Authors: James Dawson
Cruel Summer (7 page)
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sleek green lizard dart under the cover of a flat stone, quicker than lightning, and she made a mental note to try to photograph the little fella tomorrow
if she could find him. She was getting accustomed to doing things alone – it was starting to feel like that was her lot in life.
When she arrived at the top terrace, she paused before the sliding doors and looked back at the bonfire. Ben was nestled beside Katie, his arm around her shoulders. Obviously, Alisha
couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were deep in sombre conversation, both shaking their heads with down-turned mouths and furrowed brows.
Then Katie rested her weary head on Ben’s shoulder and, with his free hand, he stroked her hair.
Alisha sighed. She felt happy for her friend and, at the same time, utterly, utterly lonely.
P
erhaps it was the wine or maybe it was the whir of the air-conditioner, but Ryan couldn’t sleep. Gritty black-and-white flashbacks filled
his head – fast edits to confuse yet tantalise the audience. Hundreds of disturbing, violent scenarios played out in his mind’s eye however much he tried to block them. He pictured
Janey’s last minutes at the top of the cliff. Did she fight? Had she been dead already when she’d got there? He imagined a lone car parked in the hotel car park with the boot open. He
saw a figure, shrouded in black, take Janey’s body out of the trunk and drag her to the edge of the cliff.
He rolled over, making a ‘hmph’ noise. Who was he kidding? It had been suicide. His overactive brain was making up stories. Stupid and illogical Janey’s death may have been,
but it had been the final episode so someone had had to die. Those were just the rules of television – the big finish.
He rolled over, the thin, sweaty sheet becoming tangled in his bare legs. He was hot and bothered. With a sigh he rolled off the bed and opened his bedroom door. Not turning any lights on, he
crept past the other bedrooms. The air smelled of night-breath and he could hear Greg gently snoring alongside Erin, the lucky cow.
He tiptoed into the lounge where Ben was sprawled face-down on the sofa-bed. Like Ryan, he wore only his boxers and moonlight filtered through the gossamer drapes onto the smooth canyon in the
centre of his back. It looked hot – even though Ryan didn’t fancy Ben in the slightest. He could understand why girls fell for his puppy-dog eyes and dimples, but Ryan preferred a bad
boy. Always had.
He snuck through to the kitchen. Believing horror stories about what would happen if you drank local water (maggots would hatch in your stomach), he opened the fridge and took a bottle of
mineral water. Pausing in the dining area, he looked out into the night. They were so alone here. Their nearest neighbour was a cruise ship that skirted along the very edge of the horizon.
God, it was so humid. The water was already too warm.
He didn’t see Ben’s rucksack until he kicked it, sending its contents spilling over the tiles. Biting his lip to keep from cursing, Ryan rubbed his stubbed big toe. Ben didn’t
stir, his head facing the wall. ‘Ben?’ he breathed. There was no response. Ben was in a deep, deep sleep. Ryan stooped to tidy the mess.
This was only hand luggage. Ryan scooped up a phone charger and an iPad, a copy of
New Scientist
magazine (Ben was such a geek), some contact lens solution, half a warm Dr Pepper and
his wallet. He was shoving everything back in the bag, when something else caught his eye. At the bottom of the rucksack was something oddly familiar. He reached for it, his fingers closing on the
rough sack material and pulling it out into the moonlight.
It was a mask. One of
the
masks from the night of the ball – which to the students of Longview High was also known as ‘Prank Night’. It was a
ghastly
thing.
Ben and Greg had cut eyeholes in the sacks, drawn on deranged grins in marker pen and worn them over their heads. Ryan smiled as he remembered. With everything
else
that had happened that
night he’d totally forgotten about the Scarecrow Prank. It had been his idea – based on a story he’d written – and it had worked brilliantly. That night would have been one
of the best nights of his life . . . had Janey not died.
He slipped the mask over his head and tiptoed to the mirror on the wall near the stairs. In the gloom his head look malformed, truly something from a child’s worst nightmare. He remembered
the voice . . .
‘What are you doing?’
Ryan cried out and whipped round, almost knocking the mirror off the wall. He had to steady it to prevent it falling. Ben sat up on the sofa, took one look at the mask and recoiled, almost
tumbling off his bed.
Ryan yanked the mask off. ‘Ben, it’s just me,’ he whispered.
