Out of Towners (15 page)

Dylan looks at me.

“Honest?”

“Honest. And anyway, we're going to want to bum money off you when you're earning. You'll never get rid of us.”

Dylan laughs. He looks more like his old self.

“Thanks Chris,” he says.

I shrug.

“No problem.”

Dylan tugs at my elbow.

“And you won't say anything about this, will you?”

I mime zipping my lips shut.

The girls have reappeared. Steph gives me a peck on the cheek as she sits down. Dylan's forgotten all his worries and he starts stroking Nikita's hair. Everyone's happy except for Gemma. She's craning about in her chair, looking concerned. She puts her hand on my arm.

“Where's George?” she asks.

“Dunno,” I say.

This information takes some time to sink in.

Gemma's wrecked. I notice she's been reapplying her lipstick. There are bits of red smudged on her teeth.

“I want to know where my Georgie is,” she says.

Steph takes a slug of WKD.

“Any chance of you having a look for him?” she asks. There's an apologetic tone to her voice. “Gemma's a bit of a worrier.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No problem.”

I have to admit I'm a bit worried about George myself. He might have got lost. I've never seen him as pissed as he's been this weekend. Last night, he was well out of it. Tonight he's absolutely steaming.

I go into the crowd, keeping my eyes peeled. In general it's not too difficult to spot George, but there's no sign of him now. I'm standing still for a moment when someone pinches my arse. I turn round. Robbie.

I shake my head.

“Oh. You're back are you? Thought you'd be with that bird for the rest of the night.”

Robbie shrugs.

“Nah. She's here with her mum and dad. She had to go back to their B&B. They've got this landlady who stands at the door in a hairnet and locks up if they're not in by one. I've got her number though. She lives not far from us. Sleaford. We're going to get together when we're back.”

I laugh. Like I said. A charmed life.

“Anyway,” I say. “Have you seen George? He's gone AWOL.”

Robbie strokes his chin.

“Bet I know where he is,” he says.

I've got a good idea too.

Inside the toilets, five blokes are standing at the urinals. None of them is George. There are four cubicles along the far wall. We cut across and start trying the doors. The first two are empty, but the third and fourth are locked.

I knock at the nearest one.

“Anyone in there?” I ask.

“Piss off,” someone shouts. It's not George.

Robbie tries the last door.

“George?” he says.

There's a moan and the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door swings inwards and we get our first glimpse of George. He's on all fours, spreadeagled over the bowl, getting reacquainted with his Chinese takeaway. There are beansprouts everywhere.

“Oh God,” he says. “I feel like shit. I must have had a bad pint.”

I laugh.

“A bad four or five pints, more like.”

George moans again.

“Come on,” I say. “We'd better get you sorted out. Gemma's fretting.”

Robbie grabs one of George's arms, I get the other and we heave him round until he's sitting on the edge of the plastic seat. I check him out for signs of puke. It looks like he's okay. I have a glance over his shoulder at the contents of the bowl. My stomach churns. The toilet has got one of those motion-activated flushes. I pass my hand in front of the sensor and send his dinner on its way.

George stares down at the floor. He looks like he's about to cry.

“Everyone likes a drink,” he says in his broadest Brummie twang. “But no-one likes a drunk.”

Robbie fishes in his pocket and comes out with a packet of Polos.

“Here you are. Have one of these. Your breath's going to stink.”

George takes a mint and gives the packet back. He runs his hands through his hair and pats it flat again.

I get a handful of bog roll, wet it under the cold tap and bring it back for George to dab his face with. Make himself look a bit more presentable. Not that Gemma's going to be paying any attention. She's as pissed as he is.

By the time we're out of the toilets it's nearly quarter to one. The pub has started emptying as people head home or go on to nightclubs. Back in our corner, Dylan and Nikita are all over one another and Gemma's fast asleep. I help Robbie manoeuvre George onto the bench beside Gemma and I sit down next to Steph. She looks extra pleased to see us. She's not had anyone to talk to for a while.

“We should get going,” I say. “Some people are struggling.”

