Out of Towners (7 page)

Gemma's got something on her mind.

“Just a mo,” she says.

There's not time to ask what she's up to. She's off into Blue Zone with Nikita.

I look at Steph and raise my eyebrows. Steph shrugs.

It's not long before Gemma and Nikita are back. Gemma's holding a canvas bag. I can hear a clinking sound, like glass. A quick peek in the top of the bag confirms it. Two half-full bottles of vodka.

“Gemma, you're a star,” I say.

Gemma curtseys.

We're ready to go. We nip straight through the foyer, blinking against the glare of the strip lights. On the other side, we go across the car park and through the gates. There's no traffic about, so we walk in the middle of the road like a group of gunfighters on the way to a showdown.

Whitbourne is gradually coming into view down below us. Rows of orange streetlights cut across one another and white lights glow from the buildings. Over to the right, lit up like a Christmas decoration, the pier juts out into the sea. The sea itself is inky black and glistening, reflecting a moon that's probably a day off being full. The sky is clear, with a few splodges of cloud. There are more stars out tonight than I've ever seen.

The walk down into town is a lot easier than the uphill slog we had this afternoon. Nobody's saying much. It feels like we're off on a big adventure, and if we say anything we might spoil it. Before long we're coming to the end of the seafront road, with the hotels to one side and the beach on the other. Somewhere in the town I can hear a clock striking half past midnight. We go past the bandstand, then down a flight of concrete steps to the prom. Fifty metres further, another flight of steps, and we're on the beach.

It feels amazing. Unreal. This sort of thing doesn't happen. Not to me, anyway. The whole place is dead. The lights from the seafront are casting crazy shadows as we run off in all different directions, screaming, scattering stones about, spinning in circles before joining together again and flopping down, panting and exhausted.

Gemma takes one of the vodka bottles out of her bag. She passes it round and we all take a swig. Then we sit in silence, staring out into the darkness across the Channel.

“Tell you what we need to do,” Dylan says, after we've been sitting for a while. “Build a fire.”

He's not wrong. The night is mild, and there's no more than a gentle breeze blowing, but we're all shivering. The fact is, I didn't think this through. We're sitting on a beach at one in the morning in T-shirts. About ten minutes ago, a fox trotted past. It stopped to look at us and I swear I saw it shake its head.

Robbie snorts.

“How you going to start a fire then? Knock flints together?”

Gemma rummages in her bag again. She brings out a box of matches, shaking them like a single maraca.

“Thought these might come in handy,” she says.

George puts his arm round her shoulders.

“That's my girl,” he says.

Gemma giggles.

I look at George and chuckle to myself. He's turning into a bit of a smooth operator. It might have something to do with the amount of booze he's necked tonight.

I unwrap my arms from round my knees.

“Better get some things to burn then,” I say.

I get to my feet and lead the way down to the strand line, picking through the stuff left behind by the last high tide. Chunks of driftwood, fragments of yellow planks, broken pallets, bits of cork, netting, fishing wire, polystyrene. Anything flammable, we're having. Further up, we find some newspapers and fish and chip wrappers. The beach wasn't busy yesterday, but there's a lot of litter.

It doesn't take long to get a decent pile. While we keep foraging, Dylan tears up a newspaper and scrunches it into balls. Then he starts laying some of the bits and pieces we've gathered on the top. You can tell he was in the Cubs.

Pretty soon it's lighting-up time. We sit in a ring around Dylan's pyre. Dylan takes the box of matches from Gemma and strikes one, his face lit by a yellow glare. I'm hoping his cheap polyester Letchford shirt doesn't spontaneously combust. He cups the match in his hands and shoves it into the newspaper, moving it about, trying to spark it into life. To begin with there's only smoke, but then the first flames start licking their way through the wood and plastic.

Dylan looks up. He's beaming. We all cheer. Gemma passes the vodka round again, and then we sit back and watch the fire burn. It takes quite a while for it to get going. Everything's damp, hissing and spitting. There's an acrid smell in the air. From time to time moths flutter by to investigate, circling warily. One or two get too close and end up barbecued.

