Cruel Summer (5 page)

‘As long as they’re
cute
fishermen ghosts I’m down with that,’ Alisha said, to much approval from Katie and Erin.

‘Witches are on trend right now. I’m putting my money on witches.’ Katie poured more sangria for herself and Ryan.

‘Dude, there is no way I’m getting killed by witches.’ Greg turned his nose up. ‘That’s chick-flick territory right there.’

Ryan almost spat his sangria out. ‘Please! Greggle, you are so dying first.’

‘How the bloody hell do you figure that out?’ Greg demanded.

‘Well, actually a girl normally dies first – we did this in film studies last year. The theory goes that a largely male horror audience doesn’t believe male characters can
experience abject terror, so the girl death scenes are always much scarier.’

‘So how am I gonna die first?’

‘Well, maybe not
first
, but you’re a jock and you’re half black, so you’re a goner.’

‘Dude! That’s well racist!’

‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game,’ Ryan told him, peeping over the rim of his sunglasses and fixing the football star with his most flirtatious gaze. It was useless
fighting it; Greg hadn’t become any
less
hot over the last year.

Alisha raised a finger. ‘Actually, it became so predictable that the black guy would always die, that now he sometimes makes it.’

‘Only if he’s funny,’ Ryan replied. ‘The comic relief survives.’

Katie laughed. ‘Let me guess, Ryan – you’re the comic relief?’

Ryan feigned surprise. ‘Well, look at that! I guess I’m gonna be OK! Although I am gay. Gay characters are untested ground in modern horror. It could go either way – which is
ironic, because I don’t!’

More laughter.

‘Well what about the rest of us?’ Erin asked.

Ryan buzzed. He couldn’t help it. He loved being the centre of attention – always had, ever since the reaction he’d got when he’d pulled his pants down in a Reception
nativity play. ‘Let’s see.’ He pointed at Ben. ‘Geek.’ He moved onto Erin. ‘New girl.’ Katie. ‘Good girl.’ And last of all Alisha. ‘Bad
girl.’

‘How am I the bad girl?’ Alisha exploded.

‘None of the rest of us had to repeat Year Thirteen.’

She hid behind her camera and grinned. ‘Can’t argue with that.’

‘So which stereotype survives this low budget Spanish bloodbath?’ Katie smiled.

‘Duh! The virgin,’ Ryan told her.

Wild hoots of derision flew around the pool. ‘Oh, so we’re
all
dead then?’ Ben laughed.

Ryan held his hands up. ‘Just saying, the Final Girl is always the “good girl”.’

‘What’s a Final Girl?’ Greg asked, munching on a handful of Lays.

‘In every horror film one girl has to survive. The audience goes in knowing that however horrific it gets, however much blood is shed, the good girl will always defeat the killer and live
to face the sequel. Otherwise, it’s just too bleak.’

Ben raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s to Katie, then. You’re the only one who’s getting out of this alive!’

Katie obliged and raised her glass. ‘Well, obviously! But you still didn’t tell us, Ryan . . . who’s going to be the first to die?’

Ryan smiled. ‘Wait and see.’

SCENE 5 – ALISHA

L
ater, as the sun melted into the sea, Alisha and Ryan went for a walk in the sand dunes, looking for photo opportunities. The scene was sweeping
and remote, almost like an alien planet, the white sand turning Martian orange as the sun set. For a while Ryan rolled around in the sand while Alisha fulfilled his
Next Top Model
fantasies, clicking away on her camera. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard and felt so much like her old self. In fact, this was even
better
than her old
self, because she wasn’t too drunk to walk in a straight line.

When they returned to the villa, Ben had long since fallen asleep on his lounger and the happy couple were also napping, so while Katie read her book on the top terrace, Alisha decided to beat
the rush for the bathroom and get ready for the evening. She and Ryan had (perhaps foolishly) offered to cook paella, so there was no time to waste.

As far as she could tell, there were three bedrooms in the villa. There was the master bedroom with an en suite bathroom, which Katie had let Greg and Erin take, since they were a couple. Alisha
and Katie were sharing the second bedroom, while Ryan was in the smallest of the three, thrilled to get a double bed all to himself. Ben didn’t seem too put out at sleeping on the sofa-bed in
the lounge.

