Out of Towners (8 page)

“You're kidding.”

“No mate. I'm serious.”

All eyes are on me now.

“Come on,” I say again. “How many chances do you get to paddle in the sea at this time in the morning?”

Steph's the first one on her feet.

“I'm in.”

Nikita gets up next.

“I'm with you,” she says.

I'm impressed with Nikita. She's a tiny girl, not much more than five foot tall. She must only weigh eight stone. But she was knocking the alcohol back like a professional, and she's raring to go even at this hour of the morning.

Slowly but surely everyone else, even Robbie, starts peeling themselves up from the stones. As we crunch down the slope, the first sliver of the sun is appearing over to the left beyond the pier. About ten foot from the highest point the waves are reaching, we all sit down and start taking off our shoes and socks. Steph's toenails are painted black like her fingernails.

I roll up my trouser legs. This was my idea, so I've got to be brave. I've got to get on with it. I grab Steph's hand and we take the last few steps, pebbles digging into the soles of our bare feet. Holding onto each other, we splash into the freezing sea, screaming at the shock, wading out for a while then turning to look towards the beach.

The rest are holding back.

“In you come,” I say, grinning. “The water's lovely.”

George and Gemma are the first to follow, then Nikita, with Dylan and Robbie last to make a move. Finally all seven of us are up to our ankles. I try to take in all the details. The tiny lights along the pier. The sunrise. The stars. The beach. The stones rolling over my toes. It's another one of those moments in time. The ones you'll remember forever.

Thirty seconds of standing in the Channel at this time in the morning is more than long enough. My teeth are chattering and my feet are going numb. I lead the way back to the shore and drop down, drying my feet with one of my socks. I toss the other one across for Steph to use.

She smiles.

“Chris. What a gentleman you are. Who needs someone to lay a jacket over a puddle when you've got a pair of old socks?”

We both laugh.

When we've got ourselves sorted, we head for the fire. All the wood is gone now, and the flames have almost burnt themselves out. We sit and watch the embers dying down. It's getting lighter and lighter as the sun drags itself into the sky, a huge orange semicircle reflecting in the dark water. I can still see one or two stars, the moon is sinking down towards the sea, and there's a kind of mist rising up. It's a weird time. The night is fading, but it's not daytime yet.

I look at my watch. Nearly four o'clock. We've all gone quiet again. The truth is, it's time to go back to Wonderland. Everyone knows it. But nobody wants to be the one that says it. Nobody wants to break the spell. In the end, Gemma speaks up.

“We need to think about getting some sleep,” she says.

She's right. While people are struggling to their feet, I help Dylan stamp out what's left of the fire. When it looks like it's gone for good, we all trudge up to the prom.

We take it easy on the walk back. Away from the beach and the sound of the waves, it's deathly silent. Almost the whole of the sun is above the horizon now. The mist has lifted and the temperature is creeping upwards. The sky is clear and there's not a cloud in sight. Looking back along Whitbourne seafront, the pier is shining in the early morning light, gleaming white.

The seafront gradually disappears as we climb higher out of town. I'm walking alongside Steph. Every now and then my arm brushes against hers. I'm wondering how she would react if I grabbed hold of her hand. It would probably be a step too far. Too much, too soon. It's good enough just being with her.

Before long we're coming down the road with the tall trees. Two minutes later we're at the Wonderland entrance. We trace the bear paw prints through the foyer, cut across the courtyard then follow the path into Blue Zone.

For a few seconds everyone stands looking at one another, not knowing what to say. There's a strong feeling growing inside me, like a yearning. I'd do anything to be able to reach across to Steph and kiss her goodnight. But it's not going to happen. Not yet anyway.

“Shall we all get together tomorrow?” Nikita asks.

I'm in there like a shot.

“Yeah. That would be great.”

Gemma nods.

“Okay,” she says. “We're all going to need a lie-in in the morning, so why don't we agree to meet on the beach in the afternoon. Not too early. Say half past three at the bandstand?”

George gives a sleepy grin.

“Half three. It's a date.”

I look at Steph.

“See you tomorrow then,” I say.