When the fire's crackling away nicely, I glance across at Steph. She's talking to Robbie, but I'm not so bothered this time. It doesn't feel like such a threat. Gemma and George are laughing quietly. They look good together. She's like a female version of him. Dylan's showing Nikita something on his phone. I glance at Steph again. This time she sees me looking and smiles. Not for the first time tonight, my heart leaps. I shuffle across the stones to sit next to her.

“Hopefully the fire should warm us up,” I say. It's a bit of a dumb comment, but Steph's not put off.

“Yeah. And even if it doesn't, it's nice to watch isn't it? The flames make beautiful shapes.”

“Mmm,” I say. “I love fires.”

Robbie looks a bit put out.

“I'm going to see if I can find anything else to burn,” he says, standing up.

As I watch him go, I almost feel guilty. But not quite. Robbie's getting a taste of his own medicine. He's done it to me plenty of times.

Gemma hands me the vodka and I take a swig before passing it on to Steph. Then we get back to talking.

It's an unusual conversation. Not because we're talking about anything weird. It's just that after the ropey start, I'm finding myself telling her all types of things that I wouldn't normally come out with. Personal stuff. Stuff that I don't talk much to the lads about because they'd call me a ponce. Things I enjoy doing. Writing. Sketching. Watching old films.

It's not one-way traffic. I'm getting to know all about Steph. She plays the clarinet. She goes to gym classes. She likes old films too. Her dad separated from her mum when Steph was twelve and she isn't in touch with him any more. It's all getting pretty deep.

I decide to take a chance.

“Shall I tell you something embarrassing?”

Steph hooks a tendril of hair behind her ear. I notice her fingernails are painted black.

“What's that?” she asks.

“This sounds mad,” I say. “But I reckon this is the first time I've had a proper conversation with a girl.”

Steph nods, encouraging me to carry on. If what I'm saying
is
embarrassing, she's not going to make me feel bad about it.

“I mean, I've got a sister, Beth, who's two years older than me, and we get on alright. But we never actually talk about anything. We just mess around and try to get each other in trouble.”

Steph nods again.

“What about girlfriends?” she asks.

“Well, you know. I've taken girls out to the cinema and for meals and shopping in the Ainsdale Centre in Letchford. And, don't get me wrong, it was okay. But I didn't really have a connection with any of them. I didn't feel like I could open up and be myself.”

“And you do with me?”

My breath sticks in my throat. I'm going red. I'm hoping that, in the flickering light of the fire, it won't be too obvious.

“Er, yeah,” I say. There's no going back. I've started talking about
feeling a connection
and
opening up
. I sound like one of those crappy Self Help books my mum reads. If Steph takes the piss now, that's the whole weekend ruined.

But she doesn't let me down.

“That's nice,” she says, looking right at me. “I feel like I can talk to you too.”

I get a surge of pride. That means something.

Steph pokes at the stones between her feet. She's thinking. Eventually she looks up.

“You told me something you're not proud of. I should do the same.”

For a split second I go cold.

“You don't have to,” I say.

There's an odd look on her face.

“You're going to think I'm making this up,” she says. “But I'm not. It's awful. I don't know why I'm telling you, to be honest.”

“You don't have to,” I say again. I'm worried now. I don't want to have my illusions shattered. Whatever it is, Steph's going to get it off her chest.

“Not last summer,” she says, “the summer before, I got a police caution.”

I'm amazed, but I try not to let it show.

“What for?”

Steph shakes her head in disbelief.

“Twoccing a car. Taking Without Owner's Consent. A BMW 3 Series. Wedged the door, then used the aerial to undo the locks. After that, I hotwired it. I drove round for a while, then I got pulled over. Don't know why I did it. Bored I suppose.”

I let this information filter in. It's a bit of a surprise, but it's not as bad as it could have been. Steph looks uncertain. There's something in her eyes. She's wondering how I'm going to react.