Alisha examined her face in the mirror. A cluster of freckles had emerged over the bridge of her nose and shoulders, and her skin was browner than ever. With a tan she looked so much more like
her mum, and a glimmer of pride at her Bajan heritage blossomed within.

She twisted the shower on and pulled the curtain along before peeling off her damp, chlorine-scented bikini, noting some already impressive tan lines. Steam billowed over the top of the curtain
rail and she stepped in. The water stung her back at once. Maybe she’d had too much sun. She made a mental note to get Katie to bathe her in cocoa butter as soon as she got out. The water jet
pummelled her head and gold grains of sand started to wash down the plughole. That was the only downside to being near the beach – the sand. She’d be emptying the stuff out of her shoes
long after she got back to Telscombe Cliffs.

She shampooed her hair and scrubbed her skin, glad to be rid of the greasy suncream feeling. Alisha breathed a sigh of relief as the hot water streamed over her face. All things considered,
today could have been worse. A lot worse, in fact. Maybe this week was a sign that her life was turning a corner. She’d pass her sodding exams, complete the art foundation course, and then go
live out the rest of her life somewhere achingly cool – she could be a photographer in Hoxton or something. Then she’d be free to meet someone and fall in love, the way that everyone
else seemed to every day.

That was when she heard the voices. Her hands flew to her collar bone (God only knew why she thought
that
was the part to cover), thinking that someone had entered the bathroom. She was
about to scream, ‘I’M NAKED!’ when she realised the voices were drifting in through a small, brown plastic air vent above the shower head. It dawned on her that the villa’s
ventilation system must carry sound.

She listened closer, trying to pick up the conversation. The main bathroom was connected to the master bedroom. The voices she could hear belonged to Erin and Greg. The clarity with which the
sound travelled was uncanny. The couple could almost be in the shower with her, a most disturbing thought.

Alisha stopped listening and hummed one of the tunes from Ben’s playlist, but she couldn’t block out the voices.

‘Oh, come on,’ Erin laughed.

‘Not with my sister here . . .’ Greg muttered through what sounded like kisses.

‘She’s in the shower, I think. Come on . . . we can be quick.’

‘It’s weird!’

‘Charming!’ Erin giggled.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Nobody can hear us. I’ll be quiet.’

‘Oh, HELL NO!’ Alisha promptly switched the shower off and grabbed a towel. Conditioning her hair could wait until later. She had no desire to experience an audio-only version of her
brother in full swing – she’d never be able to afford the therapy. Making a loud ‘lalalalala’ noise, Alisha scurried into the corridor where she collided head on with
Ben.

‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘I was looking for you.’

Alisha was suddenly very aware that she was wearing only a towel, and that even that was being held up by her armpits and willpower. Ben had seen her in a bikini all afternoon, but this seemed
much worse even if she was actually more covered up. ‘You were?’

‘Yeah. I got you something.’ Ben handed her a stripy pink and white paper bag, like the kind you got penny sweets in when you were little.

Tucking her towel a little tighter, Alisha slipped her hand inside and felt that tell-tale cuboid shape. She pulled it out and couldn’t stifle a gleeful gasp. ‘Oh, my God! Ben! Do
you know what this is?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’m not an expert, but – is it a camera?’

She punched his arm, almost losing the towel and her dignity in the process. ‘This is not just a camera, Ben Murdoch, this is an original Diana F+ circa 1960. Where on earth did you get
this?’

He shrugged as if it were nothing, but he seemed pleased with her reaction. ‘It was my mum’s. She was having a clear-out and it was going in the bin, but I thought you might like
it.’

‘Ben, I
love
it. That is so sweet of you . . . but you know these are worth, like, a hundred quid, right?’

He laughed. ‘Really? I didn’t, no . . .’ He grinned. ‘Can I . . . erm . . . have it back then?’

She hugged it to her chest, laughing. ‘No you bloody can’t, sucker!’

He’d changed into some slouchy khaki shorts and a polo shirt. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking just like a bigger version of the boy she’d grown up with. ‘Hopefully
you can get some cool shots for your portfolio with it.’

‘Thanks. This is . . . great. Seriously, thanks.’

‘No worries.’ He smiled. ‘You’re dripping, so I better . . .’

‘What? Oh, yeah. I need to dry off.’ Suddenly feeling extra-exposed, Alisha skirted Ben and slipped into her room. Shutting the door behind her, she examined the retro equipment in
her hands, delicately turning the little baby-blue case over in her palm as if it were a priceless Fabergé egg.