Steph smiles at George and Gemma. She knows who I mean.

I look at Robbie. He agrees.

I check the bottles and glasses on the table. Everyone's drinks are gone. I nudge Dylan.

“We're going to get off.”

Dylan nods and whispers something in Nikita's ear that makes her giggle.

George shakes Gemma awake and they lever themselves up against the back of the bench. Steph gets Cartman. Finally we're all ready.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's make a move.”

“Shit,” Dylan says as we step into the street.

“What's happened?”

I look around. Whitbourne has changed while we've been in the Highcross Arms. Everywhere I turn, it's carnage. Blokes pissing in shop doorways, drunks lying in the gutters, people bleeding, women crying.

“This is why my mum and dad don't come here at night,” Robbie says.

We start up the alley towards the centre of town, doing our best to avoid the casualties. I'm up front with Steph. Dylan and Nikita are behind us. Robbie's at the back end, shepherding Gemma and George along.

Being out in the fresh air seems to be having an effect on me. And not a good one. The pissedness that was creeping up in the pub has taken complete hold now. It's all getting a bit surreal. The sounds of Whitbourne at night are muffled and other-worldly. All around me, shop windows are filled with bright coloured lights. I feel as if I'm floating along in an insulated technicolour bubble.

Steph glances back in time to see George staggering off the edge of the kerb. His legs are like elastic bands. Gemma tries to help him stay upright and ends up touching down herself.

Steph pulls a face. She seems completely sober.

“I think we should try to find something to eat,” she says. “Something to soak up all the booze those two have put away.”

“Mmm,” I say. I leave it at that. I'm a bit worried I might be slurring my words. In the pub, with the loud music, it wasn't so obvious. Out here, there would be no hiding it. I don't want Steph to think I'm a lightweight.

I spot a chippy on the corner. There's a queue, but it's not too long. We peer through the window. A big doner is twirling on a spit at the back, while a hairy bloke in a vest shaves bits off it with a knife. There's a lovely smell in the air, but maybe a doner and chips isn't the best meal for Gemma and George at this point in time. We keep going.

Up in the main shopping area there's more carnage. Two women are having a screaming match that's just on the verge of turning physical. There's a bloke face down in a wooden tub of petunias. Another one is sitting on the plinth of a statue. His shirt is hanging off him in strips.

We still need to find somewhere to eat. Over on the far side of the square I see a familiar sight. Down a narrow lane, the big yellow
M
of McDonald's.

Steph's seen it too. We look at each other and nod.

Maccy D's is warm and bright and packed. Gentle music is playing, keeping everyone calm. People are milling around aimlessly, with and without trays, and the food queues are stretching back to the door. I figure we're going to be eating out in the street until a group of girls stands up and moves away from a table down to the left. Dylan and Nikita are off like a shot, gathering as many chairs as they can while Robbie steers George and Gemma through the crowd.

Me and Steph stay standing up.

“We'll get the food,” I say, pleased to hear that my voice sounds okay after all. “Big Mac meals, yeah?”

“Spot-on,” Robbie says.

Steph tosses Cartman across to Nikita, then we join the end of a queue. There are a lot of staff working and it's not long until we're getting near the counter. A bearded bloke in a lilac shirt is standing at the bottom of the food chutes keeping his minions on their toes. He's barking orders into the cooking area like Whitbourne's own Gordon Ramsay.

The girl at the till gives me an unconvincing smile. According to her name badge, she's called Cleo.

“Seven Big Mac meals, please,” I say.

Cleo frowns.

I feel like I need to explain.

“They're not all for me.”

Cleo grunts and taps the screen in front of her.

“What drinks would you like with those?” she asks.

I look at Steph.

“Diet Cokes?”

I nod, turning back to Cleo.

“Yeah. Diet Cokes with all of them, please.”

Cleo punches the information into her till. I settle the bill and Cleo sets about piling two trays with seven Big Mac meals. Steph gets the food, I get the drinks and we weave across to where the rest of the gang are sitting, stopping off to get straws, serviettes and mini paper cups of sauce on the way.

