Across on the far side is what looks like a big sports hall. The Family Entertainment Centre.

“What do you think then?” Robbie asks.

“Spot-on mate,” I say.

I have another look around. Over to the left there's a bloke leaning against the wall of the Happy Valley Chinese with a fag in his mouth. He's about sixty, and looks like he's lived every last minute. He's a dodgy-looking character in a red blazer and grey trousers that are too short for him. Under the blazer, he's wearing a purple shirt and a yellow paisley tie with a knot the size of a cricket ball. Paedo chic. He's got thin brown hair, thatched into a massive bouffant with gallons of hairspray, and a suspiciously orange tan. He sees me looking and smiles. His teeth are pearly white. Too white for a bloke of his age. A good half-inch of gum is showing under his top lip.

Dylan sees the bloke smiling at me.

“Hey, Chris. I think you've pulled.”

“Piss off,” I say.

We go along the row of shops on the right and then turn down a path through a field with chalets on one side and an outdoor swimming pool and adventure playground on the other.
Blue Zone
, the signs say. The skies are clearing now. The grey clouds have gone and there's just a few little fluffy white ones scudding about. The sun feels warm on my face. It's turning into a proper summer's day.

“How much further?” Dylan asks. He seems to be struggling with his rucksack. He keeps adjusting the shoulder straps.

“Not far,” Robbie says.

George switches the handle of his suitcase from his left hand to his right.

“I hope this caravan's got running water,” he says. “We borrowed my auntie's caravan once, and we all had to crap in a bucket.”

Robbie laughs.

“Yeah. That's the sort of caravan you hitch to the back of your car. This is a static. It's luxury.”

George looks chuffed.

“What's it got then?”

“Hot water on tap, electricity, gas. There's a telly, a fridge. You name it, it's in there, mate.”

We're through the first field now, heading into the second.
Green Zone
. This field is full of caravans. A group of young kids is playing on a patch of grass. Two lads and two girls. They stop kicking their ball about when they see us coming. The smaller of the two lads steps out into the path. He's six or seven, with lines cut into the sides of his hair and a
Ben10
T-shirt.

“Are you here on holiday?” he asks.

“Got it in one,” Dylan says.

The kid looks quite pleased with himself.

We keep on going and the kids get back to their football. Another hundred metres and we're turning right.

“Check it out,” Robbie says.

I look where he's pointing. The caravan. I recognise it from his holiday photos. He's been coming here every year since he was little.
Green 64
. It looks sound. The walls are cream and white rippled metal, the windows are slightly tinted and the curtains are brown with white chevrons. Three wooden steps lead up to the door.