Steph smiles.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow Chris. Sleep well.”

My heart feels like it's going to explode.

The girls go off to their chalet and we walk the last few hundred metres to the caravan. As Robbie unlocks the door, I take a deep breath. The air tastes good. I just know tomorrow's going to be a brilliant day.

I pop open one eye, then the other. Everything is blurred. Somewhere close by, I can hear a shrieking noise. My arms seem to be tied to my sides and I'm coated in sweat. Sunlight is streaming in through a window to my left, between a gap in some curtains. I stare at the brown fabric with chevron patterns on it. A jab of panic goes through my whole body. Where the hell am I?

The panic rises further. I suppose it's only a few seconds, but it feels a lot longer. I try to move my arms, rolling my eyes from side to side, looking for something familiar. Things are coming into focus now, but I don't recognise anything.

I'm about to start struggling and shouting when it all drops into place. A smile spreads across my face. False alarm. Seagulls are shrieking. I'm wrapped up in my sleeping bag. And I know those dodgy curtains. Robbie's caravan.

I blow out my cheeks and feel the anxiety ebbing away. My heartbeat is getting back to normal. I wriggle my arms out of my sleeping bag. Still lying down, I look across to the other bed. Robbie's not there. I reach over to the bedside cabinet and pick up my watch. Eleven-thirty. Shit. Half the day's already gone.

I prop myself up on my right elbow. Without warning, the room starts spinning. A wave of sickness sweeps over me. I rub a hand across my face. My eyes make a squelching sound as I press my fingers into them. I groan and flop back onto my pillow. I can't believe it. I thought I was okay when I went to bed. But now I feel as rough as a badger's arse.

I lie completely still for a couple of minutes as the room gradually starts slowing down. I take a few breaths and wrestle myself out of my sleeping bag. I swing my feet onto the floor as carefully as I can, checking that it isn't going to move, then I stand up and stretch. My whole body seems to creak and my head is throbbing. It feels like someone has laid carpet on my teeth in the night.

I creep out of the bedroom shielding my eyes and holding onto the doorframe. Robbie's at the kitchen sink in his boxers, washing last night's cider glasses and Pot Noodle forks.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I mumble.

I take one of Robbie's glasses and get myself a drink of water. It's not as cold as I'd like it to be, but I down it in one. It makes me feel a bit better, but not much.

Dylan and George haven't surfaced yet. I push open the door to their bedroom. The place reeks. Hours and hours of solid farting. I hold my nose and peer into the gloom. Nearest to me, Dylan's flat out, snoring like a warthog. On the far side, George is sitting hunched forward in his sleeping bag. He hears me come in, but he doesn't look up.

“Chris,” he wails. “I'm dying.”

I can't help laughing.

“Serves you right, you drunken slob.”

My bladder feels the size of a football, so I head for the bathroom. Standing in front of the toilet, I try to concentrate on having a piss. It's taking a while, but I'm getting there. I look down. It's not good. Dark yellow, verging on orange.

When I'm finished, I run a hand through my hair and step up to the mirror. I pull down my lower left eyelid. Where my eye is supposed to be white, it's light pink. I look shattered and I need to get myself on track. I grab my sponge bag and step into the shower.

As the water splashes over my head, images from last night go round in my brain. Drinking cider. The Family Entertainment Centre. The hen party. The fighting. The beach. The stars. The fire. The girls. Standing in the sea. Did all that really happen? My stomach twists. Steph. Does she actually exist?

Thoughts of Steph fill my mind. The way she looks. The way she talks. The way she is. She's gorgeous, she's bright, and yet she's done something as mad as pinching a motor. How did that happen? It's like I've made her up. But I haven't. She's real. And I'll be seeing her again in a few hours.

I think of the things I said to her. Stuff I've never said to anyone else before. I'm expecting a hot rush of shame to swallow me up. Maybe I was being a tosser, running my mouth off because I'd had a few pints. But the rush of shame doesn't come. I've not got anything to feel embarrassed about. What I said I meant. It wasn't just the drink talking.