Back at the table we unload the trays. I open my Big Mac box, tip my fries into the lid and take a huge gulp of my Diet Coke. It's nice to have something other than lager pouring down my throat.

George and Gemma are still looking rough, propped against each other like two fallen trees after a gale. Robbie and Dylan are starting to show the effects of a second evening of boozing. The only people who are still full of life are Steph and Nikita. I'm somewhere in between, trying hard to keep myself on the straight and narrow.

I look around the restaurant for something to concentrate on. The floor is polished grey tiles. The tables are matt green formica and the seats are padded with fake brown leather. To the left is a flight of stairs leading to a first floor. There are posters on the walls of Happy Meal toys and giant-size Quarter Pounders With Cheese and McChicken Sandwiches. In my muddled state, none of it seems to mean anything.

I lift the top off my burger, fish out the gherkins and dump them in my empty fries carton. I take a bite of my Big Mac. As I chew, my eyes settle on the piece of paper lining one of the trays. Facts and figures about the benefits of taking an hour of exercise every day. It's the sort of stuff I wouldn't normally bother with, but right now it's just the thing to focus my mind. Slowly but surely, the bubble I've been floating in starts to melt away.

The restaurant gradually gets less busy over the next half an hour. There's nobody wanting our table, so we take our time, letting the food go down.

Dylan squashes his Big Mac box and shoves it into his empty drink cup.

“What are we going to do next then?” he asks. “It's only just gone one o'clock.”

Robbie rummages with his finger in his ear.

“We could hit the clubs,” he says.

I point at George and Gemma.

“Do you think they'd let those two in?”

Nobody needs to answer that. George looks at me. He knows I'm talking about him, but he doesn't know what I'm saying. He grins a dazed grin.

“Stop messing,” he says.

Nikita's got a suggestion.

“We should finish up in here, then get a couple of taxis back to Wonderland. We can carry things on back there, either in the chalet or in your caravan.”

That sounds like a good call. I smile and nod, looking at Steph. She smiles too.

We all start piling our rubbish onto the trays, getting ready to go. As I stand up, I hear a noise from the first floor. A bit of rowdiness. There's a group of lads coming down the stairs. Six of them, led by a big bloke with gelled hair and dodgy Nikes.

Without a word, I dive into my seat again. Steph's seen who it is. She almost crushes my hand in hers.

“Keep low,” she hisses.

Robbie and Dylan have got their backs to the staircase, but they can see that something's up.

“Kirkie,” I whisper.

The lads are at the bottom of the steps now. They're shouting and swearing, hanging off one another. The one who looks like a bulldog in a woolly hat pulls a handful of straws from the dispenser and throws them onto the floor. He looks around at his mates, a hurt expression crossing his face as he realises none of them has noticed. There's some more shouting, a few threats aimed at staff and customers, and they're making for the exit.

I let out a breath and collapse against the back of my chair. Kirkie's in the street and his mates are following. As long as we keep our heads down for the next minute or so, it'll all be okay.

The last of the gang through the door is the little kid in the red cap. Just before he leaves he turns, sweeping his eyes across the whole restaurant. As a reflex, I put my hand up to cover my face. I don't think he's seen me. But I know who he has seen. The bloke it's almost impossible to hide. George.

Red Cap's eyes light up. He grabs the collar of the lad in front of him and shouts into the street for Kirkie and the rest to come back.

The world seems to have slowed to half speed. I don't know if that's good or bad. It's giving me time to think, but the thoughts aren't nice. I find myself scanning back over the entire history of our problems with Kirkie's lot. How it's escalated. What would have happened if we'd got to that pedestrian crossing a couple of seconds earlier or later? What if Dylan hadn't grabbed his balls? I thought the whole thing was funny at first. It was even a bit of a joke on the beach. I'm not laughing now.

Kirkie's gang have all piled inside. As they advance, a horrible feeling of inevitability is sinking in. Third time unlucky. We're not going to be able to negotiate our way out of this one. There's not going to be policemen or lifeguards to break it up, and the local lads aren't looking to tax us now. They want our blood.