The fact that Ben had thought of her at all, the kindness of his act . . . for some reason her skin felt red hot – and it was nothing to do with sunburn.

SCENE 6 – RYAN

R
yan had to confess, this wasn’t going as badly as he’d thought it might – not just the vast pan of paella he was currently
stirring, but the whole holiday thing. When he’d turned his back on Telscombe Cliffs, he’d assumed he’d kissed goodbye to his school friends forever, but this was like slipping
back into a familiar pair of comfy socks.

He was torn. Despite his lingering suspicions about Janey, he’d had fun today. Genuine,
real
fun. His cheeks ached from laughing. Since he’d been at drama school, he’d
met
fabulous
people and done some
amazing
‘networking’. Most of the people he’d met called him ‘darling’ or ‘babe’ because, in the
theatre, no one knows your real name. He was just as bad as the rest of his classmates – all air kisses and schmoozing.

Ryan had drunk a lot of champagne over the last year, but now he wanted a cup of tea. These were his ‘cup of tea’ friends, and they knew his name. Perhaps Katie was right. Perhaps he
should let Janey go – accept there was something very odd about her death and just gloss over the myriad plot holes surrounding it

While Ryan and Alisha were preparing dinner, Greg was attempting to teach everyone how to play poker in the lounge – with limited success by the sound of it. Ben was never going to master
a poker face and Katie couldn’t get her head around which hands were better than which.
The young lovers finally reunited:
Katie and Ben. Ben and Katie. Bentie. Ken. They were meant
to be together. If they hadn’t had a snog by the end of the week, Ryan would eat his limited-edition Fred Perry military cap.

Ryan had changed into a sharp shirt for dinner, and he noticed that the others had gone to a similar effort. Perhaps it was because everyone had been expecting at least some nightlife near the
villa, or maybe it was just because it was the first time they’d seen each other in ages; either way, everyone looked great.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that this is about done. What do you think?’ Alisha left her salad and came to the stove. He held out a wooden spoon with a sample.

‘Yum, it’s good,’ she decided. ‘Where did you learn to cook?’

‘
Masterchef
obviously!’

Alisha laughed and took another mouthful. Ryan was pleased to see Alisha looking so healthy – hopefully her boozalicious phase was over. It had been a hugely entertaining car-crash to
watch, but he could only imagine the toll it had taken on his friend’s body.

Alisha took over the paella, adding some seasoning and attempting to tip the contents of the pan into a family-sized serving dish. Her arms wobbled. ‘Jesus Christ, this pan is heavy.
What’s it made of?’

Ryan smiled. ‘I know, right? It’s like lead. Hey, you lot, it’s about done.’ He walked through into the lounge.

The card game had finished and Greg was fiddling with some artefacts on the living-room mantelpiece that looked like they’d come from a pirate ship. ‘What’s all this
stuff?’ Greg asked Katie. He struck a pose with a battered goblet. ‘Do I look like Captain Jack?’

Katie plucked it from his hands. ‘Careful, these are my dad’s prized possessions. Some old galleon went down off the coast about two hundred years ago. This stuff literally washes up
on the beach. My dad had it assessed – some of it’s quite valuable; most of it’s junk, though.’

‘It’s cool.’ Ben picked a sturdy-looking dagger off the wall. It was in a decaying leather sheath with a matching grip. He slipped the dagger out. Years at sea hadn’t
dulled the glint of steel; the blade gleamed, deadly as a shark’s smile.

‘That
is
cool!’ Greg agreed. ‘Give it here. Watch this.’ He took the knife and crouched in front of the coffee table. He made a pile of Erin’s fashion
magazines.

‘Greg, baby, what are you doing?’ his girlfriend asked.

‘Have you ever seen that thing?’ he replied.

Ryan grinned. ‘Honey, remember the changing rooms after PE? We’ve all seen your thing!’

Greg shot him a deathly look. ‘
This
thing.’ He splayed his fingers, laying his palm flat on the magazines. Then he held the blade over the gap between his thumb and
forefinger and brought the dagger down with a flash of light. In an instant, he pulled it back up and stabbed the space between his forefinger and index finger. Then onto the next gap. As he
repeated this, he moved faster and faster. Ryan screwed his eyes shut; Greg was going to lose a finger.