I try to lighten the mood.

“A Bimmer?” I say. “At least you nicked a good motor. I mean it could have been a Skoda or something.”

Steph gives a half-smile, relieved but still unsure. I should leave it there, but there's something that's nagging at me. I've got to ask.

“How did you know how to hotwire a car?”

Steph purses her lips.

“My dad was a bit of a wide boy. Knew about dodgy business. And he taught me quite a lot of it. That's why I know how to drive. He used to take me out on Sundays, round this disused airfield. It wasn't once or twice, it was loads of times. I got quite good. Dad had a BMW 3 Series, so it was no problem driving the one I twocced.”

“He sounds like a cool bloke, your dad,” I say.

Steph doesn't answer straight away. She runs her tongue along her teeth.

“There were some cool things about him. Some not so cool.”

I nod my head slowly.

“So do you never see him at all nowadays?”

This time there's no hesitation.

“No. My mum and I don't have any contact with him any more. Probably for the best.”

It sounds like Steph doesn't want to continue along this path. I move closer and squeeze her shoulder.

She looks at me.

“Do you think I'm really bad?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Terrible.”

But she knows I'm only joking.

I check my phone. I can hardly believe it. Half past two. While I've been talking to Steph, I've lost track of what's been going on. Not much, it seems. The fire is still burning. Dylan and Nikita are still chatting. Robbie's trying to build a stack of pebbles. And George is slumped into Gemma with a glazed look on his face.

The night's boozing is catching up with George. The vodka has sent him over the edge. We're onto the second bottle now and he's spannered. You'd have thought someone his size should be able to knock it back no problem at all, but he isn't much of a drinker. Usually, if we're having a few cans at someone's house, or a couple of bottles of cider on the park, George is the one who stays sober. Makes sure we don't do anything too stupid. Not tonight. I suppose he did try, earlier on when he rolled up with his pints of water. Strangely, he stopped worrying about keeping himself hydrated when the girls arrived. I notice he's got his hand on Gemma's knee. She doesn't seem to mind. I look at him and he dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“I'll tell you something,” he says. His Brummie accent is twice as broad as normal. It happens when he's had a few.

“What's that George?”

George stops giggling. He looks deadly serious.

“Everyone likes a drink,” he says. “But no-one likes a drunk.”

I'm about to ask him what he's on about, but there's no point. He's doubled over, laughing so hard he's in danger of giving himself a hernia. I shake my head. It's the sort of thing his dad comes out with. He's a funny bloke, George's old man. Nice, but slightly odd. When George has finished laughing, he leans towards Nikita.

“I'll tell you something,” he says. “Everyone likes a drink…”

Nikita cuts him off.

“Yeah, I know George. But no-one likes a drunk.”

George looks disappointed. But he starts chortling again anyway.

Over the next hour we keep the fire going the best we can. We've used up the supplies of fuel on our part of the beach, so me and Steph head off over the groyne to scavenge on the next bit. Steph finds the blade of a kids' cricket bat, minus the handle, and I get a couple of fruit boxes that have floated in with the tide. They're a bit waterlogged, but the fire is roaring and they catch light no problem at all.

It's getting on for half past three. The vodka has gone. I've had a lot to drink. More than I've ever had before. But it's been over a long period. I'm a bit spaced out, but all in all, I don't feel too bad.

The sky is beginning to lighten. It's a charcoal grey colour, with a slight amber glow on the horizon. Dawn isn't far off. It's too early for seagulls to be flying, but there's one or two tatty specimens strutting about. The tide peaked a couple of hours ago and the sea's going back out again. Pebbles are rumbling backwards and forwards as the waves lap at the shore. I give the fire a poke and chuck on another piece of wood.

Everyone's quiet now. Tired and pissed. George hasn't come out with his
everyone likes a drink
line for ages. We need something to get us going. I've had another brainwave. I'm full of them tonight. I stand up and stretch.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's go and paddle.”

Robbie furrows his brow.