‘Ryan, what the bloody hell are you doing? You scared the crap out of me!’ Ben exclaimed.
Ryan couldn’t suppress a giggle – the look on Ben’s face was priceless. ‘Well, now you know what it feels like. Do you remember this?’
‘Of course.’ Ben rubbed his eyes. ‘Why did you bring it?’
‘I didn’t. I thought it was yours.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I lost mine. Must be Greg’s. What time is it?’
‘But it was . . .’ Ryan stopped. He couldn’t be bothered to argue. Perhaps it was Greg’s bag, not Ben’s. ‘It’s still early. I just came to get
water.’
‘OK.’ Ben rose off the sofa with his long legs. Looking at the defined muscular ridges that ran over his hips, Ryan thought maybe he did fancy Ben a bit. Then again, if he had to
think about it, he probably didn’t.
‘Just gonna use the loo,’ Ben mumbled. The poor thing was half asleep as he sloped across the lounge. Ryan threw the hideous mask onto the dining-room table, from where the hollow
eye sockets watched him return to bed.
A
lisha stretched out in the empty bed, purring like a cat as she extended her limbs as far as they’d go. She had no idea where Katie had
gone, but it was cool to have the bed to herself for a while.
With brilliant sunlight pouring through the blinds, making zebra stripes across her bare legs, the morose pity-party mood from last night evaporated immediately and she felt silly for being so
mopey. She sat up and ran a hand through her ’fro which, at this time of the day, looked either really
Vogue
editorial or like a particularly scrappy bird’s nest depending on
your point of view.
Muffled voices carried through the air vents. She heard laughter and at once felt like she was missing out. This was why she rarely slept late any more – it seemed like a waste of a day.
Alisha bounded out of bed, pausing only to pull a baggy Metallica T-shirt over her head. She didn’t want to miss the action.
When she got to the kitchen, it was buzzing.
‘Morning!’ Erin greeted her with cabin-crew cheer. ‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Ooh, tea, please.’
‘And we’ve got all sorts of
continental
goodies,’ Ryan added in a weird American version of the British accent. ‘We totes have our own branch of
Patisserie
Valerie
out on the terrace.’
Alisha wandered out onto the top terrace. It was quite the spread: croissants, pastries, cake. ‘Oh, my God, death by carbohydrate!’ She sat down next to her brother.
‘That’s the general idea,’ Greg said, wiping icing sugar off his chops. ‘My trainer is like four hundred miles away, so I’m not having chicken for
breakfast!’
From her position on the other side of the table, Katie laughed and selected an apricot Danish. ‘Seriously? You have chicken for breakfast?’
‘He has chicken for every meal.’ Erin grimaced. ‘We basically live in Nando’s. We might as well pay rent there.’
With the neon-blue sky and dazzling, cleansing sunshine, the awful shroud of the ‘bonfire confessions’ was washed away. This was a new day, a fresh start. As awful as last night had
been, Ryan’s words were spot on – things were out in the open now and the group seemed altogether more relaxed. Perhaps they could just enjoy the rest of the holiday. Alisha mentally
planned her day – maybe she’d have a go at surfing or something.
Ryan sat down with a glass of orange juice. ‘I’m so glad we talked last night.’ It was like he had read her mind. ‘You know what, this fortnight could even be like a
tribute to Janey.’
Behind her, inside the villa, Alisha heard a door slam shut. The wind again.
‘I think you’re right,’ Ben agreed. ‘It’s time we moved on. We’re all still alive and Janey was never a fan of moping.’ Alisha didn’t say a word,
but that wasn’t strictly true; Janey had loved a good sulk.
Alisha wondered what had happened after she’d left Katie and Ben alone on the beach. Katie had come to bed about half an hour later – plenty of time for her and Ben to have . . .
Alisha pushed the idea from her head; for some reason it made her queasy. Instead she raised a glass of pineapple juice. ‘OK, here’s to Janey Bradshaw, then. She was the
best.’
Everyone scrabbled for something to toast with. Coffees, teas and juices were raised. ‘To Janey.’
‘Don’t start without me,’ a new voice interrupted.
Six heads turned. Six faces fell.
Framed by the sliding doors stood a beautiful new arrival. A pastel headscarf held flowing, dirty-blonde waves off her face. The skin on her long, bare legs was the deepest gold tan. A stone
gleamed in the hollow of her belly button. She smiled, but there was not a trace of kindness in it. ‘To Janey.’