Ten minutes later, I'm out of the shower. I'm feeling a whole lot more human. I dry my hair and wrap the towel round my waist, sarong-style. I brush my teeth and I put a bit of wax in my fringe. Then I go back into the main part of the caravan.

George has made it out of the bedroom. He's taken two steps outside the door and collapsed on the floor. Now he's curled up in a foetal position, a puny white body in a pair of Paisley Y-fronts, whimpering like a baby.

I kneel down next to him.

“I know what you need, George mate,” I say.

George keeps on whimpering. Robbie's sitting over by the TV. I look at him and wink.

“You need the hair of the dog.”

Robbie gets the bin bag from under the table and holds it open while I get out one of the empty bottles from last night. Ideally it would be vodka, but cider is the best I can manage. I unscrew the lid, then I poke the top under his nose. George starts writhing around, desperately trying not to inhale the smell of stale apples.

“Piss off,” he howls. “Piss off.”

I give him a few more wafts, but he's had enough. I leave him writhing and go back into my bedroom. My clothes are lying in a crumpled pile between the beds. I pick up my jeans and have a look in the pockets, making sure I've not lost anything. My wallet and mobile are both there, along with a massive pile of coins. It's my change from a couple of trips to the bar in the Family Entertainment Centre. It looks like I've robbed a fruit machine. I tip all the coins onto the bed and count them, along with the notes in my wallet. All in, I spent about twenty-five quid last night. Not too bad. I put the coins on the bedside cabinet. Best not to take them down to the beach.

I slide open my phone, seeing if it's charged. The screen springs into life.
ONE MISSED MESSAGE. 09.30. MUM
. My heart almost stops. As I click the button to open the message, my hand is shaking. This could be the moment the whole weekend comes crashing down. But it isn't. It's only Mum saying good morning and asking if I'm okay.

Feeling guilty, I thumb in a reply.
Hi Mum. We all fine. C U 2moro nite. Luv Chris X
.

I chuck the phone on the bed and rummage in my bag for my camouflage shorts. I put them on and get a white T-shirt. A pair of trainer socks and my Etnies, mobile and wallet in my pockets, watch on my wrist, and I'm ready for the day.

It's nearly twelve o'clock now. Back in the living area, George has managed to scrape himself off the floor and he's sitting up at the far end under the big window next to Robbie, looking dazed. Dylan's finally stopped snoring and he's sitting on the edge of the bed, lifting his weights. I put the TV on. It's the news, but I can't be bothered to change channels.

George is squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His complexion is usually quite pasty, but today there's a hint of green about him. He takes his hand away and looks at me.

“Oh God, Chris. What was I saying to Gemma on the beach last night?”

“Can't you remember?”

He puts his hand back across his eyes.

“Only bits of it,” he says. “I was talking bollocks, trying to impress her. It was that vodka. It did my head in.”

I start to laugh. Robbie's laughing too.

George grabs my arm.

“Don't Chris.” There's anguish in his voice. “Oh God. I could have said anything.”

I pull a stern expression.

“Well you know what they say George. Everyone likes a drink. But no-one likes a drunk.”

George blushes. His face is red white and green now. All the colours of the Italian flag. He shuts his eyes.

“Oh God. I kept saying that. And I was putting my arm round Gemma, wasn't I?”

It's Robbie's turn to look serious.

“You did worse than that,” he says.

George sits bolt upright.

“What? What did I do?”

Robbie shakes his head.

“It was terrible. You were all over her. Gemma had to ask me and Chris to calm you down.”

George buries his face in his hands.

“Oh God. Oh God. I don't believe it. Are you joking?”

Robbie stays serious.

“That's right isn't it Chris?”

“Afraid so mate,” I say. “You were getting a bit out of hand.”

George slumps forward, moaning. We leave him that way for a few seconds, then we can't keep it up any longer. I look at Robbie, Robbie looks at me and we both crack up.

George lifts his head. It takes him a while, but slowly he catches on. We're taking the piss.

“You bastards,” he says.

I punch him on the shoulder.

“You daft twat. It looked like you and Gemma were getting on well.”