It was Roxanne Dent.
R
yan could only gawp, mouth hanging open. If this were the summer special, it was suddenly must-see TV. This was
priceless.
They’d
renegotiated contracts, they’d signed on the dotted line and they’d brought back Roxanne. Of course they had.
The timing was
perfect.
Would this require a flashback? Roxanne Dent – high-school Lolita, boyfriend stealer and best friend turned arch-nemesis of Alisha Cole was in the
building.
There was a moment of stillness, in which Ryan and, he assumed, the others, processed whether or not this apparition was real. She could be a mirage, a figment of a sun-frazzled mind.
But then Alisha spoke, breaking the spell, and it seemed all too real. Colour had drained from her face. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hey, Alisha,’ Roxanne said with added sugar. ‘I know things were weird between us but—’
Alisha cut her off. ‘What the hell is she doing here? Is this a wind-up?’ Ryan could almost taste her anger. On the rage-o-meter she was flashing orange.
‘Oh, wow. Alisha, try not to—’ Katie began.
‘OK, I’m not kidding. Will someone please tell me what’s going on?’ Alisha’s face contorted and, through sheer frustration, it looked like she might cry. Roxanne,
on the other hand, was as cool and serene as an iceberg. Man, she was good. Ryan memorised her poise for future stage use. She held her hands up peacefully.
Alisha pushed back her chair. The iron legs caught in a groove between the paving slabs and the chair toppled backwards.
Greg was quicker than his sister. In a single fluid move, he rose from the breakfast table and placed himself between the two girls. ‘Alisha, maybe we should take a walk on the beach or
something . . .’
Roxanne remained tranquil, looking almost bored at how predictable Alisha’s reaction was. ‘Good to see you too, Alisha. Are you finished?’
Alisha took a deep breath. ‘Oh, my God, you have got some nerve coming here . . .’
‘Alisha, I really don’t want any trouble. I just came to chill for a few days.’
‘What? You’re kidding, right?’ Alisha’s voice was sounding more and more strained.
Next to Ryan, Ben stood and steered Roxanne into the lounge. A subtle move, but it put distance between her and the oncoming storm that was Alisha in full flow. Greg stayed with his sister,
while Ryan and the others followed Ben. There was no way Ryan wanted to miss this. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened all year.
Of course Roxanne Dent needed to be here. What would any story be without a villain? Ryan could tell Ben was trying to remain as polite as possible, but his friend had never been keen on
her.
‘Roxanne, it’s great to see you, obviously, but what are you doing here?’ Ben asked.
Roxanne smiled. Ryan had forgotten just how gorgeous she was. The mass of blonde hair, the upward curve of her perpetually parted lips, the button nose – it was all
delicious
somehow. ‘What do you mean?’ she replied. ‘Katie invited me.’
Cue sitcom-style head-swivel. All eyes turned to the redhead.
Katie seemed about to deny it when her face went milk-bottle-white followed by pillar-box-red. ‘I did,’ Katie said, her wide eyes unblinking.
‘What?’ Ryan couldn’t keep the shrill horror out of his voice. Was she mad? Did she harbour some secret desire to see Alisha tear flesh from another human?
‘On Facebook.’ Katie could only manage random words. She looked like she was about to cry.
‘Again . . . what?’ he asked more gently. Katie was the ultimate go-to person for peacekeeper. This was an epic screw-up. Monumental. But also
fabulous.
Roxanne raised an eyebrow – a mixture of genuine confusion and creeping annoyance. ‘I was chatting to Katie on Facebook a few weeks back, and she said you were all coming out for the
last couple of weeks of July. I was in Morocco, but I told her I’d be coming to Spain, so she said, “Why don’t you drop by?” So I did!’
‘So you did,’ Ben repeated. He seemed to be in an even worse state of shock than Katie; his face was a sickly ashy grey.
‘I . . . I was being polite.’ Katie couldn’t even look at the others. Beyond the patio doors, Greg could clearly be heard telling Alisha to chill out.
Roxanne’s face fell. ‘Oh, God. Have I been the biggest remedial in the world? That wasn’t actually an invite, was it? This is so embarrassing. Am I a homewrecker?’